‘Why do you call it the bacon, Daddy?’ five-year-old Lizzie asked as she wheedled her way onto my lap against my mock protests back in the summer of 2010.

At the very mention of ‘bacon’, arguably one of the English language’s most enchanting words, I entered into an almost Manchurian-candidate-meets-Pavlov’s-dog-like trance:

‘Bacon? What bacon? There’s bacon?’

‘You know, that bacon thingy you’re doing that Mommy says I shouldn’t bother you ‘cause of.’

I had to laugh because Lizzie’s interpretation of not ‘bothering’ me was to place herself squarely between my computer and me, our faces practically nose-to-nose, her small hands resting on both of my shoulders.

As if that wasn’t enough to command my total attention, she further sealed the deal by invoking the power of the bacon.

‘Bacon? No, Bizzie, it’s the Beacon. B-E-A-C-O-N. The Myeloma Beacon. I’m going to try and write some­thing for the Myeloma Beacon. Now you better let me get back to it.’

A bit disappointed and in no great hurry to depart, she said ‘Oh, I thought Mommy said bacon. What’s a beacon, Daddy?’

‘Well, a beacon is like a bright light that helps people make their way through the dark. It can be small, like a candle or a flashlight, or big, like a lighthouse that helps ships steer clear of danger at night.’

I could see her little-kid wheels turning as she asked ‘Like my princess nightlight? It helps me not be so ‘ascared in the dark.’

‘Exactly! I gotta’ get back to work. Okay?’

‘Okay!’ she said hopping off of my lap and flitting out of the room. ‘I still think that you should call it The Bacon, ‘cause everybody LOVES bacon!’

True enough. Aside from those disinclined for philosophical, religious, or health reasons, practically every­body loves bacon. Mmm ... bacon. Maybe it should be called the Myeloma Bacon.

Snapping back to reality, I got down to the original task at hand.

By May of 2010, I had been through several months of chemotherapy, stem cell transplants, and surgeries in Arkansas, and was back home in Missouri, six months into my three-year myeloma maintenance program.

I had recently discovered the Myeloma Beacon, with its wealth of information about clinical trials, new drugs on the horizon, and much more. One of the things that I enjoyed most about the site was reading Pat Killingsworth’s column, Pat’s Place.

Wow! Here was an eloquent myeloma patient sharing his up-close and personal perspective on living with the same, confusing, often times scary disease that I was dealing with.

With Pat having taken a different treatment path than I had undergone, his insightful articles helped me to broaden my critical thinking about everything from drug protocols to various treatment philosophies, to nutritional advice, and how to deal with different side effects.

When a fellow myeloma patient suggested that Myeloma Beacon readers might be interested in reading some of my scattered thoughts about multiple myeloma, I contacted the Beacon, not expecting much to happen. To my amazement, and perhaps against their better judgment, my column was green-lighted.

The first step to writing a myeloma patient perspective column was, unfortunately, to get myeloma. Check.  I wish that I could have skipped that part.

The second task was to name my column. I decided to call it Sean’s Burgundy Thread. Here’s why:

Burgundy is the color of multiple myeloma awareness, just as pink is the color for breast cancer. I’m not sure who decides such things, but burgundy it is.

In my very first Myeloma Beacon column ^[1], I shared that my wife and I had adopted our two daughters from the People’s Republic of China. When I was researching Chinese adoption and culture, I came across a concept called the Red Thread.

In China, the color red often symbolizes positive things about life, such as good fortune, happiness, and joy. The Red Thread concept says that an invisible red thread connects the heart and soul of a child to those people who are destined to play an important part in that child’s life, regardless of the manner, place, time, or circumstance.

Picture an invisible red thread, connected from person to person to person, that might stretch, tangle, and knot, but will never break.

And thus were born my thoughts of the Burgundy Thread.

I know that I’m preaching to the choir, but living with multiple myeloma has not been easy. The pain, the fear of the known and the unknown, the disruption, the financial strain and other stresses have taken their tolls on all of us.

But throughout my ordeal, what remains most indelible in my heart are the relationships that I’ve made while fighting this cancer.

I am connected by an invisible burgundy thread to the many doctors and nurses who have treated me, and to the technicians, researchers, drug makers, insurance providers, and staffers of all sorts who have helped me in countless ways.

I am forever connected to my caregivers, friends, and family (especially my wife and children) who have stood by me in the midst of the storm.

I am connected to the many myeloma patients and their caregivers with whom I have met in person or shared correspondence, social media moments, or telephone calls.

I am still connected to my dear myeloma patient friends and heroes who have passed on from this life to their reward far beyond the troubles of multiple myeloma.

I have never met Pat in person, or Boris, Julie, Maike or any of my fellow Myeloma Beacon columnists face to face, but we are connected by a burgundy thread. Like a true beacon, they have helped many of us to see in the darkness.

March is Multiple Myeloma Awareness Month. There are lots of ways that you can share your myeloma story with the world, including here at the Myeloma Beacon. Do it!

Hmm ... I wonder if bacon has an awareness color?