People always make jokes about glowing after receiving radiation, but I've never actually experienced it. Not even when I got my big treatment dose three years ago (post-surgery treatment for thyroid cancer). I was looking forward to being my own nightlight. But alas, nary a glimmer. It was kind of disappointing.

Having done this twice before, I didn't really expect any glowage this time. Not with the dose they gave me.

All I have to show for it is a fashionable blue-and-white striped paper bracelet that announces me as Holland, Catherine Lynne, 33-year-old female to anybody who cares to look at my wrist. It's very sassy and goes well with my outfit. (The sad thing is that I'm not kidding. The blue stripes match my shirt almost perfectly. Didn't plan that. Or maybe subconsciously I did.)

The stylish band also announces to the world at large that I am a current nuclear medicine patient. Three letters -- NUC. So, in case I get into a car wreck or something, paramedics know to be a little wary.

Let me clarify something. I'm not a hazard to anybody. Not with a scanning dose. But if I do happened to get sick before the little pill is absorbed, it'll more than just gross and annoying. It'll also be a haz-mat situation. Wouldn't THAT be embarrassing!?

While the dosage is small, the pill still came in a heavy lead container that looks for all the world like a pickle jar. Except for the radiation symbol on it. ("It looks just like Skinny & Sweet. Except for the little skull and crossbones on the label." Bonus points if you can name the movie.)

Back to the pill. I wasn't even allowed to pop it myself. No touch. The doctor had to place it in my mouth for me. (Being fed something might sound sexy, but that only works with a cute loin-cloth clad guy and grapes. A radioactive iodine pill doesn't cut it.)

All this is part of my scan to make sure I'm still cancer-free. I already know what the results are going to be, but it'll be nice to have confirmation.

Such a scan sounds simple enough, but it's a weeklong process that involves a quite a bit of coordination. And needles. You know how I feel about needles.

It started Monday with a shot in my gluteus maximus. (And my gluteus is maximus.) Twenty-four hours later, I got another shot in the other cheek. (Equal opportunity.) The two shots had to be 24 hours apart. Not 23 hours. Not 25 hours. Twenty-four hours.

Today it was the pill. No needles! Not that I'm finished with them yet. I still have a blood draw to go.

Friday morning will find me not chained to my computer here, but lying motionless, strapped into a big machine, the top of which practically skims the tip of my nose. It's not for the claustrophobic.

At least I'll have Cute Tech Troy to look at while the scanner does its thing. There are worse ways to pass an hour. And it's even worth the needles.