I was in my very own “Seinfeld” episode. Allow me to explain.

After weeks of radiation therapy for lung cancer, I developed a dry cough and gravelly voice. Turns out it was a rogue lymph node straddling my laryngeal nerve.

I went to see an ear, nose, and throat doctor — or an otolaryngologist (say that 10 times really fast).

“Can you fix it to make me sound like Adele?” I asked.

He stopped and looked at me straight on, “She does sound good, doesn’t she? No, I can’t do that.”

Never hurts to ask.

Here’s the scene: My charismatic, blue-eyed, silver-haired, funny-as-all-get-out otolaryngologist prepares me for a camera going down my throat. He shoves, ever so gently, two very large swabs up my nostrils, filled with a numbing agent.

“How does that feel?” he asks.

My husband is loudly guffawing, sporting his shiny new goatee.

“I have a better place I’d like to stick these,” I retort.

“Up and into that guy, huh? He looks like a young Orson Welles.”

“Ask him for a bucket of chicken, he looks like Colonel Sanders,” I say, with two wooden sticks still up my nose.

Then, in walks the nurse — one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She has big brown eyes, short blonde hair, and the most glowy, perfect skin ever. My fireman husband promptly invites her to the firehouse for a ride on the firetruck anytime.

“You’ll have five dates in two minutes,” he tells her.

At the doctor’s urging, she tells us about the last guy she dated — a tennis pro who lived in his car. “He was a real winner,” she says. She shakes her head as if she can’t believe she’s revealing this to two people she just met.

The conversation just keeps getting louder and funnier. The front desk receptionist pops her head in to see what party she’s missing. All the while, I still have two sticks up my nose.

Now it’s time for the camera. I am the walrus.

“This down your throat will feel a little weird,” the doctor says.

“Hey! Hey! That’s my wife!” Colonel Sanders yells, following up with a belly laugh.

“How long you guys been married?”

“Seems like forever!” the Colonel and I say simultaneously. It must be love. Fried chicken love.

Down goes the camera. I ain’t gonna lie. It is weird.

Nurse Beautiful snaps some photos and the doctor examines them on the spot.

“This is all good,” he says.

“Can you say that again?” The Colonel and I don’t hear those four words very often lately.

“This is all good!” the doc repeats. “For one, any lung disease would show differently and secondly, your vocal chord is 95 percent perfect. The radiation may make it worse for a bit, but it will get better all on its own. No procedures necessary.”

This news made my day: one less procedure, invasion, scar, and recovery to deal with. But the relief was bigger than avoiding a procedure. I needed these little victories. To my way of thinking, all the smaller victories build up to big ones. This victory could see me through the rough stuff that would inevitably come my way.

“Anyone ever tell you that you look like Mel Tormé?” I ask the doctor, relief settling in.

“No, I get Michael Douglas, but Mel Tormé is a good one.”

“I think you look just like him. You’re the top!”

MyLungCancerTeam columnists discuss lung cancer from a specific point of view. Columnists' articles don’t reflect the opinions of MyLungCancerTeam staff, medical experts, partners, advertisers, or sponsors. MyLungCancerTeam content isn't intended as a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment.