Myeloma Rocket Scientist: Of Trees And Reset Buttons
I am about as far as anyone can be from being an expert on trees, which may make the title of this column a bit perplexing. I can tell big trees from small ones, evergreens from deciduous, and can even identify magnolias, dogwoods, and (on a good day) maples and oaks. But that’s about as far as my expertise goes.
Rockets are a different matter: I am always baffled when a film uses video of the wrong type of rocket. I cannot imagine how someone could possibly mix up a Saturn V and a Saturn IB, or even worse, a Titan II!
There was an extreme case several weeks ago when a large clothing store chain wanted to hearken back to its start in 1969 by putting together an ad that referred to the launch of Apollo 11 to the Moon that same year. However, the chain inadvertently used an image of a Space Shuttle, taken in about 1992, instead. That is a sure sign of weak rocket identification skills – something that space geeks like me can’t quite understand.
However, when it comes to trees, my identification abilities are probably even worse than that.
Despite this shortcoming, there are some trees that I feel a rapport with that stems from my time as a myeloma patient. These are trees that keep on going despite the odds, doing their best to keep living even though things are stacked against them.
One example is something we see every spring when we go to view the cherry blossoms at the Tidal Basin in Washington. In addition to the large healthy trees covered with blooms, there are a few gnarled old ones. These sometimes are little more than large stumps, still doing their best to produce a few blossoms. I don’t think that these are from the original 1912 batch, but they have certainly made it well beyond the usual cherry tree lifespan of something like 25 to 50 years. And yet, they somehow keep on going.
I saw another example of this phenomenon that struck me even more forcefully a couple weeks ago. The route to my multiple myeloma check-ups goes through downtown Baltimore, at one point passing a derelict brick building. For some reason, there is a tree growing out of its wall about 20 feet up. I don’t know how the seed got up there, but somehow it did, and the tree has managed to continue to live, even growing to a reasonable size.
I have looked out for this tree every time I go to the hospital, and it appears to still be doing quite well. What surprised me so much on my last trip was that it was actually in blossom! I know that that’s what a tree does at this time of year, but it was very striking to see a tree in this situation just keeping on going.
Anyone with multiple myeloma, or indeed any other chronic condition (some of which can be a lot worse than myeloma), is in a somewhat similar situation to these trees. We just have to somehow keep on keeping on. Consequently, I always feel an affinity for those trees and admire their perseverance.
What makes things harder for the patient is that we have self-awareness. We know (pretty much) what is happening to us, and what is likely to happen in the future. We also know from experience if a treatment is going to make us feel ill, and yet still must make ourselves go through with it over and over if it is required for our treatment. We have to just keep on going despite the odds, since there is no way that we can go back to life as it was before myeloma.
One way of putting this is to say that there is no myeloma “reset button.” I remember seeing this term for the first time in the excellent book At the Edge of Space by Milton Thompson.
Thompson was a test pilot of the NASA/USAF rocket-powered X-15 airplane in the 1960s, which reached speeds of over 4,500 mph (7,250 km/h) and altitudes of up to 67 miles (108 km) – high enough to briefly enter space. One of the other X-15 test pilots was Neil Armstrong. With his dry humor, Milt Thompson writes of Armstrong: “He joined the NASA astronaut corps and then I lost track of him.”
The X-15 was one of the first projects to make use of computerized flight simulators, which were key to making it possible for the pilot to learn to fly such a demanding aircraft. There was a key difference, though, between flying the real aircraft and the simulator. In the case of the real aircraft, as Thompson says, the pilot
“did not have a reset button like he had in the simulator to stop the flight and return him to the starting conditions. That is a nice button to have. If we saw that we were going to crash in the simulator, we just hit the reset button and we were back to our starting conditions. Every airplane should have a reset button.”
Every disease should have a reset button too.
Trevor Williams is a multiple myeloma patient and columnist at The Myeloma Beacon. You can view a list of his columns here.
If you are interested in writing a regular column for The Myeloma Beacon, please contact the Beacon team at .
It's always so interesting to read your insights and observations. You have more than just a global perspective, and when you bring it down to the most basic living species, and to the trees we love, it's such an amazing contrast. The most simple lesson. Keep on keeping on. Thank you for writing and sharing.
Trevor, I can always count on you to make me think, particularly from your science background.
I too have been noticing the trees this year, but more the wild profusion of blooms with choke cherry, crabapple, lilac white and purple bushes. The riotous colors lift my spirits.
In my back yard, we have two lilac bushes, one white, one purple, with which we have tried several strategies to increase blooms, with little success. This spring when I really really needed hope, both bushes are thick with beautiful blooms. I know it's probably just the wet spring and maybe the accumulation of pruning and fertilizer.
That day I first saw the trees was my day of hope.
Maureen
Love this column Trevor. I'll start dreaming of the reset button.
Trevor, I know what you mean about trees that keep going despite the odds. I had a tree come up in a crack on a thin slab of concrete. I told the tree that if it could live like that I would not cut it down. It is now a rather large tree. I feel that if the tree can keep growing despite the odds, I can certainly do the very best I can to do the same.
I liked your column very much. I am like you in one way – how can someone not tell the difference between a rocket and a shuttle.
Thank you for your column, Trevor. I like your analogy of standing strong like trees. Throughout the storms of life brought on by myeloma, there are so many inspiring examples of perseverance and strength around us.
We will look for that tree in the building as we head to Baltimore June 13th for an evaluation for a stem cell transplant. Thank you for sharing. You all inspire us and give us hope.
The past week has been really crazy at work, which is my reason for being so slow in replying. Sorry about that.
Irene - Thank you very much for your encouragement.
Maureen - Your garden sounds really attractive. I imagine your climate is better than ours in this respect: the spring here usually lasts about a week, as the temperature jumps from winder cold to excessive summer heat. I fondly remember the more protracted typical British springs, which are much better for flowers. I’m glad that your garden gave you hope just when you needed it!
Holt - Thanks very much. I’m wishing for the reset button too!
Joyce - Yes, it’s funny how trees can be such an inspiration in times of trouble. As for the Shuttle vs a rocket, you would think that the wings would be a bit of a giveaway ...
Tabitha - Thanks for your comments. Yes, in our circumstances, standing strong is key. I’m sure trees would never have struck me in quite this way back in my pre-cancer days: it’s certainly a different world now.
Mary - The tree is next to Route 40 eastbound, I believe between Eutaw and Howard Streets. I don’t know if that’s anywhere near your route on the way to the stem cell evaluation. I hope it all goes well!
HI Trevor, Thanks for your column about trees and the 'reset' button!
There are also cherry trees in Vancouver that were a gift of the government of Japan in the 1930s. They are lovely to see in the spring.
We have Douglas fir trees in our area that are about 400 years old too, and it is humbling in a way to contemplate that sometimes.
Get new Myeloma Beacon articles by email.