Cancer.

The good news: it's one of the most common types with a high rate of cure.

Specifically, I have diffuse large B-cell lymphoma, cancer of the white blood cells.

More good news: It's only stage one and concentrated in a small area.

Amid the blur of medical appointments I sometimes have to stop and think when all of this began. Suffice it to say the Colts were just 3-0 the week my doctor called -- I was in the Kroger parking lot -- to say we were dealing with cancer.

A needle biopsy, the subsequent removal of an entire lymph node and, finally, a bone marrow biopsy (ouch) led my oncologist to determine that we can eradicate the lymphoma "with the chance of it recurring virtually nil."

The Colts are 11-0 now and I'm halfway through four chemotherapy treatments -- daylong procedures scheduled three weeks apart -- that involve drugs I can neither pronounce nor spell: Cyclophosphamide, doxorubicin, vincristine and prednisone. Those are followed by a two-hour, drip-drip-drip dose of Rituxan, which kills malignant B cells. It also kills the normal ones, but I'm told they will return when all of this is over.

All of these medications are administered through a port surgically implanted on the upper left side of my chest. The last of the chemo treatments during the first week of January will be followed by 15-minute daily radiation treatments for four weeks.

By mid-February, God willing, the lymphoma will be history.

I've had no significant side effects from the chemotherapy, except for some hair loss. Well, actually, I'm shedding more than my best friend, Sam the black Lab.

If that's the worst that happens, I'll count myself one very lucky guy.