Okay and i will write about disease is a relationship. If disease is a relationship, what form(s) does it take? The science texts in my studio (most form the early 90s) all prefer military terms, as in “the macrophage is an incredibly efficient warrior.” This feels a little too g.w. bush for me.
Firstly, immune responses depend upon the ability of the T and B cells to recognize a pathogen as opposed to one of the millions of “foreign cells” our bodies normally house. What constitutes “foreign?” The bacteria living in our guts, helping digest our food, could they reasonably be called “us?” Our bodies have evolved to be dependent on them, they spend their entire lives within us, but yet they could, technically, exist elsewhere. How important is it to define where i end, where nonself begins? To the B and T cells, it can mean life and death.
The boundaries are drawn here, internally.
To me, it is not so important. My skin feels a tangible boundary, supple but definite, contrasting with the wooden arms of this chair, the coarse fur of the dog. But even on this surface, conversations are taking place. From Wikipedia:
“Sebaceous glands secrete an oily substance called sebum that is made of fat and the debris of dead fat-producing cells. In the glands, sebum is produced within specialized cells and is released as these cells burst. Sebum acts to protect and waterproof hair and skin, and keep them from becoming dry, brittle and cracked. It can also inhibit the growth of microorganisms on skin.”
Some things are certain. I am not chair, i am not dog. Exactly where my transactions between them stop, though, is not so easy. Aren’t there molecules constantly exchanging glances? Don’t i swallow, inhale hundreds of dog cells each day? Here is the definition of reciprocity, and of course these words are spoken between my immune cells and their antigens. There is a need, each for the other.
And there will always be more.
