EDITOR'S NOTE: This is the last installment in a three-part series on one man's cancer experience.

I want to say that I faced cancer with courage and grace -- that I stared it down with a sense of humor and perspective.

That would be a lie.

Most of the time, I am sanguine about this new challenge. Other times I'm depressed, anxious, angry, or just plain irritated by the hassle, though I'm increasingly optimistic. Sometimes I'm embarrassed by the big deal I make of it, when I know others who have faced far worse with an outward calm I can't claim.

On Dec. 13, we got word that my iodine levels were low enough to proceed with the second phase of treatment -- an iodine "bomb" that seeks out any remaining thyroid cells and kills them. The treatment -- called radioiodine ablation -- consists of swallowing a pill containing iodine 131 and then essentially going into isolation for three to six days, depending on the dose.

The good news -- besides ingesting something that will, with any luck, wipe out any rogue cancer cells -- is that I'll get to begin eating regular food three days later. I write this on Dec. 14, one day before the radioiodine therapy. So, by the time this is published I'll be off the low-iodine diet and the iodine 131 will be finishing its work.

My wife Kathleen's patience during this time -- particularly the five and a half weeks of low-iodine diet -- was phenomenal. She invented an iodine-free chicken-and-mashed-potatoes dinner that we extended the next day to a green salad with diced chicken, followed by a dinner of chicken soup with yolkless noodles. She repeated that three times over the period, which was the highlight of the diet. She experimented with other dishes that turned out pretty darn good.

She put up with my occasionally miserable behavior, which can be blamed on either mood swings brought on by the loss of my thyroid or my generally unpleasant nature. Between spending many hours in the kitchen every day and putting up with my whining, Kathleen was a hero.

She asked me what I looked forward to eating most after the low-iodine diet was over. Pizza? Sushi? A hamburger? Maybe a nice poached salmon with dill sauce? I realized the thing I missed most was just eating something without investigating its ingredients, on the lookout for Red Dye No. 3, egg yolks, soy, iodized salt or anything else containing iodine.

Am I different now than I was four months ago? No doubt. But I believe we are changed by nearly every experience we have -- a casual conversation over lunch, the reading of a magazine article, the hearing of a new song, the view from a mountaintop. It's all a matter of degree.

I hope I'll complain a little less about things that ultimately don't matter -- slow drivers in the fast lane, cold winters, bad service in a restaurant. I can't wait to play a summer's evening tennis match at Tautphaus Park, walk an Oregon beach with Kathleen, or just grab a hot dog.

I've asked Kathleen to remind me when I start taking those things for granted -- we're trying to come up with a one-word code. "Cancer" is too obvious. Maybe "ingrate" would do.

I think I feel more vulnerable. I probably feel a deeper empathy for those enduring more difficult struggles with disease. I've always believed in living in the here and now, and this has reinforced that commitment.

I'm under no illusions that my skirmish with cancer compares with those who have had (or are in the middle of) gargantuan battles with this monster. But that's my point -- I'm one of the lucky ones. I had a mild form of cancer that a good doctor caught early and a good medical system is helping me get rid of. I returned to work a little more than a week after my surgery, for heaven's sake.

Of course, there is no guarantee that this is the end of my dealings with thyroid cancer -- it has been known to recur. And, I'm not immune to other cancers or unrelated diseases.

Here's the point -- early detection makes surviving whatever comes our way infinitely more likely. If we give our doctors a fighting chance, they are capable of doing some pretty amazing things.

Get a check up at least once a year. Get to know your doctor. Get to know your own body. Live well.

Or, as the recently departed singer Warren Zevon (lung cancer) put it, enjoy every sandwich.