Elizabeth's Speech

Come up, Elizabeth. Wow. I'm going to start with a story. If you can imagine. Six weeks ago, I was sitting in a wheelchair at the top of a long flight of stairs above a really steep driveway at my house. And I was in some badass pain. I just fractured my sternum, and it hurt so much that I could barely stay conscious. And all I could do was fold in on myself like a little child. And I didn't know how the heck I was going to get down those stairs. And I had an EMT crew, and behind me was a really tall guy. Strong, really tall. And in front of me was a strong woman, not tall at all. And so if you can imagine the wheelchair, we were on an angle like this going down the stairs, my house. And so the front of the wheelchair hit each stair and went thud, thud, thud. And each thud shot through me like a knife. And all I could do was talk to myself. And I said, it's only pain. It's not gonna kill you. Make pain your friend. It's only pain. It's not gonna kill you. Make pain your friend. And I'm gonna be honest. I also kind of shouted out, could we get somebody taller in the front? But I got down the stairs and I got down the driveway, and I got into the ambulance and I gave that EMT my arm, and he put that blessed fentanyl in. Things started to get better, and I shifted, and I went from it's only pain. It's not going to kill you to thank you. Thank you, body. Thank you, caregivers. Thank you for taking such good care of me. Thank you. And you know what that is, guys? That's adaptation. That's what we do. None of us choose the hardest things in our lives. I certainly didn't choose multiple myeloma. But there I was in February of 2021, hearing those words. This isn't good. Have you ever heard of multiple myeloma? And in that moment, the life I'd envisioned for myself evaporated. What I thought had been muscle pulls from horseback riding turned out to be cancer eating away at my ribs. Moth eaten was what one radiologist called my ribs. Now, I thought I was going to live to be really old and stay super active and vibrant. But now I faced a choice. To hunker down in survival mode and shut people out or let them in. And I chose to be seen. And that's adaptation, too. Letting people who care into this complex and frightening world of living with multiple myeloma. Adaptation. It's what we do. So we adapt to the ravages of myeloma, Bone pain, debilitating damage, kidney problems, extramedullary tumors. We adapt to treatments, some that help and some that fail us, but all pull us out of our lives and into the clinic or into the hospital. We adapt to side effects, and most of us adapt without even talking about it. We smile when people say, you look great. You must be in remission now. Despite how I look right now, I'm adapting to the side effects of a very powerful bispecific antibody, talquetamab. Thank you, Dr. Chari. I'm learning to eat without functioning saliva and taste buds, with skin that prickles and itches and a nasty rash. But that's what we do. We transform from fiercely independent spirits to needing to accept health help with grace. And hardest of all, we adapt to the truth that most of us will leave this world sooner than we hoped. And I chose not to adapt alone. I let people in. I spoke my truth. And the people who walk beside me have made all the difference. My walking partner of 30 years, who I can't look at right now without crying, has taught me that showing up over and over is an act of profound love. My family, my dear friends, they show up without being asked. They listen, and they support me. My art for recovery writing group, my care providers, my teachers, my trainers. And then there was this man, John Waller. He filmed the Alaska hike that Jen and I went on. And he was living at the time with stage four colon cancer. And he walked with me for such a short time until the very end of his life. But he taught me how to cultivate vitality in the face of insurmountable odds and how to curate your exit when it's time to go. And then there's my high power professional network. When I was discharged from the hospital this last time, just a few weeks ago, I was still feeling pretty crummy, pretty weak. And one of my high power friends appeared at my door with a bag containing handwritten letters from my high power sisters at an off site I was too sick to attend. Now, these weren't texts or emojis. They were real paper and real ink. And as I held each letter, I could see the writer. I could hear her voice. I could see myself through her eyes. And that's what community does. It brings you back to yourself when you feel most lost. But adaptation and community alone aren't enough. We need research. It's our lifeline. It's our future. And right now, that lifeline is threatened by cuts to the nih budget. For us, these cuts might mean promising clinical trials. Never leave the laboratory. And time is not a luxury we can afford. So today, I'm asking you to do more than walk. I'm asking you to advocate. Call your representatives, share your stories. This walk is about raising money. But it's more than that. It's about showing up fully and telling everyone you know who's living with multiple myeloma. You're not alone. So look around you right now. Look at these beautiful, resilient human beings. We're not defined by our disease. We're defined by our courage, our compassion, our choice to keep showing up. We've stared into the abyss of our mortality and emerged with profound wisdom. We all know that what matters isn't how long we live, but how deeply we love. Every one of us faces things we didn't choose. But perhaps the greatest power we have is how we respond. We can choose to find meaning. We can choose to advocate. We can choose to walk beside each other. Together, we'll ensure that this research continues, that hope remains, and that future generations may not need to adapt to multiple myeloma at all. Because we stood up, because we spoke out, because we refused to let research funding be cut, I didn't choose multiple myeloma, but I can choose how I walk through it. And today, we choose to walk together. Thank you.