I am radioactive.
Or more accurately, my blood is radioactive.
By now, it’s passed through every organ and bone in my body. For a while, it flowed through my eyes, and I had x-ray vision.
That’s gone now.
My liver is probably doing its best to collect the harmful residue. Maybe my fingernails will help, and in a few weeks I’ll clip off whatever it caught.
I didn’t crawl the walls or shoot webbing from my spinnerets—
probably because it wasn’t a radioactive spider.
Truth is, I don’t even know the source of the radioactivity.
It’s funny how we accept foreign objects into our bodies—
tracers, dyes, isotopes—
based on a doctor’s tone of voice.
It’s all part of the cost-benefit analysis.
A little radiation (bad), in exchange for diagnostic insight (good).
Knowledge that might extend life.
But that kind of mental bargaining requires a buy-in.
And once you buy in… you’re in.
What about the plan to rent a bush plane and get dropped in the Alaskan wilderness?
Another time.
Probably a few decades ago.
Because once you start the process—
you have to stick around for the results.
You have to be present for follow-ups, tests, future procedures.
You have to be available.
I have a smart phone. A smart watch.
Would it be so hard to keep a calendar of the things in my body that are running out of time?
These devices already know everything else.
They could at least give me a heads-up on expiration dates.
I recently had a conversation with a friend in Thailand.
After getting over the sheer magic of a free international call—(what happened to long distance?)—
I asked him what it was like there.
He said:
Endless white beaches.
No tourists.
English-speaking locals.
Sounded like a young person’s paradise.
But I’m not young.
I asked about medical care.
He said there were at least three hospitals nearby,
and one that even catered to Westerners.
So that’s where we are.
Once you accept the buy-in, you’re trapped.
You can’t go to Alaska.
But you can go to a deserted island in Thailand.
A Work Progressing 