I just read the article in the St. Pete Times by Eric Deggans about your war with cancer. I, too, have been fighting for two years now. I was diagnosed with breast cancer, which spread to the liver, lymph nodes, and bones. I underwent chemo for six months, then went into remission for another six months before those "tumor markers" started moving up again. The second chemo was horrible — it didn't work for me, and it seized up my bowel for a while, along with the usual mouth sores, etc. The tumor markers continued to move up, and I insisted the doctor change the chemo. He did finally, but then around Christmas, I noticed I was becoming increasingly dizzy. It was difficult to continue working. I was sent for a brain MRI which showed numerous spots of cancer! I was devastated when the doctor told me that chemo doesn't work on the brain. I thought, if that was the case, why didn't they periodically give me a brain MRI? I had fourteen sessions of radiation of the brain, along with steroids, which puffed up my face! It's still puffy, and I hate the way I look! I'm still getting chemo, but a lower dose. My eyes are ruined by it, and I'm having problems with my teeth! I had to leave my job and take early retirement disability. I'm on a fixed income now that just covers my bills. If Citizens Insurance hits me up for another horrendous increase, I'll be forced to sell my house. I'm a sixty-one-year-old female who raised two infants as a single mother. I always had a sufficient income, but now I'll be poor! I see that I'm rambling — sorry — meant to make this short!

Your comment about "quality of life" really hit home. I think of my life before as the normal life. Now it's the abnormal life. I'm always "waiting to exhale" after another test or doctor's visit! I got the results of my brain MRI from last week, and it showed only two spots remaining out of numerous spots. I'm holding my breath for the October MRI and worrying that in the meantime, it will start up again!

So after I got the results, I went out and bought the prescription sunglasses I needed. You're right about buying things — I haven't bought myself any clothes in a long time! Wanted to let you know that when I was diagnosed in June 2004, all the doctors in the hospital looked at me like I was a goner. My cancer was so widespread and my tumor markers were off the chart. Even my oncology doctor tells me now that he didn't expect me to live this long. (He's got to get me off chemo again because I'm so saturated with it, and my markers are down to forty-one!) Remission time, I hope! Please hang in there — it's a roller coaster ride I wouldn't wish on anyone!

Sent by Diana Sherman | 10:33 AM ET | 06-26-2006

My wife is battling breast cancer and I wanted to offer you this website. After three bounds of chemo and radiation, it seems there is not much hope from a conventional view. Natural supplementation is the only other course. It is worth the read. I have started my wife on some of the products... I have placed this under "it cant hurt to try". Good luck.

Sent by Will Chrissley | 10:36 AM ET | 06-26-2006

On February 2004, I had brain surgery for a myoblastoma multiforma. I was told that most people die within six months. That was over two years ago.

I had radiation after the surgery and have been on a regimen of Temodar for two years. I just had an MRI and there is no cancer or tumor. I am normal except for the five days a month that I take the Temador. Only the first day is uncomfortable, with vomiting in the morning. After that, it really isn't a problem. After the surgery I noticed that my loved ones and friends treated me as if they were at my wake — as if I were already dead. That is no longer the case. I am back to normal life and they are simply amazed that I am so healthy. I'm not amazed at all. I never considered myself sick — ever. I have been here to see my first grandson born (on my birthday), and I just came from my eldest grand daughters' thirteenth birthday party. I was in stage IV with the most virulent brain cancer there is, and I am "cured." My doctor, Dr. Gade, at Morton Plant Hospital, has proven to me that the healthcare system works. I am not rich and had no insurance — yet I am receiving top care.

Your "chemo" sounds debilitating. Temador has never been more than a mild nuisance — less than a week of menstruating. Here's to both of us.

Ain't life grand?

Sent by Peter Angelo | 10:51 AM ET | 06-26-2006

Thanks for writing about how you broke the news to your community about your cancer. It's a commentary on our society's fear of death that we are dealing with — IMHO.

I also was diagonosed with cancer and I chose to tell everyone I knew, except my customers, about my diagnosis and the prognosis. I used the internet to tell my friends and family.

Some replied and others did not. Some visited and others did not. After each visit with my oncologist, I would write to my "list" and tell them what had happened.

Part of the reason for doing so was to help educate the people I knew about how cancer is treated and how one can deal with it. I may not be a Lance Armstrong, but we all can be models for others by not hiding our reality.

We are the people who face death, more than the rest of us. We are not able to pretend that we won't ever die. Or pretend that we can put off dealing with what is important to us unitl "later."

Because there may be no later.

Of course, anyone on my list could have died well before me. Car accidents kill way more people than cancer does. My biological dad died from a fall in his shower that gave him a blood clot. He died the same day, while in the second emergency room, awaiting treatment for his bruised head. :(

Not many of us can deal with the reality that we will be dying... later or sooner. I was "fortunate" in that my family is made up of survivors, and children of survivors of the holocaust.

I grew up hearing about death every day. I learned that every day was the last day of the rest of my life. The problem with that outlook is that your retirement fund doesn't look so good when you make it to sixty!

So keep up the writing. Tell us what it's like to face death every day, while others are in denial. We need to be there for each other in the moment.

Nobody really knows when they will pass on. And nobody should have to handle this alone.

Sent by Free Polazzo | 11:02 AM ET | 06-26-2006

In October 1979, I discovered that I had melanoma cancer of the lymph system. Doctors said I had only six months to live! What kept me alive for twenty-seven years? Good medical care in Helsinki Finland Hospitals, kind and caring family and friends, and the prayers of Christians from many parts of the world. This gave me a positive attitude to plan to live and not plan to die. Now over twenty-seven years later I am still alive with no cancer. A positive attitude is very necessary to overcome cancer of any disease, but I believe the prayers of hundreds of friends were the main factor in my recovery.

Sent by Tom | 11:09 AM ET | 06-26-2006

Keep on handling things just the way you are. It has to be your way or no way at all. I had cancer in 1994. I remember all too well having to tell people. Telling my parents was the worst. I remember the process of who to tell and who not to tell. I really didn't feel it was everyone's right to know.

My three children were very small. Just four, two, and nine months. The struggle to protect them was the most important thing to me. I am okay now. The kids were actually shocked when they found out. They had no idea at the time. They just spent almost one entire summer at Grandma's house. That felt like winning to me... that I protected them so thoroughly!

Now we live in the very real reality that the cancer could, probably will, re-emerge sometime. But the battle is fought one minute, hour, day, month — sometimes years at a time. Each one is a gift and a victory. Live well!

