Major news in my post-cancer recovery saga — my saliva glands won't work for a year and my stomach tube was popped out the other day.

So, just when I was able to eat again following my throat cancer radiation treatment — which left my throat like a raw open sore zone — I get the news that my saliva glands won't work for about a year.

This means I can't spit on people even if I want to. And it means big sluggish food like sour dough rolls and pizza won't be on the menu cuz I got no internal lubricants to wash them down the throat.

But I can eat anything that I can cut up into small bites, including as I did the other day, a medium-rare rib eye steak. I mention the steak because the last taste buds to come back after the radiation are the glutamic acid which makes steak taste good. And boy did it taste good.

So with this restoration of eating through my mouth, instead of those six cans of Ensure a day through my stomach tube (as I did for nearly two months), I was anxious to get my stomach tube out.

It wasn't good for my golf swing; it leaked red mucus that hardened on my upper tummy, and it was a low-grade hurt  as the tube  tugged on me.

I called the office which put it in (I'm not going to name the office because I'm mad at them). A woman said I had to take a swallow test first. I suggested that was silly because I had been eating for two weeks and my swallowing seemed just fine.

I even tried to get out of the test, which had to be performed at Memorial Hospital, but I couldn't.

It seemed less silly when speech pathologist, Charles Ellis, explained that what they look for is trace amounts which get diverted to the lungs. So I might not even feel that for awhile.

He had these swallow substances — a thin milky sort of drink, what appeared to be Gerber's apple sauce, pudding on a graham cracker and a thicker pudding. All of it went down the right hatch.

A couple days later, I went back to Memorial Hospital where I put a hospital gown on and relaxed on a bed until the doctor came in to yank my tube out.

Now, I have to tell you, that I was apprehensive about this process. Stuff from my stomach leaked into the tube on a regular basis. I presume I have this quarter-inch hole in my stomach and therefore, pulling something out, might bring a squirt with it.

I shared this with my golfing buddies. They offered for free to yank it out — either in my back swing or as I was putting.

But it turns out a doctor is needed for this and he's ready with big bandages to sop up any spillage.

As I write this, I have a 4x4 bandage with no apparent stain tapped generously to my stomach hair. The doctor explained that I would feel some pressure.  I did, but it only was uncomfortable for a few seconds.

The part of the tube that was in my tummy was like a little funnel. It was squeezable and like a little mouse that scrunches up to get through a small hole, it came right out without a big mess.

I am very happy it is gone. I don't particularly like man-made appendages on my body. After a few days of changing these big bandages on my stomach, I presume I will have a regular looking abdomen.

I myself won't be regular looking until my beard grows back. I had to shave it off because it was scraggly and made me look like a cancer patient.

This is a big deal to me because I've had the beard since 1974.  It hid one of my less desirable features, a weak chin.

And now as a result of my cancer treatment, I have this loose fitting wattle on my throat. That too will hang around for about six months.

All this makes me look funny. Well, I would rather be funny than look funny. But I have no choice. There's no instant gratification in cancer recovery.