Redefining “Game Day” & “Fight Night”

The medical fight against multiple myeloma, at least initially, is pretty standard and cut and dried. In short form, it’s the “RVD” treatment. ‘R’ is for Revlimid, a once-a-day tablet taken in a cycle of three weeks on, one week off. The ‘V’ is for Velcade, a once-weekly injection given in the abdomen. The ‘D’ is for Dexamethasone, a steroid taken once a week. 

Then, because of all the potential side effects, and there are a whole host of potential side effects, there’s a bunch of other prescription drugs to take to keep one ready and able to take the real cancer-fighters. 

This induction treatment was prescribed right off the bat, with the expectation of running it three to six months, leading up to a stem cell transplant. As I type this, I’m a week away from finishing my fifth cycle of Revlimid. 

So, with the medical plan in place, I was in the fight. Sweet! That’s what I wanted. When Lori and I met with the doctor to find out the final diagnosis, it was me who spoke first. I told the doctor, “Tell me what I have so I can get fighting. Right now, I feel I’ve been slapped around by cancer, and I’m ready to get in the fight and get some of my own punches in.”

Now, I was fighting, and it felt good. It gave me some control, and I focused on controlling what I could – my diet, my activity, my meds and my mental attitude. I didn’t think about a stem cell transplant, and I still haven’t. I compartmentalized, dealing with the opportunity immediately in front of me and working on solving for that first. I’ll solve for a stem cell transplant when the time comes.

I don’t know what it’s like for other patients, but for me, after diagnosis, it was difficult to think about much other than cancer. It was pretty much the first thing I thought about upon waking up in the morning and the last thing I thought about at night as I fell asleep. And, of course, during the day, the thought was never far from front of mind.

I’ve always had a bit of a ‘10 minute rule’ throughout my life. I’m not one to dwell on things for too long, to beat myself up about something. The 10 minute rule allows one to react to something – whatever that reaction might be, including throwing a nice pity party – for 10 minutes, then move on with some positive response. Reaction versus response; I believe there’s a difference, and it’s not just a different word meaning the same thing.

Anyway, going into the final diagnosis, I told Lori, “Okay, whatever it is, we have the 10 minute rule and then we get on with it.”

That turned out to be a bit naive for my cancer diagnosis. Try as I might, the 10 minutes turned out to be 10 (or maybe even more) minutes per hour, every hour, for a couple of weeks! It’s was a lot of thinking, a lot of realization and acceptance, and the mental aspect of my diagnosis led directly to a steady, consistent stream of emotions, and it seemed to be cumulative. A building tower of mental and emotional strain.

Almost everything I’ve done, every challenge I’ve faced, has led up to and ended with some sort of capstone “event.” Be it academically, professionally, athletically, musically or whatever, the challenge has been a process – studying, preparing, working out, rehearsing, etc. – that ends with an event – a final exam, a deadline, a game, a gig, etc.

Capstone events have always allowed me to build up to a crescendo, peak at the right moment, deliver the goods, then sit back, relax, and plan out the next process for the next big thing to come up. 

When I was a kid, Bjorn Borg dominated the Wimbledon tennis tournament, winning five consecutive titles between 1976 and 1980 (not to mention his six French Open titles as well). I remember reading, as a boy, an article in Sports Illustrated entitled, “The Beard Has Begun,” where the writer chronicled Borg’s preparation for the 1981 Wimbledon tournament. Borg always had a scruffy beard for the two-week Wimbledon tournament, and the article referenced Borg’s singular focus on the tournament, so much so that he wouldn’t shave. Each look in the mirror and every touch of his face would remind him of his singular priority – preparing for and working his way through the tournament.

Despite being 17, I didn’t have the need to shave when I read the article, but it did resonate with me (so much so that the link to the article, above, was found with just a single Google search as the article’s title has been permanently etched in my memory). For decades now, I’ve let the beard begin as I’ve worked toward big things – a project at work, a big athletic competition, etc. 

My cancer beard started pretty much on March 11. It was symbolic for me in a couple of ways. First, the beard had begun, and it marked my fight against multiple myeloma, a need to teach those cells a lesson – cancer may have forced me into a game, but this game was on my home court and we’re going to play by my neighborhood rules. Secondly, I understood from my doctor that any subsequent stem cell transplant would begin with a pretty heavy chemotherapy dose, likely resulting in the loss of my hair. So, my thought was, and still is, to grow out my hair and beard and then give it all a ceremonial shave down ahead of the chemotherapy and transplant. Again, it’s another’s game, but I’m going to make it my own, do it my way, with my rules.

As a side note, after four months, I can tell you that I rethink my beard multiple times a day. But, I digress. 

So, there I was, with a beard that had begun and a relentless, everyday focus on controlling what I could – eating well, exercising and taking my meds. I was taking the fight to cancer, and my body responded right way, with my HGB rising to 11.8 after one week and 12.3 after two weeks. 

But, unbeknownst to me, my traditional approach to challenges was taking its toll. I was taking an approach that had worked so well for leading up and preparing for a capstone moment in time – again, a game or a race, a gig, a big deliverable at work and the like. This was different.

After a couple of weeks of complete focus on my fight at hand, and a steady escalation of build up, I experienced a pretty blue day. It was a Friday, the end of a work week, and Lori, Raymond and I were going out for dinner. I was beat, and being beat brought on a blue streak. 

I was exhausted. It was a cumulative effect of all that mental, emotional and spiritual strain, and combined together, it impacted my physically as well. I was flat out tired, in every aspect. And, I was, in large part, to blame. 

Multiple myeloma is a chronic condition. There’s no cure. There’s treatment, and perhaps in time a cure, but right now, it’s incurable. In the fight against multiple myeloma, there is no one singular capstone moment, no “game day” or “fight night.” 

My approach to my fight had been built around a faulty model and I needed to make adjustments. With multiple myeloma, there is no one “fight night.” Rather, every day is “fight night.” Multiple myeloma doesn’t lend itself to a training camp type of mentality, preparing for a big day. Instead, every day is the same fight. It’s not about peaking for a day. It’s about bringing your best each and every day. It’s not a project, it’s a lifestyle – it’s life. 

I had to redefine game day in my mind. It’s now not something I build toward. It’s now something I wake up to every day. A new dawn, a new game day and another opportunity to show cancer who’s boss.