It’s a strange world in which we’re living today. When once humanity seemed bound by the common, everyday processes we see going on all around us, now it seems we are limited only by our imagination. Traditional healing with herbs, and plants, and available local remedies has given way to a plethora of complicated chemical compositions and high-tech solutions to what ails us. We’ve even mastered, or have begun to the master, we think, the atom and to manipulate the gene. I think of young Miranda when, upon the thought of, perchance, leaving her desert island home and returning to civilization, cried, “Oh, brave new world that has such people in’t“ (Shakespeare, Tempest, 5.1.181-184). I also can’t help but think about the Tower of Babel, “and now nothing which they purpose to do will be impossible for them” (Genesis 11:6, NASB)—Yikes!
I don’t know about you, but I’ve often wondered to myself “how far is too far?” How far are we willing to go in the name of, and in behalf of, humanity’s health and healing—if it really is “healing?” Are we actually heading for something like Huxley’s (1932) Brave New World, or will things begin to deteriorate into something more akin to Well’s (1896) Island of Doctor Moreau? Maybe both?
It seems as if, ever since man discovered the atom, he’s been imagining how to manipulate it—you know our propensity for trying to “control” absolutely everything—and all the cool stuff and he can do with it. The first idea that popped into his head, of course, was how to make it go “boom” or, rather, “BOOM!”—shall we say, “BOOOOOOOOOM!!!” But, as blowing stuff up with atoms gradually began to predict the potential for a rather bleak future for humanity, he soon began to wonder what else he could do with it.
“Darn, we have to stop destroying things with this stuff! Soooooo what else can we do with it?” “Anybody? Anybody?”
“Hummmmmmm… well, we could, I guess, see if, perhaps, we can use it for some good?” “Perhaps it would be useful for some kind of healing?”
“Dooouuuggghhhhh! Anybody else?”
But, eventually, nuclear medicine was born. The good news—technically, we still get to destroy things; just on a much tinier scale.
So, early tomorrow morning, I’ll jump yet another plane bound for Honolulu, this time with only a “one-way ticket” – yikes! I’m being sent up to, what I’ve affectionately come to call, “The Big House”—Moanalua Medical Center—Kaiser Permanente’s central hospital facility for the State of Hawai’i; the same place I recently did a five-day stint.
A prison, I, I mean, hospital bus will pick me up at the airport for transport to the facility. Once there, they’ll take me to a little white room called MOA NUC MED INJ ROOM 3 where I will be forced to drink a lethal dose of poison—well, not lethal to me, prayerfully, but to a lot of things inside me.
The radioactive isotope—iodine-131—is supposed to track down and obliterate any remaining thyroid cells or miscreant cancer cells within my body. I’m imagining tiny, microscopic, atomic explosions going on all throughout my system as, cell-by-cell, the radioactive iodine is carelessly absorbed by the renegade troublemakers and then “BAMMM—got you!” It’s kind of the medical community’s idea of a high-tech video game—“Grand Theft Auto”—at the cellular level.
I’m not sure just what all other kinds of unsuspecting cells will also end up being obliterated but, supposedly, we only use 3% of our brain cells to navigate through life anyway so, perhaps, I’ll be alright in that department.
After they strip me of all my clothing and belongings, and make me drink the deadly poison, I imagine men in HazMat suits escorting me, by way of a hidden passage with lead laden walls, down to the Big House dungeon, where they have really super-thick concrete walls; and, there, they will lock me away in solitary confinement—an old, dusty supply closet that the janitor cleaned out a few years back, I presume—for a period of three to five days.
They will do this for at least two reasons. The main reason is because, ever since they took away my T3 hormone replacement and forced me into this goofy state of hypothyroidism, I’ve been getting grouchier every day and, I suppose, people are getting pretty fed up with me. Furthermore, after ingesting the nuclear explosives, I’m REALLY not going to feel very well, and nobody wants to have to deal with that. So, upon my wife’s request, no doubt, “best to just lock him away and forget about him for a while!”
Oh, and the other reason is because, at the dosage they’re giving me, I’ll be considered a radioactive contaminate for several days; and people just seem to have this “thing” about being around others who are constantly bombarding them with waves of beta particles. I know, hunh? Still so much prejudice in the world; go figure!
While in lock-up, not even the nurses will be allowed in my room. I’ll have to take my own vitals every four hours and clean up my own vomit; as well as any other messes that I make. I think the janitor will come by once or twice a day, if he happens to remember, with some kind of mashed up low-iodine organic compound baked into a kind of bread, along with a little water, and shove it through a slot in the lead-lined door. If I want anything more than that, I suppose I can always scout for cockroaches, as they can apparently survive anything, even radioactivity.
