On the other hand, several people told me stories about friends who had a solitary plasma cytoma or multiple myeloma and died. One friend told me she “understood,” then proceeded to tell me about a 48-hour skin-cancer scare that turned out to be nothing. A Sikh taxi driver noticed I was limping, asked what was wrong, then browbeat me for my foolish reliance on Western medicine.

The truth is, a simple expression of warmth or sympathy went a long way. A co-worker said, “You poor guy. I’m sorry.” That was about right. A friend from my hometown—we used to walk to grade school together—sent me a letter. Near the end he wrote, “You are my oldest friend.” I don’t know why that had so much power, but for the first time since I’d found out I had cancer, I burst into tears.

DOWN TO THE MARROW
Now that I had bone-marrow cancer, I needed a new doctor. I went to see Steven Gruenstein, a hematologist and oncologist at Mount Sinai.

Dr. Gruenstein is a big lovable bear of a man, the son every stereotypical Jewish mother dreams about. He is a cancer survivor himself—kidney cancer.

Gruenstein’s first job, he said, was to confirm that I had a solitary plasma cytoma, and not multiple myeloma. He did a bone-marrow biopsy in his exam room, and sent me home with a cane. The tumor was threatening to breach the exterior wall of the bone, he said, and he was concerned I might fracture it.

Two days later, Gruenstein called me with my test results. The test was inconclusive—there weren’t enough cells in the sample to get a valid reading. I’d have to repeat the procedure.

In the meantime, Gruenstein ordered a PET scan. Never mind that a PET scan is considered one of the most important tests for multiple myeloma and that detecting the disease early might add years to my life. My insurance company refused to pay for it. To their way of thinking, I had no evidence of multiple myeloma from the tests I’d done so far—so I didn’t have it. No further testing required.

Dr. Gruenstein wrote a letter, and the test was approved. That was one of hundreds of pieces of insurance red tape I had to cut through. People ask, “Didn’t cancer ever make you angry?” Ask a claims representative at Oxford.

THE DINER
I had the PET scan after work one night. They inject you with a radioactive isotope that acts as a tracer for cancerous activity. On my way out, I asked one of the technicians if I was glowing. I meant it as a bit of gallows humor, but he answered by saying, “Well, sort of.”

He told me that the isotope has a half-life of about six hours. It wasn’t strictly necessary, he said, but I may want to avoid sleeping next to my wife tonight, especially if she’s pregnant. I told him my wife wasn’t pregnant, but that we had a 7-month-old daughter. “Oh,” he said, “sorry, you should definitely stay away from her.”

That night, I went to a diner, had a cheeseburger deluxe, and stayed there and read until 2 a.m. I was afraid of radiating someone next to me, so I sat alone. I felt like a character in a Hopper painting.

THE GREAT UNKNOWN
On Thursday, December 11, a month and a week after I had been told I had cancer, I met with Dr. Gruenstein in his office. Based on all the tests that had been done so far, he said, he believed that I had a solitary plasma cytoma and not multiple myeloma, and that he could put it into remission.

Remission for a day? A month? A year? Forever?

He couldn’t say.

I asked what the odds were of this eventually developing into multiple myeloma. Again, there was no firm answer.

The good news, he said, was that I wouldn’t need surgery or chemo. Radiation was the indicated treatment.

What were the odds it would work?

He couldn’t tell me that, either. We would have to wait and see.

Cancer is an exercise in uncertainty.

FEAR.COM
I had been warned not to go on the Internet, but now that I knew what I had, my curiosity got the better of me. What I learned was that solitary plasma cytomas are highly treatable if they occur in soft tissue, but much less treatable, and more likely to develop into multiple myeloma, when they occur in bone. I also learned that multiple myeloma has a five-year survival rate of 20 percent. I logged off.

DOES SHE CARE?
I said that I was glad that Didi wasn’t outwardly emotional about all of this, and I meant it. Her strength gave me strength. Yet at the same time, I had begun to wonder: If she never gets upset, does she care? After a while, I started to resent the fact that she hadn’t had a meltdown. We talked about it, and she explained that she cared but couldn’t afford to let her emotions go right now. I understood, but I didn’t want rational assurances. I wanted the meltdown.

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