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10 The End and the Beginning There was always something serendipitous, even wild, about Paul Lauterbur’s approach to science. —Economist When I was a graduate student in the 1970s at the University of Pennsylvania , I knew a legendary figure who had made significant contributions to the study of mitochondria that he and many others thought was Nobel-worthy. Stories had it that every year when the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine was announced, and not for him, he would come in late and be irritable for several days. It was as though he had missed the Oscar for really smart people once again. In my student purity, I disapproved of this putative behavior, believing that science is its own reward and that desire for recognition is in bad taste. I still believe this, but a little more humbly. When stories that Paul might win a Nobel Prize were circulated, I tried my best to ignore them. As the years went by, this became harder and harder, and Nobel week became something of a nightmare. I couldn’t help anticipating the honor that I felt my husband richly deserved, and even worse, I couldn’t help thinking of how very nice all that money (hundreds of thousands of dollars) could be. So much for high-minded! I was always relieved when Nobel week was over and I could rid myself of the anticipation and anxiety for another year. As time went on this anticipation abated, as it began to seem that if Paul were going to be awarded the prize, it would already have happened. I remained grateful for all the previous honors that had come to him. So, by 2003, I didn’t notice when the first week in October rolled around—until I was jolted awake by the phone ringing at 3:30 a.m. 180 Chapter 10 Classic—the Nobel Committee calls the recipients in order to inform them before the press conference (11 a.m. Swedish time) announcing the award. A very pleasant voice announced that he was Hans Jörnvall, secretary of the Committee for the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine , and could he speak to Paul. I tried to wake Paul up, shouting in his ear and shaking him hard. The response was extreme irritation, turning away, and pointing out to me that he wanted to sleep, which he duly returned to. Hans informed me that Paul had just been awarded the 2003 prize and was co-laureate with Peter Mansfield of Britain. I continued to shake Paul and began kicking. What a dolt my husband is, I thought; he wins a Nobel Prize and won’t even wake up to learn of it! I finally thought that I could safely turn the phone over to him, but as Hans put it later, “I wasn’t sure that Paul understood what I was saying, but his wife did.” Hans kindly informed me that I had about half an hour before the “craziness starts,” when the press would begin calling. Paul and I were both truly waking up now. He went to wash his face and prepare. (The papers were full of his “only comment” of that early morning, “There goes my day!” He really did say this, a bit disingenuous, but true testament to how he believed one should react to honor.) We were both astonished, dumbfound, amazed, overwhelmed, overpowered, engulfed. What should I do in this promised half hour? Oh yes, call the kids. And Paul’s sister. And my mom! And yes, the calls did start right on schedule, not one at a time but all at once in a deluge. The European news media were first (they were awake), and a little later the North Americans. The calls from South America and Asia came later. While Paul was talking on one line, I was fielding the other. NPR’s Morning Edition wanted an interview. So did the New York Times, the Washington Post, USA Today, and the Chicago Tribune. Some of the reporters seemed angry that they had such a hard time getting through. I took names and telephone numbers as best I could, promising that Paul would call back, but there were too many to accommodate. CNN called twice and I kept telling them they would have to wait. I couldn’t believe I was telling CNN we just didn’t have time for them! I made mistakes transferring calls to Paul, I cut people off while I...

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