April Winchell

Afterglow

Well, today was the day.

This morning I headed down to Santa Monica Hospital, and took the dose of radioactive iodine I've been anticipating for two weeks.

Like every aspect of cancer I've weathered thus far, today's experience was not at all demoralizing, expensive or humiliating. No, it was just plain fun. And I have the photos to prove it!

But first, let's talk about the prep I've endured for the last two weeks. Because I can see it's been a while since I updated the site, and I don't want you to miss out on any of the fun!

Two weeks ago, I went off my medication to prepare for the iodine I took today. I knew it was supposed to make me feel bad, and let me tell you, I wasn't disappointed! I had a migraine for about 7 or 8 straight days (a personal best), and I was unable to sleep most nights.

Eventually I had to call my doctor for some pain relief. Apparently he knew something I didn't, because when I picked up my prescription, it was for 100 Darvocet.

Emotionally, I held up better than I anticipated. That's my take, however. It's likely that those closest to me have a different perspective.

In addition to side effects brought on by stopping my medication, I've been forced to submit to the oddest diet imaginable. For two weeks (and another week or two ahead), I've feasted on jelly, egg whites and vegetables. It's positively decadent!

The highlight may have come last night. Knowing that I was facing several days of isolation, I asked my wonderful boyfriend John to go to dinner with me. I urged him to get a big, greasy burger with bacon, fries and chili. I ate a skinned, unsalted baked potato. Plain. With my hands. Mmmmmm!

This morning I reported to the hospital at 8:30 to get a pregnancy test.

Let me just digress here for a moment. I know I haven't even really gotten started, but still, this needs to be said.

Do me a fucking favor, and be a hospital, okay? Look and act like a hospital. Do not put your urine tests in folksy little wicker displays, because it just makes me angry. I don't need you to look like my fucking kitchen, all right? If I want to piss in a place with baskets, I'll go to Marie Callendar.

In any event, I had to take the test, and take it I did. Apparently, ingesting this drug while pregnant results in seriously mutant offspring, much like Tom and Katie are destined to have, and Santa Monica wants no part in that. Fortunately, I was barren as usual, and reported to the lead-lined halls that held my salvation.

As I expected, everything was running like a well oiled machine. What this of course means, is that for over an hour I sat in a waiting room, looking down at this.

Eventually a nurse came to retrieve me, and I went behind the radioactive warnings to a small exam room, where I sat for another half hour. This time, however, I was treated to an issue of In Style magazine from April! The time flew by as I learned about Mena Suvari's bold experiments in pink eye shadow, and Sandra Bullock's private pain .

I also had a moment to appreciate some of the attention to detail that makes The Santa Monica UCLA Medical Center such a fantastic place. It's this sort of precision that makes the difference to people like me.

After many a fortnight, a 14 year-old resident came in to answer any last minute questions. I didn't have too many, since I'd already had two long phone calls with the nuclear medicine department, telling me in detail how to do everything from flush the toilet (before you start peeing) to brushing my teeth (throw out the brush and use a new one every time) to disposing of my Kleenex (put it in a plastic bag on the patio and close the door until the squad comes for pick up in three days).

We did have one little unpleasant patch that could have led to a dust up. Halfway down my consent form, there was some language about "having been informed of alternate treatment methods and refusing same". I asked Dr. Pimple-Face-Giant-Adam's-Apple what alternate treatment options there were, and he said "none". So I refused to sign until that language was removed. Someone had to be called and it was all a big waste of everyone's time, most significantly my own. But something about the idea that I chose this option really annoyed me, and I wanted to go on record as being a victim.

That settled, they took me into the room with the medicine, and told me that they would physically put it in my mouth with a special tool. I could hear a Geiger counter clicking sporadically behind me, so I knew I was in Chernobyl country. The nurse told me to wait while she got the technician, and left the room.

I snapped this picture of the lead tabletop fortress that surrounds the medication. I could not believe how intricate this things was. There are 3" thick solid lead bricks to keep people away from pills they want you to put into your body. Even then, the pills are kept in leaden containers that are placed inside larger lead canisters. It doesn't exactly inspire confidence.

I was lining up my next shot when the nurse and the tech came back in. The looks on their faces were priceless. I guess people don't normally document these kinds of experiences unless they're planning a lawsuit. I mean, it's not every day you're going to see something like, oh, say, this.

I was instructed to open my mouth, and the doctor, now in a Hazmat suit, retrieved the pill from the vault with a foot long forceps. He stood back and asked me to open my mouth, and I swear to you, I saw him wince as he placed the tablet on my tongue.

I was then instructed by the nurse (who was hiding behind the file cabinet) to drink the entire glass of water on the counter. As I did, the Geiger counter behind me started clicking loudly.

"Is that the pill?" I asked

"No," she replied, "it's you."

I then put on a paper mask and went down to the valet to get my car. This seemed really unsafe, and I hesitated to tip the guy, just in case he wanted to have children. But the staff assured me that I wouldn't contaminate anyone unless I spit on them, so I just refrained from using words like "Poplar" and "Perspire". I got in my car and went home.

Now that I'm here, I absolutely cannot leave for three days, not even to check my mail. I tried to be extremely well prepared for all of this, but I did manage to overlook something important: my bedspread isn't washable. Since my bedding has to be washed every day I'll have to throw it out.

Fortunately, Mick called shortly after I got back and said he was coming over with a new, washable blanket. I told him to just knock on the door and back up at least 6 feet, and I would be able to open it in his presence.

A little while later there was a knock at the door. I waited a minute for him to back up, and when I opened the door, I saw Mick in the hallway, decked out like this.

Personally, I think tying garbage bags around your head and hands is overkill. But then, he does watch a lot of CSI.

DO YOU GLOW HARD?

If you were at What's My Line a few weeks ago, you pobably got a wrist band. I had them made up after Mr. KABC suggested I should have solidarity bands like Lance Armstrong.

Since Lance already had "LIVE STRONG", my friend Gina suggested I use "GLOW HARD", which appealed to me tremendously. I had glow in the dark bands made up and I've given away a ton of them.

Now is of course, is the time to use them. Wear them for the next three days and glow along with me. And for God's sake, send me a photo of you wearing or using your band somehow, so I can post it.

I'll get you started with Gina’s photo, which will be hard to top.