I Can’t Help Wondering How My Multiple Myeloma Came to Be

“I am America”

I have multiple myeloma.

There is no cure.

There is no known cause.

There are theories:

overexposure to benzene,

overexposure to chlorine.

I can’t help wondering

a hundred different things:

the lead paint I ate as a child,

the asbestos tiles that flaked down

on me in fourth grade,

the DDT I consumed with my fruit,

the other pesticides I used

on the lawn and garden,

my genetically modified soy and corn,

my tainted milk,

my poisoned beef,

the mercury in my seafood,

the “new car smell,”

the “new carpet smell,”

the auto emissions,

the microwave radiation,

my excessive cell phone use,

the depleted uranium

I was exposed to in Iraq,

my proximity to the burn pits

in Afghanistan,

my living so close to the Love Canal,

my cleanup efforts at 3 Mile Island,

my total awe at the flash

and mushroom cloud at Los Alamos,

before I was born,

before you were born,

before every one of us was born

into the brave new world.

Cure Is The Wrong Four Letter Word

I will not be going to see the mummified head of Saint Catherine. Nor will I go to Lourdes, Jerusalem or Bethlehem. Unless it is Pennsylvania and I can find healing in a cup of coffee served by a struggling waitress. I won’t be traveling half way round the world seeking the miracle cure but I will see the local shaman, consider the recommended acupuncture, take every suggestion from family and friend at least semi-seriously — the green tea, the ginseng, the ginger, the vitamin C and D; ingest only things organic. I will remain polite to each helpful, loving gesture and accept at least half of them as I walk the ridgepole between herbalist and oncologist, the medicine men with rosaries or white lab coats.I want to welcome every good wish and blessing but I will not be coerced or seduced by experimental treatments, statistics translated as conventional wisdom, if it doesn’t match my version of common sense.

What I will do is take the supplements offered by my wife, feel her fingertips in the palm of my hand, make eye contact with her just before I swallow, remembering that moment before ingesting the communion wafer, (wars are fought over that moment — the debate between miracle or placebo), fix my eyes on her so that I can see the light within — the same light that lights the whole universe.


63 years old and on my honeymoon;

the travel smooth,

the village quaint,

the old inn cozy,

the food and drink exquisite.

The way we express our love —

every cell of the body, every

part of the soul is nurtured.

Then the laughter we share

before going to sleep.

Everything was perfect

like the day they said I had cancer

and the whole world stopped

so I could look at it!

This post was written and submitted by Steve Nolan. The article reflects the views of Nolan and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

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