No doubt, you remember exactly how you found out that you had multiple myeloma. There are as many unique diagnosis stories as there are patients. Below is how I became a full-fledged citizen of what I respectfully call "Myelomaville."

I was counting on the fact that Superman would never lead me astray. Well, not really Superman, but Dr. Christopher Reeves, D.O., one of my local physicians. Imbued with an active imagination, it was a short hop for me to promote Dr. Reeves to the stature of Superman. I promised not to tug on Dr. Superman’s lab coat, and he promised not to steer me in the wrong direction. But let me back up just a bit to the beginning of the story.

In November of 2008, I had been experiencing a severe backache. I tried everything to get rid of the ever increasing pain: hot compresses, cold packs, ibuprofen, bed rest, prayer, you name it. I’d even been sleeping in an easy chair for a week because I couldn’t get comfortable in a bed. While the dogs loved the vacancy on the left side of the mattress, I was miserable.

Try as I might to help myself, the pain continued to get worse. It felt like something was pressing right on my spinal cord in the upper middle part of my back. I clearly wasn’t tough enough to tough this one out. I had to get to a doctor.

My esteemed family physician ordered x-rays, scolded me for not coming in sooner, and, with the expensive pictures in hand, concluded that I probably had cancer.

I asked, “You mean it’s not a pulled muscle or a pinched nerve?”

He soberly responded, “No. I mean that you probably have cancer!” He sure knew how to hurt a guy.

My family doc then referred me to Dr. Reeves to have a biopsy performed on what appeared to be a large tumor in my right shoulder. I’ll admit that I’d had some shoulder pain for several months, but I worked around it. I made some accommodations: simple things like turning myself from a right-hander into a left-hander.

Dr. Superman looked at the x-rays and shared that he was not comfortable doing the biopsy. I remember the word “spooky” being used. Yikes! Even though I’m not a doctor, I didn’t need a translation of the medical term “spooky” to know this was serious.

Dr. Reeves suggested that I go see an orthopedic oncologist colleague of his three hours away in Kansas City. In the meantime, he ordered an MRI and CT scan to give him a more detailed understanding of my situation.

Even though our small town only has a couple of these always-busy diagnostic machines, I was cleared to get the scans done right away. It was probably the first time that I had mixed feelings about being ushered to the front of the line.

That evening, Dr. Reeves called my home and told us to forget about going to Kansas City. He suspected that I had an advanced case of multiple myeloma. I was showing numerous lesions, tumors, and other classic symptoms. My mother had multiple sclerosis, and my friend had melanoma, but I was not at all familiar with multiple myeloma.

In his mild-mannered way, Dr. Reeves said that multiple myeloma is a somewhat rare cancer of the blood and bone marrow. A blood test would be needed to make a definitive diagnosis. If those results came back ‘positive,’ he would refer us to one of the leading myeloma treatment centers in the world, a place where they were seeing good clinical results.

Hold on! One minute I’m a busy 49 year old with two young children and more work than I can handle, and the next minute I have cancer and have to travel elsewhere in the world for treatment. Where? New York, Boston, L.A., M.D. Anderson, the Mayo Clinic? Nope. Dr. Superman suggested that we go to Little Rock, Arkansas, for a diagnostic workup. You’re kidding, right?

As it turns out, the University of Arkansas for Medical Science’s Myeloma Institute for Research and Therapy has been treating the disease for more than twenty years. Thousands of patients from over 50 countries and every state in America have journeyed to Little Rock for help. And now it looked like I was joining the pilgrimage.

On the Sunday before Thanksgiving, my wife and I drove 4½ hours south to the Arkansas state capital to see just what kind of pickle I’d gotten myself into. We checked into a hotel close to the hospital and after a sleepless night in an easy chair, I reported to the Myeloma Institute in the wee hours of the morning. Well, getting up at 5:30 a.m. is early for me! After all, I’m not a farmer. I’m in the entertainment business.

On Monday morning at 7 a.m., I had several vials of blood taken, at 8 a.m. I met with a registered nurse, and at 10 a.m. I endured my first bone biopsy, bone marrow aspiration, and gene array analysis. After a quick lunch, I had an echocardiogram at 1 p.m. and a myeloma patient orientation at 2 p.m.

After another sleepless night (although I now had a prescription for oxycodone to battle the pain), Day 2 brought a metastatic bone survey at 8 a.m., an electrocardiogram at 11 a.m., pulmonary function tests at 11:30 a.m., a bone densitometry study at 2 p.m., and a full body MRI at 7:45 p.m. Those of you with severe back pain know all-too-well how hard those tests are on your body. You also know how hard they are on the mind.

It was what happened after the MRI that really caught my attention:

At 10 p.m., I was asked to stay in the waiting room of the hospital’s MRI suite so that someone could chat with me. A young doctor (not Doogie Howser young, but likely half my 49 years) came into the room to tell me, “We need to admit you to the hospital tonight because of your acute back problem.”

“My back problem?” I asked.

“Yes. You have numerous fractures, including a collapsed vertebra at T4. There are bone shards and a tumor compromising your spinal cord. If you fall down or turn the wrong way at the wrong time, you might paralyze yourself from the chest down.”

Oh, THAT back problem.

I was hospitalized immediately and placed on a floor where many severely ill myeloma patients are housed. And, yes, they knew all about easy chairs.

Medical staff traipsed through my room throughout the evening-turned-to-morning. Nurses of various stripes, myeloma specialists, oncologists, neurosurgeons, and interventional radiologists inspected me. They were no doubt trying to decide whether I needed surgery or chemotherapy or surgery then chemotherapy or chemotherapy then surgery.

I felt like a defenseless hockey puck being swatted around the ice rink. As they looked at me, I frankly didn’t know what was best for me. I was accustomed to making decisions, but I couldn’t even come close on this one.

In the first few hours, they took my blood again, asked me many questions, and had me stand and sit and do special tests like walking down the hall to see if I had any neurological impairment caused by the tumor joyriding on my spine. I was functioning well, but still had a lot of pain. And by this point, I was feeling an inordinate amount of stress.

I remained in the hospital through Wednesday. On Thursday afternoon, Thanksgiving Day, I was released to carefully go home for the holiday. The doctors asked me to return the following Monday to finish the testing, including a PET scan, and to meet with Dr. Bart Barlogie, the director of the myeloma program.

Heading home, I had a million questions, most notably:

• What am I supposed to do now?
• Was Dr. Superman doing me a favor by sending me to Little Rock? Do I continue treatment there, or do I go somewhere else?
• How severe is my condition?
• Will my insurance pay for my treatment out of state?
• Can I keep working?
• Will I ever get back to normal?
• Will I see my children grow up?

You myeloma patients have faced these same kinds of questions. After surviving the initial shock of diagnosis, we have to come up with a plan, and it would be necessary sooner, rather than later, in my case.

Next time, I’ll let you know what I learned about my specific myeloma diagnosis, what the test results meant, what I decided to do, and why I’ve taken the course that I have taken.

Please do share your diagnosis stories with us here at The Myeloma Beacon. You are exactly the reason why this site exists. Join the brain trust. Don’t forget that we are all connected through the invisible Burgundy Thread that brings all of us in Myelomaville together.

Thank you & keep fighting!

Sean Murray