The Da Vinci Code and the alphabet of research

Many are called to do research, but few are chosen. How is this possible in an era of improved gender equality, educational access and global connectivity? The answer lies in the secret “Da Vinci Code” of research: the unwritten interpretation of the alphabet of research that touches us all through serial rejection of grant applications and scientific articles. Out of a sense of duty to fellow researchers, and with just a subtle hint of projection, we have chosen to share the secrets of this Code with you.

A is for analysis: biochemical analysis, statistical analysis and the psychoanalysis needed after a few years in a research career. A is also for ambivalent.

B is for blot. There is nothing like a Western blot to induce a collective lather of excitement in a room full of lab scientists — talented, bespectacled people with terrible skin, seldom seen during daylight. B is also for borrowing, a kinder word than plagiarism.

C is for Cochrane reviews. More righteous than a reformed smoker, the Cochrane collaborator preaches the eternal benefits of telling the wood from the forest plots. C is also for consistency, reflected in the universal finding of any Cochrane review that more studies are needed.

D is for destiny. You will achieve yours either by becoming Dean of the Faculty of Medicine or working in the community. D is also for doctor, as in PhD.

E is for EBM or evidence-based medicine, the mantra of the academic clinician. EBM also stands for expressed breast milk. In neonatal intensive care, where acronyms reign supreme, this can cause considerable confusion.

F is for fantasy. Little research has been done into fantasy but a great deal of fantasy has gone into research. F is also for failure.

G is for governance, a concept that has risen more quickly than the sovereign debt of many European countries. G is also for gratuitous.

H is for your research habitat. Here you will be in a womb of your own, dressed like a sloth but with the mathematical acumen of an actuary. H is also for hierarchy.

I is for Ig Nobel Prize, awarded to researchers with modest ambition and limited aptitude. I is also for island, which no man is, although the researcher comes closest.

J is for jaded, describing the post-traumatic stress disorder arising from receiving the umpteenth rejection of your most precious manuscript by another J, for journal.

K is for the keynote address which all researchers aspire, but never get asked, to deliver. K is also for knowledge, or the absence thereof.

L is for lies, damned lies and scientific fraud, as in the autism and vaccination debate. L is also for lyonisation, whatever that is.

M is for Machiavellian, describing an academic competitor who, by an amazing coincidence, publishes an article 6 months after your grant application on the same highly specific area was rejected. M is also for maturity. You both know what has happened, but it is never discussed.

N is for normal distribution, which applies to data from large cohort studies that you have not performed. N is also for native cunning, as you log transform your limited data to generate a significant P value.

O is for Ondine’s curse, the threat delivered by your PhD supervisor if you do not complete your thesis by the due date. O is also for OMG.

P is for a significant P value, the Holy Grail of research, with the exception of qualitative nursing research, where statistical significance is an oxymoron. P is also for passport, the true reason for your supervisor’s timely review of your abstract for the meeting in Rio.

Q is for qualitative research, which uses patient-reported outcomes as its basis for justifying conclusions, rather than, say, a 20 mL improvement in your FEV1 with a new wonder drug taken five times daily. Q is also for quantitative research, to which the qualitative researcher aspires.

R is for rejection, a character-building exercise that does not get more enjoyable with another R, for repetition.

S is for statistics. A good statistician speaks a language that is unknown even in Babel. S is also for sorcerer, a numerical alchemist who can transform raw data into publication gold.

T is for test tubes, the conduit to conception without copulation. T is also for thesis, if you are lucky.

U is unique (or, more grammatically, u are unique). Unique is a word that cannot be used too often to describe your research. U is also for useless.

V is for validity, which can be internal or external. Your study can be reliable, measuring the same thing, but invalid. V is also for vengeance, usually externalised.

W is for wading through the data to derive your interpretation. As a reviewer this proves challenging, so you suggest further statistical review. W is also for wolfpack, the collective noun for members of a local ethics committee.

X is for exceptional spelling, a legacy of spellcheck. X is also for Generation X, the last generation to read a book from cover to cover.

Y is for yardstick, the benchmark to which your work is compared and others aspire. Y is also for the yacht you will own after you move across to work in industry.

Z is for zzzzzzzzzzzzzz at the end of a lecture on Fourier transformations and their utility in clinical research. Z is also for zeal, reflecting your gift for self-promotion.