Sean’s Burgundy Thread: Too Brave To Cry
A hard-as-nails buddy once asked me: ‘How can you be so brave going through this myeloma crud?’
I’m brave? Not hardly. He wasn’t there on this day:
It was in the spring six years ago that I was having trouble getting comfortable in the well-worn recliner in the tiny one-bedroom apartment that I had rented in Little Rock.
As I leaned over to grab something off of an end table, I felt a ‘crunch’ in my side. I moaned and froze, almost afraid to breathe because it might make the pain worse.
In the good old ‘pre-myeloma’ days, I would have been worried about such a thing happening, but breaking a rib while sitting in an easy chair had oddly become par for the course.
At that point, I had been away from my Missouri home for three months and had crawled my way through two rounds of rather aggressive induction therapy and was doing my best to recover from an autologous stem cell transplant.
To prepare for the transplant, I had been given a high dose of melphalan (Alkeran), which was designed to annihilate more cancerous myeloma cells than conventional rounds of treatment could do.
Unfortunately, the chemical blitzkrieg also whacked my blood stem cells and a bunch of other friendly, mature, necessary-to-live cells residing in my bone marrow.
To rescue me, shortly after my first induction therapy, the medical team had harvested 24 million of my blood stem cells and then cryogenically stored them. At the transplant, they thawed six million of those frosty rascals and reintroduced them back into my blood stream.
We waited for the prodigal stem cells to repopulate colonies of new blood cells in the marrow. We also prayed that no myeloma cells had eluded the trap.
Although the transplant process itself was performed without complication, I was left nauseated and way beyond exhausted.
I waged a daily war of wills against bottles of Ensure, cups of water, peach slices, and countless pills that I didn’t think that I’d be able get down, let alone keep down.
A fever – too low to send me to the germy emergency room and too high to make me feel anything but crummy – was accompanied by a pesky cough and relentless bouts of hiccups, both of which agitated my other broken ribs and fractured vertebrae.
My friends back home would rightfully describe me as being as sick as a dog.
Thankfully, I wasn’t left alone. My wife had been splitting her time with me in Arkansas and with our two daughters back home. A revolving door of family and friends from all over the place generously took turns spelling Karen in one place or the other and by coming out to care for me.
Through it all, I was determined not to show any fear. It was already hard enough on my family and friends, and I didn’t want to worry them even more by my falling apart. I needed to be stoic and strong for them and for my pride. No excuses.
Then the phone call came.
As I sat in the recliner a week after the transplant, my wife walked into the room to tell me the sad news that our dog Ruffie had died that morning. Karen knew that there were very few things in life that I loved more than my dogs.
A couple of years before my diagnosis, some partners of mine and I were buying a small recording studio and, as we were inspecting the building with the previous owners, I noticed something odd under the porch.
Peering out from beneath the steps was a dog sticking its pink tongue out at me. She had the gray, black, and white broad coat colors of a Border Collie. To the owners’ amazement, I was able to coax her out with a piece of a sandwich and some water. Apparently Ruffie, as they called her, hadn’t trusted anyone enough to let them get within arm’s length.
I was shocked to see her matted fur and wobbly gait. The story was that she had been run off by a local farmer for ‘getting into the chickens,’ and that she’d been roaming around the area for years, living on scraps. Nobody wanted her.
I ended up taking Ruffie to my veterinarian, who discovered that she had teeth missing, an eye infection, was nearly deaf, had worms, and was malnourished. He told me that she probably had 15 or so hard years behind her and not much time ahead of her.
She was a sick dog. But she was a survivor.
The vet said that Ruffie wasn’t in any great pain, but asked if I wanted to put her down. I wasn’t going to let her live out her days unwanted or unloved, so we patched her up and Ruffie soon went home with us.
The studio owner had said that Ruffie would never go inside, and that I should expect the same from her. To my surprise, when we arrived home, Ruffie hobbled right into the house and plodded around after me before ducking into a walk-in closet, where she promptly fell asleep.
When she awoke, Ruffie passively greeted the other dogs, ate a bit of food, lapped up some water, and then followed them out of the doggie door to discover her new world in the fenced-in backyard.
She became part of the family. In all the time that we had her, I never heard her bark at anything or fight with the other dogs or be anything but pleasant. She shook when storms raged and huddled close by.
As Ruffie visibly got older, she spent most of her days strolling in the yard or sleeping in the closet with her pink tongue sticking out of her toothless mouth.
It was a whirlwind when I first got sick, and before we left for Arkansas, I said goodbye to my kids and then to my three pups. Ruffie came up to me last and gave me a little lick, a weak whimper, and a soft, high-pitched bark. ‘She barks!’ we all shouted in unison.
