The small rituals that carry us through each day with myeloma
They're not grand, but they're the invisible threads that hold our days together
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Every morning usually starts the same way now.
First, I warm the water for my mum’s tea. I prepare it exactly the way she likes it: with three spoons of milk and no sugar. The soft whistle of the kettle has become a familiar sound in our home.
When I carry the cup to her room, the steam rises between us like a quiet bridge. And when my mum takes the cup with both hands, for a moment we are simply mother and son again, sharing another morning.
No one can predict what the day may hold. I’ve had to learn to navigate this uncertainty and unpredictability since she was diagnosed with myeloma and I became her caregiver.
If she has any appointments or hospital visits, we make sure to attend them on time. Otherwise, I ensure that she takes her myeloma medication on schedule.
In the evening comes another small ritual.
I arrange her pillows with care, fluffing them so she can sit up comfortably to watch her favorite movie or television series.
My mum is fond of choosing the same scenes we have watched many times. I don’t mind. I have long since stopped worrying about why she takes delight in repeating episodes.
Sometimes I wonder if forgetfulness is a symptom of her rare cancer. Or could it be a side effect of the medications she’s taking?
I’ll probably ask the doctors the next time we visit the hospital, though I’m skeptical they will have a clear explanation, especially given that doctors and specialists sometimes disagree.
All the same, I still enjoy whatever she’s watching that evening, laughing at the same dramatic moments she does. These minutes feel like tiny anchors in a sea of uncertainty.
There is also the way I rub her back when the pain comes calling again.
My hand moves in slow circles, the same rhythm every time. As I massage her back, I don’t ask if it helps. I simply do it. My mum doesn’t always speak, but sometimes she lets out a small sigh of relief. In that shared silence, something sacred passes between us.
These rituals are not grand or spectacular. They will never appear in medical reports. Yet they have become the invisible threads that hold our days together, reminding me of how grateful I should be for a good day.
They also remind us that even in the midst of myeloma, we are still a family creating small moments of ordinariness and tenderness.
I have come to see these simple acts as silent prayers — not spoken in words, but performed with hands and presence, just like the invisible labor I perform daily.
And yes, I now also realize that these acts say what is sometimes hard to say aloud: I am here. You are not alone. We are still in this together.
When the bigger picture feels overbearing and I feel worn out and exhausted, I return to these small rituals. They are not solutions; they are simply love made visible, one cup of tea, one fluffed pillow, one gentle touch at a time.
Note: Rare Cancer News is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Rare Cancer News or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to rare cancer.
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