As I approach the end of my induction therapy and the clinical trial I've been on, I find myself reflecting on the past two years since I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma.

One of the consequences of the diagnosis that I've come to recognize – and which I most likely will have to accept even more in the future – is how humbling dealing with cancer can be.

Sure, there are the little things, like figuring out how to manage a 24-hour urine collection that includes a full day at work, or having to answer questions about my sex life during a Revlimid ^[1] (lenalidomide) survey, or lying on my stomach with my pants down while several people look on during a bone marrow biopsy.  And while I haven't personally experienced it, I would image hair loss might fall into this category as well (though some people might consider it more significant).

While these experiences are all embarrassing and humbling to a degree, I can get through them with minimal injury to my pride.

The bigger issue for me has been how I have had to accept, or may have to accept, changes that are contrary to my basic personality.  To understand what I mean, you first need to know a bit about me.

First, I have always been very self-sufficient.  I don't like to be dependent on others or feel indebted to others.  I am the one who opens doors for others and is uncomfortable when someone opens a door for me.  I really have a hard time accepting when someone offers me a gift or offers to pay for a meal.  When someone offers to help me with a task, I generally tell them (politely) that I have it under control and don't need help.  I do my own home repairs because I don't want to pay someone to come in and fix something I'm capable of fixing myself.  The paradox here is that I have no issue with offering to help others at any time.

Second, I also tend towards being a perfectionist (my family would argue that there is no tendency about it; it's a fact).  Consequently, it's very difficult for me to overcome the desire to do things myself, and when I do, I am generally dissatisfied.  I restack the dishes in the dishwasher if I don't like the way they are arranged.  I will repack the car trunk to optimize the storage space.  I will spend as many hours, days, etc. as necessary to make sure a task is done just right.  I do my own home repairs because I don't think someone else will come in and do the work to my standards or as well as I could.

Third, I grew up embracing the "strong male" philosophy.  Guys don't show feelings, we suck it up.  We play contact sports, we compete to win, we are gladiators.  Even though I'm 54, mentally I tend to place myself in my 40s, and I never completely lost that sense of immortality that accompanies youth.  Over the years, I've softened somewhat, but I still feel that underlying need to be strong, to provide for my family, and to be there for them.

As they say, though, pride comes before a fall - or in this case, some of my more arrogant characteristics are crumbling around me.

With the coming of cancer, there are concessions that I have made and will continue to make.  Cancer has taken a toll physically and mentally.  Between doctor's appointments, treatment, not always feeling well, etc., cancer limits the time I have to do things.  I have had to let go of some of who I am, and will no doubt have to do so even more in the future.

I no longer work as long or as hard as I once did on physical tasks.  I don't seem to get as much done on my to-do list (though if I'm honest, my list always seems to grow at least as fast as I take things off it).

I have learned to accept help from others, even though I may prefer to take care of something myself, and I remind myself that everything doesn't need to be done to my exacting standards.

I find myself sharing my feelings more often.  It's easier in these columns or on my personal web page, but I also share more in relationships with my family and friends.

I've also probably shed more tears in the past two years than I did in my entire previous 52 years.

My concessions to date have been few and not too severe.  However, I do wonder what the future will hold, and I fear eventually having to depend on my wife or family to take care of me.

So two years after my diagnosis, I'm not as self-sufficient, I'm not as perfect, and I'm not as manly as I once was.  Instead, I am more humble, and I find I must depend on others more than I would have in the past.

But maybe that's not such a bad thing after all.

Peace, and live for a cure.