Now you know that multiple myeloma is a blood cancer, and I know that multiple myeloma is a blood cancer, but try telling that to my aching bones.

While I’m no stranger to myeloma’s common calling-cards of fatigue from anemia, the bruises and bleeding caused by having too few platelets, blood clots, and various infections such as pneumonia, it’s my skeletal system that seems to vie for center stage attention more often than not.

At my November 2008 stage III diagnosis, imaging tests revealed that I had more lesions on my bones than a firehouse Dalmatian has spots - and at least as many lesions as my second-grade Irish girlfriend had freckles. That’s a lot.

There have been fractures in my ribs, vertebrae, shoulder blades, and other bones.  Sadly, many of you have similar experiences.

Early in my treatment, I caught a nasty cold and proceeded to sneeze and cough without abandon. Within days, hiccups were added to my repertoire. Pain wracked my entire frame.

Ahhh-chooo! Ouch! Hack! Ouch! Hiccup! Hiccup! Ouch! Ouch!

Thankfully, the sneezing and coughing gradually disappeared and I was prescribed baclofen to alleviate the persistent hiccups. But like a Pavlovian dog, I am now conditioned to associate sneezing, coughing, and hiccupping with intense rib and back pain.

I once fractured a rib by reaching for a cup of water on a stand placed next to my chemotherapy infusion chair.

Another time, while a technician was helping me sit up after a PET scan, I felt a sudden pain in my chest. The technician heard me moan, laid me back down, and summoned a doctor. Sure enough, I had just broken my sternum.

To this day, I can’t bring myself to participate in the annual Thanksgiving wishbone tug.

Some fractures have mended, others have stabilized. Successful kyphoplasties were performed on three collapsed vertebrae.

The weirdest aspect of my bone-voyage has been the nearly four-inch reduction in my height due to several vertebral compressions.

Now, when I drive, I perch on two copies of my small town’s phonebook to see above the steering wheel. I’ve grown accustomed to feeling like a little kid sitting at the grown-up’s supper table.  My daughters are growing like weeds, but I am a shrinking violet.

The lower half of my body is the same height as before, but my upper body has shortened so that my belt now rides a few inches under my armpits. Maybe it’s not quite that dramatic, but my one friend teases that I remind him of his doddering grandpa.

For the first year of treatment, I was most grateful for the powerful pain medications that alleviated my severe discomfort. Now I only use such meds as is necessary. To compound things, I also have neuropathy, hereditary arthritis, and a tendonitis condition brought on by the use of an antibiotic during several bouts of pneumonia.

Nobody ever said that this myeloma thing was going to be easy.

Today, my aching back is throwing a fit because it is not at all happy with my recent reckless behavior.

Yesterday, against my wife’s better judgment, but apparently not my own, I took advantage of the mild, mid-sixty degree weather and attempted to do some early fall outdoor chores.

I live in Stone County, in the heart of the Ozarks of southwest Missouri.  Though the county was named after English pioneer William Stone, our land is blessed with rolling hills of rich soil under which lies irregular outcroppings of, well, stone.  And more stone. Big thousand-pound slabs, gravel-sized pebbles, and everything in between share space with native grasses and wildflowers.

Because of the rather debilitating effects of multiple myeloma, in recent years I have hired professionals to mow my challenging property.

But no more! Yesterday, I plunged in with great gusto to once again stake claim to my piece of terra extremely firma.

I have always resisted buying a riding lawn tractor, preferring instead to get some much-needed exercise by trail blazing a push mower over the land. I’ve always enjoyed the rumble of modest horsepower at my beck and call as I hacked away at fescue, Indiangrass, and other assorted indigenous growths.

Of course, with all of the stone littered about, I also throw pieces of chipped rock in all directions. Everyone, including the dogs and the kids, know to steer clear of the premises before the slinging commences.

On mowing day, my crusty neighbor, our hometown window replacement guy, waits with fingers crossed for an errant rock to shatter my windows which, in turn, will help fund his kid’s private school. He doesn’t care about my bones. I’ve thought of asking him to come over and play David and Goliath.

On the downside, I am constantly re-sharpening or replacing mower blades.  My record for one summer was five new mower blades.

Although I only made it through a quarter of the job, I felt good about my success. At least my spirit felt good, but my body hurt!

So today, I will rest my weary bones and celebrate what I was able to accomplish by enjoying a home-cooked meal and a movie with some friends and family.

We have one of those online streaming movie services, so the suggested titles came pouring forth:

One guy offered “Walking Tall,” another requested “Get Shorty.”  Then there was “Breaking Bad,” “Stuart Little,” and “Tiny Toons,” followed by “Smallville,” “Bones,” and any of the “Honey I Shrunk” franchise of flicks.

I saw where they were going.  Not to be outdone, I offered to cue up a movie based on one of Emily Bronte’s classic novels.

“Emily Bronte? The movie ‘Wuthering Heights’?” my owlish, over-educated friend asked.

“No, a sequel: ‘Withering Heights.’”

Now the groans were theirs. No bones about it, it is better to join them then fight them. At least it doesn’t hurt much to laugh.