My doctor tells me I’m an astronaut.

As someone who has long dreamed of donning a pressurized suit and going into interplanetary orbit (I know, some of you out there think that’s where I’ve already spent the last couple of decades), I’m not saying actual space travel is in my immediate future.

Rather, we’re talking cutting-edge oncology here: A drug immunotherapy regimen that’s apparently so new it’s never before been tried on someone with my particular cancer profile. Thus, as my doc enthusiastically noted during a recent treatment strategy session, “You’re an astronaut!”

More on my unexpectedly bumpy ride through this medical frontier in a minute. First, I can proceed no further without two words for the entire state of Maine.

Thank you.

To the thousands of you who have taken the time to email, write, leave voicemails, send heartfelt gifts, cook meals for me and my rock-solid wife, Andrea, thank you.

Your thoughts and prayers have meant more than you’ll ever know over the two months since I prematurely announced “I’m back” from my initial diagnosis of Stage 4 melanoma, along with my 12-year-old case of chronic lymphocytic leukemia, or CLL.

And what a two months it has been. Andy and I managed to get in our nine-day visit to St. John in the Virgin Islands, but just after we returned north, things went south.

Three emergency-room visits in early March (including a ride with my new heroes, the crew of Buxton Rescue) led to an 11-day stay at Maine Medical Center.

Major abdominal surgery, a targeted radiation surgery on a lesion in my brain, more zapping of my left armpit, needles, IV drips, the ever-reachable barf bag – fun it was not. Yet without the competence and compassion of Maine Med’s ever-vigilant doctors, nurses and support staff, it would have been a whole lot worse.

Nurse Rebekah knows what I’m talking about: The morning after my surgery, she found me out of bed and under the drug-induced notion that I was in the TV show “Gotham” and I had to get out of this place come hell or high water. Gently tucking me back in, Rebekah persuaded me I wasn’t “Gotham” Police Detective James Gordon after all.

Nurse Maria knows, too: Her four days watching over me ended with a dramatic and utterly unpleasant bout of post-surgical vomiting – but long after her shift had ended, Maria was still there, gently dabbing my neck and forehead with a cold cloth while the physicians figured out what to do next.

Seriously, folks, it’s hard to appreciate how lucky we are to have these living saints in our midst until you feel like your life depends on them. Which, at times, it does.

UPRIGHT AND WALKING

Now for the good news: I’m upright again, going for daily dog walks and, at long last, ready to reoccupy my perch in the Portland Press Herald/Maine Sunday Telegram newsroom.

My treatment – the astronaut regimen – will continue for several months. There may be side effects and setbacks.

But honest to God, how could I watch the Press Herald’s video of an irate former Biddeford mayor Joanne Twomey delivering a jar of Vaseline to Gov. Paul LePage at his state-budget town meeting last week without lamenting, “Low … hanging … fruit.”

Speaking of the Big Guy, I had him batting .500 until his latest run-in with petroleum jelly.

Without a doubt, the Guv blew it big time when he falsely claimed last month that author (and major Maine philanthropist) Stephen King steers clear of legal residence in Maine to avoid paying state income taxes here.

My humble advice to Mr. King: Stop waiting for an apology. Ain’t gonna happen. Instead, we beg you, find a way to work the Governor Growl into your next horror novel – kind of like Cujo only with a flag lapel pin.

LePage absolutely nailed it, on the other hand, with his recent firing of Brig. Gen. James Campbell as commander of the Maine National Guard – this on the same morning Campbell was to present his “State of the Guard” address to a joint session of the Maine Legislature.

Heavy-handed? You bet it was.

But Campbell, widely described inside his own command as a “toxic” leader who derailed many an honorable military career during his 31-month stint atop the Maine Guard, had this coming.

And his failure to come clean with LePage about a shady plan to swap Maine’s much-valued 133rd Engineer Battalion for an out-of-state infantry unit? Well, any soldier worth his combat infantryman’s badge would know you deceive a guy like LePage at your own peril.

So thumbs up for you, Big Guy. Whatever your reasons for shocking Maine’s military establishment, you did the right thing.

Say what? All that radiation has gone to my head?

Maybe so. Or maybe, as I move from what I call the “mechanical” phase of my illness to the “systemic” phase that’s now (I hope) alerting my immune system to those sneaky melanoma cells, I’d rather re-engage with life in Maine than watch it go by from my way-too-comfy recliner.

CUE THE MUSIC

I’d be deluding myself if I thought the rest of this journey will be a cakewalk. Still, I’ve come to believe in that constant current of positive energy flowing my way from those of you I know in person and those who, while we may not have met face-to-face, nevertheless have become the truest of friends.

I also believe strongly that just as we must occasionally weep, so must we chuckle. I couldn’t help but crack a smile three minutes into a recent MRI when, with my earphones hooked up to the music website Pandora, Bob Dylan started crooning “Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door …”

“Bob, come on,” I thought. “You’re killing me here.”

So here goes nothing. To all of the rest of you out there wrestling with this beast we call cancer, I wish you good luck, good health and, above all, good science.

I’ve learned a ton in a short time about ongoing advances in medical science from my cancer doc, who prefers to stay outside the spotlight on my illness and treatment.

But of all the words of wisdom the good doctor has imparted these past few months, none was as encouraging as his smiling farewell after he declared me an astronaut – my boyhood dream come true – and sent me off for my first two-hour drug infusion.

“Liftoff!” he said.