The other day, I realized I share a common bond with my daughter’s pet fish: We’re both survivors.

Maybe I’m getting too attached to this fish. Maybe I’m overthinking things. Just hear me out.

Statistically, betta fish who come to live in our home have an extremely low survival rate.

When a fish learns he is going to live in the Crowley house, it is grim news indeed. It is essentially a death sentence. The fish is stunned. He begins to get his affairs in order. He has a brave battle ahead of him. The other fish at the pet store shake their heads. “He should try to have a positive attitude,” they say. “Maybe that will get him through this.”

But bettas never have a positive attitude. They are cranky, cranky fish.

Our first fish was Jimmy John, who lived about two months. He spent most of that time floating around glumly, often acting like he was dead. I finally found him facedown in the gravel at the bottom of his tank.

Next, we adopted Sam. A month or two later, I noticed he was swimming funny. Not "Ha Ha" funny — more like, "Oh, no" funny. It was pretty obvious that a host of fish angels was about to beckon Sam toward The Light.

It was frustrating, because it’s not like we ignored the fish or mistreated them somehow. We did our best to care for them. They just couldn’t make it.

After Sam’s untimely passing, I said we’d stay away from fish for a while. The odds were not in any future fish’s favor. My daughter, however, wanted to try again. Last spring, she said the only thing she wanted for her ninth birthday was another betta fish.

I let out a great big sigh and headed back to the pet store. I knew all of the fish were scared out of their minds when I passed by. Statistically, they were doomed.

Six months later, our fish, Olaf, is still alive. Six months! I’m shocked. I’m happy for the little guy. He’s not following the trend. He’s not only surviving; he’s thriving. His fins have grown long and billowy. He looks cranky, but that’s to be expected.

Why is he still here? Are we doing a better job of caring for him? Or is there simply something different about him that keeps him going?

Maybe I just needed to recognize that each fish is an individual and won’t necessarily follow the trends.

When I was diagnosed with smoldering multiple myeloma in 2005 (I progressed to symptomatic myeloma in 2007), I studied all of the statistics, which said that I’d live about three years. Way back then, it was hard for me to find too many survivors who had lived a whole lot longer than that, so it looked like this was going to prove true.

This month marks the nine-year anniversary of my diagnosis. I’ve since found many other survivors who have been around this long or even longer. Years ago, I figured I would be, well, facedown in the gravel by now. Why am I still here? Is it because I have good doctors, good medicine, and a fairly non-aggressive form of myeloma that so far responds well to drugs? Or is it because there is something different about me? Or all of those things?

Or is it because, while doing my research, I forgot I was an individual and not a number?

If you’re newly diagnosed, do your research, but don’t spend too much time looking at the numbers or reading scary stories that have happened to someone else. Every patient is different.

And every fish is different, apparently.

Why do Olaf and I thrive? It remains a mystery.

For now, Olaf and I will follow the advice of Dory, the big blue fish in Finding Nemo: We’ll just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.