It's the Big Day, at long last. I head back to Missoula for my radioactive dose of Bexxar.

This time, my chosen uniform is an inspired choice compliments of my sister-in-law: a Green Lantern tee shirt. Yes, that Green Lantern--the guy who had the ring that shoots the radioactive beam/shaft of light. My sister-in-law thought it a fitting shirt, and I have to agree: today, I will become a Green Lantern myself.

I show up at 11:00 am, and treatment begins at 11:30. I have a new nurse this time, who is wonderful and makes me feel relaxed immediately. I have to admit to myself, in spite of everything, I'm a bit nervous as I lay on the hospital bed and feel the IV go in (this nurse had a nice trick: a hot washcloth over my hand, which raises the vein and makes it easier to place the IV). It's one thing to get in infusion of antibody; it's another thing to get a radioactive infusion of antibody. This, I know, gives mere mortals in the comics the power of invisibility or super strength, but I keep running images of radiation poisoning through my mind this morning.

Not exactly warm, comforting thoughts. Maybe I should try some tai-chee. And no, I don't know how to spell that, let alone practice it, so I'm left along with my thoughts of radiation sickness.

I'm also a bit concerned about a Human Anti Mouse Antibody (HAMA), which people can develop after receiving tositumomab. (I swear, I'm not making up these names; look them up yourself.) I had my first infusion of tositumomab last week, so I'm wondering if a week is long enough to develop a HAMA.

I ask the nuclear medicine physician when he pays me a bedside visit during the repeat cold dose. He says it's theoretically possible to develop a HAMA in that amount of time, but my scans would look different if it were the case; normal scans indicate I probably haven't developed a HAMA. That's good. I ask him is he's able to estimate my total tumor burden. He's a little taken aback, I think, and says it would be more accurate to determine that on the CT and PET scans. I nod, then ask if he's able to calculate a tumor dose. This time he's more than a bit taken aback, I think, and says it's difficult to have an exact calculation (I'm asking because I want to compare my case to some established parameters in existing clinical trials). No big whoop. The doctor, however, does seem excited that I'm getting this as a first treatment, and thinks it's a positive sign that my body seems to clear the antibody quickly. Perhaps, perhaps. We'll see. My final question? "Am I still getting 172 millicuries?" He smiles. "No, you're actually getting a bit more than that: 186 millicuries."

Oh, so my radioactive does has actually risen. I'm definitely out there on the "more than average" radioactive dose now. Doses up to 250 millicuries have been given, I know, but still. Remember, I have that image of people barfing, poisoned by radiation, still in my mind.

Did I really fight tooth and nail to get this treatment?

Anyway, the cold infusion goes smoothly--no problems whatsoever--and soon I'm back down in the nuclear medicine department for the big, bad radioactive dose. Before the dose begins, the whole staff once again pauses for a nice photo--including glow worm, who has accompanied me on this trip.

The Machine is wheeled out again, and the syringe is attached to my IV. But this time, when the dose starts, the nuclear med folks push a lead panel in front of me, then retreat to the lead-lined other room with my Lovely Wife. For the next 20 minutes, I sit watching the digital display on The Machine, listening to everyone laugh and sing--I swear, at one point, I hear them breaking into a couple of German beer drinking songs--while I get radioactive. At one point, I yell out that they shouldn't be having quite so much fun while I'm sitting in the corner getting 186 millicuries pumped into me. I don't think they hear me; they're on the third chorus of "Weis nicht wie gut Ich dir bin."

Finally, the infusion stops. One of the nuclear med folks brings over a geiger counter--an honest-to-goodness Geiger Counter--and points it at me. My reading is within "safe to release" limits; based on my clearance rates and what-not, I'd be safe to wreak havoc on the public if I was less than 29 mrems. I'm only 15 mrems. This, of course, makes me think I'm absorbing much more of the radioactive energy than I should be, and I once again think of radiation sickness. It's a curse to have an active imagination sometimes.

Then, it's over. Somewhat anticlimactic. I don't feel much different. Certainly not woozy or light-headed like last week, partly because I don't have to do another scan, partly because I actually ate a nice breakfast at "The Shack" restaurant this morning. With that, I'm quickly on the road, and headed two hours away to my parents' house--a nice home, nestled in trees on 10 acres in Northwest Montana.

I'm radioactive at last, and will remain radioactive--in isolation--for the next five days. Then, I will emerge from my cave and discover I have the power of supersonic flight.

Either that, or my hair will fall out in large chunks while I vomit continuously.