I had some test a while back. I was asked to remove my shirt and sit in a chair that resembled a cross between a dentist’s chair and a dysfunctional Lazyboy. The nurse administering the tests put and IV in my arm and went behind a wall. In a few minutes, she returned wearing what looked like a led HAZMAT suit. She carried a thick, metal box.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I said. “But why are you dressed like that and what’s in that box? It looks like part of a bank’s safe.”
“It’s radioactive,” she said calmly, as if she were bringing a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
“So you’re dressed like that and I’m sitting here with no shirt on,” I said.
She said nothing as she opened the considerably armored box and extracted a metal cylinder that resembled a small, chrome sex toy.
“Radioactivity is one thing,” I said. “Now I’m getting nervous.”
“No worries, this goes in the syringe,” she said.
The syringe was equally as daunting. It looked like a fuel injector on a BMW.
She slid the cylinder into the syringe and leaned in. “You won’t feel a thing.”
“That’s kind of what I’m afraid of, ma’am,” I said. “Is this ‘not feeling a thing’ part sort of long term? Like forever?”
She laughed. “You are quite a jokester.”
I wasn’t joking. It didn’t matter; she had the isotope in me by then. She returned all of the Frankenstein-ish devices to their appointed places and turned to leave.
“Just sit there for a while,” she said. “When it gets in your system, I’ll be back.”
“Yeah, with the coroner,” I mumbled under my breath.
I went through the tests. When it was over, another nurse said. “Great. You can go.”
“Should everyone around me wear one of those suits for while?” I asked. She ignored my gallows humor.
“If you feel anything strange, just call us,” she said.
“Like glowing urine?” I asked.
“She looked shocked. “God, I hope not!”
Me too.
