It's Glow Time!

The elevator at Virtua Hospital's Health and Wellness building has the most depressing way of announcing its descent. "Going doooown," the robotic lady moans, and you can't help but feel that she'd be better assisted on her journey with a Xanax or two. 

Fortunately, Nuclear Medicine is located on the the second floor and the ride in either direction is brief, leaving you little time to worry about the mental well-being of your transport.

And, on this past Wednesday, my concern for that sci-fi tin gal ranked even lower.  Becoming my own radioactive laboratory experiment, however, raced to the top. 

We arrived to the Radiology Imaging department at 1 pm and checked in.  Within minutes, we were ushered to the back. Steve, our friendly radiologist, took us to the scanning room and explained the upcoming full body scan procedures:  I'd lay on a flat board, neck hyper-entended, legs bent over an oddly-placed pillow, while the scanner took picture after picture of my neck and body to view where all of the I-123 radiation from the day before had landed.  This would help determine the correct dosage of I-131 I'd need that day for treatment. Cool.  The process would take about 45 minutes. Still cool.  And - "Arms at your side, please...Now hold still!" - they would be wrapping me up like a little mummy and taping the sheet closed. Erm.

Thank God for my iPod and Colin Hay.

Meanwhile, Matt amused himself by taking pictures...

After the scan, I was brought to another room for a thyroid uptake test to measure the amount and location of the radioactive iodine in my neck.

That machine only involved holding still for a minute while it worked its gamma magic:

This is what 60 seconds of fun looks like!

After that, Steve told us we had about an hour's wait while he ordered the I-131.  He suggested taking a short walk and returning in half an hour to go over my instructions.  I suggested making a break for it.  Matt sided with Steve, so we ventured down to the parking lot to enjoy a non-nuclear, sunny bench for a bit.

Preparing to glow...

Inside of Nuclear Medicine, you'll find maze of hallways and doorways and rooms with crazy, yellow radioactive symbols. If you continue through the labyrinth, you'll notice the signs getting yellower, the warnings larger, and the doorways more prohibitive.  Follow that last hallway allllllll the way back to a deceptively sunshiney window and hang a right.  There, in a small, rather ordinary room with a firm, rather large hazard warning hung by the door, on this previous Wednesday afternoon around 2:30 pm, you would have found me.  There I sat, Matt by my side, as the tech explained all of the precautions I'd legally be required to take once I ingested the I-131 pill. As she went over the precautions, I calmly nodded my consent.  And then I definitively signed my consent on their papers, because the law and the hospital like to know that you really, really mean it.

Steve dropped in to tell me how much I-131 he ordered:  59.8 millicuries.  He explained that the amount was rather low because I still had a decent amount of thyroid tissue hanging out in my neck and a higher dosage might damage the surrounding tissues and organs.  Ookay. He also said that, depending on how well this round went, there was a good probability I would have to repeat the process in six months...but, there'd be no way of knowing until the first RAI was complete. Oof.  On the positive side, my initial scan did not reveal any metastasis. Yay!

And then we waited.

After another half an hour, two men with a handtruck passed by my door.   One wore a hospital security uniform and carried a clipboard. One wore khakis and a polo shirt and pushed the truck.  On the truck was a black box emblazoned with more yellow hazard signs than even my door. Yikes.   

"You don't suppose that's the pizza I ordered?"  I whispered to Matt, but he didn't think so.

The tech led the guard and truckpusher  in through a locked door across the hall and closed it behind them.

And then we waited some more.

Still not nuclear!

Time passed.  We continued to wait.

Not glowing!

Even more time passed.

Just me, two cups, and a Geiger Counter!

Eventually, Steve stopped by to let us know that the Radiology Oncologist, a necessary component to delivering the medication, was still stuck in his 3 pm consult, but he'd be there real soon.  Ooookay.

And, eventually, he was!

We saw them walk by.  Heard them unlock the door across the hall.  Listened as heavy sounding things thudded against other heavier sounding things.

"Release the Kraken!" I hissed at Matt, but, instead, they returned with a silver cylinder about eight inches tall.  It was covered in even more warnings of terror and danger.

Steve had me put on some blue, plastic gloves, to help prevent me from accidentally touching the pill.  I chose not to remind Steve that I'd soon be swallowing it.  If the gloves made him feel better, well, whatev.

He reviewed the procedure with me again. "I'll dump the pill in the empty cup.  You prime the well with the cup of water.  Then the pill. Then the water.  See?  Chaser. Pill. Chaser.  Got it?"

This was like no bar game I'd ever played.

Steve unscrewed the top to the metal canister and tipped the capsule into my plastic cup.  It was blue and white and innocuous-looking.  It could have been a simple vitamin or a headache remedy.

Except it wasn't.  It was 59.8 miC of radioactive iodine, which I would be swallowing in concentrated effort to send it on a mission of thorough cancer-eradicating/ass-kicking.

Bottoms up!

I chugged it down in a way that would've made a frat boy proud.  Steve used the geiger counter to measure the radiation filling my belly and then led us back through the maze to the the front.

"See you next Friday!" he called, from a safe distance.

Matt and I walked to the parking lot, not touching.  I slid in to the backseat, as far away from him as possible.  43 miles to home with a tummy full of radiation.  Mindful of the expectation that I spend no more than an hour in the car with another person, he set off.

Matt, happy not to be seated any closer to me.

We drove homeward, catching the opening chords of rush hour, but, fortunately, missing the melody.  While Matt deftly avoided traffic jams, I sat in the backseat and tried to think cancer-kicking thoughts.  And then I tried to ignore the fantastically terrible, burning taste that was spreading through my mouth. It was like hot metal sweat socks. Yuck.  I sipped my water and focused on the knowledge that, while radiation is not delicious, it is life-saving and extremely helpful.  And I'll take a mouth full of tinny, smouldering, locker room gear any day if it means victory over cancer.

Tastes like winning!