Dear White Blood Cells

I don't mean to be totally unappreciative. I know that you've helped me out a lot in the past, and I know it's tough to work at a job when no one notices your good work, only your failures.

For the most part, you and I have had some really good times. There was a rough patch back in 7th grade when I had pneumonia - knocked me out of school for a couple days and kept me on the bench at the start of my first basketball season (8 and 1/2 foot goals!). There was a period in high school where I couldn't really leave the hide-a-bed, and while I was ill my friends drove around and stole corn for some reason. That's only 2 significant illnesses I can recall in 25 years. Nice work.

You know the part of the job interview when they ask about your weaknesses? And you try to think of something that's only sort of bad, like, "I'm an overachiever"? Well, in your case, your stubborn desire to defeat invading viruses or bacteria or whatnot really is your flaw. Too much of a good thing, in this case, really is a bad thing.

White blood cells, you're producing entirely too much Tumor Necrosis Factor - Alpha (TNFa). TNFa is pretty good stuff, and I have definitely appreciated your liberal production of it over the years. However, and this is key, you're so in love with your own TNFa that you haven't stopped to realize that it's hurting me. It's hurting my colon.

When my parents separated, my mother gave me a book I wish I had now - if it were handy I could show you the chapter about Hobson's Choice. The way the book explained it, you were this guy in the old west, and you needed a horse to go prospect for gold or something. But the stable guy, he just had this one horse left, and he had gout or horse leukemia or something -- bottom line, the beast wasn't going to be a reliable steed. But you're a prospector! You want to get down the road and mine some gold, pronto! So you've got a choice to make: bad horse, or no horse at all? (I guess I should have mentioned - my human mother married an equine. What can I say? It was the '60s!)

White Blood Cells, I've got a serious case of Hobson's Choice. On the one hand, I really, really am anxious to make my fortune as a '49er. No, no -- I mean, on one hand, I like having a competent immune system. Do I like it enough so that I'm willing to let you secrete TNFa all willy-nilly, creating Crohn's complications for me?

My immune system is a team, White Blood Cells, and you're not a team player. You're about to see your role strictly limited.

You may have noticed that, around 9:30 this morning, chimeric antibodies - part mouse, part man - entered my bloodstream. These little guys are going to try to clean up the mess you made, binding up your excess TNFa, preventing it from irritating my lower bowel. Hey, we've had some good times - let's remember that, and try not to dwell on the fact that you've played your way into my doghouse. You're out of control; I'd rather take my chances without you than risk you screwing things up even more.

I don't really know what to say now. Try not to worry about all that TNFa that you produced for naught - I mean, if they've got to die, at least they're being killed by something with a murine component. You've got to admit, that's quite a way to go. I hope you'll respect my wishes and cool it on the TNFa - it's really important to me.

Oh, and if you happen to bump into any of your teammates, you might ask them to take it easy on the chimeric antibodies. Sure, technically they are foreign substances that are trying to invade my body, but make an exception this time and don't attack them. I know it's confusing; I know it's a lot to ask of somebody that I just basically told to fuck off - but you'd really be doing me a solid if you let them know. OK, great. Thanks. Now fuck off.