What a long, strange journey it’s been! In fact, it’s been so long, so strange, that I no longer bristle when people refer to cancer as a “journey.” Or when people butcher Grateful Dead lyrics to sneak in another “journey.” My 1-year cancer-versary happened recently. Like most men celebrating an anni, I forgot.

So imagine my surprise when I came home to a mini-brownie with 1 candle at my front door. Who knew? A fine friend and fellow survivor, of course. He remembers a year ago when my head was exploding. But various things—a category-5 personal crisis, summertime seductions, brazen stupidity—kept me from seeking help.

I don’t know how I ignored the discomfort. And I’d be rich if I had a dollar for every time a caregiver said, “Man, you must have a high pain threshold!”

I disagree. Yet this gross growth had shoved my weeping, red eye socket out until I was seeing double. My face looked like I’d lost a bar brawl. The tumor had strained my septum almost to the point of breakage. And it lurked 1 millimeter from my brain. No wonder I had difficulty seeing, focusing, and executing a mean-ass cannonball into lakes.

Once doctors got ahold of me, they began marinating my carcass in poisons and steroids and rays. (Oh my!) The treatments quickly spilled into other details, too: work, family, social life, stamina, sanity, POV, the medicine shelf. Even for us Cancer Comedians, such challenges can confuse your sense of humor. As Nurse Deadpan quipped to me, “We are going to almost kill you to keep you alive.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” I asked. “Nope. It’s just true,” she answered. “Well, I think it’s kinda funny,” I chuckled. She yawned. I thought that was funny too. There was some comfort in recognizing I was not her first cowboy.

Note to self (and you too): See the doctor sooner. Sure, it’s all in your head. Right? So it’s probably just another headache, cold, or infection. Then again, it could be a  terrible tumor shaped like a smashed grapefruit that wants to eat you up.

Speaking of eating… I devoured that mini-brownie like a toddler’s first birthday cake. It was so tasty, I ran out the next morning to buy a bin of them—and have been taking mini-browning mini-communion every day since.

• It’s about time

Time takes on new meaning when you’re staring down death threats and losing your gorgeous hair. Time aphorisms attack. Time clichés taunt. Days feel sacred, even when they suck. You take on a superhuman bullheadedness and face all medical moments with the mantra: “Bring it on.”

They did. Boy, did they. So I’m ridiculously relieved that this year has passed. Yet frankly, some mysteries linger like a bad hangover.

Like: Why do Minnesotans insist on leaving their vehicles running when they’re killing time in hospital (and other) parking lots? Why do people pay the big bucks to go to music and sports events and then stare at their phones? And… Why do well-meaning people say things like, “Lymphoma, huh? I think my uncle had that! Or was it lupus? Anyway, he died.”

Here’s another timely mystery about cancer and time: When, exactly, are you cancer-free? In my case, some say never; they say lymphoma never leaves, it just goes to the bathroom (in medical-speak: “goes into remission”). {To which I say: Whatever.} Representing a common perspective, one nurse told me, “You are one-year cancer-free one year after your first treatment.” To which I say: Nonsense. Try explaining that definition to the souls who didn’t survive one year.

To me, cancer-free might should be when you’ve finished all treatments, resumed some normal activities (eating steaks, drinking beer, swearing at bad drivers) and passed your first series of tests and scans with no evidence of The Bad Thing. For me, that was in March. So I had a party. Hey, must be time to plan the real one-year anniversary party!

There’s still time.

• “That’s not you…”

One year later, discovery-wise, I must acknowledge my first oncologist, the dapper and strapping Dr. Rock N. Roll. Dr. Roll believed in sharing the truth, the whole truth, and all the facts, man. He could kill you with info that might morph into fear. So while I sometimes hated what he said, I liked him and his blunt manner. And those first days of learning about the condition—no matter what the message or messenger’s style—weren’t sugar-coated like mini-brownies. Period.

But bless his heart, Dr. Roll. When I was leaving the clinic after several other meetings during that long day, he spotted me walking in the hallway. “You leaving?” he smiled. “The building, yes. The planet? Not yet.” “Good, he offered, “May I walk you out? I’d like to talk to you.” Sure, I said.

Dr. Roll put his arm on my shoulder, spoke softly, and reeled off a whole new slew of info, stuff like, “You know all those odds and stats I told you? You need to hear it. But that’s not you. I’m just a doctor, and I barely know you. But I firmly believe that about a year from now, all this—and your other issues too—will be fading behind you. You’ll feel healthy again. You’ll be starting a great new chapter in your life. I’m sure of it.”

He shook my hand, gave me two Kleenex, and disappeared. I never saw him again.

I drove away, still seeing double (which came in handy, since I needed four Kleenex).

Dr. Roll was right. The future is comin’ on (is comin’ on is comin’ on is comin’ on). Mysteries and quandaries remain. But that’s life.

A year of life has passed. And, God willing, many more await.

Time. I got this.

Thanks for listening…