HUMAN GENOME

The ACLU is one step closer to getting patents on human genes banned after a federal court today ruled that its lawsuit can continue. The defendants (The US Patent and Trademark Office and the owners of the BRCA breast cancer gene patent) had asked the court to dismiss the case.

About 20 percent of the human genome is currently patented, including genes associated with many diseases such as breast cancer and Alzheimer's. The patents mean that outside researchers need permission to study the genes and that tests can be astronomically expensive. (The test for BRCA is about $3,000.)

When Lisbeth Ceriani was diagnosed with breast cancer, she wanted a blood test to find out if she carried one of the two dreaded BRCA genes, which could increase her risk of ovarian cancer by up to 50 percent. She decided that if she were a carrier, she would have doctors remove her ovaries. But the sole purveyor of the BRCA tests, Utah-based Myriad Genetics, refused her insurance. Myriad holds the patent on the BRCA genes, and thus exclusive R&D rights, so there were no alternative tests, and Ceriani found herself unable to make a decision about her future health.

No doubt you have it on your calendars, but in case you forgot, the 25th is National DNA Day. Can't think how to celebrate it? Well, if you have $68,000 or more lying around, you can bid for a chance to have your entire personal genome sequenced by Knome, a company that does such things.

Just as CD players, personal computers, and HDTVs were prohibitively expensive when they were first released, so too was the cost of sequencing the entire genome of an individual. In 2003 that feat was accomplished for the staggering amount of $437,000,000 after 13 years of work. Today, CD players are ubiquitous and cheap; HDTVs are steadily entering the realm of affordability; and so, too, has the cost of sequencing a genome fallen precipitously. It will still set you back $1,000,000 and two months of time, but that is a tremendous savings over just five years ago.

What´s left of the General Tso´s chicken is on the coffee table. The sauce that eluded my mouth is congealing on my T-shirt. American Idol just started. And Megan, my fiance of three days, is getting ready to swab the inside of my mouth with Q-Tips that are nearly as long as chopsticks. â€OK, open that mouth,†she says. â€Wider.†She is a doctor. I do as I´m told. â€You know, these look like little Pap-smear brushes,†she muses. My mouth snaps closed. â€C´mon, open up,†she says. I stall.