During my six-year wrestling match with multiple myeloma, I have been blessed to have had some wonderfully encouraging people stand in my corner.

Today I learned that one of those folks, the ‘Madman of Rock n’ Roll,’ Paul Revere of Paul Revere and the Raiders fame, passed away peacefully after a protracted battle with cancer.

A savvy, successful businessman and talented entertainer, Paul was one of the nicest guys I have ever had the pleasure of working with. He was big-hearted, ever mischievous, and on stage or off, he was well loved.

One morning back in early 2009, while I was undergoing induction chemotherapy in Little Rock, Arkansas, my mobile phone rang and, to my surprise, it was the madman himself calling. I hadn’t spoken with him in quite a while.

Paul matter-of-factly reminded me that if he and his Raider buddies could manage to make people happy for all these years by playing music, singing songs, all the while donning Revolutionary War costumes, ANY­THING was possible!

Including my getting better.

Right on cue, I laughed, then almost cried. I was always an easy audience for him.

Paul went on to say that I should forget about that apple-a-day stuff and go with a daily dose of good old fashioned belly laughs, and that some classic rock-n-roll couldn’t hurt either. They’d both help me to better withstand, even transcend, the trials that I was facing.

I’m happy to report that I’ve taken the good Dr. Revere’s prescriptions to heart, as I busy myself looking for silver linings wherever I can find them in the mayhem.

Here’s a weird example: Who would have ever guessed that a central venous line (CVL), a catheter tapped into one’s jugular vein, could be rich fodder for humor?

There was that incident that I’ve previously ^[1] chronicled where the CVL tubing which ran from my neck to a small bag housing portable infusion pumps somehow got tangled up in a wheelchair causing both the chair and me to simultaneously take a comedic tumble. On top of that, somehow my pants ended up falling down around my ankles.

Retelling this story still makes me blush... and laugh.

One day I found myself laying on a surgical table, a sterile cloth draped over my head and upper torso, as a CVL catheter was being prepared for insertion into my neck. Don’t worry newbies - it sounds worse than it is.

Before starting, a man introduced himself, and I replied ‘May I ask a question? Whenever I get one of these CVLs put in, I never get to see you guys face to face because I’m always under a sheet. How do I know that you’re a real doctor and not just some plumber moonlighting as a surgeon to make a few extra bucks?’

After a brief silence the man answered ‘Mr. Murray, I can assure you that I’ve performed this procedure many times. There’s nothing at all to be concerned about.’

Without skipping a beat I said ‘Oh, I’m not concerned about the procedure. I’m concerned about my bank account. I know how much plumbers charge!’

With that everyone in the room laughed, including me. And it doesn’t end there. A couple of weeks later, I was in the line at the cafeteria when I heard a familiar voice behind me. Taking a chance, I turned and asked the guy in the scrubs if he was a plumber. He cackled! It was a funny, so-that’s-what-you-look-like moment for both of us.

There are many myeloma patients treated in Little Rock, and it’s not unusual to see lots of folks in the hospital and clinics with ports and necks sporting CVLs. On the rare occasion that I was well enough to go out into the ‘real world’ to visit a store or to go to the movies, I would sometimes run into a person who also had a device. Unless you’re wearing a huge turtle neck, they’re hard to hide.

What I soon noticed was that when you have a CVL and spy another person with one, without thinking you give this little acknowledging smile or head nod or some physical motion to recognize one another’s presence.

I couldn’t help but laugh when I realized that it was no different than when two motorcycle riders or two bus drivers or two owners of bright yellow, shiny new Volkswagen Beetles give each other a little wave. Sort of a ‘hey, we’re in the same frat!’

Frankly, I would have preferred not having to join the myeloma fraternity – the hazing can be brutal.

There was another time when a technician was taking blood out of one of the three lumens, or tubes, com­ing out of the my neck, then turned away to write something down. Out of the corner of her eye she thought that I had pulled one of the tubes out of my port. She shrieked, and I dropped the straw that I had pulled out of my pocket.

We both laughed and agreed that maybe she should keep it to only two cups of coffee in the morning.

One of my favorite CVL moments, however, was when an incarcerated gentleman was led to sit a couple of chairs away from me next to the MRI suites.  He was being somewhat belligerent and rude to his guard and to those of us in the room. I did have great sympathy for him, but he was behaving way over the top.

When he growled at me and asked if ‘it’ was going to hurt, I said no. Then pointing to my neck, I said that 'the part that was going to hurt was when they put one of these bad boys in you.'

He looked around at the two other waiting patients, and they both had CVLs – and stifled grins on their faces. That quieted him down.

Godspeed, Paul Revere. You will be missed. Thank you for the music and for reminding me to always look on the bright side.