What would you do if suddenly, out of the blue, your myeloma just – poof! –disappeared?

I know many people achieve remission after treatment, but what if – after having stable but measurable disease for years – it simply vanished for no reason?

A few months ago, I called the doctor’s office to get my latest test results. The nurse said she couldn’t find the results for my M-spike (monoclonal protein). This has happened before, so I wasn’t worried. I felt fine and all of my other numbers were normal, so I’d just trust that the myeloma was stable and get my results the following month.

When I met with the nurse practitioner the next month, she opened my chart. “Your test results last month …” she started to say.

“I know,” I interrupted. “They didn’t get my M-spike.”

“No!” she said. “The results say you don’t even have an M-spike!”

I looked at the results, and sure enough, the report read, “Protein electrophoresis is normal.”

I laughed. “But I’m not normal!”

The nurse practitioner laughed, too. “I know you’re not!” she said.

We agreed that it had to be some kind of glitch at the lab, and that she’d call me in a few days with my most recent results.

I went home, 99.99 percent sure that the result was a lab error, that I still had myeloma, and that I’d see the M-spike return on my latest round of tests.

I knew it was a lab glitch. I’m perfectly sensible.

Still, a teeny little voice in my head kept saying, “What if the myeloma has magically disappeared for no reason? What if?” I couldn’t help myself.

I actually Googled [M-spike suddenly disappeared].

Naturally, the search results revealed that this is not a common – or even possible – thing.

Still. I started planning what I’d do.

First, I’d need to get the medical miracle confirmed at the Mayo Clinic. Would we pull our daughter out of school to come with us to Minnesota? Sure, why not! It’s not every day a kid gets to witness a medical miracle! The doctors would all line up to congratulate me. Photos would be taken for the Mayo Clinic newsletter.

We could go celebrate at the Mall of America, or at the very least, the Spam Museum in nearby Austin, Minnesota.

I’m cured! Free Spam for everyone!

Of course, news crews would be following me through the Spam Museum, demonstrating that even though my body is home to miracles, I’m still a regular gal who enjoys Spam.

After returning home, I’d call the specialty pharmacy that ships my Revlimid ^[1] (lenalidomide) and joyfully shout, “SO LONG, SUCKERS!” into the phone. And then I’d do an interpretive dance in my kitchen to “We Will Rock You” and “We Are The Champions” by Queen.

Then I’d calculate all of the money we’d save on doctor visits and drug co-pays. What could we do with it? A new – or at the very least, gently used – car to replace my husband’s old Camry, which has been knocking on death’s door for some time? New paint to replace the peeling stuff on the outside of the house? A vacation?

My calculations would be interrupted by a phone call from a big-shot book publisher who happened to see the “Miracle Gal Goes to Spam Museum” piece after it went viral on the Internet.

Bam! I’d have a book deal! Instant best seller! I’d become a millionaire and travel the world to promote my book.

I’d end up on the Ellen DeGeneres Show on the same day as Jon Bon Jovi and Donnie Wahlberg. We’d get a photo taken together, both of them looking wistful because I’d told them I am married.

I was trying to decide how they’d sign the photo (I was leaning toward, “You give love a bad name, Love, Jon” or “You’ve got the right stuff, baby, Love, Donnie”) when the nurse called.

Yeah. My M-spike was back. It was as stable as always, but back.

Poof. Goodbye book deal and trip around the world. Goodbye Spam Museum. Goodbye – sniff – Jon and Donnie.

Really, what did I expect? And, really, I can’t complain too much about my life, even with the old car, peeling paint, and monthly dealings with the specialty pharmacy. But it was fun, just for a day or two, to dream.