Her death was a blunt reminder of my new reality. Pre-cancer I would have been saddened by her death. With cancer, my grief was accompanied by another sentiment: “Good God, do I now have to worry about a stroke?”

Since multiple myeloma is more common among men of my age, I have a new generational cohort. A college athletic director in the Southeastern Conference, a pro football defensive ends coach, an admiral I met on an aircraft carrier in the war zone. We’ve become email pals, comparing notes on drugs, side effects, fatigue, treatments.

Other patients write to volunteer their experience and inquire about my drug protocol. A man my age whom I recently met learned he had it in 2002 before the new treatments were available and he’s doing well 14 years later. Hallelujah.

Age alone puts me in my twilight years; and cancer only heightens that objective reality. Yet I am not consumed by the prospect of death. When it intermittently enters my consciousness it has an abstract quality. I can’t quite get a grip on how this life might end.

No surprise. I’ve had a lot more experience living than dying. It’s been a life of high highs and very few lows. There were some wrong turns along the way but no lasting damage. This cancer ordeal is by far the worst, though it has redeeming qualities.

In the cancer ecosystem I became a traffic cop for others with multiple myeloma. “You may want to see Dr. X,” or “Let me make a call — maybe they’ll have room for you after all.”

I have also gained an appreciation for the doctors and laboratory technicians who spend their lives in tedious pursuit of a cure. Cancer-free people are blessed, but they are not always aware of the dedication, compassion and genius of those I’ve come to know who are daily engaged in the war against this elusive, pernicious enemy. They’re the students you tried to sit next to in high school biology classes, and they get too little attention or credit.