Mental health professionals would probably scoff at my self-diagnosis, but by most definitions of the word, I think I have become a hypochondriac.

My general understanding of hypochondria is that it is an unusual or ex­cessive concern about your health; a tendency to fear or imagine that you have illnesses that you do not actually have.

One description of hypochondria states that it persists even after a phy­si­cian has evaluated a person and reassured them that their concerns about symptoms do not have an underlying medical basis, and that there is no illness.

Another source describes hypochondriacs as becoming unduly alarmed about any physical or psychological symptoms they detect, no matter how minor the symptom may be, and are convinced that they have, or are about to be diagnosed with, a serious illness.

Given that this condition first occurred after I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma three and a half years ago, one could label me a myeloma hypochondriac.

In sharing the mental state I am in, particularly in the weeks prior to my regular check-ups, I certainly don't mean to trivialize the serious condition that hypochondria can become and that can often have a debilitating effect on an individual.

I have not always been like this. For most of my life, I was quite the opposite. As a high school and college athlete, I took pride in being able to tell the difference between being hurt or being injured. I drove my parents, who were both nurses, crazy because I often chose to ignore symptoms of a developing illness.

Since my stem cell transplant in June 2014, I have had eight routine check-ups at my medical center. All tests associated with these check-ups have indicated that there is no monoclonal protein present and my free light chain levels and ratio are all in the normal range.

And yet, in the time between those check-ups, I am convinced that the next test results will indicate that the inevitable relapse has occurred.

So why have I gone from being someone who expects the best to someone who expects the worst and is relieved when the best happens?

Could it be due to the fact that, like most of us afflicted with multiple myeloma, my diagnosis was so sudden and unexpected?

What I suspected might be an early onset of arthritis in my hip turned out to be an incurable cancer. It seems that the fear of another surprise of that nature has created a defense mechanism that makes me think that every ailment or condition I experience is a sign of relapse despite continued positive test results over the course of the last 16 months.

Perhaps it is due to the fact that within the last six months I have learned how quickly cancer moves and that it has no respect for our timelines, our schedules, our life plans. In May, my mom passed away six months after being diagnosed with a rare cancer. Within a week of her passing, my nephew, who is just 32 years old, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, which is associated with very short survival. A long-time friend who was diagnosed with metastatic malignant melanoma in January is now in hospice care.

As much as anything, I think that this state of hypochondria may be due to the fact that early as well as rela­tively recent x-ray surveys of my skeleton indicated that, in addition to a large lesion on my left acetabulum, I had small, subtle lesions throughout the sacrum, iliac bones, and proximal right femur, and a small lesion within the L4 vertebral body.

If evidence of the disease was so widespread through my body, I don’t think it is too much of a stretch to fear that any sort of bone pain, aches, or flashes of pain anywhere in my body could signal the development of new lesions.

Of course, these pains could very easily be associated with old injuries and surgeries, getting older, or the side effects of Revlimid ^[1] (lenalidomide), which I take daily as part of my maintenance therapy. Interestingly, the side effects of Revlimid and symptoms of multiple myeloma are strikingly similar in many ways.

My state of hypochondria has gotten to the point that I sometimes worry that my myeloma has become non­secretory. This would obviously legitimatize my fears of relapse, despite test results that show otherwise.

Lest I give a false impression that I am physically suffering from multiple myeloma, I need to qualify the above statements. The physical problems I have experienced since my diagnosis have had little impact on my ability to lead a near normal life. After reading of the battles others fight with this disease, I consider myself fortunate that every treatment regimen I have been put through has been highly successful.

However, I doubt that I am the only one with multiple myeloma who deals with this mental state.  Maybe others can identify with it and find comfort in knowing that this is completely under­standable given the seriousness of the disease we live with.

In a regular check-up prior to undergoing induction therapy, I was detailing for my doctor the physical ail­ments I was suffering from.  As I finished my recitation, I remember saying something to the effect of, “I sound like a hypochondriac.” His response was “Don’t worry, I want to know everything that you are going through physically,” which was as comforting then as it is now as I wrestle with this issue.

So after all is said and done, perhaps a mild case of hypochondria is not only under­stand­able, but desirable and beneficial for anyone diagnosed with multiple myeloma.