Me And My Buddy, J. Robert Oppenheimer

I made it through another year of not watching the Oscar thing. I did see “Oppenheimer” which was a darn good picture, even with the out-of-place icky sex scenes. Did he really have time for all of that humping about? No, the poor, underfed man was trying to build the ultimate vaporizing weapon, so I doubt he had time for all that Hollywood ya-hoo. This leads me to another story related to the atomic bomb.

Back in 2019, when I found out the “Big C” had taken up residence in my holy temple, the doctor at UT Southwestern in Dallas suggested a radical new treatment of Ultra high-dose radiation delivered by a robot-type device. The word radical caught my attention.

Doctor Hanan said it’s mainly used on brain cancer but had recently been used on maybe three folks with my type of Cancer, and two were still around, so it showed all the signs of being safe except for the one major side effect; death. Well, I had two choices; expire at the hands of a radioactive robot or die by cancer, so I chose the robot that was affectionately known at UTS as SBRT.

Weeks of pre-treatment torture left me weak, discombobulated, and begging for mercy, but none of the techs or nurses would accommodate my plea. I must have given gallons of blood and tissue to the labs, and not one of them could answer why they needed all of my sacred blood when one drop was all it took. I came to the conclusion that all nurses, including my nurse wife Momo, like to stick people with needles and other sharp objects.

The first inquisition-style treatment was on a Wednesday in April. The perky nurse at the front desk told me it would be a simple MRI with contrast.

I asked, ” Like the contrast on my TV?” I couldn’t believe myself to be that backwoods, but I was. ” No you silly man, we stick a real big needle in your arm and pump radioactive dye into your body and it lights up all the cancer stuff so we can see it better.” That was my first encounter with radioisotopes, but not my last.

Gown on, little yellow footy socks on my feet, escorted to a hard metal table leading into a large magnetic tube. IV inserted, joy juice running through my body, and then the tech pulls out this scale model of the Hindenburg Blimp. I am not joking; this was about the size of a Wilson Professional Football, evil-looking with a glowing red twirly thing on the end. “Where is that going?” I asked. The tech snickered and said, ” Where do you think?”

I must have puckered pretty well because he said that wouldn’t do any good; I have a Craftsman tool that will take care of that; and he used it. The last thing I remember was him saying, ” I won’t lie, this is going to hurt like a sum-bitch.” and it did, then I went off to LaLa land without drugs.

Limping back to the dressing room, I felt like a Chihuahua that had been locked in a cage with a dozen Great Danes. A few more procedures were required to protect my other innards, and they were almost as traumatic. At this point I was thinking the alternative might be the better option. The day of the “big show” arrived.

My cancer doctor met me in the hallway as a nurse rolled me into the special room. ” Are all these straps necessary?” I asked.

He said, “Yes, we don’t want you trying to escape once the robot hits his stride. And by the way, you look just marvelous.”

I was rolled into the “special room.” My nurse technician, dressed in a radioactive suit, rolled me into position. The SBRT Robot was more of a machine from a 1950s Sci-Fi movie. A large ring with multiple robotic arms that sported tiny laser guns on the end of each appendage. I was scared shitless, but the giant elephant enema a few hours earlier had taken care of that.

My nurse was a comforting soul. She explained there would be a lot of noise and flashing lights. I would hear something like a zapping sound, and the doughnut part of the machine would rotate around my body while the SBRT Robot administered the high-dosage radiation. I strained against the straps.

I asked her, “How high of a dose is this radiation?”

She replied, ” Well if you know anything about the 1945 Atom Bomb, it’s the same nuclear isotopes that Oppenheimer used at Los Alamos Labs, where we get a shipment from every week. We are assured it is the top shelf “Good Stuff,” so no worry, it’ll vaporize that nasty old cancer. You’ll lose some hair, maybe some minor damage to your internal organs, a few hundred million brain cells that might affect your memory and motor skills, and your pee will glow in the dark for a few years, but other than that, you’ll be just marvelous.”

Holy crap, the same stuff used on the first bomb. I asked for a bottle of Valium, I got three pills that killed my anxiety attack, and I went to LaLa land.

This too personal recount explains why I identify with the movie “Oppenheimer.” I feel J. Robert and I have a connection of sorts. He may have invented the bomb that killed thousands, but that same stuff saved this old guy.