Sent by Sharie Stranathan | 11:17 AM ET | 06-26-2006

Last year, I had what was to have been a perfectly routine endoscopy — the examination of the opposite end of the colonoscopy. As I regained consciousness, the MD told me that she had found a "mass" and that I should immediately go for a CT scan. What's a "mass"? After all, she didn't use the word "cancer", and it wasn't until my primary care MD called me to tell me the names of the surgeon and oncologist with whom I should immediately schedule appointments, that I realized they were telling me I had cancer.

I understand exactly the experience Leroy Sievers is describing. Because I am single, I felt a great deal of pressure to create an "army of handholders" — people who would be with me through the cutting-edge treatment that I received. There were friends who supported me through chemo, all the prep for surgery and even the awful chemo after surgery. Other people couldn't tolerate my needs and simply dropped out.

Out of all the processes through which I progressed to reach my current state of good health, there was one major change in my life. My sisters, with whom I have had a cordial but not close relationship, were with me when I was at my most vulnerable.

I had a brush with my own mortality.

The most important change out of discovering how short life really is, is my willingness to respect what really matters: true friends and loving sisters.

Sent by Susan Lindau | 11:23 AM ET | 06-26-2006

My husband, Herbert New, had lung cancer last year, brain cancer 4 mg diagnosed two weeks ago. He had a Vanderbilt neurosurgeon take the cancer from the cerebellum (21 stitches). This surgery was June 23. He came home yesterday, June 25, and is like a new man. We both know it was not a long time but it is comforting to see a two-day turnaround. He is retired Army, bronze and silver star, purple heart, and never gives up. I am able to be strong just by seeing him each day and each hour. I hope this will give someone else hope for quality of life. I overheard a lady at Vanderbilt say, "I believe because it is so damn hard not to." I agree.

Sent by Betty New | 11:26 AM ET | 06-26-2006

I am a lung cancer survivor diagnosed with advanced non-small cell lung cancer on Jan. 3, 2002. My favorite saying is, "I'm not dying of lung cancer, I'm living with it." My friends, family and I have been fighting this disease. I've gone from a terminal illness to a chronic one. My doctor told me at my last visit that he thought I was in remission. I never thought that I'd hear that. Now, what to do with the rest of my life? Since January 2006, Ive become a phone buddy for the Lung Cancer Alliance - I talk to five people right now. It's always very rewarding even though sometimes scary and sad.

Leroy, thank you for making your journey with cancer a public one. It's so important for all of us to understand that dealing with a life-threatening disease doesn't just impact people physically. It's not just about the chemo (although some days it is) — it's about being a cancer survivor and going on with your life.

Sent by Sharon Hindus | 11:30 AM ET | 06-26-2006

Allowing yourself to love and be loved! What a gift to give to yourself and to others. Will be thinking about you — particularly as my very good friend, recently diagnosed with cancer, allows me to continue to befriend her.

Sent by Sandra Yudilevich | 11:32 AM ET | 06-26-2006

Thank you for your honest and quite correct view on living with cancer. It's a part of life, your life, but so is the jam-up in traffic this morning, the funny thing the cat did, and your next scan appointment. It's not (and shouldn't be) your entire life. Eighteen years of oncology nursing has taught me that.

Sent by Anne | 11:53 AM ET | 06-26-2006

Leroy,

Thanks for doing this. I am a cancer survivor for twenty-plus years. It's okay now for me but when I was going through it, no one would talk about it. People need to know that it is okay to talk. I will be reading...

Sent by Mary Stewart | 12:01 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I just read your column (then heard on the air it a few minutes later) in which you describe how you tell people about your cancer.

A couple of years ago, I began my trip on a similar learning curve. In my case, it was an advanced squamous cell carcinoma at the base of my tongue.

To a large extent, I agree with you about telling people no more than we think they can handle. But, I also think that we have a certain obligation to draw them — the people whom we don't think can handle "full disclosure", into the light of honesty and openness about this disease.

Sent by Dan Robbins | 12:07 PM ET | 06-26-2006

Thank you for using your talents to articulate events and emotions that for some of us cancer survivors is difficult and cumbersome to write about.

You are in my thoughts and prayers. Fight the good fight.

Sent by Terri Driscoll | 12:17 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I was very touched hearing your letter on NPR this morning. I am very lucky not to be in the same predicament, but if I ever find myself there, I hope I will have the strength of character to handle it as well as you do. I wish the very best for you.

Sent by Didier | 12:19 PM ET | 06-26-2006

Done that! 2002 colon, PET, CAT, Ultra Sound, chemo, scopes out the *.*, surgery, bag, more surgery, no bag, more chemo. I told concerned friends this disease was nothing more than a pimple on my @$$ and it would heal. I do know now is the time to be concerned and to be current on all the tests. Best of luck to you and most of all, be positive. Your radio piece was absolutely dead on.

Sent by Gerald Jerry | 12:23 PM ET | 06-26-2006

My mother just died of metastatic cancer on June 3rd, and I want to tell you how I loved your story. Even though it was my mom who had the cancer diagnosis, I found both her and I had the same difficulty you are describing about telling people about the cancer. Certainly I still pause when people ask me "How are you?", because I haven't yet healed from it all. Thank you for letting your audience hear what you have to say. It really helps us and I hope you get some benefit as well.

Sent by Loren Ray | 12:47 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I was on my way to work following my daily 7:30 a.m. radiation when I heard Leroy's piece. My hair is just growing back after four months of chemotherapy and as it does, it's made me wonder about the resiliency of the human bodyand also about the resiliency of the breast cancer cells that were discovered during a routine mamogram last December. My goal during chemo was just to get through it as I found it so debilitating. Now that chemo is over, I've faced the long-term question of survival. I have a very good prognosis and I chose aggressive treatment so I have every reason to be hopeful. On occasion however, fear creeps in.

Leroy, I look forward to following your story and am hopeful for your outcome as well.

Sent by Susan Beadle | 12:49 PM ET | 06-26-2006

Thank you for sharing something as personal as your battle with cancer. I am not sure if it was true of the other wars you have covered as a journalist, but I am sure that this coverage will contribute to our winning this war. We need to raise awareness so that resources are used to win.

Again, thank you and good luck!

Sent by Maryann | 12:52 PM ET | 06-26-2006

After my breast cancer five years ago (November 15 is my fifth anniversary), I had to write. I had to write about all the gifts that came my way. I wrote a little book "HOLY VULNERABILITY: A SPIRITUAL PATH THROUGH CANCER", which is published by ACTA. It allowed me to talk about the gifts that came to me as a parish pastor, working in a parish where I was supposed to be taking care of them!

