It’s Sunday evening as I write this, and writing a column is not what I anticipated I would be doing right now.

My plan was to be doing just the opposite, relaxing with a book, a cup of tea and a little soft music. I could do that because I had a column all ready to turn in.

But then I looked at the calendar, and realized that the column I turned in was likely the last one to be published before Thanksgiving, so I decided to submit a column more appropriate for that celebration than the one I had already written. So this is it.

Back in 2012, I was experiencing severe pain in the emergency room waiting to be taken into Billings when a quiet voice from somewhere kept telling me that everything was going to be all right. Several days later, in between therapy sessions, I wrote in this column that I trusted that voice. Everything would be all right, I just didn’t yet know what “all right” would be.

As befits a person who has spent two-thirds of his life in classrooms, I’ve looked upon the 33 months since then as an educational experience by which I’m trying to learn just what constitutes “all right” from God’s point of view.

In those months, I’ve undergone two additional major surgeries and several minor surgical procedures. I’ve experienced a year of chemotherapy and have been administered enough injections, pills and ointments to keep three or four pharmacists busy all day.

I’ve had so many X-rays, CAT scans and MRIs that it’s a wonder I don’t glow in the dark, and had so much blood drawn that it feels as though every nurse, EMT and lab technician in three states has, at one time or another, taken a stab (real, not figurative) at finding a suitable vein to draw blood from or install an IV into.

I’ve consulted with and been treated by busloads of doctors, including surgeons, hematologists, oncologists, urologists, cardiologists, ER physicians, critical care doctors, general practitioners, radiologists and rehabilitation doctors, as well as a couple of psychologists, one psychiatrist and several physicians’ assistants.

I’ve also worked with physical therapists and occupational therapists. I was introduced to Wii bowling by a recreational therapist and a couple of therapists helped me regain my ability to swallow. In addition, I’ve seen my dentist and an oral surgeon.

During and in between those visits, an infinite number of nurses have provided care, along with a few scoldings when I got out of bed without permission or removed the thing they tape to your finger to measure your oxygen level.

If you brought all the people who have taken care of me together and relocated them to Meeteetse, I’m pretty sure Cody would cease to be the biggest town in Park County.

Thanks to the work all those people did and continue to do, I can stand up straight and walk without anyone helping me and, best of all, I can eat normally. Most important, they have gotten control of my cancer for the time being.

In the meantime, I have been able to go to church, attend games and concerts, go shopping with my wife and take her out to eat. I have been able to take one trip to visit relatives, and I am planning to take more.

All of that attention is all right.

Everything isn’t perfect, because I do have limits. I have little stamina, and I tire quickly, limiting the distance I can walk or the time I can spend standing in line at the store before I have to sit down and rest.

Sometimes that shortage of stamina turns into lethargy, causing me to doze off during the Sunday sermon, and earning me a poke in the ribs from my wife before I start snoring. In addition, I still have various degrees of pain, which strike at inconvenient times, requiring me to cut short whatever I am doing and sit down.

Despite those problems, getting out into the community is a major benefit, because friends, acquaintances and people I don’t even know stop to wish me well or comment on my progress. In fact, the most common greeting I receive some times is the observation that I am looking much better.

Those greetings really raise my morale because they remind me that I am making progress. Sometimes, receiving such a greeting actually gives me a boost in energy, and sometimes a greeting like that even makes my pain go away.

That’s all right.

I can’t end this without mentioning my best friend, the one I talked into marrying me many years ago. Her support when I want to take on a task, her encouragement when I’m uncertain about attempting an activity or attending an event  and her scolding when I start feeling sorry for myself all contribute to my being all right. By taking on those tasks, she provides me with medicine the medical world can’t give me.

That’s really all right.

Taken all together, then, I’ve learned what that still small voice told me is true. “All right” doesn’t mean what it used to for me, but I’m happy to have what I have right now, and I trust God will continue ro make things all right for me.

He always has before, and I’m thankful, because I’m really all right.