Breakthrough (13 page)

Dear Mr. Andraka,

While your idea initially sounded very exciting, the procedure was a far cry from something bearing any significance in our field. Before you continue wasting any more precious time of my
fellow researchers I suggest you better educate yourself in your field of interest.

That one hurt.

A small consensus was forming among doctors in the field of pancreatic cancer research that was becoming impossible to ignore: Jack, this is the worst idea
ever
.

After the first fifteen days, I began to dread logging on to my computer and checking my inbox. Being told your idea sucks is bad enough, but even worse was the knowledge that every rejection meant there would be one less opportunity to achieve my goal. I began to keep a running tally. At the three-week point, the score looked insurmountable since 114 people had turned me down. Not one had accepted me.

At lunch the next day, I vented to Chloe about all my rejections. It's a firmly held belief of mine that it is rude to complain while eating, but I just couldn't help myself.

“I don't care,” I said. “I don't care about any of it.”

I pulled out the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that my mom had packed and took an angry bite.

“It's because I'm younger,” I continued. “These doctors can't get past my age. They can't get past the fact that I'm a kid. They don't care about my ideas, they just don't want to babysit me.”

I looked up at Chloe. It hadn't taken us long to find out all the things we had in common, most important a curiosity about nature and a stubborn belief that we would make anything out of life that we wanted. Chloe also happened to be a great listener, which at the moment I really appreciated.

“I'm tired of everything and everyone,” I continued, my voice getting louder, beginning to tip with rage.

“Jack,” she said, her eyes full of compassion as she placed her hand over mine. “. . . You have jelly on your face.”

I lost it. We both cracked up. Sure, I was stressed, but in the moment I was also grateful. Middle school was over, and I was spending lunch sitting at an actual table, across from a good friend.

But I still had not had any positive responses to my email. I had given it all I had. I had sent my best proposal to every doctor in a position to give me lab space. It was clear that no one was taking my ideas seriously. There was no Plan B. I hadn't thought that far ahead.

My parents began to worry. They chose a lazy Sunday morning to sit me down for a talk. My dad is so practical that he got right to the heart of the matter: they just didn't think my idea would work, and they were concerned that the disappointment would be too much for me to handle. I was exhausted, trying to look attentive despite having driven myself crazy going over my proposal again and again in search of whatever it was that was turning the doctors off.

My parents had lots of arguments. All I had were three little words.

“But it works.”

After a lot of me listening to them talk, my parents gave each other a long look.

“If you feel this strongly,” my dad said, “we can keep going.”

It was hard to argue with the points that my parents had brought up. Almost two hundred of the most distinguished doctors in the world had seen my proposal, many of whom had studied pancreatic cancer their entire careers, and without exception, they all said no. Despite giving me their blessing to move forward, it was now clear that my parents weren't convinced my idea would work, either. Did anyone actually believe in this project besides me?

I began to question if I even believed in my project. Maybe I had missed something. Maybe if I just went over the proposal one more time. Or a hundred.

As the week went by, six more responses came—all rejections.

Now I felt desperate. I made the risky and somewhat terrifying decision to approach my older brother.

There wasn't a mind in the world I respected more than Luke's. That is why I needed to talk to him. I knew that not only would he be honest with me, but he would probably be right.

However, as I walked over to him I felt like I was headed toward the guillotine. After handing him my proposal and walking him
through all my conclusions, I carefully watched over his shoulder as he scanned through the pages. As he read, he occasionally paused, looking up as if deep in thought.

After he had flipped through the last page, I braced myself and waited for him to crush my dreams with the ruthlessly sharp logic of his mind.

Then, I heard a strange grunting noise followed by a pause. I waited.

“This works,” he said.

I held my breath, waiting for the zinger that was sure to come next, but instead he just repeated it to himself.

“This works.”

“It will work,” he added, this time with emphasis.

His words hit me like a shot of adrenaline straight into my heart. I felt the impulse to jump in the air and fist-bump the ceiling, but my pride wouldn't allow it. Instead, I played it cool.

“I know,” I said casually as I pulled the copy of my proposal out of his hands and walked into the kitchen to get a snack. “Just double-checking.”

From that moment forward, I didn't doubt the validity of my idea again.

In May, one month and 192 rejections later, I came home from school, opened my inbox, and braced myself for the knockout punch that was sure to come.

The subject line read: “A message from Dr. Anirban Maitra.”

This is a really interesting proposal. Come in and talk about it.

Not sure I could trust my eyes, I read over the words again.

Come in and talk about it.

“Mom!” I screamed.

My voice must have echoed more with terror than triumph, because my mom and Luke rushed over to see the image on the screen in front of me.

“Jack?” she said.

“Look.”

One, two, three . . .

They both erupted in a roar!

“That's awesome,” Luke said, patting my shoulder. “You got this.”

This wasn't just any doctor. Dr. Anirban Maitra of Johns Hopkins in Baltimore was one of the preeminent scientific minds in the world on the subject of pancreatic cancer. I understood I hadn't been accepted, but it was a foot in the door.

My next step was to learn
everything
about him.

I went online and studied his résumé. It read longer than my former list of proteins: Professor of Pathology and Oncology, the Sol Goldman Pancreatic Cancer Research Center; Affiliate Faculty, Department of Chemical and Biomolecular Engineering; Affiliate Faculty, McKusick-Nathans Institute of Genetic Medicine. Dr. Maitra was the cream of the crop.

His specialty of study was how to best utilize specific biochemical differences between cancer and normal cells so that the effects of chemotherapy harm only the cancer cells, not the healthy ones. He was also working on revolutionary approaches for identification of abnormal pancreatic cancer genes using cutting-edge “gene chip” technologies that would allow scientists to query multiple genetic loci—including, in some instances, the whole human genome—for abnormalities that are unique to pancreatic cancer but not present in normal tissues. I might not have understood exactly what all that meant, but I knew enough to know that I would be in the presence of greatness!