After Karen told me about Ruffie’ passing that day, she left to go to the airport to pick up my brother-in-law, who would be staying with me for the next week.
As the door closed behind her, unexpected tears began to fall. Although I knew that we had given Ruffie a much better life, I was sad that I couldn’t be with her at the end. I was going to miss her.
To that day in my myeloma journey, I hadn’t shed a single tear, and all of a sudden I couldn’t hold them back. Like a well primed pump, the tears just kept coming.
Maybe it was the medicine that I was on or that I hadn’t slept well in weeks, I tried to tell myself. Nah, that wasn’t it.
I was crying because I had cancer, and I was under a lot of pressure. I missed my kids, and I missed my dogs and my work, and I was stuck in a lousy apartment hours from home. I was crying for the trouble and worry that I’d caused those who loved me, and I felt guilty about it. I was crying because I was hurting and tired and afraid. I was crying because my life had fallen apart. I was crying because my silly old dog died.
I wasn’t ready to show my newfound enlightenment to the world, so I pulled myself together before my wife came back from the airport.
But maybe the experts were right. Perhaps bravery is sometimes about letting go and feeling vulnerable and being okay with it and pressing on anyway.
My problems hadn’t changed, I knew that even rougher ones were sure to come down the pike, but somehow I felt better giving in to the tears.
I suppose that a therapist could have taught me that releasing my emotions would be good for my soul and for my health. But thank God that a little pink-tongued mess of a sweet Border Collie took me down that road first.
Sean Murray is a multiple myeloma patient and columnist at The Myeloma Beacon. You can view a list of his columns here.
If you are interested in writing a regular column to be published by The Myeloma Beacon, please contact the Beacon team at .
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I've always thought that God gave us dogs, whose life spans are shorter than ours, to fill up our reservoir of mourning. Some suffering and loss is so deep, we shut it off because the pain is too great. Then our little dog dies. And it seems like the windows of heaven open and the tears pour out abundantly. Yes, we are crying for the little dog, but lots of leftover mourning is getting taken care of at the same time.
I do not hear it often but I always get a little uncomfortable when people use brave or heroic terms to describe my experience with myeloma. Bravery and heroism to me is not letting fear and panic overcome your ability to act in the face of great danger, especially when you have the option to avoid or flee. We cannot run from myeloma, it is thrust upon us without choice and I find we simply have to deal with it. I do not see anything exceptional in what I am doing that the guy next to me would not also do. Since we all are going to die from something someday everyone is going to face similar circumstance evidentially. I have a family too but no kids. Your story affirms my feelings though about how much harder it is to deal with myeloma with a family and kids.
I can't say I enjoyed your story, Sean. Not sure what the right words are, but I can definitely relate. God has made few things sweeter than a dog. Don't even try to tell me my little dog ain't in heaven waiting on me.
It is great to have a dog in one's life. We had dogs as I was growing up. I was very upset when we lost our family dog in 2001. Now we have a 'grand puppy', who is almost three, and he is a very devoted and friendly pet! Have just had dogs at intervals throughout my life, but they are really good at getting one away from the human scale of activity. I can see why losing the family dog was just the last straw for you at what was already a very stressful time.
Sean - you have done it again - moved me deeply. You may not embrace the notion of being brave but I think you and every multiple myeloma patient are brave. We have been on this journey for 10 months and we have met countless brave people - brave to endure chemotherapy, brave to endure the side effects, brave to accept your new limits and brave to want to continue the journey. We also have dogs and they help sustain us with their unconditional love. They have actually made this journey with us every step of the way - countless trips to Houston, cramped in an efficiency apartment during induction chemotherapy and shorter walks when fatigue sets in. I know my husband has been overwhelmed at times and has "let go" on a number of occasions but he picks himslef up and carries on - that is brave to me and like you, he would cry for a "silly old dog."
We had to put our little black pug, Sweat Pea, to sleep as she was riddled with cancer. I have 4 sons, so Sweat Pea was my wife's little girl. They put her to sleep in my wife's lap. We both mourned her passing. It is amazing how close we get to our pets and how much unselfish love they bestow upon us.
Thanks for this very moving column, Sean.
I went through an experience pretty similar to yours. One of our dogs, the "Gentle Giant," Amber, was going downhill quickly from a brain tumor and Cushing's disease while I was in the hospital for a month after my SCT. It probably was harder for my wife than for me during that period, as she shuttled back and forth between us two sick family members. A month after I got back home, we needed to put Amber to sleep. Wendy and I both shed a lot of tears.
