Yesterday started off with a fast. There was a medical reason for it: another test. A gastric emptying study.

I was paying for the pleasure of eating some unknown breakfast-type food laced with some unknown radioactive-type substance (barium?) and then lying down inside a scary-looking machine which recorded how quickly/slowly/if ever I digested it.

Of course, I brought my own breakfast.

Yes, I called the hospital in advance to ask what they were serving. When I heard “a packet of Quaker oatmeal and toast,” I cringed in horror. The sugar! The wheat! Then when I arrived, the tech changed course and asked me if I’m allergic to eggs. Well, no…not technically. Mixed into brownies, eggs can be delicious food glue. Left to their own gloopy devices, though, I would certainly wind up puking up a barium eggy substance all over the million dollar machine.

So I brought plain oats. And rice toast. And ate them both, coated in radioactivity. While I chewed (or merely swallowed, in the oatmeal’s case) I noticed that the hospital employee list was posted neatly at eye level. CONFIDENTIAL was typed on the top left, right above the doctor’s home addresses and phone numbers. Classy.

By now, I had no confidence in the nuclear med department whatsoever.

After eating, I was told to lie down in the machine. Reading was impossible, as the machine came up to my chin. But I did have a remote control. As well as a pillow and a blankie. My first question was: “Can I sleep?” This was answered in the affirmative. In reality, though, it was impractical. At least with Tech Big Foot. She stomped around, slammed doors, spoke on the phone in loud tones and otherwise disturbed my much-needed beauty rest. So I did what any other pop-culture obsessed woman with radioactive oatmeal in her gut would: I watched Desperate Housewives.

The test results were normal. Apparently, I digest my food properly. That may be the only thing I do “correctly” with regards to food.

I wonder how they would deal with Sheridan Memorial on Wisteria Lane….