Most biographies start with birth and then roll through the years as they drift by but that would bore me to death, and I lived through it.

The interesting part of my life began on September 23rd, 1995 as we were driving back to Omaha after watching the Notre Dame - Texas game in South Bend with relatives. The #21 Irish beat the #13 ranked Longhorns 55-27; and in a real oddity, scored points in just about every way conceivable in the game of football. They scored touchdowns on passes and runs, kicked a field goal, intercepted a pass for a TD, returned a punt for a touchdown and even added two points for blocking a Texas extra point.

As we were driving along westbound I-80 somewhere in Illinois in our Jeep Cherokee, I absent-mindedly rubbed the left side of my neck under my chin.

My very astute wife asked, "What's wrong with your neck?"

Now I had been an Air Force medic for twelve years; and as evident in my descriptions of outlaws' agonizing deaths in my stories, have a good working knowledge of anatomy and physiology. But that knowledge is offset by being a guy and thinking that we all live forever. My neck lymph nodes had been enlarged for around three months when my wife asked that question.

I obfuscated as if I was a lawyer and replied, "Um, a few weeks or so." (Note: Twelve or thirteen weeks does qualify as a 'few' weeks if one chooses to be generous.)

"And what did the doctor say?"

"I'll ask him when we get back."

"Yes, you will."

I do not want to make my wife out to be a harpy or a nag, because she is neither. She's an incredibly patient woman who could only put up with so much stupidity by yours truly.

Three days later, after the doctor copped a quick feel of my lymph nodes, he said, "I don't know what it is, but I don't like it," which was an honest, albeit an imprecise diagnosis.

So, we trotted over to a local ENT specialist. She didn't like them either and took me into surgery a few days later where she yanked one out, so the lab could dice it and slice it, then look at it under a microscope.

The pathologist who looked at the cells through his microscope reported his findings as 'lymphoepithelioma'. That meant that it was a secondary tumor and there was a primary tumor somewhere else in my nasopharynx that was the original problem.

Back I went into the operating room where the ENT doctor did an extensive examination and found nothing. She was so sure of her reconnaissance of the back of my throat that she told me that the pathologist was wrong, and it was just a lymphoma.

Now, being a computer geek, even way back in the dark ages of the internet in '95, I did some searching and found that if the primary tumor wasn't found, then the survival rate plummeted to about a fifth of the already lousy survival rate for the advanced Stage IV cancer. My wife and I decided that a second opinion might be a good idea.

Off we went in her Jeep to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota as the lousy weather descended across the Midwest. It's been known to happen, you know.

They had a problem getting the doctor here to release the specimen she'd yanked out of my neck, which I thought was odd because I don't remember selling it and figured I still owned it. Anyway, they eventually got the lymph node, did their own peek and confirmed the pathologist's diagnosis.

It wasn't until Halloween in 1995 that they finally found the original little bugger. It was just a tiny bump in the back of my throat that must have been there for a long time before it sent its friends marching into my lymph nodes.

They wanted to treat the cancer there, but I opted to have it done in Omaha and was sent to the care of Doctor Patrick J. McKenna (a name you may recognize from Max). Doctor Mac was the perfect man for the job as he was very personable, optimistic, had a good sense of humor and wouldn't put up with my constant whining. It helped that he knew his job, too.

(Read the full bio on Amazon)