It was an unseasonably cool summer morning back in July of 2010, and I had ventured out to get the early delivery from my mailbox up at the corner of the street in our small Missouri town.

When I stepped onto the surprisingly slick, dew-covered lawn, my legs shot out from under me, my arms flailed wildly, and my ball cap and glasses went flying helter-skelter. I landed on my back with a deafening thud which surely must have measured on somebody’s Richter scale somewhere.

Although I was probably quite the comical sight, I wasn’t laughing. My three big dogs, however, were wag­ging their tails and barking up a storm on the other side of the long picture windows. It doesn’t take much to amuse them.

As I lay motionless in the damp grass, eyes closed, I slowly began to take stock of my situation. The rather klutzy fall had knocked the air out of my lungs, but I was able to catch my breath after a few moments.

I wiggled my toes and fingers and carefully turned my neck side to side a couple of times. My head didn’t fall off. That was a good thing.

My ribs and back hurt, but they always hurt to some degree because of what multiple myeloma had done to my bones. I hoped that the kyphoplasties to repair damage to a couple of my thoracic vertebrae hadn’t been undermined by the violent run-in with Mr. Gravity. It didn’t feel like I’d fractured anything new.

I gradually opened my eyes and was startled that everything was fuzzy. Had I hit my head? Was this a con­cussion? Then I realized that my glasses had jumped ship. Duh, I was cursed with myeloma and myopia.

Without getting up, I swept my arms like a dew angel and found my spectacles which – to my great relief – were unbroken.

I put the wire rims on and immediately noticed the brilliant blue, partly-cloudy Ozark's sky, the majesty of which I never grow tired. The leaves on the black oak and maple trees were rustling in the pleasant breeze, and I could hear the flag flapping in the wind on my front porch.

Now I would have much rather enjoyed the view from the comfort of my hammock, but I was happy that my vision and hearing seemed to be okay.

Then something caught my eye. I froze as I spied him sitting high up in the cedar tree at the edge of my yard. And then he yelled at me.

No, I’m not talking about my neighbor, One-Thumb Clabber. It was someone even more ornery than One-Thumb up in my tree. It was The Blue Jay.

Yep, it was that beautiful, but nasty, good-for-nothing blue jay who delighted in tormenting me with his mocking, jeering, condescending call. Just hearing him jarred me back to reality faster than any smelling salts ever could have.

He wasn’t just any blue jay. He was easily half a body’s length taller and much heavier than a regular bird. And he was mean. The Blue Jay and I had tangled before.

Blue jays are territorial and they like to dive bomb any poor creature foolish enough to invade their space. Apparently, my front yard happened to be included in his space.

While he always left everyone else alone, he seemed to take great glee in tormenting me whenever it suited him. One-Thumb, a card carrying member of the Audubon Society, insisted that according to the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918, I could not dispatch said blue jay with my BB gun.

Thus his stalking continued.

As I stared into his beady eyes, I had cartoon visions of my looking like a huge, plump worm to him. A huge, plump, I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up worm.

I've seen that Alfred Hitchcock movie. I knew what rogue, opportunistic birds were capable of doing. I figured that I’d better get moving before he commenced the swooping and pecking.

I cautiously lifted up my head first, mostly to see if One-Thumb was laughing at me. I was alone except for The Blue Jay. Oh, and a solitary chipmunk that curiously peeked out from behind a low wall of table rock.

I generally get along with chipmunks, but I could have sworn that this one was willing to join evil forces with the bird. I wondered what it would be like to be pounced upon by blue jays and chipmunks at the same time.

I had to get moving. I bent my knees and moved my feet closer to my hips. I stretched my back with great care and didn't feel anything crack or pop. Hugging my legs, I sat up and gingerly rose to my feet, all the while keeping my eyes on the monster.

I uttered a quick prayer to express my gratitude for having survived seemingly intact, said to heck with the mail, and turned to amble back inside.

That was when I saw its feathery shadow on my house and heard the flapping of wings and the smart-alecky call of the fiend. I risked falling again and quickly scooted across the dewy grass hoping that the dogs hadn’t figured how to lock me out. I made it inside in the nick of time.

As strange as it seems, that blue jay incident reminds me of my entire multiple myeloma experience. The disease blindsided me and knocked me off of my feet just like that slip and fall did.

There have been many instances through my seven years of going through chemotherapy, stem cell transplants, rounds of consolidation and maintenance, surgeries, blood clots, bouts of flu and pneumonia, infections, stretches of depression, neuropathy, and so much more, during which I had to make conscious decisions to get up and keep on going.

The Blue Jay is still there and the myeloma is still staring down at me. But I have decided that, as long as I am able, I will stand up to both of them.