The Royal Treatment: My Radioactive Breakfast Adventure

A Patient's Guide to Radioactive Dining

They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day, but no one warns you that someday that breakfast will come with a side of radiation and a healthy dose of clinical comedy. Welcome to my gastric emptying study. It’s an amusing five-hour journey where medical professionals get a tour of my digestive tract. It's boring screen viewing, right up there with watching cars go round lap after lap.

The Royal Treatment Begins

A technician escorted me into a room where they had prepared what I can only assume is their version of a two-star dining experience. The centerpiece? A large, ominous bed that will take pictures of my stomach. Off in the corner sits a tray table; nothing says "you're special" like furniture on wheels that's typically used in nursing homes.

They've decorated this culinary table with what I initially mistook for fine linen. A closer look revealed my "tablecloth" was one of those delightful white pads with blue backing; the kind they strategically place under women in labor, or under anyone who might have an unfortunate encounter with their bladder. Obviously, the hospital's team opted for 'birthing suite chic' as the ideal ambiance for breakfast; the Breakfast of Champions (and Lab Rats).

Now, about that breakfast….

The medical tech, let’s call him Chef Nuclear, had prepared what could generously be called a meal. The star of the show? Rubbery scrambled egg whites that the Chef lovingly infused with a radioactive tracer. Thankfully, they provided salt and pepper, because even radioactive eggs deserve to be seasoned. “It's perfectly safe,” they told me, right before rattling off a list of people I should avoid: the immunocompromised (that's me!), pregnant women, and children. Are the pregnant women mad because their pads are missing? Either way, nothing says 'bon appétit' like being a walking bio-hazard.

Accompanying these glowing eggs were two pieces of white toast so dry they could substitute for cardboard. They'd topped them with what I can only describe as a "butter-wanna-be substance”; Smart Balance or some similarly optimistic-named spread. It tasted like someone had whispered the word "butter" to a chemistry lab.

And to wash it all down? A tiny 8-ounce bottle of water. When you're about to spend hours having your digestive system monitored, hydration is entirely a suggestion.

The true pièce de résistance of my dining table? The emesis bag (also known as a vomit bag) was strategically placed within arm's reach by the nurse. Was this a commentary on Chef Nuclear’s culinary skills or standard protocol? When you're dealing with radioactive eggs and a rebellious digestive system, hope for the best but plan for the worst. Clearly, the hospital knows this.

The Waiting Game

After choking down…I mean, savoring…every last bite of that 'gourmet' experience, the real adventure started. They slid me under a machine that looked like a 1970's space prop—how did this thing get FDA approval? This machine would spend four hours taking images of my digestive tract while my radioactive eggs crawled along like they were stuck in traffic.

The technician cheerfully informed me that they'd be taking pictures every hour for the next four hours. 'Just relax!' they said, as if watching your radioactive breakfast slowly migrate through your intestines is the epitome of a relaxing morning.

Between scans, I was sent to a hard plastic chair in the hallway because comfort is reserved for procedures that cost more than a car. There, I would periodically watch medical personnel and police officers escort inmates to their appointments. Exactly the atmosphere you need when your digestive system is already staging a revolt.

The Entertainment Value

The machine was eerily silent; no whirring, no beeping, just nothing. Rather fitting, since my digestive tract sometimes operates with the same level of enthusiasm (none at all).

What's worse than watching paint dry? Staring at your own digestive system for hours. The monitor lit up my stomach contents; those glowing eggs crawling along like tiny, slow-moving headlights. I felt like I was watching the most tedious documentary ever: "The Epic Journey of My Breakfast."

The technicians seemed genuinely excited about the whole process. "Check this out!" they said, pointing at the monitor every time my eggs reached a certain point along the digestive tract, or when they showed me my stomach doing its upward migration thing. I wanted to be as thrilled as they were, but celebrating my malfunctioning internal organs felt unnatural.

As I sat there watching my glowing breakfast on screen, the glaring question hit me.  "Why am I doing this again?" I've had this test numerous times over the past 20+ years. Oh, right! A new doctor means demands for 'updated data.' My intimate knowledge and experience of my rebellious digestive tract doesn’t count.

The Glowing Review

By the end of this culinary adventure, I had a new appreciation for my digestive system and the peculiar world of diagnostic medicine. I'd spent the morning getting what they considered the royal treatment (if royalty dined on radioactive eggs while lying under scientific equipment), and I had the pictures to prove it. Somewhere in a computer system, there are images of my breakfast's grand tour through my abdomen.

Twenty minutes after completing the test, I left and, after paying for valet parking (car-payment-sized medical bills don't come with parking privileges), I exited with my radioactive glow slowly fading and my bank account lighter.

So, there you have it; my gastric emptying study, complete with royal treatment, radioactive cuisine, and a front-row seat to my own digestive drama. Would I recommend it? The breakfast certainly will not win any culinary awards, but if you're looking for a unique dining experience that combines medical science with reality television, you could do worse.

Just maybe bring your own tablecloth.

Want a little daily encouragement? 

I created a free phone wallpaper to remind you (and me) that our challenges can fuel something beautiful. Sometimes we need that gentle nudge that creativity and a good sense of humor can carry us through the toughest days.

The phone wallpaper is perfect for showing friends, family, or anyone who needs to understand that chronic illness doesn't dim our spark—it just redirects it.

If this made you laugh, share it with someone who needs a chuckle. And if you've got your own medical adventure story, I'd love to hear it!

Keeping it real and creatively visible,
Meagan