Imagine Dragons, Marie Curie, Bart Simpson, and me. We’re Radioactive.
I’ve never been too heavy into comics, but even a novice like me knows the formula. Normal Person + Radioactive Encounter = Superpowers. Mine have yet to reveal themselves, but I’m really hoping it’s teleportation.
My printed name looked out of place among the collection of cursive ones surrounding it on the doctor’s sign-in sheet. The elderly patients waiting alongside me told me I was too young to be there. I agreed. My stomach did not.
While peers my age ate at food trucks and nursed hangovers, I traded dark chocolate boosts for strawberry with my Grammom. I laughed alongside the card-carrying aarp members at Ellen DeGeneres’ monologue playing on the tv in the doctor’s waiting room.
My Gastroenterologist started testing for the most common, easiest to identify, and most serious health concerns to rule out. Since my symptoms, like many involving the GI tract, mimic any number of issues, best to cast a wide net.
This time, I was having an Upper Gi Series. I chose to sit in the chair in the farthest corner to leave more walker accessible chairs available for my cohorts.
I had fasted eight hours beforehand as instructed and was ready to drink the required radioactive barium. I thought I was ready to drink the barium. It was rough. The taste, the texture, the fact that my initial symptoms included nausea to start anyways. It was a large amount of liquid, also, like two full Big Gulps worth, which hit my empty stomach heavy.
I had already scoped out which wastebaskets had a liner bag and was trying every anti-nausea trick I knew.
Getting that prep drink down - and keeping it there - brought haphazard memories of beer bongs and attempted keg stands to mind. Unhelpful.
Right after my leg fell asleep and was all pins and needles, my name was called for the first x-ray. The medical assistant brought me back and I was instructed to stand in between two x-ray panels. The panels were adjusted meticulously. All I had to do was stand perfectly still in the correct position. Seems easy, but all the sudden my forehead itched and that made me wonder how those guards in England with the uniform and hat can ignore itchiness.
I inhaled and exhaled as directed and panicked as I realized this was only the first of three. My t shirt was already damp from sweat. The heavy barium inched along my digestive tract like a glacier of sour milk. I continued to flex every abdominal muscle to try to help in some way.
I was back in the waiting room before my left leg had the chance to stop tingling from its’ sleep. I had missed Dr. Oz’s summer slimming smoothie recipe while I was having my first x-ray, but luckily I was able to catch it during the final recap.
I had brought yarn and a hook but I couldn’t crochet and hold my stomach at the same time so it remained in its bag untouched. Occasionally I’d wet a paper towel from the water cooler for my forehead and neck, but the cold disappeared too quickly to help.
The waiting room itself was not the easiest place to be during those long minutes between X-rays but was at least predictable.
As if on repeat, a patient would walk into the office. They’d enter and search for the check-in clipboard everywhere except for the obvious counter, where it was clearly labeled. They filled out the paperwork they didn’t receive in the mail, then tried with no success to find a comfortable position on an available seat. They passed the time by flipping through US Weekly and cleaning out their pocketbooks; a genius use of time I now copy regularly. They got called for their appointment and were gone for some time. Once they returned, they searched for the check-out window located just a step away. After considering many factors such as transportation, difficulty rising early, and ruling out all Wednesdays due to weekly canasta tournaments, an acceptable follow-up appointment was made. The patient then left the office while the rest of us waiting our turn jumped as the heavy door slammed behind them.
Meanwhile, I was camped in the corner chair, trying and failing to "egg" inconspicuously. Egging is a made-up word I use to describe bringing my knees to my stomach and holding them tight with my arms. It’s basically the fetal position, which sometimes is the only bearable pose during higher pain.
X-ray two. Identical process and then back to the waiting room. They told me the test would take anywhere from 3-5 hours depending on how fast the barium made its way through my plumbing. The wait after x-ray two was weird because I was simultaneously hoping x ray three is the final one, and also not the final one. If it was the final one I could leave and nurse my nausea at home. Out from under the florescent lighting and requirement of wearing pants, even my most stretchy pair. If it was not the final one, I’d be stuck watching soaps while pondering the concept of time relativity during pain. But maybe a third x-ray would mean we knew what was wrong. Maybe I wouldn’t have to have any more testing. Maybe nothing invasive.
I was excused after x-ray three. Unremarkable.
“Now you can get on out of here and get some lunch! You must be starving after all that fasting”. An angry gurgle at the bottom of my esophagus threatened my vomit-free afternoon. I didn’t stop at the check-out window. Unlike my new peers, I knew it’s location, but needed the cold outside air more urgently.
I was instructed to drink lots of water to flush the barium out of my system. The next few bowel movements were weird, but in line with the list of common symptoms following an Upper GI Series. I thought quite a bit about how the fish in the sewer lines are impacted after encountering my radioactive waste. Now I think of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in a different light. I wonder if it’s creator also drank radio active barium to find out what was wrong with his insides.
I didn’t get to pick my superhero abilities after this radiation run in. I was really hoping for teleporting powers. So far, all I can do is feel when a weather front comes through. Wythacay the Weathervane. It isn’t super helpful in these modern days of technology. Actually, even in the past this power sucks. I would definitely have been burned at the stake as a witch. Either that or held captive by farmers. Farmers’ almanacs weren’t always around so Wythacay the Weathervane could have been in demand.
My doctor told me there is no way my upper GI series could have given me powers of any kind. Not even the gift of weather prophecy, and that I should make another appointment with my neurologist.
More tests. On the bright side, I’d bet liquid plumber has nothing on good ol’ atomic number 56.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Will Wythacay survive her next radioactive encounter? Find out in the next installment of Am I a Superhero Now: The Radioactive Chronicles
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