The Queen looks out her window and sighs. The chirping birds had awakened her only to deceive her into thinking that the sun was shining. But the dreariness of the sky was in deep contrast to the cheerful chatter of the small birds outside her bedroom chamber.
The Queen sighs again. She needs a vacation. Desperately. She is jealous of her Fair Maiden friends that are in tropical locales, sipping fruity fou-fou drinks from hollowed out coconuts and pineapples while reclining on bamboo lounges and being fanned and fed grapes by Sven the Pool boy. Or not.
She is awakened out of her reverie by the shrill ringing of the royal painintheass phone. The Queen wonders who has such nerve to call her at such an unGODly time. 8am? She makes a mental note to sign an Off With Their Heads contract for the offending party.
It’s her Royal endocrinologist on the other line. She tears that contract up in her mind. She sits quietly, listening to what he is telling her. Her Graves Disease has gotten worse. The anti-Thyroid meds that she was on was causing her severe allergic reactions but the other choices of anti-Thyroid meds are worse and she would surely have a more toxic reaction to them. He feels that her only choice is to do the Radioactive Iodine cocktail to reverse her Thyroid. It’s really the only logical choice for her Royal Majesty, he says in a very Spocklike manner.
He continues, she needs to take a pregnancy test at least 48 hours prior to that lethal drink. And if there is no royal zygote in her womb, which…there had better not be…then the following day, the Queen needs to come back and drink the radioactive crap, begin the murdering process of her thyroid and be on her glowing way. Except, there is one little drawback. The Queen can not be around her children, pee in the same toilets, kiss anyone or pretty much breathe the same air…for 24-48 hours. Because, well…the Queen is slightly toxic (cue in Britney Spears). And the chances are small that she may cause anyone to get sick but, there are chances nonetheless. The Queen isn’t willing to take that chance because God forbid anyone should have to miss school after being on break for 10 days. The Queen shudders at the thought.
So, the Queen needs to sleep in a separate bed, pee in a toilet that no one else uses…and still, flush that toilet at least three times after each urination and basically be quarantined from civilization, both Royal and Serfs, for about 24 hours.
The doctor chuckles a little and mentions that it’s like a little vacation from the Kingdom and all its inhabitants and is the Queen at least a little excited about that prospect.
The Queen snorts, visions of palm trees and pool boys dancing in her head and exclaims…”Hardly!
When the conversation with the Royal Endocrinologist is through, and he mentions he has to call her back to confirm dates and times for this procedure, she hangs up the phone with a click, because you can’t slam down cordless phones.
She runs her fingers through her matted mess of slept-upon hair that she likes to think gives her a just screwed look and she wonders what she did to deserve this. All she did was enviously think of her friends on their vacations and she wished that she was on one.
This? Is not the Queens definition or thought of “ask and ye shall receive”. Not. At. All.
The Queen flips the bird to her neck where her pesky thyroid gland sits and looks out the window into the dreary day. And the Queen…she sighs.