Glowing Grey

Retirement hasn’t started off the way I had anticipated. Don’t get me wrong, I’m relishing my new, deadline free, existence. It’s just not the start I’d envisioned.

The first few weeks seemed like a holiday. Doing nothing much at all and relaxing as often as I wanted. Apparently I wanted to relax a lot. I was a sloth. But scattered freely amongst the couch potato moments was a whole lot of socialising.

It’s been great. I think we’ve spent more time out with friends this past two months than we have all year.

But amongst the catching up with friends, I’ve also done some catching up with my doctor. One little test here leads to another little test there, and before you know it, you’re sitting in a waiting room preparing to go nuclear.

That’s not what I meant

When I started this blog I took the longest time trying to come up with a name that reflected who I am now, and who I wanted to be in the future. Anticipating that I will still be writing in the years to come, I wanted the blog name to grow with me as I continue to share my thoughts and experiences on life as I grow older.

The name of the blog reflects my belief – just because I may grow older, doesn’t mean I can’t shine brighter.

But nowhere in my imagination did glowing include becoming radioactive.

So here I am, at 8am sharp, waiting for a nuclear medicine bone scan.

I’m not scared, and if I say it with enough conviction, I just might believe it.

Choosing my superpowers

I’ve taken an immediate liking to the medical technician. He looks like a younger version of my cousin which is my one and only excuse for the conversation I’m about to have with a perfect stranger. Plus, I’m nervous, and I talk a lot when I’m nervous.

So after the standard “state your name and date of birth” he proceeds to advise me on the procedure to come, which includes injecting me with radiation. It’s a low dose, apparently, and perfectly safe (yeah right, tell that to Marie Curie).

So while he’s prepping my arm for the injection, he asks me if I have any questions. You are about to pump radiation through my veins so, yes, you bet I have questions. I have lots of questions. But I can’t think of anything that doesn’t make me sound like a paranoid crazy person so I instead ask, “Am I gonna mutate and find out I have a superpower? I’m kind of excited to tell you the truth.”

He just stares at me.

I paste a smile on my face while inside I’m dying. Ah Joey, how many times do we have to have this conversation, ‘inside head’ voice shouldn’t necessarily become ‘outside mouth’ voice.

He continues to stare back at me (but he’s smiling) before turning away to open the drawer beside him.

Great, now he thinks I’m a moron.

But to my surprise he waves his arm over the array of injections and says, “What superpower would you like? I’ve already given away healing today.”

I laugh out loud, relieved with his snappy comeback (but inside I’m secretly thinking I would love time travel or invisibility) and keep my mouth shut. There’s a chance he may just be humouring the crazy lady.

So now that I’m fully injected and radioactive I can’t help but ask, “Am I gonna glow in the dark because my husband and I have been laughing about it?”

“No, it’s only a small dose so it’s safe for you to be around other people.”

“Well, that’s good to know.”

“But I wouldn’t hold any infants for the next 24 hours.”

So now I’m wondering if he was joking as he sends me on my way with instructions to come back in 2 hours. They say it’s to give the medication time to be absorbed into my bones. I say they want me as far away as possible in case I spontaneously combust, and they just don’t want to clean up the mess.

Close your eyes and think happy thoughts

So after my two hour isolation I’m back (unexploded and not yet glowing), feeling ready to get this over with.

As I’m laying down on the bed he begins to explain everything that’s going to happen. Easy really, the machine takes 20 mins to rotate head to toe and then around my torso in a dance that I’m assuming will be as boring as that time we watched the ballet.

He leaves me alone and walks to safety behind the glass wall. Low dose my arse.

Fun Fact: I feel a little claustrophobic when a machine, that could squash my head in seconds, lowers itself to within an inch of the tip of my nose. So for the next few minutes I do what I do best – I close my eyes, begin to daydream and contemplate my circumstances.

Before long it’s all over and I’m on my way back home, telling myself how brave I am, and still wondering if I can simultaneously be invisible and glow in the dark.

Did you just challenge me?

This is not what I imagined would happen at my age, and I try hard to push away the negative thoughts. But I am, if anything, resilient. You see, I can find the humour and positivity in most situations, and this one is no different. It’s always better to laugh than cry.

Oh, I’ve had my meltdown, but now it’s time to pick up my toys and move on. The funny part is not being told you have severe osteoporosis at 57. No, that’s not funny. What is funny is that I have it in conjunction with a neurological disorder.

This just reinforces my theory that the Universe has a very warped sense of humour. It gives me a disease that affects my balance, then ensures I have something that will kick my arse should I fall over.

Yes Alanis, I’d definitely call that ironic.

So no, retirement hasn’t started the way I had hoped, but I’m old enough now to realise that life is always ready to throw you a curve ball, and it’s up to you whether you’re prepared or not to receive it. Better to swing and miss (or cop a wild pitch in the leg), than not step up to the plate at all.

Life favours the resilient, and who knows, you may just hit it out of the park.

Second Fun Fact: I don’t like being told what to do, and there’s no surer way to get me motivated into action, than to tell me I can’t do something.

The specialist advised during my last appointment that it would be unrealistic to expect my results to go back to “normal” range after treatment. Don’t get me wrong, I like her, she seems very knowledgeable, but don’t lump me in with everyone else. I’m not normal – I’m clearly the exception to the rule. Gauntlet thrown.

Did she just challenge me?

Yes, I believe she did.

So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my old, glowing bones to the gym, try not to fall over, and begin my mission to prove her wrong. And I will, because there’s nothing more satisfying than smugly saying “I told you so.”