#clinicalscience

Most people think laboratory science exams are all about memorizing test names, reference ranges, or reagent lists.

In reality, higher-level assessments are designed to see how you think in context.

Instead of asking: ✔ “What does this analyzer do?”

They ask: ✔ “Given these results and this clinical scenario, what should happen next?”

That’s a different skill altogether.

You’re being tested on whether you can:

interpret unexpected lab values

evaluate conflicting data

prioritize correct follow-ups

recognize when controls or flags change how you proceed

Traditional study materials can help you learn facts — but they don’t always prepare you for this applied reasoning style.

That’s where scenario-based practice makes a real difference.

I found a set of practice scenarios that reflect the kind of logical interpretation required in real testing situations and clinical workflows: 👉 https://www.preppool.com/test-prep/ascp-mls-exam-practice-questions-and-answers/

Instead of just giving you answers, this material helps you understand why one option makes more sense than others — exactly the kind of thinking you’ll need on exam day and in the lab.

If you feel confident with basics but unsure how that translates to decision-style questions, practicing realistic scenarios can bridge that gap and build real confidence.

“Can Regenerative Medicine combat infertility?”

“What would Modern Medicine (all branches included) be without biomedical engineering? No instruments, no surgery?!”

“In spite of all the progress in medical science, why can we not cure Alzheimer’s disease?”

“Is it a viable idea to use nanomedicine to image, lyse and eliminate immune complexes from kidneys to aid in curing glomerulonephritis?”

“Mathematics is essential in designing Incontinence Pads! Seriously?”

Welcome to the “Science Kaleidoscope”—a forum for a mix of articles ranging from Regenerative Medicine and core Clinical Sciences to how interdisciplinary inputs from non-biological sciences like Chemistry, Physics, Mathematics and the various derivatives have made the life of Bio-scientists a little easier, in addition to some general aspects about research as a profession.

In this section, we endeavour to bring forth the interesting ideas brewing in the bright young minds here at UCL that already are or could possibly be important research questions in near future. Forethought and curiosity are essential in any aspiring scientist. Apart from the attitude, aptitude creative spirit and drive, we believe that asking the ‘How’-s, ‘Why’-s  and  ‘What if’-s  are crucial precursors necessary to take an idea through to a research lab and work towards its translation to ultimately make lives better. Isn’t that what research actually stands for? A tool to solve problems and create a better tomorrow?

We aim to aid in infusing the minds of our readers with all possible crazy curiosity with this section, to encourage more questions and in turn contribute towards more fuel for research. Hope you find your read here worthwhile.

Signing off

Sparshita Nag & Alisha Sund

The patient is a 49 year-old left-handed-woman with no prior medical history until she presented at the neurosurgery clinic complaining of headaches.

This is the sentence with which I begin my case report about a woman I’ll call Marie, a clinical tale not without intrigue, mystery, and betrayal. (Okay, the last part may be a bit dramatic, but when working with strong personalities in the neurosurgery department at a large academic institution, tensions can run high and burgeoning egos become obstacles).

For now, the patient and her husband sit across the table from me in a windowless exam room. My boss, a neuroscientist, who I’ll call Freud since he is unwavering on his assertion that Freud set back psychology 100 years, has taken me through the case before they arrived. On his laptop we read through charts, clinical and post-op notes. We download her MRI and CT scans, poring over them trying to find what the neuroradiologist found. Even with my minimal training (I’ve only begun reading MRI neurological scans a year and a half ago), I can see there’s something terribly wrong with this brain. The white matter flashes bright and sinewy and is flecked with miniature holes like shrapnel. A large, fluid-filled cyst rests in the pons making it hard for our patient to keep her balance when walking. I can see the pink, glossy scars arcing over the shaved patch at the back of her head from her surgery two weeks ago.

The patient is here for a neuropsychological evaluation which I will administer in a series of cognitive tests that assess her attention, language, memory, spatial reasoning, and higher problem solving ability. It took six months for the doctors to figure out that Marie had leukoencephalopathy with vanishing white matter (LVWM), a rare disease of the white matter of the brain.

LVWM is also associated with cognitive decline, which is why we are assessing Marie today. As clinical neuroscientists, it is our job to bridge brain and behavior, to form inferences and help diagnose by assessing both a patient’s neurological structure and function. To do that, I administer psychological tests and talk with the patients over the course of a half day or a day, depending on how many tests we decide to give. The first part of the exam is the clinical interview, where we get to know the patient.

