Several years ago, I got into an argument with an oncologist – not my oncologist – over a significance of my IgG jumping up 500 points from the pre­vi­ous reading. When I expressed great dis­may, he snapped, “Oh, do you have a medical degree and extensive training in hematology? Do you know how to read lab reports better than I do?”

If I had not been so rattled by his attack, I would have retorted, “No, but I have lived in this body for over half a century and with myeloma for over five years, and I know what my body is telling me.”

My body is whispering to me again, steadily and quietly.

“I am tired.”

“I am wearing down.”

My body is not saying “I am giving up.” Nor is it saying “Time to cash your chips in.” My lab numbers are stable. Two oncologists are very satisfied with what they see. But my body is talking to me, softly, saying that the long walk to­wards the mountain, one which has lasted far longer than anyone thought possible, is starting to near its destination.

I recently shared this feeling with my oncologist of 14 years, my myeloma specialist of three years, and my personal physician of many decades.

My local oncologist heard me out and said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘Well, I hope you’re wrong.” In years past, he would have given me shorter shrift because he wasn’t ready to hear me bring up end-of-life dis­cussions. I’m not sure he’s ready to listen yet, but he does not change the topic.

My myeloma specialist listened intently, then let a long moment pass in silence. When he was ready, he spoke quietly and calmly. CAR T-cell ther­apy, “if it worked” for me, “might” give me a year or two without treat­ment, and that would be a break for my body. He carefully noted that full remission is not likely attainable for me, and that he felt there were no new promising drugs in the pipe­line. We dis­cussed and mutually rejected an allogeneic (donor) stem cell trans­plant. Then he said, in that same calm voice, “you are very far out on the [bell curve] of survival.”

“I know I am,” I replied. “And I’ve made peace with that,” I added. He nodded and we moved on.

It was my personal physician, a family practitioner who initially caught the myeloma, who responded in the way that resonated the deepest with me. She and I go back 25+ years as physician and patient. We are former neighbors and good friends outside of the office. When I told her what I was hearing from my body, Dr. Pat closed her laptop and bowed her head. She asked, her voice thick with emotion, “What do you want to do with your remaining time?”

We talked for several minutes. At times we both laughed. At other times there were broken voices and a sparkle of tears. I left her office grateful for the gift of her in my life.

After all these conversations, my husband Warren and I went to the Pacific Northwest to spend much desired time with family. I watched our granddaughter master a scooter, and my adult sons talk and laugh together. On the way back, we traveled south to Sacramento to see longtime close friends, spending a day talking and laughing and eating before boarding a train headed east through Colorado to Chicago. Watching the country unroll before me, Dr. Pat’s words came back.

“What do you want to do with your remaining time?”

This.

This.

This.