What a reversal. And what a time of grace it was for me.

Sent by Donna Schaper | 12:54 PM ET | 06-26-2006

Thank you for your contribution to Morning Edition today. I had started to block the radio waves after the Iraq militia story.

My first cancer was in 1992 when I was twenty-nine (I have the honor to be the only person in medical literature to have NHL and then Hodgkins). I had forgotten the awkwardness of "telling", multiple storylines for parents, siblings, friends, aquaintances and neighbors having to tell staff.

My mother recently died and as I was comforting strangers and family. I also remembered the ironic role reversals life requires at times.

Maybe we do only get what we can handle.

I'm sending positive energy towards Baltimore. Best to you.

Sent by Frank Carbone | 12:55 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I've heard people say, "Cancer is the best thing that ever happened to me." I can't say that. What I can say is cancer is an opportunity for a new life, not a death sentence. I've grown and those around me have grown in response to my illness. Someone gave me a great piece of advice when I found out my diagnosis. She said, "80% of getting well is what the doctors do, 20% is what you do." Keeping that in mind, I started voice lessons. I auditioned for a chorale group, rehearsed with them every week, and performed at a glorious Christmas concert. I joined a support group and worked on my spiritual life. My company was great. I worked from home and went to the office when I could. I brought friends and family with me to my chemo treatments and we played games. Sometimes we laughed so much, we got strange looks from the other patients and their families. To the outside world, I didn't look sick. I kept up my appearance and wore the best wig. I looked so good, people who didn't know I was sick would comment on my new hair style.

I finished my last chemo treatment in December. I am back at work full time and I began an online graduate program. Having cancer gets your priorities straight. You realize what is important. You can't worry about the future because you lose the beauty of the present moment. Although I am in remission, I can't help but view the world through the lens of cancer. I feel like I have joined a club that I never wanted to join. But I am so impressed by its members. Their stories, like Mr. Sievers', remind me to stay the course and welcome this blip in my life as an opportunity for a more glorious life.

Sent by Joyce Schroeder | 1:01 PM ET | 06-26-2006

Thank you for the comments — your comments are "right on" and I know, because I have cancer too.

Twenty-eight months ago (March 17, 2004 at 11:22 e.s.t.) I was told I have Multiple Myeloma — cancer of the plasma cell.

I am glad you are beating the odds as hope you will continue to tell us about your journey.

I especially like the "do they know" conversation when someone asks "how you are". You never know whether they want the "truth" or just the polite "fine."

I am very frank about my cancer — tell everyone whatever they want and never hide the fact.

I also like the consoling story — happens so much, you try to make them feel better about your cancer.

Heres a neat article along that line.

Thanks and catch up with you later.

Sent by Jewell Nagy | 1:03 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I'm a Catholic Eucharist minister who takes the Eucharist to shut-ins. Ive had two people pass away in the past two months. (I think about now, there's some who don't want to hear that I'm on my way.)

The point I want to make, however, is that both of these people knew they didn't have long to live on this earth. However, both of them continued living every day. Sort of like the Leroy's friend said, you wouldn't know they were dying if you didn't know they were dying.

Although at fifty-seven, I certainly hope that I have many years to live. I know that it might end even before I finish this. In some sense, everyone needs to be aware of this. Not, mind you, to dwell on it nor to stop you from living, but, rather, to make living more meaningful.

I hope what I'm saying is making sense. There are times when I talk about this subject, I really don't know...

Sent by Kerry Kleiber | 1:09 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I was at a party just yesterday and when someone asked how I was, I didn't know what to say. They found a mass on my kidney in April and I had it removed in May. I have been very open about it at work and at a Jewish school that I lead. Cancer shouldn't be a dirty word. It's what is happening to millions of people every day. If I had a broken leg in a cast, I wouldn't be hesitant to talk about it. But to tell someone who hardly knows you at a party seems to be a big downer and is probably more than they were asking for when they posed the casual "How are you"? On the other hand, when someone asks me how I'm doing, my cancer is exactly what takes over my mind, so to say "fine" just doesn't feel honest. I too find myself saying, "OK," or "Not bad." So I am still trying to find the balance between wanting to be honest and not wanting to be too self-absorbed.

Sent by Ira Mintz | 1:11 PM ET | 06-26-2006

In my twenty-five-plus years of listening to NPR stories, yours has been the first to move me to respond. Every phrase in your story, and in your previous posts, rings true with my own experiences as a "newbie" to this world... I'm presently undergoing chemotherapy for an advanced cancer diagnosis three and a half months ago. Learning to live with this disease is indeed all-consuming at first, and an entirely new life perespective from here on out. I look forward to all of your future broadcasts.

Sent by Sheara Whalley | 1:17 PM ET | 06-26-2006

Leroy, wishing you the best that you can be. I'm a cancer survivor of eighteen years and know the struggle of chemo. Try taking yourself out of yourself by meditating. That's what I did, and it helped. I, like you, wanted to be treated "normally" and didn't want to talk only about my health. I understand your feelings.

Know I'll be thinking of you! I've enjoyed your journalism over the years.

Sent by Jolie Rosenberg | 1:18 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I feel very fortunate to have been one of the thousands of nurses that have administered chemo and held washbasins (emesis pans are way too small!) for the endless vomiting and retching. Thank god for the lovely men and women who researched and trialed ondansetron (Zofran), the real wonder drug of the '90s! I have swept hair off of the pillow so it doesn't end up in the eyes or mouth. I have badgered patients to rinse their mouth with the best remedy of all: salt water rinses, to prevent all-consuming mouth sores. I love this work. I have cried, laughed' and prayed with the finest people I have ever known. We share recipes, how to raise teenagers, and how (not) to buy a prom dress. I have held mothers my own age as they kiss their sons good bye and I have listened to a heartbeat speed up as a husband listened to his wife whisper in his ear that she loved him... I have also had to deflect the questions of: "Why do you do this? How can you do this? Isnt it hard?" I have tried NOT to do this work, and I gravitate back to my first love in nursing, even if it is having the recurring dream of having to give my own husband Adriamyacin (a cheery koolaid looking chemo that gives cancer patients the willies, because it is so potent). I do not, nor do my fellow oncology nurses feel, we are "special". I may have been called. I might have fallen into it naturally, or by accident. But I love it dearly. I have learned more from my patients than I have ever given to them. I promise to them as I throw confetti in the air on their last treatment day, or as I am pushing a syringe of morphine to ease their pain that I will never forget them. I thank them for how much they taught me. I tell them I will miss them. I tell them that they are now a part of me, and I will take them with me to the next patient I serve. What a legacy they leave me! I consider myself blessed.