“I don’t really want to be here,” Marie says quietly, staring at the table.

“Why not?” Freud asks.

“Because this isn’t me,” she answers. “This isn’t my normal brain. I mean, I was no rocket scientist, but I could at least sit down and read the paper. I knew how to drive a car. This is making me stupid and that’s not me.”

A pause. Marie used to be the manager at a casino before her disease forced her into early retirement.

“And I don’t want to be made fun of for it.”

We assure her that that’s not our intention, that we’re here to make her as comfortable as possible, that if she gets uncomfortable at any time…., that we’re professionals trained and used to dealing with people like her…..etc. etc.

She looks at us imploringly but not without a little hostility. When Freud leaves I remind her how useful this testing will be for her and her doctors and I am here to help.

The testing is a bit rocky at first; she is quick to give up but I don’t let her. With a little gentle prodding, we get through it. Then I say something that I will regret for a long time (It’s five months later and I still think about it.)

“This is hard!” Marie exclaims after I’ve asked her for the fifth time to recite a list of 16 words I’ve just read to her.

“I know,” I say. “But you’re doing fine. Just keep going.”

“I used to be so much better than this,” she says. She can only remember one or two words out of the sixteen, even though I’ve read her the list five times.

“It’s completely normal to feel discouraged when you’re doing this, or feel like you’re doing worse than you are,” I say. “Even smart people have trouble with this test.”

And there it is. I immediately try to backtrack.

“I mean, I’ve tested some people with really high IQs and even they have trouble with some of the tests.”  

And I just made it worse. I can’t remember what I said after that. I probably tried to ignore it and made her tell me all the words she could remember again from that list or given her a much harder test to try to distract her. And I’m not sure if she forgot my comment, didn’t register it or chose to forgive me for it as a bumbling young person overeager to do her job because we parted warmly after the exam.

I still agonize over this comment. I had done exactly what she had asked us not to do. It was so careless and thoughtless and I scold myself for not keeping my mouth shut.

When I got back to the office, my boss approached me, eager to have me write up her case because it’s so rare and no one has ever done a neuropsychological profile of a LVWM patient before. This is an easy publication and a great opportunity for me to be a first author on a paper. I work for three weeks on the case report, reading everything that was ever published on the disease until I can recite symptoms and MRI findings with ease. The paper is now written and ready for publication but today we received a disturbing email from a neurosurgery resident not previously involved with this case. He was cordial enough until he wrote that he was going to do a write up of Marie’s case and wondered if we could be so kind as to give him our file of Marie’s complete neuropsychological tests.

Like hell, we would. (My boss’s response to that email was an emphatic “fuck you” to his computer screen). As for me, the resident will have to come over here and pry that file out of my cold, bony hand if he wants it (unless Dr. DeMerrit, the head of the neurosurgery department, tells us to give it to him, and because he’s the boss of everyone in neurosurgery, I have to do what he says). We email him our case report. (“Can you just hear dreams being crushed?” Freud asks me.) We are now waiting to hear back from the reviewers.

 This case reminds me of the two sides of medicine. I am on one side, the medical side. As a clinical neuroscientist and soon-to-be med student (I start in July) I can sit on one side of the round exam table, with my uninjured, healthy, well-developed brain and fire questions at those who are not so lucky. Whenever they complain about the tests or ask me aggressively if I’ve even taken any of them, I can think to myself, “I don’t need to; I’m not the one with the subdural hematoma.” On this side, we can make fun of the obnoxious patients, spend a little time feeling sorry for them only to take our healthy brains home and forget about them after a while, or think about them in a non-emotional way, like Remember that one guy who had that really cool tumor that made him unable to tell right from left? Or That schizophrenic lady threw his pen at me today, how hilarious. This is a side I’m getting more and more comfortable on (if not a bit of a hypochondriac and buzzkill at parties as I will often remind people how excessive drinking causes cerebral atrophy).

On the other side of medicine is the woman asking not to be mocked for her disease making her forgetful, or the woman sitting beside her husband of 60 years as he receives a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s, or the patients who get frustrated with me because the neuropsychological tests make it impossible to hide their weaknesses and they are forced to confront what they have vehemently been denying for months.