There are many analogies that have been used to describe being afflicted with cancer. In my March 2015 column ^[1], I indicated my preferred analogy is that of chapters in a book.

While recovering from a hiking experience in Scottsdale, Arizona, in early January, another analogy came to mind – that of climbing a mountain.

In late December, my family and I traveled to Scottsdale to attend the Fiesta Bowl to watch Ohio State play Notre Dame. We arrived in Scottsdale on Wednesday, which gave us almost two full days to fill with activities before the game. At dinner Wednesday night, my daughter surprisingly suggested that we hike/climb Camelback Mountain, a popular recreation destination for hiking and rock climbing. I say "surprisingly" because she is not fond of heights. She was an excellent distance runner in high school and college. I therefore assumed that the competitive juices to conquer this mountain were stronger than her fear of heights.

When I was first diagnosed with multiple myeloma nearly four years ago, my wife placed in our kitchen window a small wooden plaque that said “Make Some Memories.” I was excited about the opportunity to make some memories with my two children.

We caught the shuttle from the hotel to the base of the mountain. It wasn’t until we were at the base of the mountain that it struck me that this might be more of a challenge than it appeared from two miles away.

It was similar to what I experienced when I was first diagnosed with multiple myeloma. After getting over the shock of being told I had an incurable cancer, my attitude was to confront the challenges the disease posed with an energy and enthusiasm that mirrored how I dealt with most challenges.

Little did I realize how big that mountain of challenges would be.

The first third of the hike was a steady but not particularly steep climb. The trail was well marked and could easily accommodate the two-way traffic of those climbing and those descending the mountain. I had little difficulty keeping up with my kids, although I did find it necessary to stop once or twice to rest and catch my breath.

That experience, too, compares to my early days of having multiple myeloma. Apart from suffering from mild to moderate bouts of fatigue during my “watch and wait” period, it was difficult to believe that I had cancer.

As we moved up the mountain, the hike became more difficult and challenging, like the progression of myeloma. The trail became much steeper and narrower. Unlike the beginning of the hike, where the trail was clearly marked and it was clear which path to take, there were now several paths one could take to navigate around larger boulders. I quickly learned that taking the less traveled path could lead to difficulties that could not initially be seen. Additionally, rather than simply walking up a gradual incline, there were now stretches where we were forced to use all four limbs to climb a rock surface.

I liken this portion of the hike to that period when my myeloma numbers began to rise and important decisions had to be made about which course of treatment to pursue. The easy part of living with the disease had passed. Because of the heterogeneous nature of the disease, the varying degrees of effectiveness of the different treatment regimens, and the side effects associated with these treatment regimens, a period of uncertainty lay ahead.

Fortunately, my kids and I successfully navigated this difficult stretch of the hike, just as I was able to successfully navigate the treatment regimens that included radiation treatment, induction therapy, an autologous stem cell transplant, and now maintenance therapy.

As we moved to within several hundred feet of the summit, I accomplished my goal of making memories with my kids. While climbing a small rocky incline, I overextended my stride, lost my footing, and fell face first into a boulder, suffering a slight concussion as well as cuts and bruises to my face. Far worse than physical injuries was my very battered and bruised ego.

Needless to say, our quest for the summit, which we were probably within 15 minutes of reaching, ended with my tumble. And I am certain that my kids will retell with humor the story of their old man falling on his face on Camelback Mountain for years to come, probably long after I am gone. The story will be embellished each time it is told, and not in a way that I would like for it to be embellished.

Several other things about my escapade on Camelback Mountain reminded me of my multiple myeloma experience.

As self-centered as I became while tending to my cuts and bruise, waiting for the cobwebs to clear, and hoping that I wouldn’t have to be helicoptered off of the mountain, it was obvious that apart from my son and daughter, no one on that mountain cared about my situation. The couple behind me gave me a tissue to stop the bleeding, but before I could barely thank them for their help, they were gone, moving up the mountain. My son, who has become overprotective of me since my diagnosis, hovered over me like a mother tending to the child who just fell off the swing at a playground.

So it is with having multiple myeloma. We naturally, and understandably, become self-centered in living with multiple myeloma. Life goes on for the rest of the world, except for our families who bear the burden of being our caregivers.

Having never been to Arizona, I was surprised at how dry and brown everything looked as we flew into Phoenix and then rode to our hotel. Despite teaching high school geography for a number of years, I was unaware that the city of Phoenix is surrounded by mountains and has a small range running right through the city. The scenery, even at ground level, is impressive and certainly quite different from the rolling hills, farms, and woods of north central Ohio. But it still appeared dead and dry.

As we ascended the mountain, the scenery changed significantly. The surrounding mountains became even more distinctive, but we now were able to see patches of green in the surrounding vista. Golf courses, parks, and well-manicured lawns in nearby homes contrasted sharply with what I initially thought was nothing but a brown and dry landscape.

Like the changing view in climbing a mountain in Arizona, our perspective of life after being diagnosed with multiple myeloma changes. There are patches of green in the brown, dry, and barren landscape of living with multiple myeloma. My patches of green include loving caregivers, newfound and renewed friendships, new drugs and treatment regimens, an exceptional medical team, and a new state of the art cancer center.

Sometimes we just need to rise above the ground level of our treatment regimens and the daily challenges of living with the disease to see these things.