Ronald Chin

Ronald Chin received a diagnosis of multiple myeloma in January 2017 and has been in remission since October 2023. Catch up on all of 

My phone rang while I was visiting my family in Atlanta during my Christmas vacation in 2023.

"Hello, this is Leslee from the Jacques Marchais Museum of Tibetan Art," said the voice on the other end. "We'd like you to give an in-person presentation on feng shui." For the first time since my multiple myeloma diagnosis, I felt my lungs fully expand with possibility.

My hands trembled as I arranged my notes. Seven years since I'd taught, seven years since the diagnosis that halted everything. Familiar and new faces watched expectantly. I breathed in, let the silence settle and began.

The presentation was scheduled for a rainy Saturday morning in March 2024. Even though water was seeping and flooding the entry library area, it was the first time for me teaching since 2016. Now a couple of years after the pandemic, the room held the precious sight of uncovered faces.

Over thirty attendees filled the incense-scented meditation hall of the JMMTA, with bright light from the gray skies streaming through the tall windows onto the cathedral-height temple, surrounded by Buddha statues and Tibetan deities, where the participants were comfortably seated on floor cushions and pillows. I guided them through the Five Elements theory and bagua mapping, then led the group outside to the Zen garden, where the outdoor sculptures and plantings demonstrated the possibilities of placement according to feng shui principles. Back inside, I taught gentle qigong movements, including the "embracing the tree" posture, as our collective breath became synchronized. We closed our mini-retreat with the ringing of my Tibetan tingshas. We completed the circle by connecting hands and chanting "Om mani padme hum."

The second moment that life felt meaningful again was when I presented at the online summit for the London School of Feng Shui earlier this month. The familiar screen of the Zoom waiting room dissolved into a mosaic of faces — over a hundred attendees from across the world, their curious eyes peering from thumbnails arranged like a digital quilt.

My portfolio included the e.l.f Cosmetics corporate office in Oakland, California, the classic Water Dragon formation in Dayton, Ohio, and the transformation of my personal office and healing space.

Though I've participated in their summits before, this time felt different — my voice more assertive and my gestures more confident. I guided the attendees through the portfolio of my work.

I laid out a kaleidoscope of projects spanning the last couple years of work. My signature style emerged through vibrant-colored markers on floor plans, featuring crimson accent arrows and jade-toned green plantings. I included the stark, precise CAD renderings of a Tobago shipping container house subtly integrated into modern design. My hand-drawn color sketches of NYC Chinatown captured the neighborhood's hidden energy flows between century-old buildings.

Finally, I revealed photographs of my own office and healing space — its carefully positioned Brazilian crystals, green peace lilies and money tree plants in the dining room, and the small stone fountain whose gentle burble had soothed so many clients back to balance.

After I finished the presentation, EJ Shaffert — the loquacious owner of the London School who had coordinated the entire summit — expounded to the group, "RD - watching you today was like seeing a master architect creating a Qi-filled portfolio of spaces. It's a true renaissance of your work, more vibrant and insightful than before.”

While preparing my presentation at my desk, I realized I had completed eleven substantial projects since my recovery — reminds me to keep breathing life back into spaces and, unknowingly, breathe it back into me.

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

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Articles

A feng shui expert, after a seven-year hiatus due to a multiple myeloma diagnosis, finds renewed purpose through teaching and presenting. The journey begins with an in-person presentation at the Jacques Marchais Museum of Tibetan Art, followed by an online summit for the London School of Feng Shui. The expert shares a portfolio of projects, showcasing a unique style and personal healing space. The experience is described as a renaissance, highlighting the transformative power of breathing life into spaces and oneself, underscoring the symbiotic relationship between personal healing and professional growth.

I found purpose again after my myeloma diagnosis when I returned to teaching and shared my work, moments that reminded me I could still grow and reconnect.

Two Meaningful Moments on My Multiple Myeloma Journey

CURE contributor Ronald D. Chin received a diagnosis of multiple myeloma in 2017 and has been in remission since 2023.

Sharing Insights Into a Multiple Myeloma Journey 

Multiple myeloma survivor Ronald D. Chin, one of CURE’s contributing bloggers, shared a bit of his blood cancer journey in a recent vlog entry for CURE.

Chin received a diagnosis of multiple myeloma in January 2017, and he has been in remission since October 2023.

As a result of his blood cancer, Chin has experienced five fractures in his lower spine and he has lost six inches of height, going from being five feet and eight inches tall to five feet and two inches.

“But,” he states in his vlog, “I am happy to report eight years later now, I am [once again] able to walk, go up and down stairs, go to physical therapy once or twice a week.”

