104. Medical Genetics

© 2025 Robert Sickles

For a couple of years in my early 20’s, I held a job at the University of Washington Medical Genetics research facility. It wasn't really a career choice, just a hire-on for part time miscellaneous chores at first. Eventually I proved my reliability and I was trained to do more things, just short of what a real Lab Technician is qualified to do but for a fraction of the pay.

I started working for Dr. Philip Fialkow, who took me under his wing and taught me to be a useful helper in his research. I tried to understand what the research was about. But without a background in science, all I could do was follow directions and do tasks.

This was fairly early days in the understanding of the link of DNA to diseases. Fialkow’s study at that time concerned patients with a certain lymphoma (Burkitt’s) that was prevalent among a relatively confined population of East Africans, making it a good focus for a genetic study. Similar research work was being done in Sweden, so frozen biopsy and blood samples from African patients were flown first to Stockholm, and the remainder then forwarded to Seattle for our work. Each week another package was couriered from SeaTac airport to our lab, or in some cases I drove to the customs broker at the airport to pick it up myself. It was sort of a kick. Me, a scruffy-haired kid in jeans walking off with that delightful styrofoam box full of dry ice and emblazoned all around with red letters in several languages: DANGEROUS BIOLOGICAL MATERIALS. I could see the perplexed reaction from the guys on the loading dock who didn't even want to get close to it! 

Back at the lab, I performed several steps to extract DNA from the samples, insert it into flat panes of gel and run through a process called electrophoresis. That's how the genetic markers would be revealed as colored bands. Then I photographed the results, developed the negatives and made prints in darkroom. That's where my involvement in that part of the work ended, it was up to the others in the lab to catalog and interpret the data. My other less sophisticated tasks included stocking supplies for everyone and sterilizing labware downstairs in the autoclave room.

Not only the biohazardous stuff, I also worked with many other harmful substances, including pure sulfuric acid, solvents, and volatile organic compounds. I wore asbestos gloves at times and did some work under ultraviolet light. Somehow, I missed the lessons where I was supposed to treat all that stuff with great caution, and it’s remarkable I live to tell about it!

Fialkow’s work on Burkitt’s was a big contribution to understanding how genetic mutation is connected to diseases. Today, his work is still considered foundational. In one of his many published articles, he proudly pointed to small print at the end where my name was cited for my “valuable assistance.”  So embarrassing, but that was probably his way of making up for his big blowup only the week before. I had carelessly mixed up the biopsy samples during my procedures and the data results for that whole week’s batch had to be dumped!  

Dr. Fialkow waved me over to his microscope, where he was viewing a thin section of biopsied skin. “Look there, Bob. Do you see that very thin brown layer?” I wasn’t sure, the sample was mostly pinkish and the brown part was so faint. “The patient is a black African. That faint line is one-cell deep melanin in the top layer of his epidermis that makes his skin black; and it’s the only real difference between him and you.” I understood his lesson to be about how bias can arise from something so superficial as skin color. I studied him for a few seconds and felt a wave of compassion. Fialkow’s ancestors were Polish Jews and likely to have been victims of oppression and genocide. I’ll bet he knew something about racial discrimination, and there he was, turning that into a biology lesson for me.

Another thing I observed was his genuine delight in teaching the mysteries of genetics. He held up a single hair from his pet cat. "Look at this color variation." He said, "When the hair starts growing, it comes out white. Then it switches to brown, alternating colors every few millimeters. What kind of signal from a gene triggers all that?" He may have already known the answer, but he enjoyed getting me to think about things like that.

There were three other key people working for Dr. Fialkow. Gabe and Laura, the two lab technicians who supervised my work, seemed to spend most of their time gazing into microscopes at chromosomes. And Alice held it all together as secretary extraordinaire. I was the only non-payroll person, and probably paid out of discretionary funds. But there wasn’t really a class distinction among us. I was considered a member of the team and was treated very well on the job and after hours, including sharing meals with their families, and being invited to the Fialkow home for holidays.

I would actually have loved to stay on with that work and those sweet people, but my part-time pay status was not going to improve without lengthy and expensive schooling. The other thing I realized, fortunately, was that my heart and mind belonged in art and music, and not so much in rigorous lab procedures and day-in-day-out routines. So, I let my disappointed coworkers know I was leaving—and off I went to follow my bliss in the arts.

I happily ran into Dr. Fialkow and his wife several years later on a ferry crossing to Whidbey Island on Puget Sound. By then I was well-established as a scrimshaw artist and hoped he'd be be impressed; but he shook his head and said he always wished I’d stayed on with his lab team, and that he would have considered it a wise investment to help me to get certificated. “Now you tell me!” I laughed.

If I had stuck with him, it’s fun to imagine where I would have wound up, as Dr. Philip Fialkow eventually rose to the highest position as University of Washington Dean of Medicine. Imagine me hobnobbing with elite academia and all, up in the ivied halls!

On the other hand, I might have also enjoyed trotting the globe with Dr. and Mrs. Fialkow. A few years later, I was shocked to read an obituary in the Seattle Times. He and his wife, both age 62, were killed while trekking in Nepal, a huge snowstorm having buried their campsite. A weirdly remarkable end to wonderfully remarkable lives!