Last week my husband Daniel and I returned home after his regular ap­point­ment with his myeloma specialist. As we collapsed into the couch, we began our de­compression ritual of channel surfing and I caught one of my favorite movies: A River Runs Through It.

The movie is about Norman Maclean and his free-spirited brother Paul, who grow up in rural Montana in the 1920s. Their father, a Presbyterian minister, believed “that there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing,” and so it was amidst the panoramic views of nature that Norm spends his youth studying the art of the essay in the mornings and per­fect­ing the four-count rhythm of a fly fisherman in the after­noons. By the end of the story, Norm has come to understand that the cast of his line upon the dancing rapids is a metaphor for life and the people that he has loved.

As I watched the film and unwound from our day, it occurred to me how much fly fishing is a metaphor for multiple myeloma. Indeed, there is a process for myeloma patients and their families to learn, and while it may be filled with the workaday steps necessary for living with myeloma, for those who would listen, there are deeper truths to find as well.

Most obviously, successful fly fishing requires a lot of skill. As I understand it,  this type of fishing combines bait-less lures shaped like large flies with a knowledge of multiple methods for casting your line that mimic the movements of fish in the water. It requires precision, grace, and an understanding of not only where the fish are now, but where they will be.

Similarly, it takes great skill to research and successfully treat multiple myeloma, not only from doctors but from patients as well. Just as good fishermen will study their target and try to predict their behavior, patients need to develop the knowledge and skills to understand their disease and potential treatment options.

They say that if you want to catch a fish, you have to think like a fish. I would go one step further and say that if you want to catch a fish, you have to actively think like a fish. I believe the same is true for living with myeloma. If quality of life is important to you, you need to take an active role in your care and treat­ment. Inform your clinical team about changes in your condition, no matter how small. Keep current on treatment options and new drug therapies, and discuss them with your doctor. Rely upon your support net­work – caregivers, family, friends, and clergy – to keep emotionally healthy and focused on your goal: to be swim­ming in front of your cancer, and not trying to catch up to it.

Good fishermen also have a relationship with uncertainty. Anyone who has ever fished knows that it is an unpredictable adventure.  Sometimes the fish are biting, and other times you sit in the quiet, watching the water, ready and waiting to jump into action.  Myeloma is like that as well. Those with active myeloma start treatment right away. Those with smoldering myeloma have time to think, and watch, and wait.

For the last three years I have been watching, waiting, and praying that Daniel would remain smoldering until a cure is found. But we have also been mentally preparing for him to start treatment – carefully watching his hemoglobin, M-protein, and free light chain levels for that number that will bring him to the place where so many Beacon readers already are. Indeed, living with smoldering myeloma requires a certain relationship with uncertainty, and while I question whether I’ll ever be at peace with it, I have learned that it does no good to worry about whether the fish will be biting tomorrow, next week, or next year when you have a line in the water today.

I learned that lesson at a very young age.

My great grandmother, Mammaw McCoy, loved to fish. One day, when I was old enough not to fall off the dock, she took my sister and I with her to fish for the very first time.

She probably knew then that I wouldn’t make a good fisherman, because I was the kind of girl who hated to get dirty, but bless her heart for wanting to give me the experience anyway.

I remember getting anxious that we hadn’t caught anything yet, but she told me that the key to good fishing is not to worry about whether the fish are biting, but rather to sit back, enjoy the view, and be ready when they do.

Anxious to please her, I tried my best to emulate Mammaw’s methods. I leaned back in my little folding chair, and lifted my face towards the sun. In the silence, I felt the summer’s warmth on my cheeks. The water rang out with crickets and toads, and I simply let go.  I felt pure peace.

I don’t recall what else we talked about that day or if we caught any fish. I do remember feeling happy though. Happy to be there with her.  Happy to feel the wood of the dock beneath my feet. Happy to smell Mammaw’s Chantilly perfume mixing with the water and the bait, and hear the sounds of nature all around me.

Today, though she is long gone, I still hear her voice speaking to me, telling me to relax. Enjoy today, she seems to say.

Maybe we can all learn something from the fishermen around us. Henry David Thoreau said, “Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.”

I went fishing and unexpectedly found peace. Today, I suspect that we are all fishing for a cure to multiple myeloma. But in its absence, I wish us peace that flows like a wide, glistening river.