My wife has been known to lovingly say this about me: “If Sean isn’t any­thing else, at least he’s consistent. For the most part, that is. Some­times.”

While I blush at her glowing praise, I have come to the conclusion that consistency isn’t always such a good thing. Case in point:

I have been wrestling back and forth with multiple myeloma for over six years now and have somehow managed to consistently infuse bouts of either bronchitis or pneumonia into our family’s annual Christmas cele­bra­tion, my birthday, our wedding anniversary, and our New Year’s Eve festivities.

Although you’d probably never see the fine folks at Hallmark adopt a campaign like this, in our home nothing quite says ‘Happy Holidays’ like Dad’s box of tissues, throat lozenges, and a breathing treatment. Ah, the good times.

Respiratory illnesses seem to show up on my doorstep in December with the same clockwork regularity as do the anonymously sent fruitcakes delivered by the UPS man each year. Each and every stinking year.

(Although I have tried, I can never seem to bribe ... er, persuade said UPS man, the same guy who personally handed me Revlimid ^[1] (lenalidomide) every month for years, for crying out loud, to drop off the 15-pound cake tin at some other lucky house on the block.)

So, alas, just as I couldn’t shake the fruitcake this year, I also couldn’t escape the clutches of bacterial pneumonia.

Though I was not in bad enough shape to be hospitalized, my doctor strongly advised me to skip my family’s customary post-Christmas road trip to visit out-of-town relatives.

Now, some of you might be thinking that this kind of travel prohibition really isn’t such a bad thing, sort of like a bonus gift for all of my trouble. But I tend to like my extended family, and they tend to like me, I think. For the most part, that is. Sometimes.

They probably like me even better without a hacking cough, flying phlegm, and a disconcerting wheeze. Fair enough, I stayed put and convinced my girls to enjoy their trip.

With the gang having safely arrived at their destination, I found myself alone at home with my three dogs by late New Year’s Eve. My always amiable, but rather rambunctious companions were happy to have me at their beck and call, especially when there were potential snacks in their immediate future.

My pups’ immense love of all-things-snacks is one of their most consistent traits.

As the Old Year ticked away and having been sufficiently plied with wife-prescribed chicken soup and a fistful of doctor-prescribed anti­biotics and cortico­steroids, I gently grazed on the traditional holiday fare of summer sausage, bread and butter pickles, cheese and crackers, and sparkling seltzer water. My wife took the cham­pagne with her.

Feet kicked up in my recliner and alone in my thoughts, I was able to ruminate about the mysterious things of life, such as why summer sausage tastes so darned good in the winter. I’ll bet that some high-level scientist at Hickory Farms knows exactly why. The cortico­steroids coursing in me almost had me firing off an e-mail to them, but I reigned myself in.

And then I thought about that anonymous somebody lurking behind the yearly fruitcake assaults. I don’t remember doing anything to anybody else to deserve such blatant disdain during a perfectly good holiday.

Not wanting my blood pressure to skyrocket contemplating conspiracies, I clicked on my television to witness the mayhem and bedlam being broadcast from Times Square. Watching the freezing, perhaps overly imbibed revelers, I found myself reliving my own past youthful New Year’s Eve experiences in NYC. What was I thinking?

I also noted just how much I missed both Dick Clark and hearing pop music with lyrics that I could fully understand. You know, like ‘auld lang syne’.

My dogs, meanwhile, showed no interest whatsoever in the much anticipated ball drop, instead opting to intently eyeball me for a possible cookie fumble and sausage drop.

Consistent with age-old tradition, gravity and engineering once again prevailed as the lighted, crystal-encrusted metal sphere slowly began falling to Earth as the countdown commenced to usher in 2015.

At the stroke of midnight, my fruitcake-less neighbor shot off fireworks which, in turn, set off my overly excited critters to unleash an agitated, high-decibel chorus of whoops, howls, and woofs.

Startled by the sudden cacophony of noise, I began a violent racking cough and, of course, dropped sausage and crackers and pickle wedges and cheddar slices to the floor, much to the delight of my hounds. Their feeding frenzy was almost shark-like.

I have a suspicion that they may have been planning this stunningly executed caper since last New Year’s Eve. Well played, pooches, well played.

Having sufficiently celebrated and survived the ‘passing of the old’ and the ‘in with the new’, I turned off the tube, texted the girls my love, and settled back into the easy chair to soak in the sudden silence, my clever crew curled at my feet, tails happily wagging in their sleep.

There in the wee hours of 2015, my eyelids getting heavy and not far from sleep, I no longer reflected on fruitcake conundrums or pneumonias or holiday gatherings or snackaholic doggies or myeloma worries.

Instead, I chose to remember the thread that has consistently run through my life these last difficult six years:

The love of my family and friends. The dedication of my medical team. And blessings from above.

Just before surrendering to slumber, consistent with my ever present anti-fruitcake nature, I wondered if it was the UPS man giving me those tins. He probably doesn’t want them any more than I do.

Happy New Year! I’m wishing you Love, Blessings, and Good Health in 2015!