I’m Mark Pouley, and I’m excited to join the Myeloma Beacon as a regular columnist.

I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma in the spring of 2015. I’ve experi­enced a lot in the last year, learned a lot, and changed a lot. Along the way, The Beacon became an important part of my mental and physical recovery.

I’m writing this column to pay it forward by sharing my myeloma journey. The one lesson I’ve learned since my diag­nosis that stands above them all is that myeloma is part of my life, and accepting that reality is the key to continuing to live a full and happy life. I have so much to say, but I’ve decided to begin my columns the way my myeloma journey began; with my diag­nosis.

In March of 2015, I was your basic healthy 53-year-old man. Nevertheless, I figured it was time for a checkup. I left that appointment with a clean bill of health and a recommendation to exercise more.

Four days later my doctor called me. You know it isn’t good if your doctor calls. I remember his words dis­tinctly: “Your lab tests show monoclonal gammopathy, which may be early multiple myeloma.” None of those words meant a thing to me until he said it was a type of cancer and he referred me to a hematologist. I couldn’t have been more stunned.

That phone call kicked off a series of increasingly frightening and confusing doctor’s visits.

On my first visit, I learned that because I had no other obvious symptoms, the increased protein levels in the preliminary lab results could be nothing, or they could be a sign of something called monoclonal gam­mop­athy of un­determined significance (MGUS). The doctor explained the condition and softened the blow by explaining the small likelihood of MGUS becoming multiple myeloma.

After a few tests, including a bone marrow biopsy that indicated a significant level of abnormal plasma cells, the doctor told me I may have smoldering myeloma. Closer monitoring would be necessary. I had progressed from, “don’t worry about it” to “don’t worry about it now.”

An MRI was scheduled and I was referred to a myeloma specialist. Luckily, I live near Seattle, where some of the world’s best myeloma specialists practice. I made an appointment, my records were transferred, and I waited an agonizing two weeks.

The MRI revealed “a focal myelomatous deposit (plasmacytoma).” My myeloma specialist was very direct about my test results and diagnosis. I definitely had multiple myeloma. There was nothing smoldering about it.

He then asked, “Did your other doctor discuss your cytogenetics with you?” The blank stare on my face told him I didn’t have a clue what cytogenetics even meant. He explained I had an abnormality called “del(17p),” which meant that I was a “high-risk” patient.

Instead of watching and waiting, my previous treatment plan, he believed I should begin treatment before the end of 2015. He also explained the science of multiple myeloma in a way I hadn’t heard before. Not that relapse might happen, but that it most assuredly would happen.

Then he spoke the words that seared into my brain. With my cytogenetics, my average survival was six to seven years. Did my doctor really just tell me I might not see my 60th birthday?

In less than a month, I went from being totally healthy to learning I had a deadly and incurable form of cancer. The kicker is that I still didn’t feel sick at all.

Honestly, at this point I was a wreck. My wife was by my side for all the appointments and we shared the news with my adult children, but that was it. I couldn’t even tell my closest family, and there was no way I was going to tell colleagues at work.

The secret knowledge ate at me, and I felt something I can only describe as shame. I was scared. Scared of dying and scared of living with the disease. I mourned the future I thought I’d lost. I felt jealous of people I thought would outlive me.

While I did my best to stay productive at work, hiding my fear in the presence of colleagues, in the privacy of my office I often succumbed to paralyzing anxiety. I let thoughts of what might happen in the future deprive me of the present and separate me from the people I cared about.

I knew I couldn’t continue on this path. I sought help from my doctor and started seeing a counselor. My immediate family was my greatest support and I slowly started telling more family and close friends. When my colleagues learned about my condition, they demonstrated great compassion. Instead of becoming “cancer guy,” as I’d feared, I discovered a wealth of kindness and comfort. In fact, I found that my closest friends and family aided my recovery from fear and anxiety by refusing to treat me any differently than before.

When I was first diagnosed, the Internet was a very scary source of information, so I avoided it. My specialist pointed me to the Beacon, and I found an informative, reasoned, and compassionate resource.

I’ll never forget the shock I felt leaving my specialist’s office after that first visit, but over time I’ve grown to have complete faith in him and the team. He is not locked into the statistics and he has great hope for my future. I learned about the amazing advances in myeloma treatment that I believe will keep me alive and kicking well beyond the previously stated expiration date.

With my willingness to share my experience with those close to me, and after learning more about the science of myeloma, I was able to accept the reality I’ve been handed. The fear hasn’t completely subsided, but the impact I let the fear have on my life has.

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The title of my column, “A Northwest Lens on Myeloma” deserves a short explanation. The “Northwest” in the title refers to where I live: the Pacific Northwest of the United States. The “Lens” in the title refers to one of my life’s passions: photography.

I hope to include with each of my columns a photograph that I’ve taken that reflects – in one way or another – the topic of the column.

This month’s photograph (below) is of the North Fork of the Stillaguamish River. The photo was taken on March 21, 2014.

Less than 24 hours after I took the photo, a massive landslide destroyed a neighborhood a mile upstream from the location, killing 43 people in its path. The location was severely flooded, and the river flow was forever altered.

Almost exactly one year later, I received the phone call that set off my own personal landslide and forever altered my own personal path.

Photo copyright © 2014 Mark Pouley.