Sent by Ann Blesz | 1:23 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I'm glad you're blogging your cancer. I have many parallel experiences, and some that are distinctly different: my blog is "Crazy Little Thing Called Breast Cancer."

Sent by Shelley List | 1:49 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I'm a thirteen year survivor of laryngeal cancer and I, too, had it twice. I am a laryngectomee and speak with a voice prosthesis. But, the important point is that cancer or being a cancer survivor does not define me. A good many of my laryngectomee acquaintances are defined by their cancer and I think that's sad.

Sent by Carl Strand | 1:52 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I used to hate that question too. My answer was to chuckle and say, "Oh, I'm working on it," or "Well, you know me... I'm a work in progress," or if I was feeling existentialist, I would just say, "I am... are you? Well then, pleased to be!"

Sent by Hwei Yin | 1:54 PM ET | 06-26-2006

You are so on the money — "cancer opens up a whole new world: a parallel universe... like the regular world, but it's very, very different."

Even those of us who have not been diagnosed with "terminal" cancers (and you will now be included on my prayer list) sometimes live with the "chronic" side effects of adjuvant cancer drugs which may or may not prevent recurrences. I often wonder, why should I take these if there are no guarantees? In my case, I'm very sensitive to the cancer drug(s) I take, so I take drugs to counteract the side effects and on and on, ad nauseam.

And after a while when people ask how am I, all I want to respond is "okay", because even I get tired of hearing about my cancer "war stories."

So why do I continue if there are no guarantees and when I personally question the efficacy of my cancer drug? I have children and grandchildren, and I have to be able to say to them, "I do what I can to be here with you to celebrate weddings, first homes, baby showers, promotions, first days of school, games, parties" — you understand —the "life events" that come with having a family or friends.

And then too, I say to my God, for whatever perverted reason, I've been closer to you with my pain than without.

Cancer has been/is a paradox in my, yes, "parallel universe — but very, very different."

Sent by Sherry Wall | 1:59 PM ET | 06-26-2006

When my father was in the third grade (this would be about 1923) he mentioned at the dinner table that his class at school had a substitute teacher. His mother asked why the regular teacher was out, and he stated that she was ill with cancer. His mother jumped up from the table and ran around and grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the kitchen, where she literally washed his mouth out with soap. She made it absolutely clear to him that no one, most especially not a child, was allowed to say that word out loud.

When something's name cannot be spoken, that gives that something a power that is awesome. One of the many things I loathed about Ronald Reagan was the fact that it was not until his second term of office that the word "AIDS" finally passed his lips.

Sent by Howard Paul | 2:02 PM ET | 06-26-2006

My dad died from cancer when I was fifteen, my mom last year when I was thirty-five. One of my memories of my dad's illness is that whenever he was asked how he was doing the answer was "pretty good" and oftentimes he managed a brief smile to go along with it, almost as if he was trying to convince all of us. One time while he was hemorrhaging, the ER doc asked how he was doing... same response, "pretty good." Doc said, "I dont think so," and we actually got a little chuckle out of it. Mom, on the other hand, always told you exactly how she was. I would cringe when someone asked "hi, how are you?" Even on her good days the response was pretty grim.

Some will tell you that once you have been diagnosed with cancer that it becomes your life. This should not be. After my mom's diagnosis, she was a cancer patient, and then a cancer survivor, a cancer patient once again and finally a cancer victim. This shouldn't be — she was a mom, a teacher and a grandmother that happened to have cancer. For seven years Mom thought of herself as a cancer patient and none of these other things seemed to matter. I lost my mom to cancer seven years before she died.

As you said, you have a life to live and things to do.

Sent by Tom | 2:03 PM ET | 06-26-2006

It is very moving to hear your story. I am a thirty-nine-year-old five-year survivor of breast cancer and still struggling to find the right response to "how are you?" It's not so much my answer that I have trouble with, but with the subtext of the question. I wrote a whole one-woman show in the process of trying to figure that out.

Heres a poem I wrote about what happens to the way people perceive us when we are sick, and long after:

"Willendorf"

My neighbor paid me a great compliment the other day.

It helped me

in a way she could not have imagined.

I was mowing my lawn, you see ? and another neighbor drove by and asked,

in that way, shouting from her car,

"how are you?"

I disregarded her good intentions and shouted back, sounding blithe, "sweaty!"

"Well, You. Look. Great." she said (and I had to turn off the mower at this point ? it was clear she had kind words to unload)

"How long has it been?" (half-smile, brow wrinkled in concern)

s—— ? here we go ? "5 years" I said.

"Wow," she said and shook her head slowly in humbled awe, "That. Is. Amazing.

You are such a survivor."

"Guess so, today," I said brightly, brittle. Not blithe. "Knock wood!"

And I yanked the cord on my Murray as hard as I could and got back to the lawn.

She drove away and I knew she felt a little sorry for me.

Which pissed me off.

I knew as I trimmed out the junipers that she was in the Stop & Shop at that very moment

buying fat-free pink-ribbon Yoplait.

I knew as I accidentally mowed over the little hydrangea that she was

so glad that she was not me.

And I knew as I stepped in a giant pile of poop

from the f—-ing great dane from next door

that she was thinking that

I had to mow my own lawn because I had no man because I had one breast and even if that didn?t matter to him which was unlikely I was a sketchy proposition after all

5 years or not

but you go girl

you big survivor you.

I got the shovel and scraped up the rest of the poop

and walked next door.

And dumped it in Suzanne?s driveway,

by the mailbox.

Like I always do.

Suzanne came flying out of her house

(she is one of those demented multiple-pet-owning vegetarian neighbors)

and got very close to my face and shrieked

"you fat-a— cancer b——!"

What?

What a wacky thing to say to someone who has just

dumped a pile of your dog?s poop in your driveway.

(like ? what does that have to do with the price of peanuts: fat-@$$ cancer b!7ch?)

But it was sort of wonderful ? her lack of politeness.

Her rage spoke her clear fact of me? not colored by guilt or pity or curbside nicety.

Not pink.

Fat-@$$ cancer b!7ch.

I liked that. Well, not the fat—a— thing ? I don?t think she truly meant that bit,

but it lent the phrase meter.

Fat-@$$ cancer b!7ch.

There was tenacity and strength in that, at least,

and quite possibly a kind of timeless shining triumph.

Like the Venus de Milo ? no arms! Or Winged Victory ? no head!

(What if the Goddess of Willendorf had been dug out the prehistoric muck of the Danube in 1908 and had had only one breast?)

