I will never understand the thought process behind not showing up for a study.
Never.
But I’ll get to that in a second, first some back story: Last week in the lab I was faced with one of my biggest research challenges thus far. I was halfway through capping a participant when the electrodes started flashing. If you know anything about EEG, you know this is never good. During acquisition, the person who is capping the participant aims to get the electrical resistance (measured in kilo ohms) as low as you can. This is represented visually on the computer screen and the cap itself by colors–“red” represents the kilo ohms not being lower than your set number, “yellow” is almost but not quite, and “green” is good. So when you have the electrodes almost uniformly green but then suddenly they start changing colors randomly, it means that there’s something very wrong. Usually REF (one of the main electrodes) works like a power house. If REF is not acquisitioned correctly, it won’t let any of the other electrodes work either. Bossy little thing.
So anyway, I start playing around with REF and the other electrodes but it’s not working. I end up having to track down technical support, bringing one of the men into the lab and showing him the problem, and then having him dismiss me and say it’s good enough to test. “It’s not,” I tell him, but he encourages me to try anyway. I do as I’m instructed and continue with the acquisition, but sure enough the electrodes begin jumping again. REF is bouncing like a sugar crazed toddler on a trampoline: From 1 k0m to 7 k0m to 2 k0m to 15 k0m, it won’t work. I track down technical support again and tell them that I am having too many issues and the problem needs to be fixed. They respond with a defeated, “Okay, I’ll look at it Monday morning.” This obviously frustrating considering I had three participants booked for that day and can’t test at all until the problem is solved. But I decide not to push my luck, so I thank them for their time and return to my participant.
I cancel all of my participants for Friday, email technical support to tell them that I have done so and the lab is now free, and then I carry on with my day and the now extra nine hours I have to myself. I receive an email from tech before the end of the day informing me that the problem is fixed and I will be able to test on Monday.
Hallelujah! Or so I thought.
I arrive on Monday morning at 8:00am, set up the lab, and get my participant. I’m halfway through capping when the same issues start again. This time, however, even worse. I couldn’t even touch the electrodes on the back of the head without the whole thing going out of whack. Cue Friday PTSD. I track down technical staff, show them the issue. I’m told I’m having this problem because my “good” level (as in the number of k0m’s I want the electrical resistance to be below) is too low. I’m hesitant to believe this. “I’ve been testing with these levels for months now,” I tell support, “Both in this lab and back home, and never once have I encountered an issue such as this. It doesn’t make sense that now, out of no where, the computer is having a problem with it.” The man I’m talking to explains something to me in very broken English that I can’t quite understand, but I decide to take him at his word. I increase my levels and work visually to get the resistance as low as possible. Sure enough, the moment he leaves the room my issues begin again. The frequencies begin jumping, the participant’s head looks like a Christmas tree, I feel as if I’m about to have a mental breakdown in the middle of the lab. I track down technical support once more and tell them directly that the problem is out of my control, has to do with the electrode set, and that I cannot test until the problem is completed. I’m told that it’s most likely due to water damage and that the whole set will need to be sent in for repairs. “This will only take a week and a half,” I’m told.
Cue tunnel vision.
A week and a half out of the two more weeks I have in Nijmegen. I’d be expected to test almost fifteen more participants in half a week if I wanted to stay on track with my end goal. I insist to technical support that this cannot take that long. I’m told to send my participant home and then sit down with the lab managers to see what we can work out.
AND AS IF THIS DAY WASN’T GOING BAD ENOUGH, my participant throws a hissy fit because I had capped him but now was asking him to leave with gel in his hair. “I’m already capped, can’t you just test me,” he insisted angrily. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with this, so I agree, set up the experiment for him, and don’t save any of the data. There was no point in even trying–his brain waves were falling flat every ten seconds. While he tested, it gave me a solid twenty minutes to have a brief emotional meltdown from stress, clean myself up, send out a few emails to Sarah and Janet and the lab managers, and cancel the other participants I had scheduled that day. As soon as the participant finished, I cleaned up the lab and tracked down the managers.
