All around me, spring has sprung, as Mother Nature begins anew.

Earlier this season, bright songbirds and plant-filled nurseries issued clarion calls to action, and I obeyed. I planted red, yellow, and blush colored roses. I arranged a space for three hydrangeas under the live (evergreen) oak tree, and my irises are showing signs of life. I’m excited about potential blooms and al fresco dining on cool spring nights.

But, honestly, it’s not the usual cabin fever that has me traipsing through the tulips. I am warming from a long, two-year winter -- a winter that began when I first heard the words ‘multiple myeloma.’

Over the next couple of columns, I will share ‘our diagnosis story’ -- that of my husband Daniel, the patient, and me, the caregiver. And while our experience may not be unique, I hope that the lessons we’ve learned and the hope we have helps those hearing their winter-inducing words for the first time.

It was 2012, and my husband and I were in our mid-thirties. He was an aerospace engineer, and I was an instructional designer. We lived in a wonderful historic neighborhood near downtown Fort Worth, Texas, where we restored a two-story, prairie-style American Foursquare built in 1914.

We were active in our neighborhood association, where my husband served as Director of Infrastructure, helped start a community garden, and started the “pancakes in the park” tradition for the Cowtown mara­thoners running through our area. We both volunteered for our annual home tour, where I took roles from home tour director to tour booklet designer, and he served as home captain and docent. We hosted Sunday supper clubs, walked to nearby sidewalk bistros, and tuned in with friends to view the next riveting episode of Downton Abbey.

It was idyllic.

My family lived close by, and we saw them often. We sang in chancel and civic choirs, and had even per­formed at Carnegie Hall in New York City. When we weren’t antiquing, we’d travel or attend the opera, theater, and symphony. We had been married eight years, and we were ready to start our family.

Like many husbands, Daniel was a ‘conscientious objector’ when it came to medicine. However, our family plans gave me cause to nag him relentlessly until he agreed to a wellness checkup. Our general practitioner per­formed a physical, and told him that his labs would be ready in a week.

Unbeknownst to me, the doctor called him back in to the office a week later. There was a protein that was off in his blood work. Daniel provided a new sample, and the results were sent off to the lab again. Again, the blood work was abnormal. At that point, our practitioner wanted to refer him to a blood specialist, who was able to do a more specialized test, “just to rule out any serious problems.”

The doctor didn’t seem concerned, so Daniel didn’t ask any questions. It all seemed routine.  Daniel didn’t even mention the referral to me. He didn’t figure that there was a problem, but he’d let me know if there was anything to be concerned about.  (Classic! My spouse knows if I get a measly hangnail, but I’m clueless to his major medical testing unless I pry it out of him. Needless to say, I go to all appointments now!)

Unfortunately, when Daniel arrived at the clinic, he knew that something was seriously wrong.  Under the specialist’s name on the door, he read the words “hematology and oncology.” He was completely blind­sided! He didn’t know that he was going to an oncologist’s office, and he certainly wasn’t told that he could have cancer. The general practitioner never mentioned it, and he didn’t ask.

I can’t imagine how he felt in that moment, or what the rest of the appointment was like for him. I wish more than anything that he hadn’t been there alone, but we learned a valuable lesson: Physicians work for us, their patients. Always ask questions, and don’t leave until you understand exactly what they are saying and what to expect next.

During the visit, the oncologist explained that Daniel’s labs were consistent with an IgG kappa monoclonal gammopathy of undetermined significance (MGUS), a pre-cancerous state that could develop into multiple myeloma, a cancer of the plasma cells in the bone marrow, which did not have a known cure. (Daniel's diagnosis was eventually revised to be smoldering myeloma -- more on that in my next column.)

That night when I came home from work, Daniel told me what had transpired.  I heard the words MGUS and multiple myeloma for the first time, and like most people, I googled it for more information.

I was shell-shocked by what I read. My husband’s motto has always been “strong like bull,” which he exem­pli­fied by his calm, quiet demeanor, but I knew that he was shell-shocked too. I had a million questions in my head, few answers, and a sick feeling in my gut.  I think we both did.

We went together for his next oncology visit. Based upon the new labs, the doctor officially diagnosed him with MGUS. I re­mem­ber thinking that it was all so surreal. I heard the words coming from the doctor’s mouth, but his demeanor seemed matter of fact, like he was talking about the price of gasoline.

He would see Daniel once a year to do blood work and urinalysis. As long as his labs stayed in the accept­able range, nothing else was necessary. He cautioned us against worrying about this too much. I re­mem­bered thinking, “Um, really? I have a Ph.D. in ‘worry,’ so not really an option here.”

He said that many people lived with MGUS without ever developing myeloma. He added that, if his disease progressed, it would show up in the blood work. With that, he sent us on our way.  He didn’t do any other tests, and even warned us of special­ists who might recommend invasive procedures, like bone marrow aspirations, which he thought were unnecessary at so early a stage. It was all very casual.

The problem was that we didn’t feel very casual at all. There’s a part of you that wants to believe the special­ists when they say, “Don’t worry, it’s not a problem,” but I had a terrible feeling that there was more to come.

The sun was shining as we walked to the parking lot, but I felt chilled. My two-year winter began that day.  There were intense storms on the horizon, but I didn’t know it.  (Lesson 2: Keep your chin up. It could always be worse! )

It was to be a season of worries, muffled cries in the shower, and desperate attempts to find empowerment in the powerless role of “caretaker.” I tried to adroitly navigate the seas of special­ists, procedures, and ter­mi­nol­ogy with positivity and encouragement, but it’s been a journey in patience, acceptance, and peace – all qualities that spirited perfectionists, like me, find difficult to embrace.

It would eventually get better, but we had a long way to go.

Join me next month for part two of our diagnosis story and my search for spring.  I welcome your feedback and wish you sunshine, hope, and wellness.