I’ve given away the end of the story in the title, there. All my cancer tests came back, and I failed them all. Every one. Negative every time, in every sample in every kind of tissue and body fluid, and in every scan, by every means, of my firm proud slightly puffy body. 

Which leaves a few doctors wondering why. It means I’m still “interesting”, medically, when I’d rather be boring.

But don’t worry, this blog isn’t going to tell you any more about the brief, bloody rebellion of my innards. My body put it down and re-established order. Any more trouble-making and there’ll be shootings. 

(That’s probably how Kurt Cobain spent his last minute: auto-surgery. “Awww, my stomach hurts. And I got a headache. I’ll git that fucka!” BLAMM!)

I’ve been tested intensively enough that I know that whatever it was, my body had the reserves to deal with it thoroughly, leaving no trace of the original problem or signs of future problems. Freak event. Damn freaks. 

Which means no surgeries, no chemo, no loss of my hair, my beautiful hair, and no worries about whether they got the lot, and all that sort of nightmare. Just life, which goes on.

The funny thing is that it feels a bit flat at the moment. I should be out champagning and dancing, but what I’ve mostly done since getting the news is sleep. I’ll probably feel more joyous in a day or two, when I’ve caught up and relaxed again.