Yesterday I spent much of my time waiting around and doing
nothing, in a bleak room labeled “Nuclear Medicine Patient
Lounge” or some such. As my 75th year is almost upon me, and because
of an abundance of crappy hearts among most of my siblings, my docs decided it
would be a good time to really get to know my heart.
A blip on a routine annual EKG at my primary care doctor’s
office a month ago piqued the interest of some algorithm, earning me a referral
to a cardiac doc. One of the battery of tests I was then subjected to was
yesterday’s Nuclear Cardiac Stress Test, which involves a lot of steps, including the injection of some
radioactive fluid into the blood stream. The little nukes apparently know their
job is to migrate to the left ventricle of the heart, and once there, some huge
machine into which you’re stuffed takes pictures of your heart for the docs to interpret.
Prior to the test, I was warned that I should avoid getting
too close to children under the age of 12 for a period of three days after the
test. There’d still be some radioactivity coursing through my veins, enough to
warrant keeping a safe distance from the grandkids.
However, I had no idea how serious this nuclear medicine
stuff is until my four-and-a-half-hour odyssey was nearly complete. There were
four of us old guys in the morning session, and we took turns getting injected
with the isotopes, spending our time in the giant machine that takes the
pictures, drinking lots of fluids, and sitting in the dreary patient lounge in
between.
It was pretty much 45 minutes of boredom followed by 15
minutes of intense medical stuff, hour after hour. But then, just before the
final hour, the genial guy who was our Nuclear Medicine guide came into the
lounge with a serious look. He handed each of us a sheet to take with us and
said it was imperative that we take the sheet with us any time we left our home
in the next three days.
He told us if we should happen to be pulled over by a cop,
we’d trip their radiation monitor and would need to show the card explaining
that we’re not terrorists carrying nuclear material, just “nuclear medicine
patients.” He further explained that Homeland Security has radiation monitors
at undisclosed locations around every city of any size, and that if we happened
to pass near one, we’d trip the monitor and would likely be tracked down and
questioned within an hour. All we’d have to do is show the card to explain why
we tripped the monitor.
As it turns out, one of our fearsome foursome was a man who’d
just retired from one of those three-letter acronym outfits that’s part of the
U.S. Government. I won’t name it, because HIPPA and all that. We’d all
introduced ourselves at the beginning, and knowing who this gentleman had
worked for meant we all looked at him after our genial guide handed out the
cards and gave his little spiel.
He told us more and more law enforcement agencies are being
equipped with radiation monitors, and that Homeland Security has radiation
monitors in secret locations all over the place, just as our guide had
mentioned. After he confirmed and amplified what our guide had said, he emphasized
how important it was to keep the card on our person and be ready to show it to
a law enforcement officer immediately upon request.
“Unless, of course, you want to spend about two or three
intense hours being ruthlessly interrogated by some people who are deadly
serious about their profession,” he added. The other three of us sat in stunned
silence for a moment afterward.
Message received.
We live in interesting times.