It turns out that luck finally decided to shine on me: One lab currently wasn’t being used and I would be able to borrow an electrode set from there until a study starts up next Monday. And hopefully by then one of the electrode sets being repaired will be back at Radboud and in my lab. I’m practically rejoicing at this point–I WON’T HAVE TO WAIT A WEEK AND A HALF TO TEST! But all good things must come to an end, and of course they come crashing down two seconds later. The lab manager was talking to the technical support staff member I had been dealing with, and this technical support member took it upon himself to very heavily imply that the reason the electrode set broke due to water damage was my fault.
I get it, okay? I’m the American, the new researcher. No one there knows my research history, my background, or my reputation. It’s perfectly logical to find the common denominator in a situation like this: Electrodes works, new researcher begins using electrodes, electrodes break. Hm, suspicious.
But I know for a fact that the reason the electrode set broke wasn’t because of me. I’ve had EEG training both at Penn State and here at Radboud. I’ve observed other researchers, and been observed in turn. I’ve been working with EEG for a while now and I know exactly what I’m doing–hell, I even wrote up my own protocol for the labs here, basing it heavily off a protocol I borrowed from Sarah and another protocol I borrowed from a researcher here at Radboud. I know what I’m doing with EEG, and if I have a question I’m not afraid to ask. And that’s not to mention that I was one of so many people who have used that exact set over the course of the past few months. Anyone could have broken it on accident.
I don’t argue, however. I’m in a professional setting and dealing with my superiors. It would not be appropriate or acceptable for me to speak up. I throw out the offer that if anyone wants to observe me during a testing session, they are more than welcome to. The offer is rebuffed by a lab manager who says that of course they’ll check in from time to time, but they don’t believe I need to be observed for a full session. The meeting is thus dismissed and we’re all sent on our ways.
I go straight home, watch Netflix, and sleep.
Cue this morning. Wake up at 7:00, shower, eat, drink coffee from the pot, check my email for any participant notifications, and run to work. I get here on time and set up the lab, but as 8:00 comes and goes, my participant is no where to be found. I wait fifteen minutes before calling their phone number and receiving voicemail. Check my email once more. Turns out this participant thought it would be a lovely idea to email me a mere two minutes before 8:00 saying they had a bad sleep last night, so would it be wise to show up for the study?
If I could transform into Hulk: Nijmegen, it would have happened in that moment.
I sent an email back saying that “sleep or no sleep, you made a commitment to show up at 8:00 this morning for the study. I would prefer it if you participated.” But of course I knew I wouldn’t receive a response seeing as I had called their phone moments before and received their voicemail–this participant was no doubt asleep in a comfy bed with shut blinds. You know, the exact place I could have been too had this participant had the common sense of emailing me more than two minutes before they were supposed to show up for the study.
1/3 participants not showing up.
I go get a coffee from the café in the building, and then come back and check my email again. Oh! A new message! But not from the participant who was scheduled at 8:00–this time from the participant scheduled at 12:00. They decided to cancel. Hooray!
2/3 participants not showing up.
So now here I sit in the EEG lab typing up this blog post and trying not to pound my head against the wall. All my participants Friday were cancelled. All my participants Monday were cancelled. And now 2/3 of my participants today cancelled on me. That’s 8 participants in the last three testing days that I will no longer be able to use for this study.
And, whatever. Things happen. Friday and Monday couldn’t be helped, I get it. But my participants who were supposed to show up today? It just blows my mind how some people can make a commitment to participate or show up for something, and then have absolutely no problem cancelling at the last minute. Not only is that a huge waste of my time, but since they waited, now I can’t even find another participant to take their place. It’s unbelievably rude and frustrating. (Obviously sometimes things do come up–doctor’s appointments or illnesses or family emergencies. And when you have to cancel for a reason such as this, my heart goes out to you. But cancelling two minutes before a study just because you didn’t get a good night’s sleep? C’mon. That’s not okay.)
Ugh, okay. I’m going to stop my rant and start some of the miscellaneous work I have to do before testing my next participant seven hours from now. I apologize for this giant, grumpy blog post. As wonderful of an experience I’ve had here so far, sometimes ya just need a little venting space, you know?
Until next time when things will hopefully be happier!
Laura