“If your time to you
Is worth savin’
Then you better start swimmin’
Or you’ll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changing.”

With these lyrics to his well-known song, “The Times They Are A-Changin,” Bob Dylan spoke about the unrest of the 1960’s. The tune, first released in 1964, is still a useful way to talk about my life today.

You see, no matter how hard I try, life keeps changing.

Change is just part of life. We do not have control of much of the change in our life, yet we can “swim or sink.” Sometimes I fool myself and believe that I can stay right where I am, es­pe­cially when I am in re­mission from multiple myeloma.

In Colorado, the emerald green of spring has changed to summer green with tall grasses and rich wild­flowers. Snow-capped peaks are the only remnants of winter. Temperatures rise to the uncomfortable 90’s; the season changes.

I have learned to get up early, even as early as 5 a.m., to train with the triathlon team I am on. By 10 a.m., the heat is too uncomfortable to bike or run. The swim training has changed too. We had been swimming in the pool for seven weeks, practicing technique, endurance, and speed. This week, the team switched to open water swimming at a local reservoir. The water was choppy and cold, the skies overcast, and once again we learned how different open water swimming is from swimming in a pool.

I have been doing this routine for over 20 years, and yet the first swim is always challenging. We have rescuers on the shore, lifeguards in boats, which create a circle of safety for the swimmers. I feel nervous. Each year, I learn to adapt to the change.

Adapting to the changes in multiple myeloma is a given. I am receiving a Darzalex (daratumumab) infusion monthly. I don’t take Velcade (bortezomib) or dexamethasone (Decadron), but intravenous methyl­pred­niso­lone instead. Last month, I experienced a reactive airway disease after the infusion, with coughing spasms and hay fever symptoms. I needed two days to recover before I could exercise vigorously again.

After consultation with the cancer center pharmacist, I was prescribed Singulair (montelukast) for four days before and three days after the infusion. Also, I would need to continue with the intravenous Benadryl (diphen­hydra­mine), an anti­histamine. I really couldn’t argue with the logic, although I really don’t like how I respond to Benadryl. I become so sedated that I cannot go to the bathroom unescorted. I am zonked for hours, sleeping off and on. So for my next infusion, I asked for a room and planned on sleeping all day. The new plan worked well, and I didn’t experience any coughing spasms, and after two days I could exercise again. I adapted.

Change may also involve loss. Last month, a friend of mine lost his life to a rare form of salivary gland cancer, which he had battled for 20 years. He experienced several periods of remission, sometime for years. He was a powerful model of adapting to change and learning “to swim rather than sink.” His two children, grown now, talked at his life celebration about how he used those “in between times.” He traveled the world with his family. They called themselves the “four pack.” What an ideal model.

I left the celebration and wrote both of my grown sons that we should plan another family trip this year. Change. We may not be able to orchestrate the change, but we can learn to confront all of it head on.

In response, my 40-year old asked me for a hike. I changed my schedule so we could both hike together. He was a perfect guide, walking slowly for my pace. The trail was next to a roaring creek, shaded by large leafy trees and a rich variety of wildflowers. We both made time for each other.

Then another unexpected (and lovely) change greeted me. Our younger son proposed to his girlfriend. We love her and are celebrating their obvious happiness. Next week we travel to Cancun to spend a week with my son and his brand new fiancé and to enjoy a week with our future in-laws. An amazing opportunity.

Change may also involve letting go. I am re-evaluating my participation in the wonderful Roaring Fork Triathlon women’s team. I have been both a coach and participant for 18 years. This team and the enduring friendships have been a constant through the ups and downs of my multiple myeloma journey.

However, it is time for change, due to aging, injuries, and our old foe, cancer. I am considering changing to long-distance swims. I want to travel more, and a 14-week training commitment would tie me down too much. At this stage, I am evaluating what I want to do. Some of my favorite training buddies are doing the same evaluation. It’s bittersweet. I am pushed to do my best and enjoy this remission. I am trying not to make any big decisions right now.

Just like you, I have a birthday every year, and the upcoming one troubles me. I am now, as the saying goes, “too old to die young.” The inevitability of aging is in my face. I was 50 when my Mom turned 73, and I remember her moaning about the changes in her face and body. I probably wasn’t very sympathetic. As another cancer survivor reminds me, “Celebrating another birthday is a privilege that is not given to many.

I am grateful for where I am right now. I want to hold the moments tight, and yet I know I do not have that power.

Seasons change, children grow up, and good friends die. I can take each day as it comes, grab life ex­peri­ences, and swim as fast as I can.

“The times they are a-changing.“