Ronald Chin

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.

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

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

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.

Articles

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! 

Looking Back on the Shock of a Multiple Myeloma Diagnosis

What does standing up to cancer mean to you?

Standing up to cancer means literally standing on my own two feet without using my rollator or sparingly using the sleek gold-color cane that has become both my support and my silent companion.

I was diagnosed in January 2017 with multiple myeloma, a blood cancer that gnawed through my bones like termites through timber, resulting in permanent fractures in my lower spine. The pain was a constant reminder of my fragile skeleton, leaving me bedridden and confined to a wheelchair for nearly two years.

I am happy to report that, eight years later, I can now navigate the crowded sidewalks of the city with only a cane, feeling the satisfying thud of its rubber tip against the concrete with each gratifying step. I now use my rollator as my urban SUV, complete with an attached black bag and seat, which is perfect for carrying bags of fresh produce from Whole Foods, just a 10-minute walk from my apartment.

In addition to preparing healthy, organic meals and teaching qigong, a guided moving meditation practice, I've discovered that my mental outlook flourishes when surrounded by those who lift my spirit. This past August marked a turning point when my wife, noticing my improved vitality, suggested I join my sister on a trip to her home in New Hampshire and attend a huge family party in Massachusetts.

The worry on my wife's face softened knowing my sister would be there to hoist my carry-on luggage into the overhead compartment and balance my laptop bag on her shoulder. The journey culminated in a lovely wedding party where 70 relatives gathered together for a delicious outdoor barbecue, and I stood without my cane to ring my Tibetan bells—their crystalline tones blessing my young cousins.

Standing up to cancer also means sharing my journey through writing blogs and memoir pages that bloom like wildflowers across the internet, each one a small beacon of hope for someone else who may be struggling in the dark. Though I can no longer move desks or furniture, I can help move people's minds, nudging them gently toward a renewed perspective of their life reflected in their space, the warm hearth of gratitude, and the healing embrace of love that sustained me through my darkest nights.

Back when I was first diagnosed, the phone rang just as we got back home to our apartment, still wearing the paper bracelet from the ER. Nine hours of fluorescent lights and beeping monitors had left me feeling physically and mentally exhausted. The doctor's voice calls me at home at 10 p.m.: "Your scan results are concerning. There's pressure on your spine that could lead to paralysis. You need to come back tonight." My wife's face drained of color as she watched me absorb the news. I looked down at my IPhone, then at the clock reading 10:15 pm. "I can't," I said, my voice steady and calm. "I'll be there first thing tomorrow morning, after I've slept in my own bed for a good night's rest and had breakfast." When I hung up, my wife looked at me with a concerned look. "Are you sure?" she whispered. I was.

The next morning, walking through those same hospital doors with eight hours of sleep behind me, I felt good, filled with hope and a smile, a strength I needed to face whatever came next.

Today, I face cancer by staring death in the eye without blinking. When somber thoughts creep in, I find myself drawing strength from my wife's hand holding mine, from my daily group, Bells of Hope where the focus is to de-stress and disconnect from the pace of modern life, sharing their support and attention, and from the quiet resolve I've discovered within myself. These connections have become my landmarks, alongside my determination to find joy even on the hardest days.

Standing up to cancer involves overcoming physical limitations and embracing life with resilience and hope. After being diagnosed with multiple myeloma, the author transitioned from being bedridden to walking with a cane, symbolizing personal triumph. The journey includes maintaining a positive mental outlook, engaging in healthy practices, and finding strength in community and family support. Writing and sharing experiences serve as a beacon of hope for others. The narrative emphasizes the importance of inner strength, gratitude, and love in facing the challenges of cancer.

Thoughts on standing up to cancer through recovered mobility and by sharing my multiple myeloma journey.

Ronald Chin

Sharing Insights Into a Multiple Myeloma Journey

Navigating Life’s Path With Multiple Myeloma

Looking Back on the Shock of a Multiple Myeloma Diagnosis

Standing Up to Cancer on My Own Two Feet

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