It had been almost two months since I stopped treat­ment, and it seemed to be going well. Then I crashed, hard. I woke up in the small hours of the morning feeling miserable, heart flutters, elevated pulse rate, sore all over. It was the same in the morning after a fitful sleep. No appetite, breathless with any movement. Not fun. Like detoxing all over again.

I was better the next day, not 100 per­cent (whatever that is anymore), but reason­ably functional. The crash might have been caused by my pushing a little too hard the evening before, sorting and packing stuff for our upcoming move. It’s hard, but I have to learn that I have narrow limits and have to respect them or pay the price. Weather changes might have con­trib­uted to it. I also sus­pect the camphor smell of an over-the-counter pain patch I was trying out for a new shoulder pain.

After a couple of days I was doing well, able to be out and about, running errands, eating lunch in the park in the winter sun while watching people play tennis. I was out for some six hours and rested after I got home and put groceries away, feeling pretty good. And feeling good the next several days as well.

As I write this, I have my usual arthritis pain and the new pain in my right shoulder sometimes wakes me up at night, but who knows? The weather has been damp, I’m coming up on my 82^nd birthday, so it might not even be the myeloma. My oncologist said if pain in any particular places got worse they could try radi­a­tion, but I’d like to avoid that if I can, and stay off pain pills any stronger than acet­amin­o­phen (Tylenol, para­cet­a­mol). I’m really done with side effects.

My sweetheart Kaitlin and I have bought a manu­fac­tured home in the Southern California mountains and will be moving there soon. It’s an area Kaitlin spent a lot of years in, so she has roots and friends there, and it will be a safe place for her when I am gone. The Southern Arizona summers have gotten hotter year-by-year and she could not sur­vive here. I can live anyplace, and have, from big city ten­e­ments to small city middle-class homes, in suburbia and rural areas, near the ocean and in the desert. I can now com­plete a circle with a small town in the mountains, and know that the love of my life will be okay when I’m gone.

California has a “Death With Dignity” law, in effect over three years now, that allows a physician to prescribe life-ending drugs for terminally-diagnosed patients at their request. My sense is that not all doctors are on board with the law, but there are enough, as well as some hospices, and sup­port groups. So people in my situation have options, with built-in safeguards, which is good to know.

Kait is doing most of the work, packing and sorting and driving 800 miles round-trip to make the new place, dubbed Ruby’s Rest, ours. She has a real artist’s eye for layout and decoration, and I’m looking for­ward to the results, especially with a living room wood stove that our old dog, Gus, and I can sit in front of. My ability to help is limited. I con­tinue to have more energy most days – except when I crash – but also still wear out as the day goes on, and am pretty useless by evening. I am learning, often the hard way, to pace myself.

As a sidebar, let me say that it seems to me that you get back what you put out, and an attitude of gratitude seems to bring out really good stuff from others, for which I am grateful. For example, while Kaitlin was in California work­ing to make our new home ready, I went to a local hos­pi­tal to try to obtain some records she had been un­suc­cess­ful in having sent to her doctor. I had tried to get the records through the hos­pi­tal’s website and was referred to an out-of-state phone number, where I was told I just had to fill out a form and take it to the hos­pi­tal. So I did.

I had not been at that hos­pi­tal for three and a half years and things had changed and I ended up walking a long way to the entrance, which turned out was no longer the entrance. I walked further to find the main admin­istra­tion offices, and was ex­hausted by the time I got there. The most walking I’ve done in the last two and a half years is 100 steps to our mailbox and 100 steps back, with a rest stop in-between, and I used to be an avid hiker.

The young woman at the front administrative desk, Jasmine, saw my plight, found a wheelchair and wheeled me to the records department, which produced the paperwork I needed in min­utes. Then Jasmine wheeled me the long, long way back to my car; with intelligent conversation along the way. She ac­cepted a hug as an ex­pres­sion of gratitude, and I later wrote a note to her bosses telling them how lucky they were to have her.

Our holidays last year, in case you’re interested, were quiet, without Kait’s usual decoration of the house and my setting up luminarias outside, but our ex­change of presents was loving fun, and even Gus joined in with a new toy. With the impending move to the mountains, the theme for both of us was warm. And I got an unexpected holiday treat: I was shopping in our local super mar­ket the week before Christmas when suddenly there was singing, a mother and her young daughter happily singing “Do Re Mi” from “The Sound of Music.” I joined them, and we all smiled with joy, as did other shop­pers. I wish “Peace on Earth” were that easy.

I still wear out as the day goes on, but to end on another cheery note, my bowels are slowly returning to some semblance of nor­mal (if I forego that sec­ond big cup of coffee in the morning).

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Today’s quotation is from Myeloma Beacon commenter JoAnn Beetschen: “My ‘one day at a time’ has been renamed to ‘life is a sunrise.’ I sit each morning and watch the sun come up, drink my coffee, and hope that I will make the best of the day I have been given. That is all any of us can do: enjoy the day.”

Editors’ Note: If you are thinking about commenting on Albert’s column, please recog­nize that he and his med­i­cal team have given a great deal of thought to the treat­ment de­ci­sion he has reached. As Albert has told us: “Everyone’s reac­tion to myeloma and its treat­ment is dif­fer­en­t. I have been happy with my on­col­ogy team, which truly has listened to me and been willing to negotiate. At this point, I am not really interested in hearing about other possible treat­ment regi­mens, clin­i­cal trials, or med­i­cal groups. There comes a time when one says, simply, ‘It’s done.’” We would ap­pre­ci­ate if you would respect Albert’s wishes in any comments you make in regard to his columns.