My always-in-a-hurry daughter surprised me by plopping down on the family room couch to join me for what my kids call ‘Dad Movie Night.’

Because the film featured no vampire heartthrobs, no hungry gamers, and no schoolboy hero wizards, I expected her to say ‘I’ll see ya’ later, Daddy!’ before scampering off to resume her regularly scheduled teen­age girl activities.

But to my delight, she stayed for all two hours of the flick, start to finish, soup to nuts. I was impressed.

So what was the Hollywood masterpiece that com­manded her attention?

Rocky.

Yep. It was the same Rocky of Sylvester Stallone and Rocky cinematic fame that my buddies and I first saw in the theaters when we were in high school back in the 70s.

Curiosity got the better of me as to why she stayed, so I asked her if she liked the boxing.

‘Ew, no! Boxing is gross! And why was he beating up those poor frozen cows and drinking those raw eggs? Yuck! I couldn’t stand those parts.’

Okay, apparently it wasn’t the boxing or the food choices that held her interest.

‘What I did like was how Rocky didn’t give up. I like stories about people who don’t give up. You and your cancer crew don't give up. Right? Oh, and I liked the movie ‘cause it was a love story. Good chick flick, Dad.’

Wow. She compared my buddies and me to Rocky Balboa. Cool.

Wait a minute! Did she say that one of the greatest testosterone fueled anthem movies from my generation was a chick flick? Not fair, this was Dad Movie Night!

Grinning, I asked her if she wanted to watch it again. This time she quickly replied ‘Uh, no thanks. See you later, Daddy’ and beat feet out of the room. Now that’s the girl I know!

I must admit that all the talk about boxing matches, movies, cancer, and not giving up started to swirl around in my imagination. When that happens, I began to daydream.

So there I was, minding my own business in the boxing ring when a bell was struck. At exactly the same time something poked me right on the middle of my spine. As I turned to see who the culprit was – WHAM – I was sucker-punched by a solid roundhouse to the jaw which shook my skeleton to the core and dropped me face-down to the canvass.

Gee, that’s how I was feeling when I was diagnosed with myeloma. I was totally blindsided.

Hurting and disoriented, I got to my knees and began to crawl. I was dizzy and out of balance and didn't know which way to go. Despite the ringing noise in my ears I could hear the referee begin his ominous long count to TEN:

ONE … TWO … THREE …

That’s when I noticed that some people in the crowd started to leave. They weren’t so much interested in sticking around to see what happened to me.

Others sat motionless and silent. They weren’t being malicious; they just had no faith that I could survive the pummeling. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t so sure myself that I could get back up. I was no Rocky Balboa.

FOUR … FIVE … SIX …

It soon dawned on me that I knew absolutely nothing about my opponent. He looked and acted like he hated me. He taunted me by saying that he had been secretly following me for years, waging a hidden under­ground war, and that he was going to destroy me. He was terrifying.

SEVEN … EIGHT … NINE …

As word of my dilemma got out, people who had faced major challenges in their own lives rushed to my corner. They shouted for me not to give up and not to give in. They told me to keep fighting because I was made from the same strong, stubborn stuff that they were.

Then strangers who knew my adversary well came to my rescue. They had seen my opponent in action and knew some of his tricks and some of his weaknesses. And best of all, their mission, and their passion, was to figure out ways to keep him on the run and to keep people like me going.

Still others prayed fervently for my safety.

And finally with everyone’s encouragement bolstering me, I was able to shake off the effects of the initial blows, rise to my feet just before the referee could reach the count of TEN.

I shuffled over to the stool in my corner. There I was surrounded by countless people, some I knew and some I didn't. They held me up, cleaned my cuts and bandaged me, and gave me valuable counsel. To know that I was not alone gave me strength.

That's when my silly daydream ended.

It’s been six years now since I began my fight with multiple myeloma. In some rounds, I whip the tar out of the enemy and sometimes he has me on the ropes. Am I going to win the match when all is said and done? God only knows.

But what I know is that, like Rocky, I will go the distance until there is just no fight left in me. I will do every­thing in my power to get up and answer that bell.

Almost anything. Please don’t ask me to slug cows and eat raw eggs, I have my limits!

I want to encourage you patients, caregivers, researchers, medical teams, fundraisers, drug makers, pub­lishers – everyone - to keep fighting the good fight. Keep swinging away. Someday we will bring multiple myeloma to its knees.