Being a cancer first-timer, I had no idea of what the treatment and./or remedy would entail.

First thing: my wife Sara and I made a follow-up appointment with my doctor -- the guy who actually performed the colonoscopy and found the cancer -- so we could further discuss his findings and get his recommendations for treatment.

He informed me that I needed a CATSCAN. Why?, I wondered. Well, to see if there is cancer anywhere else other than my colon.

"Hello, Mr. Bramlett, can you hear me? Mrs. Bramlett ,is he OK? Hello, Mrs. Bramlett, can you hear me?"

Here we go again with the out of body experience -- except this time it wasn’t just me sitting in the corner listening to the conversation. My wife was beside me wondering: who is this poor couple getting the news for the first time that the man’s cancer might be somewhere other than just his colon?

One person in a family doesn’t get cancer -- everyone gets it, and thus it was important that my wife was with me at the doctor’s office. She knew that, as a man, I don’t usually ask the important probing questions necessary to obtain details on any subject in discussion -- even cancer. If she didn’t go with me, she would have to call the doctor’s office later and get the vital information that I neglected to find out.

Neither of us were ready for the “to see if the cancer is anywhere else” line. This was Monday, the CATSCAN was scheduled for Friday, and we would meet with the doctor the following Monday to discuss the results. That week was the longest month I’ve ever experienced.

A week later, my wife and I were waiting in the doctor’s office in a combined state of hyperventilation. The doctor entered the room with a manila envelope that contained my (our) fate. He said, “Your CATSCAN came back -- " ... more hyperventilation …"clean, no other cancer.”

Sweet, sweet oxygen! Sweet, sweet blood flow to my brain again! Who would have ever thought that having “just colon cancer” would be such a blessing?

OK, hurdle one was now behind us. The cancer was localized and, unlike overbearing relatives, this is a good thing. Now it's time to pick the medical team so we can begin treatment.

We chose a surgeon who works out of Yale New Haven and set an appointment. I did some research and found he was extremely well qualified to handle my treatment. We got a call from the surgeon’s nurse to advise us that my surgeon had set an appoint for me to get an ultrasound …

"Look, Doc, I just got really comfortable with your qualifications and already you want to see if it’s a boy or a girl?"

The doctor who performed the ultrasound told me it was to get a clear picture of the “mass.”

Whoa Doc! What do you mean by mass? I thought this was a little thing. "Mass" sounds so imposing! Apparently, tomato/potato, mass/tumor/cancer: it’s all the same. What she found in the ultrasound is that the tumor, though localized was stage 3. Like a golf score you want your stage to be low, and 3 out of a possible 4 was next to the highest.

I was never any good at golf.

The next day, when we actually visited the surgeon, I got a look at his business card and felt pretty good. The letters following his name resembled the Russian alphabet. I recommended that he go to a 3” X 5” card to ensure that he wasn't leaving anything off. He was instantly impressive when we met him, and he instilled a sense of confidence with his assured comportment and manner. Though we were welcomed to ask any questions, our meeting was relatively short and to the point.

He said he wanted to shrink the tumor before the surgery to remove it, which involves not only radiation but also chemotherapy. He referred me to a radiologist for the radiation aspect, who in turn would refer me to an oncologist for chemotherapy. The doctor finished the conversation giving me three goals to come out of the treatment and surgery.

1. Make sure that you can beat your cancer. (Why, of course, beat my cancer! I mean, I will beat this, right?

Funny: after that, neither my wife nor I can remember the other two goals.

Next: Radiation and Chemo.