Perfect Presentation

I look at the clock. Five minutes remain until the meeting. I want to practice the slides until I can recite each one perfectly, but I have run out of time.  “Memorize the transitions,” I remind myself, a piece of advice I have often received from my graduate school advisor. I can recite the transitions between slides, but now that the presentation is approaching, I am drawing blanks on the substance in the slides. I will have to hope that, in the moment, my words will come through. I take two breaths and unplug my computer. My nerves unplug at the same moment and my heart rate increases.  I can feel the wobble in my legs and the outbreak of goosebumps as I walk upstairs to the meeting.

“Callie,” a coworker approaches me. “Do you know when you will next have samples?”

My mind searches for the project to which my coworker is referring. I had not intended to spare extra thought on this project right now, but it is a legitimate question, and I still have three minutes before the meeting. I will thank myself and my coworker for the conversation after the presentation. Despite its agitated state, my mind weaves its way through the maze of options and settles on a project and experiment.

“Thursday,” I say, hoping I have answered correctly.

“How many samples will you have?” my coworker responds. I think again. Unfortunately, my mind has closed the file on that experiment and I have to trace my way back to it. I count.

“Six samples,” I answer. 

“Sounds great,” my coworker responds. “Could you put them in order by dilution and indicate cell number, growth rate, and priority for each sample?”

“Yes,” I say.  I lack the time to process these requests right now, but they sound doable. I will ask later if needed. My heart rate has decreased and the goosebumps on my legs have almost descended back into the skin at the distraction of this conversation. Any actions after the presentation still feel like “if” statements, but I have regained some control of my body.

Voices collide inside the meeting room. Questions of “How was your vacation?” mingle with “We plan to submit the document by August 16.” On most days, I would be eager to participate in, or at least listen in on, these conversations, but today the jumble of words amplifies the sense of impending catastrophe. I squeeze past chairs congregated into two conversations and sit down in a chair where no one seems available to begin a conversation. It seemed like a such a good idea to share my work and gain exposure when I agreed to this presentation, but now I wonder why I acquiesced.

My gaze plunges toward Dr. Nester. He is the reason this presentation means so much.  Dr. Nester is a highly regarded scientist with many successful therapies credited to him, and the confidence and command in his speech solidify his position of authority. He holds significant sway in deciding which research proceeds and expands and which research reaches a swift end. I have been recommended to become a project lead, but the decision needs to be discussed with a group that includes Dr. Nester. While I have presented in front of this group before, it has always been a joint presentation, and my fielding of questions has been weak. Although I have confidence in my understanding of the topic, my tendency in the moment has been to blunder through questions based on reasoning I had already processed rather than to consider the reasoning behind the proposed questions. I promise myself that this time will be different.

My feet beat against the chair legs, and my fingers imprint themselves into the table. I have never before noticed the roughness of the table surface or how my legs dangle if I sit at the back of the chair. The clock ticks down the last thirty seconds before the meeting will start.

“Callie, I’m so excited to hear your presentation today,” a coworker says. 

“Thank you,” I reply. I appreciate her interest, but it is as if a new weight has been added to my already tightened shoulders. 

“It’s an opportunity,” I tell myself. “Think of it as an opportunity, not a trial.”

The moderator opens the meeting. The agenda shows my presentation at the end. I try to listen, but my mind and body whir too fast. I do not think my coworkers will appreciate foot thumping throughout the meeting in order to take in the words. Fortunately, the words that I can process have little to do with my responsibilities, and I pass by remaining silent. 

“So that brings us to today’s presentation by Callie,” the moderator says. 

My chair scrapes the floor and nearly topples as I stand up. I brace myself for the sound of the fallen chair on my already strained nerves, but a coworker behind me catches it and sets it upright. I proceed to the podium, my legs seeming to bump into a table at every step. I plug in my computer, and the moderator hands me the pointer. I search for the pointer’s “on” button. “Where is it?” I panic.   Will I begin the presentation by displaying my technological ineptness.? I see the red light of the pointer flicker. My finger backtracks to find the minute slider that controls the light. First problem solved. I turn to the presentation screen. My title slide is up. I draw a breath and begin.

“Thank you all for allowing me to present today,” I say. My voice comes out strong and confident, and, with its sound, I breathe in the confidence to take the next step. All I need to do for the title slide is read it. I have practiced it at least ten times. “One step at a time,” I tell myself. All eyes in the room, including Dr. Nester’s, turn toward me. Next comes the first background slide. My eyes trace the path I have planned through the data. My voice follows in its earlier confident tone, and my heart rate mimics my voice. Even my feet refrain from tapping the floor. Eyes turn to the screen as I navigate through the data. I conclude the presentation with the acknowledgments and an offer to take questions. A hand goes up, and I easily answer the first question. A second hand waves. It is a suggested experiment. 

“We haven’t tried that, but we would be interested to look into it,” I respond. Not a particularly informed answer, but at least it is polite. 

“Why did you use that reagent?” a third questioner asks. “Everybody else in the field uses another reagent that works twice as well.”

I consider the reagent in question. Honestly, I have no idea. It was in the protocol given to me at the start of the work. I fumble to assert my point.  

My boss jumps in. “This reagent is intended for suspension cells while the reagent you’re referring to is intended for adherent cells,” he says. 

“Oh,” I think. “I could have figured that out.” 

This question is followed by two more where others must bail me out. Finally, there are no more questions.

I sit down trying to decide how the presentation went. I think I presented clearly, but my response to questions still needs work.

“Good presentation, Callie,” a coworker says. “Do you think you could help me with one of your protocols?”

“Hey, could you send me the data for one of your slides?” another coworker asks.

As I exit the room, Dr. Nester nods at me and says “Good presentation.”

“Thank you,” I whisper as the tension of failure slips out of me and the tension of success slips in. It is not a perfect presentation, but it is a good presentation, and as a human being, I must live with that.