"I'm going to start calling you Gamma Girl."
"Gamma Girl...I can live with that. So what are my superpowers since I'm radioactive?"
"You don't get powers, no way."
"What?! Spiderman gets bitten by a radioactive spider and gets Spidey Sense!"
"Fine, you get to glow green. How's that?"
On Monday there was a tad bit of hubbub among my friends when the husband of a pregnant friend of mine began teaching our Bible Study. "So, yeah, we're all playing soccer at Beakman after this and, by the way, all pregnant women stay away from Heather because she's radioactive. OK now everyone, Luke 6 tonight..." Yeah, that made for some interesting conversations. And the nickname of Gamma Girl, bestowed kindly by my friend David. In case you can't tell comic books rotted out his brain from a very early age.
As of 11 this morning I am very officially and very very mildly radioactive. I went in (not allowed to eat breakfast, which is not a good way to start my day if bystanders would like their heads to remain affixed to their shoulders), cranked up Sinatra on my iPod and was jiving to the great amusement of Karrie, my favorite radiology technician/nurse. My dad was absorbed in the Columbus Dispatch until the doctor finally arrived, but only to talk - another round jolly lady ended up giving me the pill with a bunch of procedure involved. I had to wear gloves, and she had to put them on. She then has to drape a dropcloth across my knees to make sure we contaminate that instead of the floor should it fall, and as she's handing it to me I tell her about my nickname and she almost contaminates the inside of my nose because she's laughing so hard. Then Santa technician/nurse removes my gloves and dropcloth for me as I overhear the doctor mumbling to my father, who has just for some reason developed an incredibly wide smile.
The doctor then comes to me and informs me, shifting from one foot to the other throughout, that I'm not allowed to kiss or have sex for the next 2 days or to get pregnant for at least the next 6 months. With a sideways glance at my dad he adds a cautious "Or longer, you know," at which point that wide smile attacks my father's face again and he gives two thumbs up.
I have to wait another torturous half-hour before I'm allowed to fill my complaining belly and before I slip my ear buds back in I sigh and say "I'll miss kissing Dave."
"Just be glad I don't tell him that the doctor said you guys can't kiss for a year," he said with a smug flick of his paper.
"While we're at it, I know how to keep him off for ten. Just use the word 'sterile' and all your worries are over."
This was followed by a long pause, the turning of a page, and the sound of my father saying from behind the Home & Garden section of the paper, "That's not a bad idea."
"Gamma Girl...I can live with that. So what are my superpowers since I'm radioactive?"
"You don't get powers, no way."
"What?! Spiderman gets bitten by a radioactive spider and gets Spidey Sense!"
"Fine, you get to glow green. How's that?"
On Monday there was a tad bit of hubbub among my friends when the husband of a pregnant friend of mine began teaching our Bible Study. "So, yeah, we're all playing soccer at Beakman after this and, by the way, all pregnant women stay away from Heather because she's radioactive. OK now everyone, Luke 6 tonight..." Yeah, that made for some interesting conversations. And the nickname of Gamma Girl, bestowed kindly by my friend David. In case you can't tell comic books rotted out his brain from a very early age.
As of 11 this morning I am very officially and very very mildly radioactive. I went in (not allowed to eat breakfast, which is not a good way to start my day if bystanders would like their heads to remain affixed to their shoulders), cranked up Sinatra on my iPod and was jiving to the great amusement of Karrie, my favorite radiology technician/nurse. My dad was absorbed in the Columbus Dispatch until the doctor finally arrived, but only to talk - another round jolly lady ended up giving me the pill with a bunch of procedure involved. I had to wear gloves, and she had to put them on. She then has to drape a dropcloth across my knees to make sure we contaminate that instead of the floor should it fall, and as she's handing it to me I tell her about my nickname and she almost contaminates the inside of my nose because she's laughing so hard. Then Santa technician/nurse removes my gloves and dropcloth for me as I overhear the doctor mumbling to my father, who has just for some reason developed an incredibly wide smile.
The doctor then comes to me and informs me, shifting from one foot to the other throughout, that I'm not allowed to kiss or have sex for the next 2 days or to get pregnant for at least the next 6 months. With a sideways glance at my dad he adds a cautious "Or longer, you know," at which point that wide smile attacks my father's face again and he gives two thumbs up.
I have to wait another torturous half-hour before I'm allowed to fill my complaining belly and before I slip my ear buds back in I sigh and say "I'll miss kissing Dave."
"Just be glad I don't tell him that the doctor said you guys can't kiss for a year," he said with a smug flick of his paper.
"While we're at it, I know how to keep him off for ten. Just use the word 'sterile' and all your worries are over."
This was followed by a long pause, the turning of a page, and the sound of my father saying from behind the Home & Garden section of the paper, "That's not a bad idea."
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