On the morning of 23 October, I arrived at the medical center with my significant other, John, around 10:00 for a positron emission tomography or PET scan. A medical technician escorted me to a small room where there was a counter along one side and a recliner sitting where the foot rest, when extended, would be angled towards the door. She invited me to sit down as she pushed a metal tray on a wheeled stand next to the chair. She explained she would be giving me a radioactive tracer in the form of a glucose injection. It would take approximately one hour, she explained, for the glucose to circulate throughout my body, and then the scan would be conducted.
If you've never had a PET scan before, as I hadn't, it's good to know a little about the procedure. The machine itself is quite large and resembles a doughnut sitting upright. Except for the slight stick from the injection, it's a painless test that takes pictures that can reveal disease, like cancer cells, by making them show up as bright spots on the images it produces,
About an hour after the injection, the nurse came in and handed me the small piece of paper
with the note pictured here. Then she said something strange.
"The radioactive glucose we gave you can sometimes cause you to be detected by the police. If you should be stopped on your drive home after the test, you can show them this note."
Umm, okay...?
I had no idea how a radioactive tracer such as this glucose injection might be "detectable" to the cops, but I could only assume it had happened to someone before, hence the little note was provided to patients as a type of "get out of jail free" card. It was puzzling and mildy amusing. The thought crossed my mind that it was meant as a lighthearted joke to lighten the mood, but she was as serious as a heart attack.
My scan took about 30 minutes. It was shortly afterwards that the storm came.
As I headed out the door to meet up with John, I felt more or less normal. It was after noon by now, and I hadn't eaten since 4 o'clock that morning, so I suggested we drive a short distance away to Miller's Ale House on Davis Highway for a bite to eat. My head was aching a little, and I assumed it was a hunger headache from the hours-long fast. We had been seated at the table long enough to get our iced teas and place our order when I began to realize the headache wasn't from hunger, and it was abundantly clear that it was getting worse. By the time our food arrived, I wasn't sure if I could eat. Nausea was coming in waves now, and my head felt like it was going to explode.
"I'm sorry, John. Can you ask for some to-go boxes? I need to go to the car."
I don't remember much about the 40-minute drive back to John's house. I vaguely recall climbing into bed and curling up in the fetal position with my head buried under the covers to block out any light. At some point, I managed to escape the pain with sleep.
So far, I have been poked dozens of times to fill vials with my blood for lab tests, had a skeletal survey done that comprised of a series of about 25 X-rays from the top of my head to my lower legs, been given an injection of the chemo drug Velcade in my belly, and undergone a bone marrow biopsy under mild anesthesia at the hospital, and none of it was as unpleasant as the slight radiation poisoning from the PET scan. My doctor suggested that the scan along with the 25 X-rays the day before were probably enough to cause the adverse reaction.
I suppose I should consider myself fortunate that we didn't get pulled over.
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