I recently returned from a holiday visit to our relatives on the mainland. For those of you unfamiliar with travel to or from Hawaii, the trip to anywhere out of state is LONG. A minimum of five hours of flying is needed to get anywhere. Our flight to Phoenix was six and a half hours this time.

After a lifetime of this kind of travel, you would think I would get used to it. You would be wrong.

It’s the same with my myeloma. You would think that after three and a half years, I would get used to the monotony of treatment side effects, blood tests, doctor visits, and the like. You would be wrong about that also.

Like a long plane ride seems to do, myeloma literally goes on forever – my forever.

The first hour on the plane is fine. You are excited about the trip, you’re happy to finally be going and getting settled in. The flight attendant is still smiling, and everybody around you is happy and smells of fresh soap and cologne.

The second hour is still pretty tolerable. You’ve gotten to read for a little while. You’re finally able to recline your seat the whole quarter inch that it will travel. The flight attendant has been around with the drink cart, and I’m happily chomping on my ice after having finished my mini bottle of gin. I’ve hardly noticed the baby two rows behind me now that he’s finally quit crying.

The third hour is where things start to go bad. Your book has become a challenge to hold because your eyes don’t seem to stay open. Your butt is becoming uncomfortable. Your seat won’t go back any farther no matter how hard you push on the reclining button, and your head starts to feel like it weighs about 150 pounds! The flight attendant doesn’t seem very happy anymore when you ask for another glass of gin.

Hour four is when you recognize you are ready for this flight to be over. Using the restroom is a test in sensory overload by this point. The smells are not for the faint of heart, but you can’t hold it any longer. Too bad there are five people ahead of you! The flight attendants have now retreated to their sanctuary in the back of the plane, and you’d better bring a whip and chair if you need anything. The gin has turned to body odor-flavored school paste in my mouth. My book is a complete bore, but no matter how hard I try to sleep, my numb butt and lower back keep waking me up.

The fifth hour is a lesson in group torture. My feet are swollen to the point of causing my shoes to explode. My butt has gone from numb to aching. My lips are cracking, and my mouth can’t seem to rehydrate. All the water I have been drinking is really making me want to pee something fierce, but the bathrooms are now a toxic waste site. The people around you have literally started to rot based on the stench they are emitting. The flight attendants have apparently jumped out as they are nowhere to be found. The baby is now awake from his nap, but his mom somehow doesn’t notice the constant screaming. Around this time you seriously wonder if you should have taken a boat.

The last hour finally comes, but then never seems to end. By now my legs, feet, butt, and back have revolted and gone into a permanent spasm. I’ve somehow lost my book, earphones, and wallet all within the two square feet I am occupying. The smells emanating from my fellow passengers as we descend have become overwhelming. I am seriously considering holding my breath for the last 30 minutes of the flight. The antici­pa­tion of finally getting out is dashed as the pilot decides a direct landing would be far too dangerous and instead chooses a landing pattern that takes us over Denver on our way into Phoenix. The flight attendant has reappeared with a dazed and dangerous look, although now completely ignoring everybody. After touchdown, the plane takes three days to taxi to the gate, which seems shorter than the time it takes for all those stinking people in front of you to finally get off.

Another flight is finally over.

This is exactly how my myeloma seems. Endless.

While I am blessed to not be in pain, the suffering from the treatment seems to go on forever. The worst thing about this ‘myeloma flight’ is that I am hoping it will go on forever.

I got on this plane not knowing how long the flight will be or where my exact destination lies. My doctor has told me it is terminal, but I’m not sure exactly where that is. I am in no hurry to find out!

Compared to many others, my flight has only just begun. Based on the experiences of others here, at three and a half years, it seems only like I am still settling in. Already, though, I am bored with this trip.

Just when I seem to get comfortable with the ride I am on, the medication causes a new and wonderful side effect (can you say projectile diarrhea?). I don’t want to be on this plane anymore!

While never getting as grumpy as the flight attendants on my real plane rides, my health care attendants often seem to have somewhat of a pasted look on their faces. Seems like they are saying “You again?", or “How come you’re still here?” I assume most of their patients don’t last as long as myeloma patients. Or, better yet, maybe they are healed.

My friends and family have grown tired of this trip as well. I am rarely asked how I am feeling anymore, although this is actually welcome. I struggle with keeping my life as normal as possible for the sake of my family, but I am growing weary of normal being a struggle.

Myeloma is my normal now. I would love the trip to be over, but only if I can land safely.

For now, I guess I just need to keep on circling.

Aloha and carpe diem!