Fat-@$$ cancer b!7ch.

Now there was a name I could hang my hat on.

I laughed ? Suzanne?s face contorted, despite the Botox ? "I?m buying a slingshot,

crazy lady ? keep your stupid dog outta my yard. But thanks.

Thanks very much."

Thank-you, Leroy — I think I got sick in order to tell my own story. I learned that there is great healing in the sharing of it. I hope you feel the same.

Sent by Chrstine Rathbun | 2:11 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I was diagnosed with breast cancer five years ago. After surgery, chemo, and radiation, I was cancer-free for about two years. When the cancer came back it moved into my liver and bones, as well as my chest wall. I've tried multiple chemos and targeted therapies during the past three years. Some have helped for a short period of time' others have done nothing. I decided I have "smart" cancer it figures out how to mutate and become drug-resistant pretty fast. I have a wonderful oncologist and benefit from the incredible people at my local Gildas Club.

When I was first diagnosed with cancer, I thought that I'd be cancer-free after treatment or die because it didn't work. The real world is much more gray, isn't it?

I hate the side effects of treatment and the endless doctors appointments, but most of all I hate to see the people I love suffer because of my disease. My husband worries endlessly, but tries to remain the optimist. My eleven-year-old daughter just tries to be eleven.

I have benefited greatly from cancer also. I'm much more focused on "today" and have been able to let go of many things that really arent that important (like housework!).

I recently went on anti-depressants after five years. It has become too difficult living at the edge under my own power. "I have become comfortably numb," as Pink Floyd says.

I'm seeing my oncologist tomorrow morning. I had scans last week and learned on Friday that the Phase I clinical trial that I had been on wasn't working. More choices, none of them too great probably.

Cancer sucks. Take care of yourself.

Sent by Joni Ramsey | 2:15 PM ET | 06-26-2006

Thank you for your story this morning. I, myself, was diagnosed with thyroid cancer this past week. I'm having my thyroid taken out tomorrow. It's been interesting telling close friends — what to tell, what not to tell, who to tell. I could relate very well to your story. There is a very good chance they will get all of the cancer, so I am not so worried. Anyway, I, like you, feel that I am on the course of life and can't stop living. I think that is important to get across. I also have also told my friends not to feel sorry for me, dote on me and call me three time a day. I want to talk about other than health issues, since they seem to go on and on about their own now. Thanks again and I hope to keep up with your articles here on-line.

Sent by Terre Cavalier | 2:18 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I was very touched by Mr. Sievers' report. I understand exactly how he felt. I was just recently diagnosed with CML (chronic myloid leukemia), and the hardest part was letting my friends and loved ones know about my diagnosis. I am not someone who likes to draw attention to myself except if it is for a laugh, so this was exceptionally hard. I can say cancer — I have worked with cancer for a good part of my professional career, which is very ironic. I do find that when I talk to my mom and sister it makes them more comfortable if I say "blood disorder." Thank you for your report. I look forward to more.

Sent by Rosemary Delaney | 2:27 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I wish you the best of luck with your cancer. All I can say is, learn all you can about your disease and ask questions and talk to as many experts as you can to benefit from the different answers they will inevitably give you. Search some of the well-respected like Healthcare from MD Anderson Hospital and the one from the Mayo Clinic — both of which are excellent. They both have a vast network of resources and strong following from other readers with their own creative solutiions. Above all, dont give up — new ideas are being presented to the medical community almost daily. Look into cllinical trials and see if any of them are applicable for you. Gather your friends and family and let them help be your ears and eyes. Just taking charge of your treatments can be beneficial. Eat well and healthy. Take small getaways to see nature (visit a botanic garden or the seashore). Keep a positive attitude... every little bit helps. I too am a cancer survivor and undergoing chemo and before this happened, was a nurse of many years working with cancer patients. Those who appeared the most content were those who felt they were taking control of their disease, continuing to make friends, continiuing to care about what was happening to others around the city and the world, and most of all, keeping themselves surrounded by a large and even growing number of supportive friends. People want to reach out and help you... let them. That in itself helps form and keep bonds. Don't feel that you are any different than you were before you were diagnosed. You are the same person — only now stronger because you have seen another side of life up close. Cheers mate, keep up the good fight and I hope to be in contact with you five or ten years down the road. I think the goal for both of us is to get our disease down to the smallest bit possible and boost our natural immune systems with healthy foods, activity, positive thoughts, etc and let our own healthy cells fight the remnants of disease that medicine cant. My mantra is "I am healthy, my body is strong, and my cells know what to do". Please feel free to borrow it and share it with others.

Sent by Baarbara Mitchell | 2:47 PM ET | 06-26-2006

As someone with primary CNS lymphomia I appreciate the words of another person whose experience is similar to mine and commend you for this series.

Sent by Carol Ludden | 2:50 PM ET | 06-26-2006

Thank you for sharing. I was recently (two weeks ago) diagnosed with cancer and already I'm sick to death of people being "supportive" — "You have to be strong!, you can beat this, etc. I haven't even come to grips with the cancer yet and I'm having to listen to the incessant "cheerleading."

I do have a few friends that listen and care without feeling the need to tell me what I must do and they are so refreshing. For them, I'm as good as can be expected.

Sent by John Clark | 2:53 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I wish you and all commenters on this site the very best. I know that I'm one of the lucky ones — my breast cancer at age thirty-four was caught very early. That was fifteen years ago.

Sent by Jane Alexander | 2:55 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I was most interested to hear your commentary on NPR today. My husband recently concluded his cancer blog after about fourteen months of posting (Confronting My Cancer). It was a great tool for sharing information, but it became a conduit for more than medical updates. People told me that they read his blog every day. I read it every day too, even though I presumably knew what he would be writing about. It was an amazing read, and his ability to articulate on the page became an important part of our on-going conversations about the present and the future.

Lots of people thanked him for sharing his story, and for doing it so honestly and thoughtfully. I thank you for the same thing — I'll be reading, listening, commiserating, and learning.

Sent by Judith Guy | 3:00 PM ET | 06-26-2006

My forty-two-year-old daughter was treated successfully for Hodgkins last year. She in Germany, me in North Carolina. She relied on her dear friends and great physician for her needs. Soon after her diagnosis, a good friend age seventy-four was diagnosed with lung cancer and passed away within six months, now another good friend is starting treatment for melanoma. All these women are stronger than they ever imagined possible. My role as I see it, is to help keep life normal in the ways it can be but to understand what was said about it never being the same again. A friend supports all manner of modes and needs, and must be ready to "be there" what ever is needed and to do it with love, compassion and always with the awareness that you can't begin to imagine how they really feel. Just love the patient, be aware and help where you can.

