It’s time for another dispatch from the frontlines of my war with tonsil cancer.

I’ve learned that a guy can learn a lot of things when dealing with such a stubborn enemy. For instance, when both your oncologist and your radiologist utter the phrase, “This is going to be rough,” you need to believe them. My cancer journey has been rougher than toilet paper made from sheets of 40 grit sandpaper.

Another thing I discovered is the adage “radiation is the gift that keeps on giving” is true. I felt nearly no side effects following the first dozen of my 35 daily radiation treatments. I began to think that I would be able overcome all ill effects thanks to my powerful constitution.

The gods of radiation must have read my thoughts. They chuckled to themselves and said, “What a doofus! Watch this.”

The radiation gods have a twisted sense of humor and went out of their way to teach me a lesson in humility. Each day, a pair of radiation techs would bolt me to a special table before hightailing it out of the radiation room. You know that some serious radiation levels are involved when the room’s lead-lined door, which is at least a foot thick, is needed to protect the public from beams of energy produced by the linear particle accelerator.

One day I mentioned to Jill, a radiation tech, that I seemed to be losing an inordinate amount of hair from the back of my head.

“Yeah, that’s our doing,” she replied. “We give people funny haircuts.”

Not only did I lose hair from the back of my head, but most of my beard was burned off. What was left of it was patchy and scraggly, so I shaved my face for the first time in 50 years. I now look like a different guy. My cheeks are clean-shaven and I have a serious case of turkey neck. On top of all that, I am dealing with the Mother Of All Sore Throats.

Oh, well. It beats the alternative.

As my treatments progressed, it became increasingly difficult to swallow. It got so that I had to psyche myself up just to take a pill.

Needless to say, eating is out of the question. As of this writing, all of my calories are coming in through the gastric tube that was installed at the beginning of this ordeal. I had deemed this step as unnecessary based on the belief that my stalwart constitution would enable me to continue to eat.

What a doofus I was. The combination of chemotherapy and radiation caused me to feel like I was about to toss my cookies most of the time even though I hadn’t been near a cookie for several weeks.

At the beginning of my cancer ordeal, I was issued a couple of prescriptions for anti-nausea drugs. I looked at the bottles of pills and thought, “Holy cow! I will never need all of those!”

You can probably guess what happened next. Not only did I go through all of the anti-puke pills, I also had to get refills for the prescriptions.

Nowadays, I’m taking a pill for this and another pill for that and so on. The table next to my recliner looks like a miniature wholesale pharmacy.

It’s a job to keep track of it all, which leads to another lesson I’ve gleaned from this mess: every patient needs to have someone to help them keep track of things and, should the need arise, be their advocate.

I’m unspeakably blessed that my wife has been able to help me throughout this battle with cancer. She might appear to be a pussycat on the outside, but she is a fearsome momma tiger on the inside. I have seen this mother tiger at work and was extremely glad to have this tigress on my side.

One final thing I discovered was that something as insignificant as ringing a bell can have a huge emotional impact.

Small brass bells hang near the entry of the chemotherapy and the radiation areas. Those who have completed their treatments are encouraged to ring the bell in celebration.

I watched jealously as some guy rang the bell just as I was beginning my first of six weekly chemotherapy treatments. At that time the end of my treatments seemed as distant as Pluto.

The day finally came when it was my turn to ring the chemo bell, so I tugged the rope six times. My wife gave me a big hug; some tears may have been shed.

It turns out that both mommy and daddy tigers have soft, emotional sides.

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.