The Bone Scan

I didn’t think I had anything in common with Alexander Litvinenko. After all, I wasn’t a Russian émigré and I didn’t take tea with members of the KGB. However, yesterday I was injected with a radioactive substance at the City Hospital. Thankfully this was not Polonium 210, but a small amount of a radioactive isotope that would help identify whether the cancer had spread to my bones.

The procedure happened in two stages. First, a radiographer inserted a butterfly needle into a vein in my arm (much like when you have blood taken for a test). But here the tube from the butterfly needle was attached to two syringes: one was clear plastic (as normal) the other was metal with a glass face. The radioactive isotope was in the metal syringe and there were only two millilitres of it. The normal syringe was full of saline. Both of these syringes were bit by bit injected into my arm.

After this I was given a time for my scan: it was two and a half hours later. Until then I was free to go and didn’t have to stay in the hospital. Because of the radioactivity in my body, there were some precautions I had to observe for the next 24 hours. I was advised to drink plenty of fluids; to empty my bladder frequently; and to flush the toilet twice each time I went. I was also advised to avoid close contact with children.

I expected to feel odd. I didn’t. I asked T if I was glowing green. I wasn’t. I thought my pee might be a different colour. It wasn’t. Strangely enough, I soon became used to wandering around Belfast with radioactivity coursing through my body. We went to a coffee shop for lunch, the Central Library and a jewellers before returning.

Back at the hospital I was ushered into a secure area with radiation warning symbols on the door. The triangular warning symbol was also on the door of the toilet next to the little waiting room. Then I was taken in for the bone scan.  Like other scans, I had to take off anything metal. But I didn’t have to undress and wear a gown. I lay on a narrow bed with my arms beside me. The radiologist strapped me firmly onto this bed and I was told not to move. The scanner consisted of a tunnel between two large panels above and below. I was drawn between them on the moving bed. Then the bed was raised up towards the upper panel. I saw that there was a cross marked on its surface. The bed stopped about an inch away. The cross was right between my eyes. I then remembered the name of the scanner, which I had glimpsed on the way in, it was ‘Hawkeye Four’. I closed my eyes and began to pray.

The bone scan took about thirty minutes. I was drawn very slowly on the bed between the two panels. There was no breathing in and out, like a CT scan. There was no horrible noise, like a MRI scan. Physically, it was the most undemanding of all the scans I had been given. Mentally and emotionally, it has been the hardest.

After the injection, the radioactive material circulated and became temporarily absorbed into my bones, giving off gamma rays. The scanner was taking pictures of the gamma rays from head to toe. In a normal scan these rays would be evenly distributed across your body. Concentrations of gamma rays are called ‘hot spots’, these indicate cancer, infection or bone damage.

So I am again waiting for results. And given the potential seriousness of the outcome, the wait is agonising.