I didn’t really know what to expect when I entered the infusion center for my first chemotherapy treatment in September.

In fairness, I had had some experience with cancer treatments, as my wife Tina underwent chemo and radiation when she had breast cancer in 1997. And my younger brother Tony got more than his share of chemo and related treatments during his three-year battle with non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, beginning in 2003. But it’s different when you’re the one in the chair getting infused, and you have no idea how your body will respond.

Well, after 11 treatments — the first to see how my body would do and then twice a month thereafter — I’m happy to report that all went well.

Sure, I had some minor issues like, er, constipation and some difficulty sleeping because of drugs which contain steroids, but nothing major. I lost 10 pounds and my appetite, but I’ve since regained three of those pounds, along with my enjoyment of food.

I take no credit for my success, other than the fact that I did what my oncologist and the nurses told me to do. Actually, I would have done anything they said, unless they’d suggested something truly unpalatable like eating a bag of kale chips with a tofu milkshake chaser or spending a year on a desert island with Jim Jordan and Marjorie Taylor Greene or writing a piece apologizing for my relentless attacks on the character and integrity of the former president.

So, here’s a big shout-out to everyone on the cancer care team who helped me cross the finish line. My oncologist Dr. John Gullo, who’s nearly as old as I am, told it like it was and might be, never sugar-coating the situation. As I said to the oncology nurses, that guy knows what he’s doing and they all said, “He sure does” Three cheers for us old guys who stay in the game.

Every person who played any role in my treatment deserves credit, the doctors and nurses, of course, but even the receptionists and schedulers who have obviously been carefully selected and trained to deal with people going through a scary life experience. The nurses were unfailingly professional and upbeat. It didn’t matter who was assigned to you on a given day for chemotherapy. They were all top notch — they all worked together in a seamless way.

Here are some takeaways from my experience. Family and friends and acquaintances (and even strangers who read this column) provided great support and encouragement. One person noted, “I forgot you had cancer because you seem so normal and upbeat.” I forgot it too, until my wife Tina would ask, “But how are you feeling?” And then she seldom took, “I’m fine.” as an acceptable answer. Incidentally, Tina sat with me during every chemo treatment just as I had done with her chemo and radiation sessions 25 years ago.

My cousin Dan Treadwell, who lives outside Washington, DC, raised $1,000 for Lymphoma research. My brother’s widow Nancy lovingly requested reports after every treatment. So did my sister Martha who lost her daughter — her only child — to a brain tumor. I had supportive talks with college classmates: one is dealing with another more challenging form of cancer; another lost his wife to cancer; and a third is dealing with his wife’s breast cancer, which has recurred. The daughter of a close friend sent me a neat fleece blanket all the way from Michigan. A good local friend gave me a knitted blanket, compliments of her knitting group, the Knit Wits. Several former and current host students sent along good wishes, warm vibes and cheerful emojis.

How have I changed as a result of my encounter with the Big C? Well, I’m less inclined to watch television and get all riled up about the latest outrage on the national political scene. I’ve become more patient (usually) about life’s little hiccups. And I definitely savor my daily blessings more than I did before.

So, it’s onward now to live life to the fullest, gratitude abloom, spirit unbowed.

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns. dtreadw575@aol.com