Sent by Jackie Matlock | 3:04 PM ET | 06-26-2006

You sound like a person of very strong will. You vow to "fight like hell," and considering the circumstances, that's probably the right approach. But practitioners of jiujitsu know that you can fight by using an opponents' strength to your advantage.

I'm coming up on three years since a stem cell transplant put my cancer into remission, and what's amazing is how the momentum of that battle has propelled me in directions I never guessed. If I had insisted that everything go my own way, I would have closed myself to experiences and people who have made my life richer. Cancer (multiple myeloma) has changed my life, but many of the changes are good and welcome.

Sent by Dan Bammes | 3:09 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I couldn't believe it when I was told I had cancer. After all, I had always done all the right things: eaten right, exercised, never smoked, drank maybe one drink every two-three months or so, etc. My first thought after I heard the news was, "I'm going to die". My second thought after realizing my face was going to be carved up was, "I'm going to scare my grandchildren". That was all nine years ago. After chemo therapy, radiation therapy, and major surgery on my head and face, I can report that neither of my two thoughts have come true, at least not yet. One never knows the next chapter with cancer, but so far I'm living happily and wholly as a cancer surviver. When I expressed concern to my surgeon on a subsequent checkup that the cancer might recur, he said, "No one can say for sure that any cancer will never recur. But I can tell you that if you let the fear of cancer recurring consume you, cancer will have beaten you whether or not it ever comes back." I have tried to live each day since with the thought that I am alive now, feel wonderful, and thats all I'm guaranteed in any event. Thank God for excellent and caring doctors and nurses.

Sent by Constance Longacher | 3:14 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I agree with your observation that "it's just a disease. We have to be able to talk about it."

My wife was diagnosed with stage 1 anal cancer a year ago, and we faced similar dilemmas about who knows what, and how much people wanted to know. We suspected a number of people wanted to know more, but were afraid to ask.

I decided to start blogging about the cancer, not only as a form of therapy for myself, but as a means of opening up the lines of communication — figuring that if people knew I was blogging about it publicly, we'd be happy (well, at least willing, depending on the context) to talk privately about it with friends and family.

The blog itself opened up new communication channels (through comments and email) both with existing friends and family and with new friends — people who discovered the blog — just as you are making new friends through your willingness to be open, honest and vulnerable through the series you started today.

As far as we (and the doctors) can tell, the cancer is in remission and my wife continues to heal from the treatment.

Best wishes to you and all the others reading and writing on this blog thread — may you rise to meet the challenges before you!

Sent by Joe McCarthy | 3:35 PM ET | 06-26-2006

My husband is going through his second bout with cancer — first one in 1992, second was just diagnosed in March of this year. We are still in the process of treatment. On the way from the hospital to work I was listening to NPR and heard your story. I thought that this could be a good way for me to have an alliance with someone going through the same thing and for me to just vent.

It goes without saying how I wish you the very best. Its amazing to me how after fourteen years between cancers the feeling and fears are still so fresh.

Sent by Jeri Magid | 3:59 PM ET | 06-26-2006

Every time I hear your stories, I am in tune to everything you say and express. I, too, am a cancer survivor. Age forty-one, mother of twin five-year-old boys. People think that living with cancer that we are brave or have some special insight on life, or even worse, that we deserved it somehow.

When we share our stories it truly helps other cancer survivors out there. As long as we are alive we are survivors.

Thank you for sharing.

Sent by Janis Fitzgerald | 4:01 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I was shocked to learn, just before Christmas, that I had Prostate cancer. I will never forget the empty, panicky feeling that engulfed me upon hearing, what I considered to be a death sentence. My sister had brain cancer and died a year after her diagnosis, so I thought that I was doomed. Fortunately, I had excellent medical advice and a supportive family to help me through the process of dealing with my cancer. There were several treatment options to deal with the cancer and I agonized over the decision. I settled on a plan that provided for twenty-five external beam radiation treatments and then surgery to insert about one hundred radioactive seeds into my prostate gland. The process was unsettling, but the professionals at The Gibbs Cancer Center at Spartanburg Regional Medical Center were superb. I only missed one day of work and I never felt bad. I feel guilty about this when I read or hear about the experiences of others. I would also like to say that my friends (and total strangers) have been great. I do not know what the future holds for me. I hope that I am cured, but I will not know for sometime. In the meantime, I live my life and ignore my cancer. However, I do keep on my desk and on the wall in my kitchen, a heavy metal insert that was made specifically to allow the radiation to be properly administered to me. I want the physical reminder in front of me all the time to remind me to live a full life.

Sent by George Brandt | 4:06 PM ET | 06-26-2006

Telling people at the beginning was not the issue for me — I was incredibly upbeat, and it has been nearly ten years. But during that ten years have been a host of other "chronic" illnesses including another type of cancer. My friends and family treat me like a regular person, which is good, but also expect me to be tough, perky, and informed — which I can not always be. Lately I have been plain old depressed, and friends and family just dont understand that.

Sent by Anita Joy | 4:40 PM ET | 06-26-2006

Thank you for sharing your story. I was listening to NPR this morning (as usual) when "your cancer" caught my attention. I'm real in tune to cancer stories, ready to hear/read about the latest and greatest, wondering how it relates to me. I, too, am dealing with a second diagnosis of cancer. A metastatist of breast cancer to my spine, skull and hip. The good news is that none of my vital organs are involved yet. Though I have difficulty processing that "metastitist is incurable," I haven't asked "how long." I just want to focus on a quality of life as long as possible. I have two relatively young girls (14, 11) to raise to adults. I've recently completed radiation, twelve rounds of chemo and am grateful to have my life back after that difficult time. I'm still a cancer patient, I go in every three weeks for cardiotoxic medicine. I take pills every day and all this I do (with minimal b——ing) to prolong my time here.

"Breaking the news" — I can relate to. We found out about my cancer most recent diagnosis in mid-December of 2005 and decided to wait until the new year to tell everyone, as this cancer cast such a cloud over our holidays, we didn't want to share that with our loved ones. My stock reply now as to how I'm feeling is, "I'm hanging in there".

Thank you for your insights. Your blog speaks to me as well as for me. Though I am sad to have so many in our world, I am glad to have you to chat with. I wish a miraculous remission and cure for us all.