Chen also spotlighted his work with the Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation and his participation in their fundraiser walk as part of a group known as The Bloodhounds.

“And the Bloodhounds are the dogs who are persistent, to find a cure,” Chin shared.

Hi, my name is Ron Chin. I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma back in January of 2017. Unfortunately, five fractures are now in my lower spine. I shrank from [a height of] five [feet] eight [inches] to five [feet] two [inches], but I am happy to report eight years later now, I am able to walk, go up and down stairs, go to physical therapy once or twice a week.

And the screenshot that's behind me is the Spirit of Hope tent, which is part of the Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation fundraiser walk and the woman who created this group called the Bloodhounds. And the Bloodhounds are the dogs who are persistent, to find a cure. So please, read my blogs on curetoday.com, and I hope that my stories will inspire you on your journey through your cancer.

Transcript has been edited for clarity and conciseness.

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A quote shared during our bi-weekly Tuesday multiple myeloma support group, where five or more gather in the virtual Zoom room, reads: "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be." It is by the writer Douglas Adams.

Our facilitator discovered it printed in a tiny italic font at the bottom of a laminated menu at a cafe near Mount Sinai hospital. She was inspired to present this quote as a prompt for our group. Adams is best known for the mock science-fiction series known collectively as “The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.” Here is my essay, generated from this writing prompt:

It was my high school drafting class that changed everything for me. I'd been dreaming of studying the ocean. I had seven aquariums at home with both fresh and saltwater creatures. I had volunteered at the gift shop of the New England Aquarium when it first opened its doors. Though I was not exactly handling marine specimens, I could smell the salt water from where I stood, and that was enough.

Then the guidance counselor placed me in advanced courses, which included drafting. I remember rolling my eyes — what did technical drawing have to do with Jacques Cousteau? But watching my drafting teacher’s hands create worlds from straight lines, hearing him talk about space and structure with such reverence, seeing my own A-grade sketches unfold — suddenly architecture seemed like its own kind of ocean, vast and waiting for exploration.

After 12 years as a traditional architect who designed residences, offices and institutions with bold spaces, glass facades and sharp angles, my life's path veered unexpectedly. In 1990, within the span of three months, I lost both my father to heart failure and my closest friend, Mitch, to AIDS. I felt something shift inside me. Six months later, I found myself studying the ancient Chinese art of Feng Shui and incorporating blessing rituals from various spiritual traditions into my designs —creating spaces that healed rather than merely housed. That this work has allowed me to travel the globe several times — wandering through the narrow, cobblestoned streets of Nepal at dawn, feeling the grandeur of cathedrals in Europe, watching the elephants in Thailand — and living in Amsterdam for some years, where my apartment overlooked a canal in the same neighborhood of the Anne Frank house, I have clearly been blessed.

Where does time fly? After years of adventure, then came the diagnosis of multiple myeloma, which transformed me into an armchair traveler, my adventures now confined to my IPhone Facebook posts. But I realized that all my life experiences — the languages I've fumbled through, the strange foods I've tasted, the countless times I've been lost and found my way — have tremendously helped me develop a deeper compassion and understanding of others' journeys, especially those navigating illness and limitation. And in the last eight years, I have become much more observant about handicapped features in apartments, offices and buildings — the width of doorways that must accommodate wheelchairs, the height of light switches that should be reachable from a seated position, the gentle slope of ramps that replace imposing staircases.

Another aspect that I learned about myself through this cancer journey is about life’s priorities. Being selective about doing my "to do" list has become a delicate art. I can't do everything when energy is as precious as water in a desert. Recently I had to choose between doing a presentation at the townhouse of the famed architect Paul Rudolph whose midtown home now serves to help promote his legacy. A former colleague who wanted me to share my experience and stories of our working together to his office team. My other choice was attending a summer garden party with a fellow myeloma friend who understood the weight of good days. After hours of deliberation, I chose the townhouse presentation because it was an opportunity to share and teach my experience of working for Rudolph.

Following the presentation, my friend sent me a link to join her group called the Bloodhounds for the upcoming multiple myeloma walk in October. I look forward to joining the crusade to find a cure along the Hudson River.

So, the quote by Douglas Adams — "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be"— feels like a lighthouse beam cutting through the fog of my meandering path from an oceanography student to architect to Feng Shui practitioner to someone navigating life with multiple myeloma. Each unexpected turn — the deaths in my life, the teachers who inspire, the illness that kept me bedridden for months — revealed itself as necessary, each seemingly pointless detour through grief and confusion is somehow essential to the wiser and grateful person I've become.

