"So, Dr. Evil, we meet again" is probably the wrong thing to say to a guy who's about to go wrist deep into your rectal cavity to lube you up for a scoping procedure, and maybe that's why my colorectal surgeon lingered in the area in question longer than seemed necessary to me, but the indignity and discomfort were worth the end result (Get it? End result?)
Seven months and change after being diagnosed with a rectal tumour, I appear to be cancer-free. The tumour is gone, and while the Rear Admiral did a biopsy for confirmation purposes, he seemed confident that the worst is behind me. (Get it? Behind me?) There will still be a round of preventive chemotherapy to lessen the chances of the cancer recurring, but what's a little fatigue, hair loss, constipation/diarrhea, mouth sores, sensitivity to cold and numbness in the extremities if it means increasing your odds of holding the Big C at bay?
Not to tempt fate, but I'm half-expecting the other shoe to drop. To be handed a provisional clean bill of health well under a year after being diagnosed, with no side effects from radiation or the first round of chemo and no ill effects in general seems too good to be true. I'm enormously grateful because I've seen first hand how lucky I am compared to other people who are fighting a life and death battle against cancer. Relatively speaking, I'm winning a skirmish, and I'm not taking credit for any of it. My recovery is all about the grace of God, support from family and friends and the dedication of health care professionals who provide yeoman's service despite being routinely sabotaged by politicians and bureaucrats. All I had to do was show up.
So it's all good. God willing, any anal probing from this point on will be strictly recreational, and that ain't happening. To each their own, but on my highway of life, that's an exit lane only.