Today is exactly 240 days since I first heard the word "lymphoma" used in the same sentence with my name. So I suppose it's only fitting that today is the day I find out the results of my recent blood tests and PET scan. (Which I had on New Year's Eve, thereby precluding me from champagne or any other kind of alcoholic beverage at the stroke of midnight. Great planning, Tony.)

As you can imagine, I've both coveted and dreaded this very day. On the one hand, I've wanted to know the results, because it gives me an indication of how the treatment is working for me, and any information at all--even bad--is better than the fear of the Great Unknown. On the other hand, the potential for bad news...well, that makes the Great Unknown seem downright appealing.

So, when I arrive for my appointment, my primary oncologist's associate comes into the office and says, "I bet you want to take a look at your scan results."

I say, "Well, I do and I don't."

She smiles and replies, "Oh you definitely do." She leads me and my Lovely Wife out into the hall, where the scan has been pulled up on a computer screen. I've seen the report and scan from my previous PET adventure (way back in May), so I know what the image looks like; I can remember several globs (that's the technical term, you know--globs) of light indicating mid-range Standard Uptake Values (otherwise known as SUVs) in my abdomen. The radiologist report at the time said "several areas of uptake, consistent with lymphoma." Sheesh, seven months later, and I can still remember those exact words from the original PET report.

So imagine my surprise when I look at this PET scan and see...nothing. No globs of any kind, no SUV of any kind, outside of my brain and my bladder. (And really, it's good to have uptake in both your brain and your bladder, isn't it?) I go back around the corner to the office with my Lovely Wife, my Cancer Care Navigator; soon, my oncologist joins the party, and I hear the words "no evidence of disease" and "remission" used for the first time. My oncologist hands me all my blood test results and the PET scan final report, which says "No convincing metabolic activity on today's exam to suggest active or recurrent lymphoma." Man, those words are as sweet as anything old Willy Shakespeare ever wrote.

When you hear the word "lymphoma" the first time, it's a punch in the gut. But seven months later, when you hear the words "no evidence of disease" and "remission" for the first time, well, that's more like water to a man who has just walked across the Mojave. In the words of the Old Man on A Christmas Story, it's indescribably beautiful.

So, after some further ado, I'm out of the office and headed home. I make several phone calls and send several emails, spreading the good news. I feel like Scrooge on Christmas morning, after being visited by the three ghosts and given a reprieve. (Yes, I've spent the past few weeks watching holiday movies, which obviously explains my current penchant for Christmas images.)

Bexxar, it seems, has worked for me. Better, and sooner, than I expected. I was hoping to see some kind of response after three months, but trying to be realistic by telling myself that the optimal time to response is more like six months. To expect a complete response this early, well, I wouldn't let myself go there.

But I have gone there, it seems. And let me tell you, there feels pretty damned good.