Patience and perseverance pay off as Pinnochio--er, Tony--becomes a real Bexxar Boy.

Well, more like Bexxar Boy Junior for now; I won't get my official tee shirt and commemorative mug until next week, when I receive the radioactive (or, for kids in the know, the "hot") dose. But I'm taking a big step with the "cold" dose of antibody this week. And in a nutshell: things go smashingly well.

I knew this would be the case ahead of time, because I've carefully followed two important preparatory steps. First, I've worn my lucky, Operation-themed boxer briefs. I know full well that no harm can come to me while I'm wearing these orange beauties. After all, I've yet to die while wearing them, so I know they'll be a good choice for today.

As comforting as the boxers are, however, I also decide it's a good idea to let the medical staff at Community Medical Center know they need to pay extra-special attention to me. So I wear my "Careful, or you'll end up in my novel," tee shirt. It gets across the Big-Brother-is-watching message, but in a friendly and non-threatening way. As I put it on, I'm sure the nuclear med folks will love it.

Unfortunately, when I show up to have the IV placed, my nurse tells me I need to put on a hospital robe. I grumble for a few moments, until she tells me I can keep on my shorts (with lucky boxers underneath) and shoes. So I figure I can handle it, but I do let her know she's ruining the overall message of my shirt. Lucky for me, however, my nurse is a bit of a wisenheimer. She smiles politely and tells me the robe will keep her from ruining my shirt. I'm still trying to think of a good comeback for that one.

There's a bit of difficulty placing my IV; I'm a hard poke, and it takes a couple tries to find a vein. (I tell my nurse it's because I'm a vampire, but this seems to be one moment when she's not feeling quite so wisenheimerish.)

After that, it's rather smooth sailing. The nurse is worried about potential reactions to the Bexxar antibody since this is my first treatment of any kind, but the treatment is easy to the point of being boring. In fact, the only real complication to happen during my 60-minute infusion of cold antibody is: my butt falls asleep. It's not pleasant.

I'm feeling cocky, and my Lovely Wife breaks out a box of Junior Mints roughly the size of Vermont. I eat, oh, at least Montpelier, Burlington and most of the rest of Northern Vermont during the infusion, cracking wise about how Junior Mints are "very refreshing" and "nobody doesn't like a Junior Mint." Though my nurse is full of wisecracks, I don't think she ever watched Seinfeld. No matter; I'm my own best amusement, and my Lovely Wife even gives me a few polite chuckles. (This cancer thing makes people like putty in the palm of your hand. Putty, I tell you.)

Now, I say this about the Junior Mints because it becomes important when I finish my cold infusion. We'll get there in a moment.

When the infusion is done, my nurse says it's time to take me down to the basement and hook me to "The Machine." I laugh and say, "No one withstands The Machine."

This is when I figure out she's not a fan of The Princess Bride, either.

No matter. I jump off the bed, telling them I'll walk to the nuclear medicine department in the basement (remember, I said my butt had fallen asleep). The nurse directs me back to the bed, telling me I'll be riding instead.

So, I ride to the nuclear medicine department, but I make the best of it. I'm on a hospital bed/cart, wearing a hospital gown, with an IV sticking out of my arm. As we wheel down the hallway, I lay my head against the bed and loll it back and forth--as if in great pain--when we walk past some other people. After we pass, I feel the nurse give me a playful pop on the head. At least I hopeit's a playful pop on the head. And come to think of it, it may have been my wife who delivers it.

In the basement, I'm wheeled into the sparse, windowless nuclear medicine department--complete with the requisite radiation symbol on the door. Inside, I'm introduced to The Machine, which is a lead box that holds an actual, honest-to-goodness syringe filled with radioactive antibody. Well, mildly radioactive antibody, anyway; this dose only contains 5 millicuries of gamma radiation, which is just enough to tag the antibody now circulating through my system and let it show up on gamma scans. All in all, it's probably no more radiation than I'd get from an x-ray. Next week, in comparison, I'll get something like 172 millicuries of radiation--more than 30 times as much.

Still, it's interesting to watch the antibody flow from the lead box directly into the IV in my arm. For a few moments, I'm able to pretend I'm the Six Million Dollar Man, with my medical team rebuilding me. Faster. Stronger. Better.

Then, the tagged dose is done, and it's time for me to hop on the table and get my very first gamma scan. I lie down on the thin tray, and after about 10 minutes, the scan is done; I'm even able to see the scan appear, line-by-line on a monitor next to me as I slide through the scanner.

Hey, this is easy-peasy.

Done with the scan, I jump up. About 15 seconds later, I feel the blood rush from my face, and I start to get a bit dizzy; I can tell I'm getting close to throwing up. "Oooh, I think I need to sit down for a second," I say.

At this point, I realize my only real mistake of the day. I ate nothing before coming to the infusion because...um, well, I really don't have a good reason for eating nothing. I think I was afraid it might interact with the antibody in some way. So my menu for the day has included exactly two Benadryl tablets, two Tylenol tablets, 450 mg of Tositumomab antibody ("cold" Bexxar), and 372 Junior Mints. And after lying flat on my back for about 10 minutes and then hopping up like a boxer going out for Round Two, well...let's just say my stomach isn't feeling too Minty Fresh.

After about another 10 minutes of sitting down, though, the wooziness passes, and my Lovely Wife carts me away from the hospital to our friends' home, where I promptly take an hour-long nap.

I feel much better when I awake, and even better the next day. Not just "Hey, I'm doing fine, considering I was infused with antibody yesterday" okay, but "Hey, let's go do some Base jumping" okay.

Well, I've never felt quite that okay, but you get my drift.

On day two, I return for my second gamma scan. This time, I've learned my lesson: no Junior Mints. I stick with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

After ten minutes on my back, we get to quickly compare my first scan with the one we've just done. Amazingly enough, we can see the antibody starting to migrate to certain areas of my body--some around my thyroid, some in my abdominal area (I'm guessing the mesenteric region)...and some in a place I shouldn't name on a family blog. I point to the concentration on the screen and say to the nuclear tech, "That looks like a lot of radiation in an area no man wants to see radiated." She smiles and says, "It's probably your bladder. Remember, this exits your body through the urine."

I spend the rest of the day telling myself it's just my bladder.

Good thing I wore my lucky Operation-themed boxers on the first day, or there's no telling how much antibody would be migrating to my "bladder" now. Perhaps I can have lead inserts stitched into them for next week.