I have some wonderful news to share. My last PET scan showed no active myeloma anywhere. None in my existing lesions, and the extramedullary tumor in my groin is gone. No new lesions.

Given that I’ve become a nonsecretor over time, tests on my blood and urine don’t help much in tracking my myeloma. My light chains are in the normal range, whether my myeloma is active or not. Only a PET scan and bone marrow biopsy can help my myeloma specialist follow along.

At 100 days post transplant, my weight is still down 10 pounds or so. I’ve been fighting an intestinal infection on and off for months. My breathing is labored sometimes and I need to get stronger, so I’m facing my share of challenges.

But for the first time in four years, I’m “myeloma free.”  While most would consider this cause for celebration, honestly, I’m not sure what to make of it. As a number of Beacon columnists have shared over the years, cross­roads like this one can be difficult, even if the news is good.

True, I still have the unpleasant security blanket of ongoing chemotherapy to try and keep my myeloma down and out. But myeloma free? That’s challenging for me emotionally. I understand – better than most – that my body is having trouble recovering from therapy. Additionally, the new drugs haven’t been working for me very long. I’ve accepted my mortality.

Lying in bed this morning watching the news, I realized how much I’m enjoying being home, despite a difficult recovery. So, at the same time as I’m celebrating the news that my myeloma responded well to our risky and aggressive tandem stem cell transplant plan, I’m facing another psychological reality. Dare I hope for more than a year or two of precious life? Dare I dream about the future again?

Admitting how much I care – how much I want to stick around – leaves me feeling vulnerable. I missed the 4^th of July last year; I was in the hospital feeling poorly while recovering from my first stem cell transplant. I missed Halloween, too, sitting once again alone in my hospital bed, still feeling weak and nauseous fol­low­ing my second transplant.

I love sitting on the beach and watching colorful fireworks displays up and down the coast. I love Halloween. I dress our dog, Finnegan, up and off we go, interacting with kids in our neighborhood and having fun.

I was home for Christmas, but I was still recovering from C. diff and the pounding my body took from a pair of transplants.

As I start to feel better, I watch shows and commercials filled with people worried about how a dating website can help them find a match, or which car will help make the neighbors’ heads turn.

I long for normal. I can’t imagine what it’s like to worry about day-to-day problems without the context of whether I’ll be around for the next holiday, birthday, or anniversary. Last night I spiked a 104 degree Fahrenheit (40 degree Celsius) fever after getting my Kyprolis ^[1] (carfilzomib) infusion in the morning. This is hard. Still, I know I’ll get stronger. When I do, dare I dream of recapturing my innocence and living a normal life?

I’m afraid it will take more than one good test report for that. Will the therapy hold until my next check-up at the end of April? And again in August?

I’m getting better at living one day at a time. But planning for the future more than six or eight months out? Someday, but not today.

Feel good and keep smiling!