My five days as a radioactive Leper (read if you dare)

I went to see my endocrine consultant in a confident mood. So confident in fact that I took my book to read in the waiting room. I knew we were having trouble getting my hyperactive thyroid under control and that radio iodine was something we were going to discuss, and that even the possibility of booking an appointment do the dirty deed was, I knew, on the cards. But, well, I don’t have to tell you about the NHS. I was confident because I was well aware the appointment would be months away. In fact, let us be honest, it was more likely to be years away. In fact, let’s be even more honest, the chances of my still being alive when they offer me the treatment is very unlikely. So, I wander in, even more confidently after having just been weighed and told I have lost a few more pounds while on my diet. I felt surprisingly good after that. Even if they do say it will be twenty years before we can destroy your thyroid Mrs Renham Cook, I don’t think I will mind too much. I had lost more weight and better still my blood pressure was lower. Do I care about a thyroid problem?
‘So, ve vink ve coming to the radioiodine treatment. For your better health, you understand me, this is your only chance. It be danger for you othervise.’ My German/Polish/Slovakian/ Eastern European,(well she isn’t English, that much I can tell you) consultant tells me. I nod, not fully understanding whether the treatment is not good for my health or not having it is not good for my health. She pushes a form towards me.
‘You fill zis in please,’ she is beginning to sound more like the Gestapo with each passing minute.
I fill in the form and feel my heart beat a little faster. My god, surely they are not going to do it now. I mean, I have come alone. Doesn’t someone need to accompany me home? Surely there is a waiting list a thousand miles long sitting around somewhere of which to the bottom of, I should surely go.
‘So, ve now get you to see Joan and book you in for next monday, zis is good.’
Next Monday! The next Monday of this month! The next Monday of this year! The next Monday of my life in fact.
‘But, I can’t possibly,’ I splutter, ‘We are short-staffed at work.’
She looks unperturbed.
‘Zees appointments very hard to get. verk vill understand.’
Oh, she has much to learn.
Oh, my god. I am sent back to the waiting room where I quake whilst waiting to see Joan, who is very nice and explains everything in full, albeit it very quickly.
‘You swallow a capsule and then you are radioactive. All the radio iodine will go to your thyroid to destroy it but there will elements lingering in the body which will come out in your urine and sweat. Do not sleep with your husband for 5 days, take 5 days off work and do not get closer than 1 metre to others. After the 5th day you can be a bit more relaxed but still avoid pregnant woman and babies. We will see you in a week.’
I leave in a state of shock. For the next seven days I spend my time googling Radio iodine treatment and discussing it with my husband. By the time I go the following week we feel we have the whole thing sussed. He will sleep in another room. I have separated our towels and what not. I buy a new toothbrush on the way and wonder how it will feel being apart from my husband at night, already we have arranged to sit on separate couches. I am very nervous when I arrive at the hospital and yet all I am going to do is swallow a pill. I mean, let’s face it I am the worst hypochondriac in the world, second to Woody Allen and popping pills is a way of life for me. Ok, I don’t spend my life popping radioactive ones admittedly. But, trust me, Ozzy Ozbourne has nothing on me. I am taken into a small room and everything is read out to me and I am asked to sign a form to say I understand that I must legally carry a yellow card around with me stating I am radioactive and also wear a yellow wrist bracelet should I have an accident. This means the paramedics will be aware. I get more nervous as she clips the bracelet on. I suddenly feel like an alien. Will the paramedics walk away from my dying body when they see the bracelet? Will the bracelet hinder the saving of my life? What am I letting myself in for?
‘Ok, you can take the capsule.’ annouces Joan.
I am led silently to a table where a large vial sits waiting for me.Suddenly I feel like I have stepped into the ‘Frankenstein’ novel. I am like someone being taken to their execution.
‘Only you can do it,’ she prods.
Oh, I see. Only I take responsibility for radio activating myself. I suddenly feel like I am in a sci-fi movie and expect lots of bubbly froth to accompany my capsule. I lift the vial from its container and everyone jumps back. I hesitate and then lift it to my lips and in one movement the capsule is sliding down my throat.
‘Ok,’ they say ushering me out and standing ten miles from me. ‘You are radioactive now.’
I walk out of the building expecting everyone to look differently at me. Surely it shows on my face that I am radioactive, or maybe something shines about my head, you know like a halo. Well, I imagine it does that all the time anyway, with all the good works I do, but listen, I don’t want to brag.
I wait to feel different. I climb into my car and wait. It doesn’t start itself, so I turn the key in the ignition and wait for an electric shock or something. It doesn’t happen. I drive home, checking myself every few minutes for new symptoms, nothing happens. Well, this is a piece of cake, I tell myself. Now, let this be a warning to you. Never tell yourself something is a piece of cake. The next five days are awful. I cannot make Bendy (our cat) understand that I do still love him but I just can’t have him near me. The more I try to avoid him, the more he pushes himself onto me. I spend my time going ‘Shoo shoo’ Till, in the end he shoos away to the neighbour’s house. Andrew sits on another couch and avoids touching me and I begin to feel like a leper. I still feel the same. Nothing remarkable happens in the house and I feel almost disappointed. I think I had expected all kinds of amazing things to take place during those five days. The only remarkable thing that takes place is the staggering amount of washing I do. I phone Andrew on the intercom to say goodnight and ‘I love you’. I am beginning to understand what it feels like to be in a long distance relationship.
Then the five days are up. I didn’t conjure up strange men from another planet. I got a few odd looks when people saw my wrist band. Andrew joked it was like a new baby’s wrist band and I was a born again nutcase. So, I got through it. I now had to wait for the next stage. Blood tests in a few weeks and the likelihood that I would become under active. What they didn’t tell me was that it would be a bad idea to get a cold. What do I do? Yes, catch a cold. Two weeks on and I feel like I am being strangled on a daily basis. I phone the hospital and they pass the buck to my doctor, he listens and passes the buck back to them. Meanwhile, I am in agony. Ok, hypochondriac agony which is probably fifty per cent less than it sounds. A piece of cake? I couldn’t eat one if I tried. It seems a cold inflames the glands more. I mean, it can only happen to me.
So, they tell me to take plenty of pain killers (yes permission at last to take drugs) drink plenty of fluids and wait. Back to google to check they have got it right this time.