A little background: In November 2015, I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. Mine was treated as most thyroid cancer is, with surgery, followed by radioactive iodine therapy.
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Yesterday I drove to the hospital, entered a special lot I’ve never parked in before, found the closest parking space I’ve ever had, and walked through the mysterious doors of Nuclear Imaging. I don’t know exactly what that is, but I do know it contains the word “nuclear,” and I’m getting a treatment that involves being radioactive, so I’ve put 2 and 2 together.
Within moments after I entered, a man in a white lab coat came and stood by my side, ready to lead me down the hallway. We entered another hallway, behind a closed door, with a few narrow curtained cubicles. After I attested that I had come alone and parked in the correct lot and would be living in the basement alone when I went home (they care about details here) and while I signed all the forms acknowledging that I was allowing myself to become radioactive, and that the treatment can lead, ironically, to a higher incidence of other cancers, the white-coated man, Stephen, answered my questions. At last. A knowledgeable person to answer my burning questions about the ramifications of radioactivity.
Shower twice a day. Drink. A LOT. Do your own laundry. It’s okay to put your dishes in the dishwasher with everyone else’s. No, you don’t have to get rid of your shoes and coat and makeup and contacts and everything else you’ve worn when this is over. No kissing for a week.
“Your body will be emitting waves of radioactivity for the first few days,” Stephen told me. “It’s in your blood, saliva, urine, and even the oil on your fingers. So take precautions when you touch something that’s shared. But it’s okay if someone wants to give you a quick hug.”
Really?? I doubt anyone’s going to want to hug me. (Except my mom, of course.)
Then two doctors arrived, presumably to watch me swallow the iodine pill. We stepped into yet another narrow, hallway-like room, behind another closed door. (There were no windows in any of these rooms, sort of like being in a basement, but at street level.) Stephen, whom by now I considered something of a friend, opened a heavy door and brought out a small white canister, maybe 5 inches tall and 3 inches in diameter, the size of a small pillar candle, and weighing about 40 pounds. “When I open this, I’ll pour the pill into a plastic cup. Don’t touch the pill, but instead tip the cup to your lips and swallow it with as much water as you’d like.”
The pill was a small gray capsule. I obeyed (it was Stephen, after all), using plenty of water. Then he picked up a hand-held monitor and pointed it at my stomach.
“Just making sure the pill went to your stomach and isn’t lodged in your throat somewhere. Stand still. 8.6. Okay, you’re good. I’ll show you to the back door.”
I wanted to ask questions, but even Stephen didn’t seem inclined to spend any more time with me. We left the third hallway, returned to the second hallway to retrieve my coat and purse, and walked to a fourth hallway, which led straight to the “back” door, really an inconspicuous front door, just steps from my car.
“Go straight to your car, drive home, and isolate yourself. Here’s a parking pass.” (Free parking?! See what I mean about Stephen?)
Again I obeyed. I went home and entered the house tentatively, not sure where Ken was. I found him in the kitchen. Eyeing me warily, he took a few steps back, just for good measure, and slid my lunch plate down the counter to me, diner style. I took my plate and all my now-contaminated belongings down to the basement, where I’ve been ever since (except for when I snuck upstairs for a tube of toothpaste). Just me, Jesus, and the entire internet.