I strongly agree with Eric's comments about us myeloma patients (ordinarily) not being brave. As he said, we don't have a choice.
However, I do think you are brave, Sean. It takes bravery to share your inner feelings and emotions the way you did in this column, and have done in previous columns. You do have a choice about whether to do that or not, and I think you are choosing the more difficult path, the brave path, by doing this kind of sharing. Your writing helps a lot of us know that we're not alone in what we are going through and in what we are feeling.
Thank you!
Mike
Well ... I'm now balling like a baby reading this. Sometimes I almost feel guilty that I didn't have a worse time with my transplant because it really was not a tough time physically, but mentally it tore me to shreds. I was the roughest, toughest guy you would ever know. I was captain of my high school football team, played racquetball for 25 years, loved boating and the outdoors, and myeloma has taken all of that. I can do almost nothing and it kills me.
Thank God for my animals (and much more so my wife), who keep me sane and filled with love. I have never really liked cats, but last August my mom died suddenly from complications of lung cancer. 10 days later my wife and I were walking our dogs and we heard a cat screaming from a car. She was stuck in the engine. It was cold out, and my wife was not leaving until we found her. We found her, took her home, and under all that grease was the most beautiful calico cat you have ever seen. I swear we both think it's mom. The little cat has brought me so much joy I can't describe it, and the thought of losing her just cuts me to the core.
Thank you for making me think and thank you for making me cry! Peace!
Thank you Sean, life can be overwhelming at times. Dogs are wonderful companions. My amazing 14 year old Belgium shepherd is holding on to her life like I do to mine. We can look at each other on tough days with understanding both ways.
It is not us who are unconditional compared to dogs. After my transplant, they told me to free my house from animals and plants. I didn't follow up on this one. My 3 dogs and 3 cats are as much a part of me as my family is. We need each other.
Love your story Sean.
Thank you for your story, Sean, though it is a real tear jerker. I, like others, have been crying like a baby. I'm very sorry for your loss.
Animals are a wonderful thing. After my transplant in 2013, I was too sick to continue caring for my dog. I was fortunately able to give him to a loving family, but it broke my heart. It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, but it was best for him. I would not have wanted him to live having to be crated most of the day because I could not take care of him properly and give him the love he deserved.
I know this is a different type of loss than your dog, but it still relates back to the cancer itself. I miss him tremendously, but am grateful for the time I had him and loved him. He was a wonderful loving part of my life. A lot of times when I am missing him and crying because I had to give him away, I realize that I'm crying because of the cancer and the utter frustration of it. It takes away so much of our life. There are so many things to worry about now that would never have crossed our minds before. Now I worry about cracking a rib sneezing, forgetting and picking up something too heavy and fracturing or cracking a bone. It's a crazy disease.
I wish you all the best going forward Sean. Also, to anyone reading this post, I wish you all the best as well. Take care and LOVE those animals.
Every tear is a prayer. I am glad you released so many for your life. I think the largest chamber of the heart holds the love for our pets. It is a different kind of love they give us. And to return love to them in kind, love must come from something bigger then us.
I have never seen my husband cry so hard as when we lost our dog. They were buds. And buds do everything together. It just so happens the year we lost him we gained a granddaughter and a new way of life, as I was diagnosed with myeloma. Tear fest galore!
Thank you for the walk down Tear Alley. Sometimes healing we think we want isn't the healing we need. Healing comes in the strangest ways.
Our Toni (jack Russell) will not leave my side any time that I am poorly. In fact, sometimes when I feel well-ish, I realise I am shortly to have a downturn because Toni gets REALLY close and refuses to be pushed away.
My parents were bought a wedding present of a black and white collie dog that they called Bob (AKA Lassie). They lived with my nan for a number of years and when they found their first house, they decided to leave Bob Dog with my nan to look after her. By 1961 when I was 6 years old, my nan passed away. My mother and I visited her and found her in bed with Bob Dog lying on the floor whimpering and shaking at the side of the bed. The doctor told us it could have been up to 3 days that Bob had tried to wake her.
I took Bob Dog home and gave him 4 years of that same love until he passed away aged 17 years old.
Dogs are man's BEST friend. x
I enjoyed reading your story and I felt sad for you not being able to be there when Ruffie died.
We try to stay calm and collected, while inside us there is a clash of emotions, there is fear and hope. When something bad happens, it is as if we thought, “Wait, this is not fair, I already have a heavy burden, this is asking too much from me!”
One time I had financial problems due to my own mistake, and for a few days I almost went out of my mind with anger! I did solve the problem and ended up paying a reasonable amount, but I think I felt in a similar way to you, except mine was rage and yours was sorrow.
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