Looking down at the green grass is a good sign. So is the fact that I am writing this article. Both of these little “things.” and so many more, add up to my current status of living with cancer, as opposed to not living.

I am a male, 63 years old, who was diag­nosed with multiple myeloma about 4.5 years ago. Prior to my diag­nosis, I was having tre­men­dous back aches and finally went to an orthopedist who sug­gested an MRI. On a cold Friday in Jan­u­ary­, upon the reading of the MRI results, I had my world turned upside down by the doctor, who told me I had cancer. Multiple myeloma, to be exact.

He told me that he had set up an appoint­ment with an oncologist the fol­low­ing Monday to con­firm my diag­nosis. I was so naive that one of the first questions I asked him was “Does this mean that our (my wife's and my) planned trip to the Azores in March is a no-go?”

I cannot remember driving home. However, I do remember sitting in my truck in our driveway trying to get my hands around having cancer. I was blown away. Four and a half years later, I still am not sure that I can get my hands around having cancer. However, I now know that it is not nec­es­sary to “get it” re­gard­ing having or living with cancer.

Sitting in the driveway, I was scared. I just did not know what to ex­pec­t or what would come next. I grew up in an age where having cancer, any kind of cancer, meant that one was going to die and die soon. I was so unaware of treat­ments, med­i­ca­tions, ad­vances in the field, etc. Cancer was not some­thing that con­cerned me. Now it did, and I was scared. The price of ignorance was high in regards to worry and stress.

I had a stem cell trans­plant in August of 2015, sur­vived, and since then have been on an active drug protocol that to this point has kept “my numbers” where my oncologist and I would like them to be. I have be­come quite familiar with names like Revlimid (lena­lido­mide) and dexa­meth­a­sone. Daily pill taking is the new standard / routine of living. Getting my “port flushed” has nothing to do with plumb­ing.

Fear was and still is to a degree a large issue in my life. I was scared of dying, scared of being a burden on my loved ones, scared of how my “great old life” was going to be altered.

See, I loved my life the way it was. I did not want cancer. Initially, I was worried that I would not sur­vive six months of induction ther­apy and then a stem cell trans­plant. I was so sad and tre­men­dously disappointed that living with cancer was going to be my new norm, and that was only if I was lucky enough to live. I was crazy (and I still am to some degree).

Not that this is earth-shattering news, but living with a dis­ease, as opposed to not living at all, is a gift. However, it is one that requires small steps, not large leaps. I have come to under­stand that the only way for me to sur­vive is to take it one day at a time, one treat­ment at a time. In my professional life as a financial advisor, I tell clients that creating a plan for retirement is best done one step at a time. I usually ask clients the fol­low­ing question: “How do you eat an elephant?” Answer: “One bite at a time.”

Now I have to live that and apply that truism to cancer. Four and a half years later, I still struggle and get myself in trouble by putting way too many days, weeks, months, etc. together all at once. Living with cancer requires me to focus on the short term, not the long term. Small bites.

I also had to learn and am continuing to learn that fundamental truth in life: “We are not in control!”  It was some­thing I had always heard about but never really had to confront.

Yep, we are not in control! Oh, I get that I can make de­ci­sions about treat­ments; foods; and mental, spiritual, and physical exercises to make the journey more agreeable. However, the big picture is that none of us asked to have cancer.

I have a friend who is in Alcoholics Anonymous. I told him that I hated having cancer. He told me that I was giving it way too much power.

My friend asked me if I thought that he liked being an alcoholic. He said that when he gets up in the morning, one of the first things he does is acknowledge his dis­ease, and then he asks himself the question, “Ok, now, what am I going to do with today?”

Brilliantly simple and very effective.

So I try to remember that the only “control” I have moving for­ward is in answering that question, “What am I going to do with today?” Answer­ing that question each day first thing in the morning allows me to let go of many of the worries, anxieties, and stress that come with living with cancer.