I’ve been told that “everything” that goes into that room will become radioactive waste and will have to be bagged for HazMat and permanently disposed of. However the room will be nicely furnished in the new and stylish “Stark” motif. Everything, even the floor, will be lined with disposable plastic; the sheets, pillow cases, and bedding, as well as my hospital gowns, will all be made of disposable paper. Well, we can’t get more “contemporary” than that, now can we?!?
I have already been ordered to shower and scrub at least four times a day while in lockdown; and there will, no doubt, be some kind of hidden, Owellian (1949) camera to make sure that I follow those orders sufficiently. And, if I don’t properly follow all instructions to a “t”, I fear there will be some kind of a dystopian, Bradbury (1953), spider-looking, robot thing sent in to do the job for me. I’m pretty sure that a CIA Predator Drone probably circles high above the “Big House” should I, at any point, renege on any of this and try to make a break for it—for all I know, they’ve already got one watching me now!
After several days, if the nursing staff hasn’t forgotten where they stored me, I will be scanned with a magic wand for discernible levels of any remnant danger that I may pose to the general public. If I pass the radioactivity test and, it has been emphasized, “if” I’ve cleaned up my act and display a fairly reasonable attitude toward others, they say they “might” let me out.
Only then will Kaiser Permanente secure a returning one-way ticket, put me back on the prison bus to the airport, and have me transported back home; probably inside a leaden case in the underbelly of a cargo transport. That is, if my family is quite ready to have me back and gives their consent. I’m under no illusions, though—I remember the little poem by Kessinger (1959):
Sometime when you’re feeling important;
Sometime when your ego’s in bloom
Sometime when you take it for granted
You’re the best qualified in the room,
Sometime when you feel that your going
Would leave an unfillable hole,
Just follow these simple instructions
And see how they humble your soul;
Take a bucket and fill it with water,
Put your hand in it up to the wrist,
Pull it out and the hole that’s remaining
Is a measure of how you will be missed.
You can splash all you wish when you enter,
You may stir up the water galore,
But stop and you’ll find that in no time
It looks quite the same as before.
The moral of this quaint example
Is do just the best that you can,
Be proud of yourself but remember,
There’s no indispensable man.
I don’t know why I’m so “freaked” about all of this. It’s a very simple procedure, really. Just drink the poison, get really sick, and then get a whole lot better. Most people survive it just fine. But, for some reason, I’m more nervous about this than I was either one of the two thyroid surgeries—both of which came at me pretty quickly.
It’s probably just the hypothyroidism, yeah? Or, maybe I’m just in the same boat as Wyatt Earp when he said to Doc Holiday in the Cosmatos (1993) film, Tombstone, as he nervously contemplated his final showdown with the outlaw killer, Johnny Ringo, “It all happened so fast with Curly Bill… I didn’t really have time to think about it. But I’ve had plenty of time to think about this.”
They’re not even going to put me under, or anything like that. Still, I don’t know, something about it just feels creepy! It’s kind of like taking the “red pill” in the Wachowski (1999) movie, The Matrix, remember these classic lines:
Morpheus: Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself. This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill, the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill, you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes. Remember: all I’m offering is the truth. Nothing more.
The truth, and nothing more? Eh, eh, eh—yeah, but what Neo doesn’t seem to remember is that “truth,” like virtually everything else in life, ALWAYS comes with a whole lot more than one initially contemplates. Later in the movie, after Neo’s entire existence has been absolutely, completely, and utterly altered beyond all imagination, we find another classic line:
Cypher: You know, I know what you’re thinking, because right now I’m thinking the same thing… Actually, I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got here… (he raises his glass and drinks) Why, oh why, didn’t I take the blue pill !?!?!
Am I going to regret all this? Probably! But, I mean, I’m already fighting cancer, right? It’s not like this is some kind of rosy picture to begin with. And this is just another weapon in my arsenal—it just happens to be a weapon of mass destruction at the cellular scale; and a nuclear weapon at that.
One thing every cancer patient learns early on is that, despite all the rhetoric about “taking charge” of our your own healing, for the most part, you just do what your told; you just try to keep moving along from day-to-day, trying to take it all in, trying to make sense of it all, trying to find the little rainbows wherever you can; but also realizing that it’s all pretty much out of your hands. And that often leaves one feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.
Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re NOT out to get you!
I’m trying to remain completely rational about all this. You all know how much I despise hyperbole and would never participate in such literary indulgence. But I can’t seem to shake this feeling that, in today’s world, we’re messing with some really dangerous stuff that, perhaps, we were never intended to mess with. Or, I don’t know, maybe we were. But one thing I do know for sure is that God knows and, either way, He’s got this!
Best video of this song:
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