This blasted 2020 won't just go down as the Big C for coronavirus. For the Patrick family, it also has included cancer — a subject my wife and I have written volumes about but had never experienced personally.

Receiving a diagnosis out of nowhere in late April that I had stage 4 throat cancer, I a) panicked, b) panicked some more, c) mentally started making final "arrangements," as they say in the movies, and d) spent some quiet time contemplating the actual act of kissing my arse goodbye.

Soon, however, I learned that the kind of cancer I had — caused by a virus — was "the worst cancer with the best outcome," according to Dr. Kevin Mulvey, an oncologist with a fine wit and seemingly supernatural medical powers. He pegged the likelihood of my being able to put out a daily newspaper into the foreseeable future at about 70 percent, which is precisely 476 percent higher than the likelihood of the Chicago Cubs winning another World Series in my lifetime.

What I didn't know was that the likelihood of my getting world-class medical care, from many dozens of people that I personally interacted with mostly in the Kootenai Health system, was an absolute certainty.

But this story is not just about me. It's about them. And it's about you.

Because I've just staggered across a five-month battlefield that has claimed some of my flesh but none of my soul — and learned so much along the way — I'm going to editorialize on the front page today. If you don't like it, Pearls Before Swine is worth a gander.

My flavor of throat cancer called for 35 radiation treatments and six sumptuous Cisplatin and steroid cocktails at my favorite health saloon, the KH cancer infusion clinic. I kept looking for a spider through my medieval mesh mask, wishing for a little Spidey-like luck, but I came up arachnidless.

My speech therapist, Lupe', reminds me weekly that radiation is "the gift that keeps on giving." She insists on trying to fix those damned gifts so they don't accomplish what the cancer itself failed to do.

During the course of countless appointments with an army of medical professionals - docs, nurses, receptionists, nutritionists, therapists, phlebotomists and more within an alliance featuring Kootenai Health and Cancer Care Northwest - I can firmly attest to this:

Even though I never saw their faces - masks are the order of the year, you know - their voices and their eyes were always kind and considerate. At a time they could not be blamed for collapsing or quitting, they remained ridiculously competent and fiercely compassionate.

You probably don't get that at work. You might not even get it at home. Yet I got it over and over again in various departments and buildings throughout the KH campuses in Coeur d'Alene and Post Falls, as well as in the offices of ear, nose and throat specialist Dr. Thomas deTar.

When patients complete their chemo treatments at Kootenai Health, they ring a bell and receive a golden key chain. Here's the inscription on the key chain: "You never know how strong you are until being strong is your only choice." That's from the late, great Bob Marley.

With respect to Marley's ghost, I would amend his quote to cover the people in today's world who are even stronger, even braver than many of those who have gone through hell to try to live one more day. To the enormous, amazing family of Kootenai Health and all other healthcare providers in our community these days, masked marvels every one, I say, "You never know how strong you are until being strong is your unselfish choice."

Every day these providers are risking their lives for us. And they're doing it with a smile we'll never see beneath the masks, but it's clear in their eyes.

When I'd gotten over the shock Wednesday of Dr. Mulvey's pronouncement that my stage 4 cancer was completely gone, I asked, "So does this mean I've got a good chance to live to be an old fart?"

"Mike," Mulvey said clearly under his mask, "I'd say you're already well on your way."

• • •

'Thanks' is too small a word

A village saved my life.

I can't thank them all because there have been too many, and frankly, with the medical providers I never knew most of their names.

But my recovery from cancer would not have happened without:

*Clint Schroeder, Duane and Brad Hagadone - my bosses - who made sure I could focus on getting well.

*Literally hundreds of friends and Press readers who stepped up as my prayer warriors and providers of positive thoughts. Some of you guys emailed me every week or two, and though you filled up my already overflowing inbox, your missives always hit the mark.

*My medical team headed by Dr. Kevin Mulvey, Dr. Aaron Wagner and Dr. Thomas deTar. I doubt a more terrific trio than you exists anywhere in the medical world. How lucky I am that you took my case on.

*Jon Ness, the big cheese at Kootenai Health. I've known for 10 years that Jon is one hell of a leader. Now I have proof.

*Kim Anderson at KH. Thanks for everything, my friend. That goes for Lupe' the amazing speech therapist and Gail the physical therapist, too.

*The legion of nutritionists who have badgered me beautifully. Bless you. I promise to put on some healthy weight.

*My beloved co-workers at The Press in every department, whose skill and dedication motivates me and ensures a local news product gets to you every single day.

*And most of all, my wife, Sholeh. Since we met you've made me the luckiest man alive. The luck looks like it'll continue for awhile.

Readers, anybody who tells you the patient endures worse than the spouse has never dueled with a life-threatening disease. The couple lives or dies together.