Stress and Multiple Myeloma

On my treatment days, I prepare by drinking water in the morning so that there is enough fluid to draw blood. I arrive for bloodwork, feeling a bit tense in my shoulders, squeezing my fists rhythmically, willing my shy veins to surface and yield their maroon rivers flowing through my arms.

I scan the room for that perfect chair — the one by the window with a view stretching to infinity. My feng shui training reminds me: eyes resting on distant horizons bring calm to the entire body.

Then comes the moment of truth: the nurse hunting for a viable entry point. I regulate my breath as steel pierces flesh. I think back to my rotation of nurses; there was one they nicknamed “the vein whisperer” — her gentle fingers never failed to locate what others couldn’t find.

I had a ritual in those early clinical trial years — before each weekly infusion appointment, I’d close my eyes and whisper a mantra, “I believe in magic and miracles!” In the earliest days of my treatment, I was fitted for a hard, plastic brace to stabilize my spine. It often felt like a cage, and I quickly developed a horrific back wound that throbbed with a persistent ache. As I suffered the indignities of cancer, unexpected kindnesses would appear: my primary doctor making house calls to my apartment (three separate times!), or a social worker who somehow found ways to secure extra bandages when my insurance coverage ran dry.

I learned enough from the stress of battling cancer that when any variety of drama tightens my shoulders, I reach for comfort. Whether it be the flaky, homemade apple pie still warm from the oven, a slice of dark chocolate cake where my fork sinks through layers of ganache or a cup of coffee with half-and-half and a spoonful of sugar, these make the medicine of stress go down.

And those small acts of self-care and indulgence help me drift off to sleep, escaping the shouting matches that sometimes echoed through our house.

On a day-to-day basis, the ritual of kitchen work soothes me too — the rhythmic chopping of broccoli and carrots, the satisfying crackle as onions and garlic hit hot sesame oil, the steam rising as I toss vegetables in a well-seasoned wok.

In my work as a Feng Shui architect, I am often called to speak publicly. Before giving a presentation, I often feel anxious and sweaty, so I meticulously arrange my notes and rehearse the key points of my Zoom presentation. My college advisor’s words also echo in my mind: “Simplify, simplify your designs.” Despite knowing my material thoroughly, my stomach tightens when facing a room full of professionals. Their scrutinizing gazes seem to question my credentials as I work to present Feng Shui not as some mystical concept but as a practical approach to environmental harmony that anyone can understand and implement. A comfortable pace when speaking, as well as silences, creates a rhythm that helps tame stress.

But there’s nothing that steadies me like my daily Qigong ritual. Barefoot on the hardwood floor, my toes grip slightly as if sinking in the warm sand of the beach and seeking roots. Each inhalation fills my entire being, then empties in a long, measured sigh while my hands rise and sway with the unhurried grace of underwater plants. For those moments, the clock stops ticking, my mind quiets and I exist only in the perfect simplicity of movement and breath.

These different ways of minimizing stress — warm homemade apple pie and coffee, repeating my mantra, the slow arc of my arms through the air during Qigong — anchor me to the present moment, where gratitude blooms like a water lily, and positivity wraps around me like a warm, familiar blanket.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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