I imagine people with spouses and sig­nif­i­cant others have someone who helps them remember. It would be hard to erase the marks of disease from life. For those of us who are unpartnered, it’s easier to pretend – to revise the myeloma story as needed.

Forging new rela­tion­ships may be perilous. Dating involves telling tales and revealing secrets.

Living far beyond the initial trauma of receiving a multiple myeloma diag­nosis is a blessing. In my case, I regard my journey into that territory as an unfortunate detour of some kind. I escaped the worse-case scenario, and I live to tell about it. Humor allows me to move forward, survive, and even date.

Making future plans and living with pur­pose are essential for reclaiming my perfectly good life. I forget that myeloma is not just part of my personal memoir – it tags along like a puppy demanding attention.

I recall first attempts at dating just a year after my trans­plant. My hair had grown in like doll’s hair – short and curly. I had gained back just enough weight. Although I was not yet in remission, I felt quite good – the new normal.

After a few dates with one individual, I decided to mention my ordeal of the pre­vi­ous year. I was feeling proud of my re­cov­ery and revealing the story was im­por­tant, until I saw his eyebrows raise and a look of horror sweep over his face.

Way beyond that fragile state, I now reside in the land where I know disease may be lurking about, but I am “officially” well. Since I am fine, bringing up any notion of uncertainty is simply a mood-killer that is best left alone.

I think of Billy Crystal and his “You look marvelous!” routines. Looking good is often synonymous with health and wellbeing. I had trouble getting diag­nosed in the first place because I did not appear unwell. My trans­plant doctor referred to me as his most-well sick person.

Just a few months ago, my hematologist commented, “Maybe in your case, the myeloma will never return.” He said it with a certain authority that made me sit up straighter. These words were a gift that I’ve claimed as my own personal “get out of jail free” card.

I’ve been getting to know a man recently.  When he noticed my painting titled “Myeloma Mutiny” in my art show last summer, I told him about my miraculous re­cov­ery. I thought that was enough in­for­ma­tion to leave it as an event of the past.

Last week, he told me that a local artist had died of cancer. “She passed on after a long illness.” This news was clearly disturbing, as the woman was fairly young and the wife of his good friend. I recall that she looked perfectly fine when I attended her art show last year.

Without skipping a beat, my friend asked, “So what about your situation?” The timing was abrupt.

“You mean, speaking of women dying of cancer, am I dying too?” We laughed.

I was diag­nosed nine years ago and have main­tained remission for the past seven years. Do I still qualify as having a “long illness?” Is it nine years or two years? All of this spec­u­la­tion sounds a little insane, but my mind does circle around such questions.

It’s a natural con­cern. I guess I do have a “situation.” Putting across the idea that I am perfectly fine has been im­por­tant to me. Now someone doubted me. I could almost see the thoughts bubbling out of his head like a cartoon: “What am I getting into here?” “What are the facts?”

I told him about the wonders of trans­plant science, my doctor’s encouraging state­ment, and added, “I try to eat well, get plenty of rest, and keep stress at bay. I’ve lived an entire seven-year cycle. I’m virtually an entirely new woman with all new cells. I do not even need medication.”

Relationship and love can only en­hance my prognosis, I thought.

Uncertainty and the unknown is everyone’s heartfelt journey. Humor and tragedy come out of the same place. For now, I prefer to stay on the side of humor.