Four Years Strong: Lessons Learned from a Myeloma Cancer Journey

 Four years ago, my life took a turn I never could have imagined when I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a cancer of the plasma cells.

If you had asked me then how I felt about what was happening, my answer would have been very different from the one I would give today.

Every year, as the anniversary of my diagnosis approaches, I find myself looking back at what myeloma has taken from me, what it has changed, and, surprisingly, what it has given me.

I would never call cancer a gift. But living with it has changed me in ways I never expected.

Before cancer, I spent much of my life worrying about what other people thought. I put enormous pressure on myself to do everything well, to keep going, and to appear stronger than I sometimes felt. I had always been the cheerleader for everyone else, even when I struggled to find that same encouragement for myself.

I had also spent decades battling depression and bipolar disorder. There were periods of my life when surviving the day itself felt like a victory. I had attempted suicide more than once over those years, yet somehow I kept fighting for another day.

Then cancer arrived and forced me to look at life differently.

When I was diagnosed, specialists gave Lance and me frightening estimates about what the future might hold. Without a stem cell transplant, we were told I might have only a couple of years. With the transplant, we were given estimates of perhaps five to seven.

Those numbers stayed with us.

And now, here I am celebrating four years since diagnosis.

Somewhere during those four years, I became what I like to call an optimistic realist.

I understand exactly what I am living with. I know myeloma can relapse. I know there are no guarantees about tomorrow. But I also no longer want to spend whatever time I have worrying about things I cannot control.

Cancer taught me to protect my peace.

I have learned to distance myself from negativity, toxic situations, and people who bring unnecessary chaos into my life. Other people's opinions don't carry the weight they once did. I don't need everyone to understand me, agree with me, or approve of the way I choose to live.

I have also learned what family truly means. Cancer has a remarkable way of revealing who shows up when life becomes difficult—and who doesn't.

I learned to rest, although I admit I am still not particularly good at it.

Before myeloma, chaos fueled me. I could work endlessly and move from one project to another without thinking much about what my body needed. Cancer forced me to slow down. Even now, when my body allows it, I can still outwork people who are perfectly healthy. The difference is that eventually my body sends me the bill.

And it always collects.

Myeloma changed the physical reality of my everyday life.

The disease damaged my bones, leaving lesions that are permanent reminders of what happened inside my body. Some days walking hurts. Sometimes sitting hurts. Neuropathy, arthritis, gastrointestinal problems, kidney issues, infections, and the lingering effects of treatment have all become part of a life I never expected to live.

Over the past year alone, I have dealt with RSV twice, COVID-19, pancreatitis, infections, injuries, and other health problems.

There are mornings when my hands don't cooperate until medication, movement, and time begin to loosen them. There are days when Lance has to help me get dressed.

And there is pain.

Pain has become such a familiar companion that sometimes I don't even talk about it anymore.

Cancer hasn't affected only me, either.

Lance lives with myeloma too, just differently.

He carries fears he doesn't always say aloud. We have had conversations about death that most couples our age probably don't routinely have. We have talked about what happens if the cancer returns, what I want if treatments stop working, and what life might someday look like without me.

Those conversations aren't pessimistic.

They're part of our reality.

But strangely, accepting that reality has made me want to live more—not less.

And nowhere is that more obvious than when I am with my granddaughters.

With them, I get to be a kid again.

We fight dragons and hide from monsters. We explore imaginary worlds that apparently only they can see. We have tea parties, tackle obstacle courses, swing on swings, and fly down slides.

For those moments, I'm not Grandma with cancer.

I'm just Grandma.

More specifically, I'm apparently the "bestest, bestest grandma in the whole world" and the "silly grandma."

Those may be the two greatest titles I will ever earn.

My oldest granddaughter turns five this year, and I know there may eventually come a day when Grandma can't climb onto the playground equipment with her anymore. So while I can, I do.

Sometimes I pay for it for days afterward.

It's worth it.

I will drive eight hours to watch a four-year-old play a 45-minute soccer game. I will fly across several states if my family needs me. I want to be present for the ordinary moments because cancer taught me that ordinary moments aren't ordinary at all.

They are life.

Myeloma also gave me a purpose I never expected.

I became a myeloma coach and patient advocate, helping other patients and families navigate a world that terrified me when I first entered it. I speak about living with myeloma and share what I have learned with patients, healthcare professionals, specialists, and advocacy organizations.

I wrote two children's books to help families explain multiple myeloma through the eyes of a granddaughter.

I created Life, Laughter and Legacy as a place to share experiences, resources, information, and stories about living beyond a cancer diagnosis.

Through Myeloma For Life™, my writing, advocacy, fundraising, and online presence, I found a way to turn something that nearly destroyed my world into something that might make someone else's journey a little easier.

I never set out to become an influencer.

I certainly never planned to become a cancer advocate.

I would have preferred never knowing what a plasma cell was.

But this is where life brought me.

Four years ago, Lance and I sat across from doctors and listened to numbers predicting how many years I might have left.

Today, I don't measure my life that way.

I measure it in birthdays.

Soccer games.

Tea parties.

Conversations with patients who need someone to tell them they're not alone.

Projects I probably shouldn't start but start anyway.

Days when my body cooperates and days when it absolutely does not.

Laughter with Lance.

And little girls yelling for their silly grandma.

Multiple myeloma has changed almost every part of my life.

But it does not get to define all of it.

Four years after my diagnosis, I understand something I didn't understand then:

I cannot control how many years I have.

But I can decide what I do with the ones I'm given.