My husband, Daniel, likes a movie called “All of Me” starring Lily Tomlin and Steve Martin. The film uses a “body-switching” plot device whereby the characters are suddenly thrust into un­familiar roles, and the audience laughs as they watch them adjust to another person’s life.

Lately, we’ve been starring in our own role reversals.

For once, things seemed to be going well with Dan’s treat­ment; his main­te­nance ther­apy consisting of Empliciti (elotuzumab), Revlimid (lena­lido­mide), and dexa­meth­a­sone (Decadron) appears to be having a positive impact. Last month we learned that his M-spike has gone down from 1.8 to 1.4 g/dL (18 to 14 g/l). This was the first bit of good news we’d received in nine months. We weren’t to remission levels yet, but we were just thrilled that the lever was moving in the right direction!

Just as I began to bring out the bunting, our good fortune was interrupted and I found myself in un­familiar territory. One afternoon I started having terrible pain in the center of my chest and upper stomach area. I had cramping on my side as well. It was almost unbearable, and it lasted for a couple of very dif­fi­cult, long hours. I was afraid that I was having a heart attack. I thought to myself, “Please let this go away! I can’t be dealing with this right now. I simply have too much on my plate!”

Despite my reluctance, I went to the doctor and had all the tests run. Thank goodness, it wasn’t heart related. As it turned out, I had a gallstone attack and I would need my gallbladder removed because there were more stones visible in the MRI. While removing a gallbladder is a common, straightforward procedure, my internist explained, if left unattended a gallstone could get stuck in my inner ductwork and become fatal.

The surgeon, Dan, and just about everyone else were pushing me to schedule this surgery. I, how­ever, was reluc­tant­ to do so because Dan had long treat­ment sessions every week. Who would take him to the hospital and wait with him during his treat­ment? Who would ensure that his needs were being met and watch to make sure the treat­ment went as it should go? Additionally, I was balancing multiple projects with my work and I had several major deliverables scheduled throughout this month. I didn’t know how I would make my deadlines, take care of Dan, and be off my feet for a week fol­low­ing surgery! I had become a dif­fi­cult, procrastinating patient, and Dan was now my care­giver.

Dan was per­forming his new role well. He went to the emergency room with me and to my internist appoint­ments thereafter. He pensively watched as they ran tests and took labs, ruling out everything from liver cancer to blood clots. Now he held my hand and tried to make me feel better as we waited.

I let a week go by, and I had another gallstone attack. This one was worse than the first, and while I had this sinking feeling that I would have to have the surgery, I still hadn’t made the appoint­ment with the surgeon that my internist referred me to. Dan gently reminded me of all the people we knew sans gall bladder, who had routine surgeries without any issues. He assured me that there was no need to worry about him and that he could take care of himself. 

I could see that Dan was worried about me, but he knew that he could only influence my de­ci­sion and not make it for me. I recog­nized this familiar care­giver’s frustration.

The thing is, I may be an excellent care­giver, but I am a terrible patient. I can’t stand giving up control. I didn’t like the idea of putting myself in someone else’s hands. I’m a modest person. Would they be operating on me in an “exposed” state?  What if they didn’t anesthetize me correctly? What if I woke up during the surgery and couldn’t speak to let them know that I could feel the cutting? I tried to be an adult about this and put on a stiff upper lip, but I was a wreck on the inside.

Inevitably, I had the surgery. The surgery went as ex­pec­ted and without problems. The anes­thesi­ol­o­gist took pity on me and made sure that I was out before I even entered the operating room. I was left with five 1.5-inch incisions throughout my abdomen that would heal in two weeks.  The first week I would be very sore, the surgeon explained. She was right. I had no idea how many stomach muscles I used until I was recovering from this surgery. Simple tasks like reaching for some­thing, sitting upright, or laying on my side was an excruciating enterprise, with my abdomen and side feeling like a giant bruise. I needed a care­giver.

It was Dan’s turn to play care­giver. He stayed with me during the surgery and in the outpatient re­cov­ery room. He then took me home afterwards and worked from home for two days to make sure that he was nearby if I needed his help to get around the house. I couldn’t drive for a week, or lift any­thing over ten pounds, so he was in charge of feeding our cats and cleaning their litter. He went to the store and made sure that we had food to eat.

I’m in my second week since the surgery, and our worlds are almost back to “normal.”  We’ve switched our hats back, and I’m back to doing all the things I normally do, albeit more slowly.

He’s the patient and I’m the care­giver again. Multiple myeloma is back on the forefront.

Dan caught food poisoning from some­thing he ate at work this week, so I checked on him, cleaned up the messes, and gave him Compazine (pro­chlor­per­a­zine) for his nausea. We’ll also meet with his myeloma specialist, and he’ll have all his monthly myeloma tests and a treat­ment infusion on the same day, so it is likely to be a nine-hour day at the cancer center.

The movie of our lives still plays on, and we’re back to our familiar roles. After our temporary switch, I’m reminded that neither one of us has the corner on the care­giver or patient markets. The un­cer­tain­ties of life are not exclusive to myeloma. I hope that I won’t be the patient again anytime soon, but I am thankful that Dan makes such a good care­giver if I do.