During my lifetime, I haven’t had much contact with famous people. In other words, I haven’t exchanged handshakes and howdy-dos with anybody that gets more attention than we non-famous people. I’m not sure just who should be considered famous, but I know them when I see them.

George H.W. Bush is probably the most famous person on the list, and Al Simpson is pretty well known, but the majority of other famous people I’ve met have been famous mostly in Wyoming, and most of them are politicians. I have, for example, talked to each of the last seven Wyoming governors. There are a few exceptions, like Olympic wrestler Rulon Gardner and singer Glenn Yarbrough, although I think he’s famous mostly among those who, like me, are refugees from the 1960s folk music era.

A few years ago, though, I crossed paths with one guy who qualifies as genuinely famous, Tom Brokaw, the one-time anchor of NBC News. Millions have seen him on TV and would recognize him if they saw him eating a salad at McDonald’s. To me, that’s famous.

It happened when I was shooting the Heart Mountain Center dedication and Brokaw was there to make a speech. I wasn’t looking to meet famous people. In fact, except for speaking to Sen. Daniel Inouye, I kept my distance from Brokaw and the other notable people to focus my attention on taking pictures.

At the end of the program, I packed up my camera, stepped out of the tent and paused for a moment. I was trying to remember where I had parked, when Brokaw came up behind me.

Well, it had been a long day, and I was anxious to get home because two grandchildren were waiting. I wasn’t looking for a conversation, but we exchanged a couple of comments, something about Powell, I think. I was about to wish him a good evening when his companion, probably thinking I was going to delay Brokaw’s departure, reminded him of a plane connection, and we went our separate ways.

I remember thinking during Brokaw’s speech that he seemed as tired as I felt, and maybe a little distracted. His demeanor on the way out gave me the same impression. Neither of us knew we were both suffering from multiple myeloma.

I was experiencing occasional pains in my ribs that came suddenly and ebbed in a few minutes, leaving only a spot that was sensitive to pressure. According to his book, “A Lucky Life Interrupted,” a nagging back pain was bothering Brokaw.

Two years later, August 2013, both of us would go to the Mayo Clinic and learn the reason for the pains; cancer was attacking our bones. The condition of my bones following major back surgery led to the blood test that revealed my cancer. Deteriorating vertebrae in his back led Brokaw’s doctor to order the same blood test for him.

There are some differences between our stories, of course. Brokaw has a lot more doctors taking care of him, including his own daughter. It seems as though everywhere he goes, he finds another doctor with a good record for treating “MM,” as he calls it, and adds him to his medical team.

By contrast, I have one oncologist looking after me, along with a physician’s assistant, but I have pretty high regard for both of them, and I know they are aware of the progress achieved in treating the disease. I also received some limited radiation, unlike Brokaw, and he has received a different course of drugs than I have.

Brokaw has a gold-plated health plan through his employer that allows him to consult with so many doctors, while I am dependent on the limitations of Medicare. Still, my treatment has been effective, as has his, and there are other effective treatments when they become necessary.

Multiple myeloma is not a common cancer, only 14th on the list of cancers occurring in the U.S. I don’t recall knowing anyone with myeloma before this, but, as it is with many ailments, when you have a personal connection with a malady, you become aware of others who have the same thing.

Recently, for example, I read that Montana author Ivan Doig died after eight years with the disease, and from Brokaw’s book I learned that Geraldine Ferraro, Walter Mondale’s running mate in the 1984 election, died of it four years ago, 12 years after she was diagnosed.

There has been considerable progress in treating this disease. The five-year survival rate in 1975 was a bit over 26 percent; in 2006 it was 45 percent. The hematologist who diagnosed my cancer told me that just in the past five years, advances have been made in treating the cancer.

Well, I don’t know how many years I have left, especially since I don’t know how long I had the disease before it was diagnosed. But not knowing how long you will live isn’t peculiar to having cancer. Like everyone else, I have never known how many years I have left. Death, after all, comes as “a thief in the night.”

But I’m hopeful. My chemo was effective, and my doctor says the remission that began last summer is still holding. Research is continuing, and there may be a major advance or two over the horizon. Maybe someone will find a cure, which will certainly make him or her famous.

I would be happy to meet that famous person in the future, or I might meet others. Truth be told, though, I’m content with knowing the people I already know, famous or not.

That includes all of you who just read this column.