While living with multiple myeloma, I have learned to expect the unexpected.

In fact, Myelomaville is a land of Great UNexpectations – my sincere apologies to Charles Dickens.

I certainly never expected that my mildly annoying backache, which rather quickly deteriorated into excruciating pain, would usher in a life-altering diagnosis of cancer.

It seemed that I always had something important to do, places to be, schedules to keep, and people to see.  My dance card was perpetually full, but I liked being the conductor of my own proverbial train, traveling at a hypnotic, ‘keep-it-moving-keep-it-moving’ pace as I chugged down the tracks.

But that’s precisely when the unexpected event happened. My train derailed. I was diagnosed with myeloma.

Devastating both physically and emotionally, myeloma entices pain, fear, and confusion to do their darndest to unseat those things that bring us happiness. Our best laid plans are tossed into the rubbish bin. The fight for survival supersedes all else.

Not only did I fear that my days were numbered, but I also wondered if I’d ever feel whole again.

I know that I’m preaching to the choir. You’ve been there.

I gradually discovered that although myeloma rains storm and stress down upon us, snippets of joy and hope and even laughter, peek through the dark clouds.

The humor started early. Moments after I was definitively diagnosed, my wife, her green eyes brimming with tears, said to me, “We will get through this. You will get better, because if you die, I’m going to kill you.”

That’s my girl! Funny in the clutch.

When we both lost our fathers to cancer, when things got tough at work, when illnesses struck the children, and when there seemed to be more month than money, our abiding faith carried us through the difficult times.  But well-placed humor also proved to be a soothing balm.

Some researchers believe that laughter releases endorphins that stimulate the pleasure centers in our brains. Others believe that there is no clinical benefit to giggling, chortling, guffawing, and tee-heeing.  All I know is that when my funny bone is unexpectedly tickled, I feel better.

I’ve previously written about the time I was standing next to an I.V. pole that tethered me to a bag of chemo. The nurse had ordered me to wiggle my arm to encourage the medicine to flow. When one of the other patients started to chant, “Dance! Dance! Dance!” everybody laughed, probably at my expense, as I performed the worst impression of Gypsy Rose Lee known to man.

But we all laughed, if only for a moment, as it took our minds off of our problems.

When I was undergoing induction chemotherapy, there was a male nurse who would stand on the base of a four-wheeled portable I.V. pole and roll on it from station to station.  One day, a caregiver, the nurse nowhere in sight, decided to take the pole out for a spin.

Instead of smoothly gliding down the aisle, the pole ended up shooting out from under the caregiver, careened off of a medical supply cabinet, and fell over with a huge clatter. Meanwhile, the daredevil went you-know-what-over-tea-kettles and landed with a thud pretty much at my feet.

The room went totally silent for a second – even the other nurses froze - until the guy gingerly got up and chirped, “I probably ought to leave that to the professionals!”

I laughed so hard that I was sure I would explode. Who would have ever expected that an I.V. pole could be so entertaining?  I haven’t looked at them in the same way since.

One of my original myeloma physicians was an extremely pleasant, even-keeled sort of a guy. He came into my appointment room, sat down, and quietly stated that he had some good news for me. I told him, “I like good news.  Hit me.”

He looked at me quizzically, tilted his head, mouthed the words ‘hit me,’ and then went on to say that gene expression profiling (GEP) of my myeloma cells showed that I was classified in the standard-risk category of myeloma patients.

For some unexpectedly odd reason, upon hearing this good news, my hand shot up into the air and assumed the ‘high-five’ position, my palm facing directly in front of the good doctor. As my hand went up, everything started taking place in slow motion.

Something in my brain alerted me that perhaps this type of gesture just might be wholly offensive to the culture of this nice gentleman from India. Still in slow motion, my eyes darted over to my wife’s ever-widening eyes, which only reinforced the possibility that I had just created an international doctor-patient faux pas.

In the split second that I was contemplating having to get another doctor or go to another treatment center, I felt a hand boldly slap my hand and then watched as he offered me a ‘low-five,’ which I gladly returned.

At that point, the biggest smile crossed his face and we began to laugh. I looked over at Karen, and she seemed to be thinking, “I know that my husband is an idiot, but doctor, please, not you, too!”

I enjoyed every appointment that we had with him.  We laughed a lot. When he left the practice, he called me up and said good bye and wished me well. Knowing how busy he was and how many patients he serves, this kindness meant the world to me.

I recall the day when a new technician excitedly bounced over and shared that I was her first ‘real’ patient and that she’d probably remember this day forever. Looking at the needle wildly waving through the air, I said, “For some reason, I probably will, too.” We’ve laughed about our first meeting several times through the years.

The stories could go on.

There is nothing funny about cancer, but patients and doctors and caregivers aren’t cancer. We’re human beings, and occasionally unexpected laughter makes the best prescription.