I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma during December of 2003 at a time just before social networking and blogging took off. I spent a lot of days hospitalized without Internet access. I look back and think about what a nice diversion and support it may have been to be able to connect with others via the Internet.

As I recovered and moved beyond illness to my “new normal” life, I lost track of much of the medical terminology of my case. I also wanted distance from all of that. However, I have this condition that follows me like a shadow. I do not want to drift too far away from that reality.

A few months ago, I discovered The Myeloma Beacon and noticed that many of the people sharing on this site are about my age and younger. I am beginning this monthly column to shed light on living with multiple myeloma as a single woman.

My “cracked cup” refers to a small ceramic pot that I made several decades ago. Despite the flaws, it has survived dozens of moves. The cracked cup holds my story:

Every three months, I visit the hematology clinic at Roswell Park Cancer Institute. A few weeks ago, the nurse practitioner entered the exam room with my lab printout in her hand and said, “You are perfect.” Good news is what I want to hear. Still, I do not feel perfect.

I read somewhere that the body with cancer is like a house that has been burglarized—you still have to live in it after the invasion, but you can never really trust that everything is okay and safe.

Let me step back, my multiple myeloma journey began in 2002 while I was living in Denver.

I experienced a string of curious back pangs and a couple of really bad colds. A bothersome hip pain appeared while walking the hilly streets of San Francisco during a summer vacation. A week later, I stepped off a curb a little too hard. My back went out the next day. I struggled to get out of bed each morning to carry on with the ordinary activities of my two jobs. Walking was difficult, but a healthy fifty-one year old woman with a busy life does not expect worst-case scenarios. During the next two months, I visited a doctor, chiropractor, and ER in my search for relief.

The meditation teacher, Chögyam Trungpa often told his students, “Live your life as an experiment.” My personal experiment came alive when I was admitted to the hospital and diagnosed with kidney failure, fractured ribs, and fractured vertebrae due to stage III multiple myeloma.

I spent most of that December hospitalized and began to learn a new language of blood, bone, and chemistry. My winter was filled with medical appointments, treatment, and rest. I lost my hair and surrendered to getting well. Stepping back to allow myself to heal meant leaving both of my jobs behind.

I was told that multiple myeloma is a chronic condition that can be managed. What did this mean? Nobody ever said I would be cured. However, I discovered that living one breath at a time is quite manageable.

The support and encouragement of family, friends, doctors, and visiting nurses was remarkable. As an unmarried woman accustomed to an independent lifestyle, I had never before had so much help.

Statistics told me that this disease most commonly strikes 70 year old men. I did not fit that model, and I could not relate to the dismal news about survival rates. By spring, I had completed several rounds of chemotherapy with vincristine ^[1], doxorubicin ^[2] (Adriamycin), and dexamethasone ^[3] (Decadron). I visited a specialist who recommended an autologous stem cell transplant as soon as possible. He told me it was “the next best thing to a cure.”

I needed to understand this mysterious process in my own simplified way by accepting that the human body is a hardy machine. She constantly produces shiny new stem cells that grow into both red and white blood cells. These cells can be withdrawn from the body and frozen while a patient is given a high dose of toxic chemical that eliminates every dysfunctional myeloma cell. All other cells are sacrificed in the process, but the body is able to save herself when the frozen stem cells are returned to the bloodstream.

Could this actually work? I had to trust my somewhat broken body to produce viable stem cells that would be powerful enough to “re-boot” my entire system to begin the natural cell-making process.

I chose to undergo the suspicious sequence of events called a stem cell transplant. The professionals warned that the ordeal would weaken me. They were right—perfectly good meals tasted like cardboard and drinking water was metallic. All the unpleasantness is best forgotten now because the gradual regeneration of health has been a celebration—a kind of rebirth. The renewal of taste buds was a miracle that made food my new medicine. My hair grew back, and my energy returned.

By fall, I was well enough for a vertebroplasty procedure to stabilize three of the vertebral fractures. I felt a noticeable improvement almost immediately. I decided against the second stem cell transplant that was suggested, but continued with infusions of a bisphosphate for another ten months to strengthen my bones, and my back is more limber now.

I created a bumper sticker that reads “Healing is low-tech.” Medicine may be high-tech, but my therapy is ordinary life—walking, yoga, swimming, meditation, nutritious food, red wine, pure water, and sunshine.

My experiment was tested recently when I fell on a concrete sidewalk and landed on my knees. My bones did not crumble. I have been in complete remission for five years. Recovering has instilled confidence as each perfect lab report or skeletal survey reminds me that the intruder called myeloma is causing no harm. I breathe in and I breathe out—the experiment continues.