My wife, Pattie, is an excellent caregiver.  A three-time cancer survivor herself, Pattie knows what it feels like to battle cancer.  That experience helps her understand what I am going through.

We were recently forced to face the reality of my first relapse.  After four years of Revlimid helping keep my multiple myeloma at bay, we learned two months ago that the myeloma is back and active.

Even if I’m not feeling well—or Pattie is tired after work—we always try to get out for an evening walk with our rescued dog, Finnegan.

We walk, talk, and get caught up on the news of the day.

Last week, about 30 minutes into our walk, I noticed she was unusually quiet.  I had been talking about several fellow patients from our local support group.  One had been complaining about the side effects of their treatment.  The other had just entered hospice.

I was frustrated with the healthier patient’s reluctance to endure the side effects, which I felt were necessary to save her life.  “Doesn’t she realize this is a fatal disease?  Doesn’t she… “

Pattie stopped me, mid-sentence.  She was clearly upset.  “I’m one of those people!” Pattie said firmly.  “It isn’t easy admitting the one you love may die.”

She continued quietly—but she was clearly upset. “Pat, you find comfort in helping your friends.  You get help and support.  But I don’t have anyone to lean on.  Where is my support?”

I felt horrible as I realized how painful this process is for her.  Pattie and I relocated to Florida less than two years ago.  She has some family here.  But they have their own problems, so Pattie isn’t able to talk with them or lean on them for support.

My wife won’t talk with anyone at the dialysis clinic where she works because she doesn’t feel it is professional or appropriate.   And even if she had close friends to talk to there, it seems everyone is becoming more and more self-absorbed.   They either aren’t equipped or interested in helping.  Sound familiar?

Support groups are another great way to meet people to lean on, but Pattie is a very private person and doesn’t feel comfortable sharing her feelings with a large group of people.

My point?  In a way, Pattie is too good a caregiver.  She makes it look easy.    She never complains and is always there for me.  This makes it hard to spot when my wife needs support or a break.

Two weeks ago, I wrote a column about acceptance ^[1].  I have accepted the finality of my multiple myeloma diagnosis.  Obviously, my wife has not.

I will try and be more sensitive to that.

In the meantime, what can I do to help? 

Pattie listens.  She is there for me 24/7. But I’m afraid she doesn’t experience the peaceful satisfaction I get when I help other multiple myeloma patients.  For me, helping others is enough—as long as I have Pattie to help me connect the dots.

How can Pattie find the help and support she needs?  Who can provide her with emotional support?

Normally this is the point in my column where I would list a number of suggestions to help those reading.

Like how I will try and be more sensitive.  Talking less about multiple myeloma—and dying in general—is a good place to start.

But I’m not sure I have the answers to this one.

This week I would like to ask for your help.  What can I do to help my wife?  Where can I help her find the solace and the support she needs?

Your suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

Feel good and keep smiling!  Pat