Anew

Myeloma is a blood cancer. It affects the plasma cells within the bone marrow. There is no rhyme or reason as to why someone should develop it and it's uncommon in people under the age of 70. Currently, there is no cure.

Within days of my husband's diagnosis, we were sitting in a rather dingy consulting room nervous and afraid. The doctor was a young man, softly spoken who did not exude confidence in either what he was saying or what he thought the prognosis would be. Also in the room was a chatty, personable Irish nurse who smiled a lot. She made us smile too. After taking lots of bloods from Man's arm, we were then directed to the haematologist consultant, Dr L. It was she who showed us the scan imagery and explained the extent of the damage that the myeloma had already caused. A huge tumour was not only growing in Man's pelvis but was also eating it. In a nutshell, half of is pelvis was missing. It was a miracle he was walking.

Dazed days and sleepless nights led us to a bone specialist, Mr M, again, another smiley friendly Irish face. It had been swiftly discovered that Man was eligible to take advantage of his employers' medical insurance which led us to these fine consultants. Endless bloods, scans, biopsies, paperwork and appointments guided our medical team to be able to offer the best care that could be offered. Man was immediately put on a dose of dexamethasone - a ridiculously strong steroid which started to shrink the tumour and took pressure of his spinal cord. It worked almost immediately and Man's pain subsided.

But dex wasn't going to be enough. Whilst Man battled with missing out on his annual trip to the Alps with his friends, Dr L put together a chemo regime.

"No riding". Words that Man could not comprehend. He was/is a very keen cyclist and it's the sole cause of his fitness and lean, strong legs.
"But I have an Alps trip booked, could I start chemo after that?" implored Man.
"I do not recommend. I anticipate that if you continue to ride you will be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life".
He relented and I witnessed how hard he took this news.

Chemo started. A course of Zometa was dripped into his veins to help rebuild bone growth. Velcade was injected to stop the cancer cells. Revlimid to be taken every evening to assist Man's immune system. The nurses were wonderful, the coffee good and spirits were high. We were sent off after the first session with a bag of goodies: blood thinners, anti-sickness, calcium tablets, tummy settlers, kidney protectors and three types of anti-biotics. Injections to be twice a week at the hospital and a very strict tablet regime started at home. The process had begun.

Meanwhile, Man sat in his anti-gravity chair in the sun developing a very envious tan. He continued to work from home whilst receiving supportive messages from his fabulous friends in the Alps. Their frequent messages made him smile as he still felt part of the gang, and yet I could see the sadness that he felt about his body letting him down, about the very riding he loved so much had contributed to his pelvis being fractured and dissolved. Now it was time to say 'life's not fair'.

In the space of 6 weeks, my husband's life turned upside down. Some of it painful, some of it frustrating but most of it filled with love and support. Friends have stepped up in a way we couldn't have imagined. They make life worthwhile, they are the laughs, they are the daily positives. Man has said that he's 'happy'. By this I imagine it's because he's experiencing life to the fullest, feeling every emotion and feeling grateful to be. It's hard to wake up to find your husband in the garden, been kept awake by steroids, struggling to bend, stand, walk. BUT we do what we do because we can. And he will again one day.