As we draw nearer to Thanksgiving, I’ve been thinking about how mye­loma patients will spend the holi­day. I suspect that many of you will be with family and friends, and some of you may have some bedside cele­bra­tions with your hospital staff.

Now that myeloma has entered your world, I wonder if you see the holi­days in a new light – illuminating less of what’s on the table, and more of who’s sitting at it.

I know it has for me, but I hadn’t realized how much so until I finished the book The Bucolic Plague by Josh Kilmer-Purcell. It reminded me of my pre-caregiver self, a time when I was the “hostess with the most-ess” and I thought of entertaining as an art form.

The Bucolic Plague is a comedic memoir about two big-city slickers who realized their dream of being “gentle­men farmers” when they purchased the Beekman Mansion, a historic farm several hours outside of Manhattan. Together, advertising executive Josh and his partner Brent strive to create a “Martha Stewart-approved life” whilst juggling filth-splattered goats, dead zombie house flies, and professional dis­ap­point­ments.

In one particularly moving passage, Josh talks about ruining the holidays in the pursuit of unattainable “Hallmark moments” – these moments in which he desperately tried to recreate the perfect sentimental moment that he saw in too many Hallmark commercials. They were moments that didn’t actually remind him of his childhood, but rather they were what he wished his childhood had been. It was in the pursuit of this fabricated perfection that he realized he had missed the point of “his best life” altogether.

In the end, the couple discovered that striving toward perfection – creating the perfectly restored interior, the best historic garden, and flawless photo-ready food – meant nothing without sharing the journey together, even if their best efforts were flawed or somehow limited by their differing perspectives.

I could relate to it all too well.

Before my husband Daniel was diagnosed with smoldering myeloma in 2012, he and I went through a lot of effort to restore our own historic home, a prairie-style American Foursquare built in 1914.

Back then, Thanksgiving wasn’t just a holiday; it was accompanied by what Daniel referred to as the “Great Thanksgiving Panic” – a month of anxiety, lists, and chores in anticipation of the perfectly roasted turkey event set in the perfect house.

I spent every October running around the house planning for the big event. I would begin by categorizing all the improvements that needed to be made before we had guests come to stay. Soon the Great Thanksgiving Panic would come alive in spreadsheets, documenting all the tasks to be done –  freshly painted rooms, gardens overhauled with fall plantings, and refinished period furniture were added to the list so that every room would be a beautiful, magazine-ready display.

And it didn’t end there.  My “Martha-approved” holiday would have me running all over town finding the perfect centerpiece for the table, spending hours ironing monogrammed napkins, and searching for recipes that would take me from cold pizza warmer-upper to full-fledged chef overnight.

It wasn’t just about creating a holiday meal for me. It was about creating a perfect memory, a snapshot in time documenting our perfect day.

But with Daniel’s diagnosis came an awareness that many things we once thought important were far less so than we first estimated. Soon thereafter, crafting the perfect holiday memory just didn’t seem to matter much anymore.

What I did want was more time with us, with our loved ones, sitting around a table – anyone’s table – where the focus wasn’t how I found the damask tablecloth, but rather the laughter we shared.

I still love to entertain, but the “Great Thanksgiving Panic” is a distant memory. I no longer obsess about William Morris patterned curtains or art nouveau candlesticks. I don’t have a preference on where or what we eat. What I do have is the greatest of all treasures, and it’s not counted in china or lump-free gravy.

It’s not about the decorations or the food, or being the perfect hostess. Myeloma has grounded me securely in the knowledge of what the holidays should be about – sharing time with those you love.

We have a tradition at Thanksgiving where each person at the table shares what he or she is thankful for, and while my response hasn’t changed much over the years, I would still like to share mine with you.

This year I am most thankful for my wonderful husband and for the health that he has now. I’m thankful that we can sit at the same table and laugh with our friends and family. I’m thankful for the blessings that we’ve been given today, and the hope of a cure tomorrow. Most of all, I’m thankful for our less-than-perfect Thanksgivings, and I pray that we’ll have many, many more to share.