When my husband Elijah, an NFL linebacker who had just retired from the Oakland Raiders—was diagnosed with multiple myeloma (MM) in 2005, our entire world shifted in an instant. He had spent his life as a professional athlete. He was 35, strong, healthy, dedicated to our family, and ready for the next chapter. And then suddenly we were sitting in a hospital room hearing a word neither of us had ever heard before: myeloma.
I remember the moment he first told me it was cancer. My mind immediately went to what most people think: Okay, it’s cancer, but he’s young. They’ll cut it out. People beat cancer all the time. But when he said the actual diagnosis, multiple myeloma, a blood cancer, the floor dropped out from under me.
A blood cancer meant it wasn’t something they could remove. It was everywhere. I didn’t even know how blood cancers were treated. So I did what everyone does when they’re desperate and terrified: I Googled it right there in the hospital room.
Everything I found was awful. Back then, nearly every description said myeloma primarily affected people in their late 60s or 70s twice Elijah’s age. Most of what I read suggested poor outcomes and limited treatment options. It felt like every link was another door slamming shut. But even in the middle of that fear, I was grateful his doctor recognized the signs quickly. His pain wasn’t from age or strain, it was organ failure. His kidneys had already been severely impacted, and he needed plasma exchange immediately. That early identification likely gave us more precious time with him.
From that moment on, life became a roller coaster with no breaks and no instruction manual. As Elijah began treatment, I suddenly became a full-time caregiver with absolutely no training. I was raising our two young sons, trying to keep their world steady while ours was spinning. I didn’t know what questions to ask. I didn’t know what resources existed, if any even did at the time. I was completely winging it, day after day. If a social worker was around, if support was available, I didn’t know how to find it. And during his stem cell transplant, I remember thinking how desperately I needed more guidance. More information. More anything.
Compared to today, treatment options were shockingly limited. There were essentially two: the stem cell transplant and a couple of drugs, one being thalidomide, which came with brutal side effects. Velcade was emerging, but that was it. There was no long list of alternatives, no hope of tailoring treatment, no promising pipeline of new therapies like there is now. It was terrifying knowing that the tools to fight this disease were so few.
Despite everything, Elijah fought with so much strength. When he felt well enough, he still coached our sons’ teams. He still showed up for life. He showed up for us. And I kept learning, kept pushing, kept advocating, even though I often felt like I was walking blindfolded.
Sixteen years have passed since Elijah moved on, but his impact on my life—and on the myeloma community, is still felt every day. We lost him suddenly in 2010, and the shock of that moment will stay with me forever. He didn’t pass from myeloma. He had been dealing with recurring blood clots, and one day he suffered an aneurysm. Because he also had sleep apnea, he lost oxygen to his brain. One moment we were talking, and twenty minutes later, he was gone. Out of the blue. Completely devastating.
I later learned that repeated concussions from his NFL career may have increased his risk for aneurysms—something no one had ever discussed with us. Had we known that, maybe they would have monitored him differently, or chosen alternate medications.
That knowledge came years later, and it hit me hard. But even in that grief, I knew one thing clearly: I wasn’t going to let our story disappear. I wasn’t going to let blood cancer silence us.
If I allowed what we went through to fade away, it would feel like letting cancer win. And that is the one thing I cannot and will not do. So I stay connected to the myeloma community. I raise awareness. I help families who are walking the same path we walked. I try to answer the questions I once had no one to answer for me.
Today, there are so many more treatment options, so many that people now talk about myeloma being managed like a chronic disease rather than a terminal one. The progress has been incredible. It brings me so much joy to see patients and caregivers with hope that simply didn’t exist in 2005. But with those advancements come new challenges too: financial toxicity, navigating insurance, finding specialists. And I stress to people all the time: you need a myeloma specialist. Not just a general oncologist. Someone who knows this disease inside and out.
I also encourage people to plug into support networks. When Elijah was diagnosed, support groups existed, but they were mostly older patients meeting on Saturdays—times and spaces that didn’t fit our young family’s reality. Now there are countless online communities, virtual groups, hashtags that connect you instantly to others living the same experience. That connection is everything. You never know who will share a story that mirrors yours or who will point you toward a resource that changes everything.
Especially in the Black community—where people may experience symptoms but not know what they mean, we have to talk openly about myeloma. We have to say its name. Sharing stories raises awareness. It builds recognition. It can literally save lives. I’m always stunned when I hear about public figures who battled myeloma silently, and then after they pass, no one speaks about it. Their stories could have sparked recognition, comfort, curiosity, advocacy, something. Anything.
Talking is powerful. Connecting is powerful. Telling the truth is powerful.
I share Elijah’s story not just to honor him, but to bring hope to families facing this disease today. Our story is one of love, of resilience, of learning in the dark, of refusing to let silence win. And even though Elijah didn’t pass from myeloma, myeloma shaped our lives and my mission.
The advancements today give me so much hope. My fingers are crossed that all this progress leads to a cure. But until that day comes, I’ll keep sharing, keep supporting, keep advocating—because no one should have to face what we faced alone.
Kimberly
Supporter and fundraiser
