I was sweating out the quarterly CAT-scan that I had on Tuesday. I had to drink two litres of dye crap out at the VA hospital at Northport at 7 a.m. and then got more dye via an IV when I went into the machine at 9 a.m.

One of my VA oncologists called me yesterday and she told me that I have no evident signs of cancer from my throat to my groin and that the void left by the removal of the lower lobe of my left lung last year seems to have been filled in nicely by beer and blueberry muffin crumbs.

I'm just happy to be not pulled in for more cancer treatments. The VA oncologists saved my life with two years of immunotherapy every three weeks with a catheter into an arm vein and the partial lung removal I caught at NYU/Langone with Uncle Sam picking up every cent of the tab. I am grateful. Old Marines don't die easy.

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