An interview was scheduled for two weeks later. When the big day came, I felt vaguely ill. All those rejections had done a number on my confidence. I knew that my science was sound, but I was nervous about whether I'd be able to express my ideas effectively.

The hospital was located in Baltimore, which is about a thirty-minute drive from my home. It was a quiet car ride. I was replaying all the main talking points I didn't want to forget.

By mashing the antibodies into a network of carbon nanotubes, I will be able to identify a single protein, which in this case is mesothelin, that will serve as a biomarker for pancreatic cancer. By using carbon paper, I will have something strong enough to support the flimsy carbon nanotubes.

I hugged my mom as she dropped me off at the hospital's front door.

“You'll do fine, Jack, just be yourself,” she said.

I walked inside the hospital and introduced myself to the receptionist. “Hi, I'm Jack Andraka.”

I gave her my biggest smile. She gave me a look: the same one a bank teller wears before offering a lollipop.

“I'm here to see Dr. Maitra,” I added.

“Sure, come this way,” she said. She led me down a hallway. There would be no lollipop.

I concentrated on my own feet. No tripping. Not here. Not now.

She stopped in front of an office. Through the door, I could see fancy plaques on the walls. Inside, waiting, was Dr. Maitra.

He introduced himself. I shook his hand.

“Hi, Jack, it's so nice to meet you.”

The man looked true to his picture. He had a naturally inquisitive and cautious smile.

Dr. Maitra had an aura of wisdom. He spoke slowly and deliberately, and my first impression was that he was patient and sincere.

“I was very impressed by your proposal,” he said. “Remarkable for someone of your age.”

I felt a renewed confidence as I explained my process and walked him through how I came to each one of my conclusions. As I spoke, he nodded occasionally.

Everything seemed to be going well. But just as I thought we were wrapping up the interview and had braced myself for the
words I had been waiting to hear—that he was going to give me some space in his laboratory—he said, “Come this way, please.”

I was ushered into a small conference room where, out of nowhere, all these doctors began appearing, as if by spontaneous generation. The gaggle of doctors began firing questions at me left and right!

I dug in. I hadn't come all this way only to stumble a few feet short of the finish line. Some of the answers I knew. Others, I just kind of improvised.

Question: “How did you come to your conclusion that mesothelin was the biomarker?”

Answer: “I went through researching each individual protein, one by one, until finding one that matched the criteria.”

Question: “How did you reach your conclusion that nanotubes would be effective?”

Answer: “I realized I could take nanotubes and mix them with antibodies to create a network that only reacts with mesothelin.”

They were relentless. It was exhausting. I felt like I had aged a year during the two-hour interrogation.

Finally, it was over. I had survived. I studied the faces of the doctors. They seemed pleased.

Next came the words I had been longing to hear.

“Okay, let's do this,” Dr. Maitra said.

I would be able to use his laboratory. Actually, he agreed to let
me use a small corner of the laboratory, and he assigned me one of his assistants to make sure I didn't blow the place up—but all things considered, I was in business. It was clear that Dr. Maitra was an exceptional doctor, but the fact that someone with his standing in the medical community was willing to take the ideas of a kid seriously told me he was also an exceptional person.

My mom, who had been waiting all those hours outside the hospital in the Andraka family station wagon, was staring at the front door as I walked outside.

I gave her a thumbs-up and ran over to her.

“I knew you could do it, Jack!” she screamed through the open driver's-side window.

“When do you start?”

“Ten days.”

Even though I physically spent the next week at school, mentally I was in my new laboratory, rehearsing my procedure step by step. Since I had already discovered the protein, mesothelin, and found a way to test for it with my paper strips, I was confident that the most difficult part of my journey was now behind me.
This should take a day
, I assured myself.
Two days, max
.

My dad had already helped me build a Plexiglas testing apparatus that I could use to hold the strips as I read the currents. I grabbed a pair of my mom's sewing needles to use as electrodes. I was taking full advantage of my parental resources.

On my first day at the lab, I learned something new. I was absolutely
horrible
at doing research.

It was only a few hours after my mom dropped me off for my first day in the laboratory when I contaminated my experiment by sneezing on my vials of cells.

Seriously. I sneezed on them! Who does that?

I was so ashamed that I hid my mucus-covered tray of contaminated cultures in between a bunch of different flasks so no one would see my amateur move. Destroying something with a sneeze might sound humorous, until you realize that it means hours of hard work wasted all because I forgot to turn my head or bring a tissue. However, that wasn't the only time my sneeze brought me to tears. It wasn't long after that I had another nasal calamity.

I had carefully created my carbon nanotubes, which look like black tomato soup, and placed the little tubes on a bench. Then it happened again. The force of my sneeze knocked them off a bench and smashed them onto the floor.

This time, there were other scientists in the room. Everyone stared at me as I watched the black spot spread across the floor. I felt like such an idiot. One thing about nanotubes that most people don't realize is that they stain. The custodians who came in at night had no idea what to do with my mess. To this day, the stain is still there, a permanent reminder.

I thought I was doing better until, twelve weeks after beginning
at the lab, I clumsily tripped over the untied laces of my red sneakers and stumbled into my culture cell test tubes. I watched helplessly as they all crashed into the floor. It had taken me two months to grow the MIA PaCa-2 cells, which would replicate the pancreatic cancer cells in my test. Now I would have to start from scratch.

My mom had always pestered me about my shoelaces.
You let those laces dangle and one day you are going to regret it, Jack.