Sent by Terri Dilts | 4:44 PM ET | 06-26-2006

Like you say, we are all directly impacted by cancer. When my best friend was diagnosed with metastatic melanoma, I learned first-hand how hard and terrifying the cancer fight can be. My friend passed away, but I have other friends who have fought cancer and so far, won! I respect your efforts to help others through this blog.

Sent by Susan Albrecht | 4:56 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I heard your story on NPR this morning and because it resonated with me so much, I had to write. This is the first time I'm writing to anyone about it, that is, except for the one e mail, which I now regret sending, to two of my siblings to inform them of my diagnosis. Unfortunately for now, I must write under an assumed name and alternate e mail address for reasons I will explain. Perhaps sometime soon I can give you my real name. Maybe one of the few close friends and relatives who know my story will recognize it's me but I hope others wont. I guess I'll risk that for now, just to have the chance to talk to someone else.

I can't give you my name because I am about to look for a new job and 'Im concerned that the news of my diagnosis could jeapordize the chances of finding that job. I am currently employed but I have no medical benefits and must look for a new one. I'm also concerned about what would happen if my current employer found out about my diagnosis. I think employers are not supposed to discriminate that way, but I'm sure they do. In fact, I know they do. That's one of the reasons we should be talking and writing about this subject, to bring to light the fact that the diagnosis of cancer, especially certain types, doesn't mean impending death and no matter what it means, many of us want to try to live a "normal" life in the meantime.

I'm actually one of the lucky ones, at least that's what they tell me. This past December I was diagnosed with CML, a form of Leukemia which is currently being held at bay with a miracle drug. For now, other than the swelling around my eyes and a little bit of occasional stomach upset, I am otherwise symptom-free. While I was pretty scared for months after the diagnosis, it is now just starting to become a relatively mundane part of life. It seems so weird to be taking these pills once a day and see the doctor to have my blood drawn periodically, but not be feeling any pain or doing anything to fight this disease. I'm starting to get better at not thinking about it, but I know it's there and I know the possibility exists that the meds could stop working and I could be in big trouble someday. For now, I must concentrate more than ever on just looking forward and hoping for the best. Prayer is helping too.

Among the many challeges I faced these last few months, I left my job of twenty-seven years, voluntarily but under great pressure and duress. (Perhaps I'll explain more about that in another writing.) Within two weeks of that event I was hospitalized with a punctured duodenum, the results of an ulcer I was unaware I had. The leukemia diagosis was only picked up after my hospital stay because my white cell count never became normal again even after I healed from the ulcer. Thank God for ulcers!

I don't like carrying this secret around. Like you I think, I don't like telling people, some with whom I'm fairly close, that "I'm fine." I mean, for now, I really am fine and compared to so many others, very lucky. But it still weighs on me. You know what I mean.

Thanks so much for bringing this out of me. Perhaps we'll talk/write some more.

By the way, I'll add your name to my prayers. I happen to believe it helps.

Sent by Anonymous | 5:04 PM ET | 06-26-2006

My husband was diagnosed twenty months ago with a moderately aggressive form of prostate cancer. We opted for the surgery, but the PSA went up. Thirty-nine radiation treatments later, it went up again. He took one Lupron shot a year ago, and it has not gone up again.

They told us that the treatment they could offer is paliative rather than curative, and that the average time is five years. When well-meaning people whine, "Well, there are always miracles," I smilingly respond, "Yes! It is a miracle that we found each other, that we have had eleven wonderful years together, and that we awaken each day to enjoy it. We are true believers in miracles!"

Whenever one of us will leave this life, it will be too soon for us. But cancer has taught us some very valuable lessons, and we know that, no matter what, love never ends. We have learned how to treasure every moment with which we are blessed. I wish, pray and hope this miracle for every family living with cancer!

Sent by Bebbie Minter | 5:06 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I completely identify with your comments on "How are you?" It seems like such an innocent question, a mere formality. Now, it is enough send me into a tizzy. And there are times that I worry about it before a social event, and then breeze through it with no problems.

Thank you for writing so clearly about cancer. I know I am not alone, but it is nice to have that affirmed. I will keep reading.

Pancreatic cancer, surgery, chemo and radiation. I have only been able to receive 25% of my chemo due to low white blood cell count. But each day, I wake up and see how I am doing. For the most part, I feel great, now that I have recovered from the treatments.

Sent by Stephanie Dornbrook | 5:15 PM ET | 06-26-2006

I thank you for your open commentary and your writings. Like you and many others, I am afflicted by cancer. It would have been impossible for me to say it straight when I was first diagnosed two years ago. What changed me, I don't know, but I like it. I see life from a perspective I never did before. I discovered love and sympathy, happiness, and the meaning of deep sorrow. I have made so many dear friends at the UMC (Tucson, AZ) and I go see them even when I am not scheduled for chemo. I know just how they feel to see me when we both hug and look into our watery eyes. Is this the way God opened my eyes to the world? If so, be it. Wish everyone of you, my friends, nothing but the very best and God to be our guide.

Sent by Angelo Balistreri | 8:56 AM ET | 06-27-2006

Here are some thoughts: Bernie Siegel in Love, Medicine, and Miracles has said that no matter what kind of cancer you have, and no matter what happened to others with that cancer, you can survive! Sounds to me like you are one of his so-called exceptional patients who expect to be well and to show proof by living. I am in your corner and deeply believe that cancer can be survived. Deepak Chopra says to get the diagnosis from your doctor, but not the prognosis. Leave that to your wonderful immune system and to a higher being if you wish. Perhaps you'll include some natural therapies into your medical care. I look forward to watching the blog for years to come! Be well.

Sent by Jane Guttman | 8:59 AM ET | 06-27-2006

On not being able to say the c-word, I can relate.

I had cervical cancer at twenty-six and still receive follow-up care. My encounter with people who do not want to say the c-word is a double whammy. Besides people having a difficult time using the word cancer around me, saying the words cervical or vagina proved to be impossible for most. Friends asked how I was with "everything" while looking "down there." A male co-worker asked about my plumbing and many just referred to it as my "woman issues." I just call it what it is.

Sent by Amy Jo Stackawitz | 9:03 AM ET | 06-27-2006

I would just like to say how incredibly familiar your commentary on "Breaking the News" was for me. Last year my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, and while it was difficult for me to watch while she suffered, it was also challenging to talk about it publicly. Even now, months away from chemo, I have trouble discussing it. Not knowing who knows what, and how much they can handle. I tend to launch into a bit, which involves glossing over the sickness with a positive spin.

It's just nice to know I'm not the only one who struggles with this. I wish you good luck and I think youre very brave to share you experience with us all. Thanks.

