Futuristic SpaceshipA bone scan dominates your day, since you have to go in once for the injection and a baseline scan, and then again 3 hours later. Of course the technicians aren’t allowed to tell you anything about the results until they go through the doctor, but this bone scan had about three TV screens throughout the room, and I was able to watch my little skeleton slowly showing up in increasingly dense pointalistic style for the entire 40 minutes. That is until I fell asleep.

The picture? Didn’t mean jack to me. And I’m a human biology major. As I was laying there, I couldn’t help wondering what kind of damage elite athletes do to our bodies simply from getting so many scans over the course of a career. I mean, I was basically injected with radioactive crap and put inside a machine that the technicion preferred to observe from another room.

Any medical treatment that is preceded by “Any chance you are pregnant?” gives me the clue that its semi-dangerous. If its bad for a fetus, it can’t be good for me. When I was asleep on the table today, I had dreams of screaming babies. Or I guess I should say nightmares. I couldn’t help but think, “when you grow up and have kids, will they be ok? Are you going to regret this whole elite athlete business?”

Then I think of all the elite women who have had perfectly healthy babies in recent years: Shayne Culpepper, Paula Radcliffe, my heavily scanned ex-teammates at Stanford…their babies turned out ok. They aren’t grown up enough to take standardized tests yet, but so far, so good.

The only other thing I have to say about bone-scans: there must be a serious side-effect to that radioactive crap that they put in my blood that exactly mimics PMS, because I am so moody I can hardly stand my own company! Much less do I want to subject anyone else to it. Time to watch a movie and crash out and start anew tomorrow.