Every time I submit to some new medical indignity, I think to myself, “Well, I can’t write about THAT in my column,” and then of course I do.

First there was an 11-hour surgery to excise a benign acoustic tumor which, thanks to the prompt and expert diagnosis of my friend Dr. Bill Bartolovich, was discovered snug up against my brain stem, signaling its existence through the symptom of double vision. A tag-team of world-class neurosurgeons hinged my left ear and tunneled in behind, removing all the acoustic paraphernalia blocking their way, and scraped out enough of the tumor to give it a good spanking. There, that should convince it never to grow back again. Probably.

Coming after a lifetime of happy, unnatural good health, living physician-free like the birds and wild beasts, brain tumor surgery was the slap in the face that told me I might not live forever after all.

Next there was the surgery to carve out a neglected basal cell carcinoma from the right side of my nose, filling and stitching-in the resulting crater with a strip of living flesh from my forehead which, still tethered in the vicinity of my left eyebrow, was laid diagonally across my nose, a slice of “Me” brand bacon oozing blood and serum which I had to wear on my face, 24 hours a day for 10 days until the transplant took root.

I was told later by one of my brain surgeons, the ENT one, that this particular surgical procedure was developed in India to rebuild the noses of women who had had theirs cut off for adultery. (At least that explained my sudden attraction to Indian men.)

Hardly worth mentioning, but I will, are all the less glamorous medical interventions of the past five years: high blood pressure pills, shoulder strains, a partially torn finger tendon, cataract surgeries, tooth extractions and dental implants. I ran out of fingers counting how many physicians I have now, one or two for each part of my body, and a golden Medicare ticket that lets me go see them for every twinge and tickle.

And now, radiation therapy on the right side of my face and nose, a bid to finish off that pesky basal cell carcinoma. Something about the pathologist not finding “clean margins” though Dr. D’Blessed searched diligently for them with his scalpel.

Anybody should be frightened of undergoing radiation therapy, right?

Not me.

It’s not because I’m brave. It’s because I’m a man, and men in general are not smart enough to be afraid when probably they should be. Otherwise we wouldn’t have a volunteer military.

“How are you feeling?” asked son-in-law Snickers after my first treatment.

“Fine,” I answered. After seven treatments, I’m still answering “Fine” when everyone asks, and I very much understand and appreciate that they ask because it means they care about me. That, or a morbid curiosity.

Neither am I worried, which is different from being frightened. I try not to worry in advance about things that are out of my control. Radiation therapy and brain surgery fall into that category. I do what the doctors tell me, expect a good outcome, and will deal with it if it’s not. Besides, this radiation therapy is minor, small potatoes compared to the painful, risky, life-altering medical treatments so many others have to endure.

My radiation physician, Dr. Ukraine, and the nurses and technologists at the Teramana Cancer Center tell me I’ll have redness and burning, fatigue and other symptoms later. There are still 26 treatments to go. The routine is reassuring: once a day, five days a week, 15 minutes in and out. A walk in the park.

The first thing I asked Dr. Ukraine, whose accent hinted of his national origin, was, “Have you read ‘Cancer Ward?'” His instant answer was “Of course!” and then he made some critical remarks about author Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn and “The Gulag Archipelago.” Just the sort of relevant medical discussion one would expect an English Lit major to have with his physician.

When I told my wife that my column was going to be about my radiation therapy, she asked, “Will it be funny?”

“Probably not,” I said, but I had to give it a try.

Life can be hard, unfair, tragic. I would hate to think about going through it without friendship, love and humor.

My next move could be to join the crowd of old men at 5 a.m. for coffee at L&B Donut, to see if I can one-up anybody for medical procedures. It certainly won’t be a guy like Jack, who told me at the dove shoot that he just had massive “Cancer Ward” style radiation doses to a tumor in his groinal region. You win, Jack.