The narrative reflects a personal journey of transformation, highlighting the unexpected turns in life that lead to profound self-discovery and growth. Initially aspiring to study oceanography, the author found a new passion in architecture, which later evolved into a focus on creating healing spaces through Feng Shui. The diagnosis of multiple myeloma shifted priorities, fostering a deeper understanding of life's limitations and the importance of compassion. The journey underscores the significance of embracing life's unpredictability and finding purpose in unexpected paths.

Thoughts on life, multiple myeloma, architecture and Douglas Adams.

Navigating Life’s Path With Multiple Myeloma

What is the first emotion that comes to mind about your cancer journey?

For me, the strong emotion that I choose is shock!

Shock is defined as a sudden, unexpected or startling event or experience that leaves one feeling unsettled. Two vivid memories come to mind: the moment I received the diagnosis and being in the hospital for the first time.

My first memory of that moment is vivid: the sheer disbelief and lack of comprehension as I grappled with the possibility of having cancer. The phone call from my doctor felt surreal, his voice urging me to contact an oncologist reverberating in my mind. As I hung up, my wife, Heather, stood beside me, tears streaming down her face, a silent testament to the gravity of the situation. Cancer was a familiar shadow in Heather's family, a specter she had confronted before. In contrast, my family's health history was predominantly marked by struggles with heart and lung issues. This diagnosis felt like an alien intrusion into my life, something I never imagined would touch me.

My second memory: The cold, sterile environment of the hospital was overwhelming as I found myself there for the first time, having been admitted through the ER in the wee hours of 3 a.m. It was my neighbor, Lee, who strongly suggested that we head to the ER during this quiet time. He assured us that the atmosphere would be calm and serene, with a fresh shift of doctors ready to attend to patients.

So, with the MRI CDs in hand, Heather and I climbed into a taxi. The city was cloaked in a cool, predawn stillness, the streets mostly empty. As we made our way to Columbia Presbyterian, nestled near the majestic span of the George Washington Bridge, the taxi's engine hummed softly, lulling us into a momentary peace amidst the anxiety of the unknown. At the hospital, the fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow, and the beeping of machines filled the air. After being taken to my hospital room, one particular doctor stood out — a very pregnant woman who moved with a gentle grace. Her presence was comforting, almost ethereal, like an angel sent to deliver important news. Her calm demeanor and reassuring voice made the daunting experience a little less intimidating. She forewarned me that a parade of doctors and specialists would visit me. And true to her word, I was astounded by the procession of physicians and consultants that continuously streamed in to check on me, each wearing their white coats and holding clipboards filled with notes.

Following the endless series of MRIs, blood tests and a multitude of assessments, the ultimate procedure was the bone marrow biopsy. This is the definitive test to determine the diagnosis of multiple myeloma. The room was filled with apprehension and uneasiness, yet it was the presence of the gentle angel of the same doctor who was with child that brought me both surprise and relief. Her delicate hands, steady and practiced, carried out the procedure right there in my hospital bed, assisted by a diligent aide. As the needle pierced my hip bone, I tuned into my meditation music, the soft, soothing melodies weaving a cocoon of calm around me. I begin to chant “Om mani padme hum, OM MANI PADME HUM!” I repeated the words over and over, first under my breath, then loudly enough for everyone in the hallway to hear, as if the sound of my own voice could shield me from what was coming — this procedure that would reach into places I'd rather keep private.

There is a vast landscape of emotions to navigate when it comes to our health journey. Embracing mindful practices like meditation allows us to delve into the depths of our minds, fostering a sense of inner calm and clarity. Attending support groups brings a sense of community and understanding, where shared stories and empathetic listening weave a tapestry of camaraderie and reassurance. These practices help me to maintain a delicate equilibrium, reducing stress and nurturing a harmonious balance in my life.

Shock is a predominant emotion experienced during a cancer journey, often triggered by the initial diagnosis and subsequent hospital visits. The unexpected nature of the diagnosis can be unsettling, especially when it contrasts with one's family health history. Hospital experiences, marked by sterile environments and numerous medical procedures, can amplify feelings of anxiety. However, the presence of compassionate healthcare professionals and the adoption of mindful practices like meditation can provide comfort and a sense of control. Support groups also offer community and understanding, helping to maintain emotional balance.

What is the first emotion that comes to mind about your cancer journey?  For me, the strong emotion that I choose is shock! 

Ronald Chin

Two Meaningful Moments on My Multiple Myeloma Journey

Sharing Insights Into a Multiple Myeloma Journey

Navigating Life’s Path With Multiple Myeloma

Looking Back on the Shock of a Multiple Myeloma Diagnosis

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