When the medical people take down a thyroid without surgery they call the procedure an ablation. That’s what I have on my schedule for this afternoon. You know, I think I’d rather be handcuffed and hauled off to jail than have this done; hospitals are, without question, my least favorite places on the planet.
Once at the hospital, I am to proceed to the Nuclear Medicine department where I’ll be treated with a dose of radioactive iodine. What form the dose will take is a mystery, I’ve heard it is commonly given as a pill and an IV and a drink. Whatever, I won’t enjoy it. What I will do is become radioactive for five days and that freaks me out a little. Wait, that’s a lie, it freaks me out a lot.
I don’t want to glow like a nightlight. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t. If radioactivity was good for you, heck, Three Mile Island and Chernobyl would be meccas for the sick and lame, like Lourdes. But they’re not, are they? No, they’re desolate, abandoned, uninhabitable wastelands.
And isn’t ‘nuclear medicine’ an oxymoron, like civil disobedience? Think about it.
Now, should the tech who administers the radioactive medicine be wearing a Hazmat suit or a lead apron, I’m out of there. I mean, if they’re unwilling to even handle the stuff, I seriously question the magical healing properties. Wouldn’t you? Even though they say thyroid tissue is the only tissue in the body able to absorb the iodine. Still, yikes!
Then, too, there’s a fair chance it will take more than one try to effectively shut down my thyroid. I might get to do this all over again in a couple of months. But only if they can catch me — nert nert nert.
In the meantime, should you notice a faint glow in the northern night sky, don’t worry. It’s only me.
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