At the end of January, there was an eclipse of the Moon that was described by more adjectives than I have ever seen for one before: a “blue blood supermoon” eclipse.

The event brought to mind what was, for me, definitely one of the highlights of 2017, and one with obscure parallels to multiple myeloma: the August eclipse of the Sun.

I had to travel to the Pacific Northwest for a space conference that was scheduled to start the day after the eclipse and was situated near the path of totality. Upon discovering that it was virtually impossible to find a hotel room or rental car in that vicinity for these dates, I was not at all sure that the conference organizers had been wise when deciding on this location! In the end, though, I managed to find a motel that was right in the totality zone, and a bus to get me to it from the airport. That way, all I had to do to be ready to observe was go out into the motel parking lot: no worries about traffic jams.

I had seen several solar eclipses before, but never a total one. Many descriptions I have read said that there is really no comparison between a total eclipse and a partial one, even one that reaches, say, 98 percent complete. This had not really sunk in with me, though; it sounded like a bit of hyperbole. Also, since totality lasted for only about two minutes out of a total duration of around two hours, I wasn’t really expecting it to make a major impression compared to the overall eclipse experience.

I was wrong!

As the partial eclipse developed, it was of course striking to watch through safety glasses as the Moon took an ever-increasing bite out of the Sun. It was also impressive to observe the surroundings get dark, the temperature decrease, and the weird crescent-shaped shadows that tree leaves started casting.

However, none of this prepared me for totality. When totality hits, you can take off the safety glasses for the first time and look at the Sun directly. When you do, you can see the corona (the extended atmosphere of the Sun) that is normally far too faint to see compared with the intense brightness of the Sun itself. If any fraction of the Sun, no matter how small, is visible, the corona remains invisible; that is what makes totality so amazing. Although the sky does not become black, it gets dark enough for planets and bright stars to become visible in the sky. It was magical to be able to see Venus in the middle of the day, something that you never can do normally.

In principle, eclipses can be understood by analyzing the three-dimensional geometry conditions under which Earth, Sun, and Moon line up precisely. This description, though, does not even begin to explain why a total eclipse is so impressive. It must be that the corona, dark sky, cold, stars visible in the day, and so on are all so alien to our usual experiences. We have spent a lifetime developing an understanding of how the world works, and then, suddenly and briefly, it follows a very different set of rules. Observing this is quite a profound, almost unsettling, experience.

Being diagnosed with multiple myeloma is another time when the world stops following the usual rules that you have grown used to over the whole of your preceding lifetime. Of course, it is definitely not as pleasant, its effects continue indefinitely rather than just briefly, and the impact on your quality of life can be severe.

However, there are nonetheless parallels.

For instance, it is not really possible to fully understand multiple myeloma by analysis. Unless you or a family member or close acquaintance go through it, the written descriptions probably will not really sink in. Reading about stem cell transplants, undergoing treatment for the disease, the side effects of dexa­meth­a­sone, etc. may even seem like a bit of hyperbole.

I have occasionally had well-meaning people say “I know what you’re going through,” based on experiences that they have had with some other illness, but I do not believe that this is really possible. Just as a 99 percent partial eclipse is nothing like a total one, having a different disease is really nothing like having multiple myeloma.

Equally, of course, my experiences with multiple myeloma do not allow me to understand what someone with a different disease is going through either. Indeed, I do not even really know what someone else with a different variant of multiple myeloma from mine is going through. The columns in The Myeloma Beacon, being written by survivors who have undergone, and are undergoing, a wide range of experiences, try to bridge this knowledge gap.

One final point concerning an eclipse is that it helps to give one, at least temporarily, a bit of a “cosmic perspective.” It makes it clear that we are each a very small part of a very big universe. This is a definitely good point to remember, although it’s often hard to keep in mind during the usual daily scramble. I should try to remember it the next time someone cuts in front of me in traffic, but I am sure I won’t succeed!