Thanks to Facebook, I have the perfect phrase to describe the current status of my health and my myeloma.

“It’s complicated.”

For the non-Facebook users out there, one of the (many) bits of personal information you can share with your Facebook crowds is the vagaries of your love life. Married, Engaged, In a relationship, In a domestic part­ner­ship, and other phrases are all choices in your personal profile.

And so is “It’s complicated.”

Boy, is it ever.

Right around the time you will be reading this column, I will be back at the Mayo Clinic for a quarterly checkup and a plethora of tests to confirm or reject a tentative diagnosis of pulmonary hypertension.

A yellow flag for pulmonary hypertension popped up when I had my port placed back in December. A post-surgery x-ray is de rigueur to make sure the lung did not get nicked. My lung was fine, but the radiologist noted on the report that there was “borderline” pulmonary hypertension.

Great. I’m telling you, the night brigade is always out there on the perimeter, bringing down the defenses.

I saw my personal physician, a family practitioner, soon after the surgery. Pat is a wise, warm, and wonderful diagnostician. She is the doctor who made the spot-on early diagnosis of my myeloma in 2004.

Pat frowned at the radiology report. She asked a few questions and answered a few of mine. Then she said, “Your medical profile is getting complicated, April.”

A week later I had my standing appointment with my local oncologist. Tim and I have been together since November, 2004 – a relationship length that beats those of some of my friends. He read the radiology report and frowned. He asked a few questions and answered a few of mine. He asked when I was headed back to Mayo. Five weeks? Great. He said he wanted Mayo to take the lead on the pulmonary hypertension diagnosis.

I told him what Pat said about my medical profile. Tim nodded. “I agree.”

It’s complicated.

I constantly am asked how I am feeling, how I am doing. I am very fortunate to have a close circle of friends and colleagues who follow my progress. I am also fortunate to have a larger circle of co-workers and community members who know my cancer saga and will stop and ask for updates.

But lately I don’t know what to say, beyond a shrug and an “I’m okay.”

I’m okay? Maybe. I’m way further down the road. I’m in the shallow end of a pool that grows ever shallower. I have a potential diagnosis of a chronic, incurable disorder that will complicate the myeloma treatment and potentially shorten my already shorter lifespan even more. I don’t even have the words to begin to explain how I feel about all this, or the knowledge yet to know what it may mean.

But thanks to Facebook, I have the perfect response.

How am I?

It’s complicated!