The test results came back. And the news is not good.

We have cancer. Stage 4.

This should surprise no one. We’ve been courting political cancer the way smokers court black lung, the way drinkers court rotted livers, the way junk foodies court heart disease. We know exactly the direction we’re headed, do little to change course — and are stunned when we arrive at trip’s end.

Such has occurred on a national, political scale. When 60% of residents vote in presidential elections, when 40% vote in midterms, when more citizens vote for the next American Idol than the next American president, malignant tumors are inevitable. Given the warm(ing), mossy climate we offered the malignancy, could we have wound up with anything other than Game Show President Syndrome? 

For us, the menacing odd-shaped mole appeared with the presidential election. Since then, the nation has responded to the diagnosis by experiencing four of the seven stages of grief, as codified by the American Psychology Association:

• SHOCK & DENIAL — Did anyone believe their ears November 8, 2016?
• PAIN & GUILT — How many people, looking back, wished they’d voted?
• ANGER & BARGAINING — From the over-extension of the post-modernist left to the overreach of the American fascist right, we have proven lousy mediators.
• DEPRESSION, LONELINESS — Trump may be the first president in history who gets people riled when he comes up — whether you’re for or against him. Opponents are furious he won; Supporters are pissed because their leader has convinced them they are ripped off rubes.
• THE UPWARD TURN — Finding hope in small breakthroughs.
• RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH — Learning to rise and stare down that which felled you.
• ACCEPTANCE & HOPE — Realizing you are doing what you should have been doing long ago, and praying it’s not too late.

The first four stages have already occurred. The question is what we do with the last three.

To be sure, there’s no guarantee we survive this — or that we’re even serious about the diagnosis. Our cancer-in-chief rejects science, believes global warming a hoax and gazes  directly into solar eclipses. He hired a doctor who told him he could live to 200. That’s the thing about cancer: It can’t recognize itself, only its victims.

And make no mistake, this cancer has metastasized to every region of the body politic. From the executive branch to Congress to the Supreme Court, it’s harder to find a body part that isn’t rotted than one that is.

Treatment’s gonna be a bitch. We’ll suffer hair loss (or at least the reforming of it in angles that defy modern physics).  There will be much blood, screaming, loss of dignity. And we still may be too late.

But there are signs Americans are taking recovery seriously. They stopped a pederast from becoming an Alabama senator. They rejected rejecting universal healthcare. They look to a Perry Mason-type as their true top cop. Two women altered an historic Senate hearing this weekend by literally blocking an elevator door to be heard (and promising they’d be heard again come the Nov. 6 mid-terms). 

Perhaps that is what ultimately defines the Brett Kavanaugh confirmation hearings, which are  less about the character of the candidate than character of the country. 

Kavanaugh is the chemotherapy. Radiation therapy is on Nov. 6. Remember to fast: don’t eat, drink or watch anything 12 hours before the procedure. We’ve seen and swallowed enough.