Just as I had settled down to get some inspiration for this month’s column, my young daughter breezed into my office to share this juicy information about her older sister:

“Daddy, Katie said the F-word!”

I was shocked to even hear Lizzie say ‘F-word.’ Taken by surprise, I sprayed a mouthful of my morning coffee and blurted out, “She did not!”

Before I could stop her, young Lizzie, with a twinkle in her eye, trumpeted, “Katie called a lady fat!”

Oh, that F-word, I thought as I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t nice, and it wasn’t acceptable, but at least it wasn’t... then the panic set in.

“Wait a minute! Katie called what lady fat?”

“Lady! Lady! Our dog Lady! You said not to call anyone names – ever. Katie said the F-word, Daddy!”

I managed to stifle a chuckle as I wiped the Folgers off of my computer monitor. Then I sent Lizzie off to tackle some other adventure far, far away from my writing desk.  As the adrenalin rush of the near-miss ‘F bomb’ subsided, I got back to seeking inspiration for today’s column. That was when a humorous memory flashed into my mind.

It was in January of 2009. I was a month into the induction phase of my aggressive treatment for multiple myeloma. As I patiently waited to be called in for my morning appointment, a spritely older woman and her fifty-something daughter sat down beside my wife and me in the infusion center's waiting room.

Both ladies were charming, upbeat, and disarmingly funny.  We chatted about myeloma, life in their rural, no-stoplight Arkansas town, and shared some much needed laughs. The mom, the myeloma patient of the duo, leaned over and said to me:

‘You seem like somebody who wouldn’t mind if’n I used the F-word. Some folks ’round here do mind, some don’t. Do you?’

What? I was stunned. That was about the last question I would’ve expected to field from this friendly little grandma.  I didn’t know quite how to answer.  I’m sure that in my embarrassment, my newly hairless head blushed a bright crimson.

Sensing my obvious confusion, the daughter spoke up. “Mama! These folks don’t know what in this world you’re a talkin’ about!”

I was hoping that I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“I’m sorry, my mama’s talkin’ about faith. F-A-I-T-H. We’s believers and Mama’s learnt that not everybody here’s believers. She's just sure that y’all is believers, too.”

Oh, faith! Thank goodness that’s the F-word she meant.

Flash forward back to my office. After that silly visit with Lizzie and the recollections of the dear ladies from Arkansas, thoughts of myeloma and F-words rumbled around in my head. F-words? As odd as it is, maybe that’s what I am supposed to write about this month.

When I first learned that I had cancer, the news was delivered over the phone. I thanked the doctor (Dr. F., by the way) for the call, I hung up, and then I experienced my first myeloma F-word. My reaction?

I freaked out!

My freak-out lasted a couple of minutes. I was alone, it was intense. I didn’t throw anything, break anything, or curse anybody, but I felt like it. After it mercifully passed, I decided that I needed to learn more about the mysterious disease that I would be facing.

The first thing I did, post freak-out, was to blow the dust off the cover of my 1989 Reader’s Digest Home Medical Encyclopedia and begin looking for information. Not having had the foresight to ask Dr. F. how to spell myeloma, I took a perplexing detour through the section on ‘melanoma.’ Finding my way back to myeloma, I read what the book had to say about this sobering, rare blood cancer.

And that’s when the second myeloma related F-word entered the picture in earnest:

Fear!

The news I read wasn’t good. And it was a bit beyond my medically uninitiated mind and freefalling spirit.  Surely there was better, more current, hopefully more positive data on the Internet.  After hopping onto my favorite search engine, the results conjured up, well, even more fear.  And statistics. And scary treatment protocols.  Forget-about-it! I couldn’t un-Google myself fast enough.

Now we myeloma patients know all about fear. Few of us will ever forget when the full weight of the diagnosis dawned on us.  While we all react differently to fear, rare is the person that can escape the abject fear of a personal cancer diagnosis such as multiple myeloma.

I soon discovered that the information available in the books I had on-hand, and the many results that popped-up online, were, indeed, not necessarily up-to-date or cutting edge or even accurate.

I knew that to conquer my undue fear, I had to separate myeloma fact from fiction.

Going right to the horses’ mouths, I contacted myeloma specialists and spoke with other patients to get a better understanding of what was happening in the world that I would eventually call Myelomaville.

Consulting with these in-touch people and being pointed toward more reputable websites and information resources, gave me a clearer perspective about myeloma. While the news wasn’t cheery, there were some bright things happening that helped assuage some of my fears.

Okay, there was some hope! I wasn't most likely going to die tomorrow. My spirits weren’t broken, but as it turned out, many of my bones were.

Fractures have played a significant role in my disease process.  I presented with over two hundred lesions, broken ribs and sternum, compressed and collapsed vertebrae, a tumor-burdened shoulder blade – a full menu of good bones gone bad.  At times, my pain has been almost unbearable, especially in the beginning of my journey.

But after nearly four years of chemotherapy, the administration of bisphosphonates, stem cell transplants, kyphoplasties, simple exercise, potent pain medication, and close monitoring, I’m happy to report that one hundred of my lesions have resolved and that I feel much better.  Not fantastic, not fabulous, but pretty darn good. And no new focal lesions have been reported since early 2009.

Fatigue has been an ongoing issue for me. Even today, nearing the end of nearly three years of maintenance chemotherapy, I still fight the effects of low red blood cell counts and anemia-induced fatigue.

The intensity of the aggressive treatments certainly affected my focus early on.  Simple tasks like reading, remembering to take my medications, writing, and watching television were very taxing. It was as if I was living in a fog.  I couldn’t function alone, I needed a caregiver.

From day one, the care of friends and family has been instrumental in my treatment.  I wish that every myeloma patient could know such love and support.

Commensurate with this devastating diagnosis, myeloma is a disease with a hefty price tag.  The financial burdens of fighting cancer can sometimes be as frightening as the disease is. Just this month, my wife’s employer, through which I am insured, negotiated for a more affordable health insurance plan for its school district employees.  It turns out that the co-pay for two of my maintenance chemotherapy drugs affordably jumped from $200 per month to nearly $5,000 per month.  Gulp!  At least I am fortunate to have insurance.

Never fear, the F-word parade marches on:

When I was first diagnosed, my doctors used FISH (fluorescence in situ hybridization) to analyze my myeloma cells for chromosomal abnormalities.

Every few months, my doctors administer a Freelite test to monitor free light chains.

For each of my bone marrow biopsies and aspirations, I use a Fentanyl lollipop to ease the pain.

How effective would my PET scans be without the infusion of the contrast agent, FDG (fluorodeoxyglucose)?

I’ve been prescribed fluconazole to fight fungal infections – say that three times fast!

I am most happy to state that my treatment team is fanatical about conquering myeloma.

I could continue this exercise in the marriage of myeloma and F-words, but I won’t. You’re welcome.

But going back to that little old lady from Arkansas who asked if I minded if she used the F-word to talk about her beliefs.  When I finally understood what she was asking, I took great delight in hearing about her faith and her fortitude.

I only ran into her a couple of times after our first get together.  Though her disease was far progressed and her outlook was dire, she held fervently to the belief that someday there would be a cure for myeloma – perhaps not in our time, but someday. Someday we would all be free.

I have to agree that we share that same F-word, faith!