Sent by Jessie | 9:37 AM ET | 06-27-2006

I fall into the category of "recently diagnosed" among the respondents here, and found out last week that I have tumors in both rectum and liver. I don't remember anything about the colonscopy I received, but found the gastroenterologists report the following morning on the dining room table with the words "RECTAL CA" in red letters. Each subsequent visit for another scan and another consult last week gave news that was worse than the one before. So as a person with cancer, you get the double-whammy of not only receiving bad news, but the added curse of how to convey it on to loved ones and coworkers. Mr. Sievers' story has hit my situation perfectly. Today, I'm in the process of having to tell a wider and wider circle of friends, co-workers, and customers of my situation. If anything, the process of telling others is helping me at least come to terms with the difficult battle that I'm only just starting. I've been able to tell people that I'm pretty sure that this is going to be the worst summer I've ever had, but I'm hoping that next summer will be a lot better.

Sent by Bob Maimone | 9:44 AM ET | 06-27-2006

I remember when my breast cancer was diagnosed, I found myself (I am an MD, PhD, and a breast surgeon) comforting others, too, when I told them of my diagnosis. I remember thinking, "Hey, I want the comfort and consolation." Eventually, I talked and talked and let the word cancer (not C.A., which we often use glibly in the medical world) out frequently. I decided to diminish the power of the word by saying it often. I don't know if it works. When I was in medical school thirty-plus years ago, we were supposed to learn to talk about patients sexual problems more openly (the '70's, I guess). I remember a young male classmate sitting next to me during porno movies which we were shown (they showed them to us medical students because the theory was, the more you saw, the less power it would have). After one or two he quickly excused himself saying that he couldn't take this any more. Bottom line — there are some things that never lose their power no matter how much "exposure." Cancer may be one of those things.

My heart goes out to you.

Sent by Pamela Craig, MD | 9:49 AM ET | 06-27-2006

All the best with your cancer treatments. This is scary stuff. Those of us in this large club of unwilling participants can pretty well understand what you are going through -? both the big picture and the smaller day-to-day details, like what to tell and how to tell your friends.

The big picture: survival, life-threatening disease, and the treatment that each of us chooses to try to ensure life. I was diagnosed about a year and a half ago, and survival meant undergoing an aggressive chemo regimen. I continued to live my life as I could during treatment and was lucky enough to be able to work and exercise fairly regularly. I had good days and bad. On good days, I decorated my bald head with wigs of many styles and unnatural colors, and wore Batman and Barbie bandaids around all my fingers to protect my sore nails. On bad days, I was on the couch.

I also remember filtering what I said to various people. Sometimes it seemed too tiring to get into the story with acquaintances, though family and friends often got more information than they may have wanted. I would always burst into tears upon first telling someone that I had cancer, probably because that reminded me again that I really did have the disease.

Cancer has been an emotional and physical roller coaster, possibly with more ups than downs. I have made wonderful new friends, strengthened my love for family and old friends, been blown away by the generosity of my medical team, strangers and casual acquaintances. Coming eyeball to eyeball with my own mortality has forced me to reevaluate my life, get my priorities straight and focus on what?s important to me. That has been a huge benefit. I have made many small changes to my life, and it has become all the more rich and joyous because of that.

Sent by Leslie | 9:53 AM ET | 06-27-2006

I wanted to say how much your experiences and thoughts, Leroy, reflect mine when I was diagnosed and then getting treatment. Listening to your essay today on NPR, I thought, "wow, I've been there." I'm glad people ask, but it's such an automatic question that, like you said, it's impossible sometimes to know what they are really asking. My cancer resulted in a colostomy so when people would ask me how I was doing, I would always be tempted to pull the front of my pants down a bit to reveal my colostomy bag and ask them "how the hell do you think I'm doing?" Lots of anger. But you're so right that you've got to gauge how much to tell depending on whos asking. And lots of times I don't say anything even to close friends because I don't want to be "cancer girl". There's nothing more tedious than someone who over-identifies with their illness. It was a struggle trying to re-establish my identity, and it was mainly myself that I had to convince. And now that I've been in remission for about a year, I have an ever-present fear that its going to happen again. It's like, once the worst thing imaginable happens to you, you can't go back to that innocent time when bad things only happened to "other people". Thanks a lot for your essays. They are so validating! I wish you luck, happiness, warmth, and comfort!

Sent by Audrey Burgess | 10:01 AM ET | 06-27-2006

Not a day goes by that I don't think of the cancer I was diagnosed with almost ten years ago — the four reoccurrances, the surgeries at Sloan-Kettering as well of the growing dread of every three month CT scans. I've lived almost 20% of my life in three month blocks and I find most people's view of their unlimited future sweetly naive. Cancer, to paraphrase the old joke, has a marvelous way of focusing your attention on what is most important — living. Not so much on filling the day, but in appreciating it.

Sent by Richard Sharp | 10:05 AM ET | 06-27-2006

It just sucks, doesn't it?

I'm also part of the NPR family - in corporate relations (KSTX in San Antonio).

I'm also a two-time survivor.

I have a blog and someone e-mailed me and asked me to write about it.

I asked, as politely as I could via e-mail, "Well, who are you? and why would anyone care?"

When he explained that he was a gentleman in his '60s who lost his wife to breast cancer fourteen years ago, and has many friends in the same fight, and that they needed hope, my heart softened and I wrote.

I made a commitment to write a story a day for fourteen days.

I didnt want to — but about half-way through I realized the gift was for me too.

Yes - if we don't talk about it, Leroy, who will?

p.s. If you'd like to peak into my world of cancer, scroll down on the right to "Gifts from a Cancer Survivor."

Sent by Sonja Howle | 10:12 AM ET | 06-27-2006

Leroy, wishing you the best that you can be. I'm a cancer survivor of twenty years and know the struggle of chemo. I, like you, wanted to be treated "normally" and didn't want to talk only about my health. I understand your feelings.

The choosing how much to tell and how little to tell depending on the person, for me I continue my life in progress... once I completed the surgery, chomo, radiation and the tattoo.

That marks the spot to aim the radiation machine. I would simply keep

going despite tests every two years to make sure things are not growing anymore then normal. So cheers fellow survivors!

Keep your head held high, we have more living to do

Thanks for sharing a personal experience with the rest of us.

Sent by Jim Borland | 10:17 AM ET | 06-27-2006

I know two people who are battling this dreaded disease also. I am forever a fan of Ted Koppel and Nightline. I appreciate your contribution to us by bringing us truth and integrity in journalism

Sent by Lori Hendricks | 10:27 AM ET | 06-27-2006

Thank you for your commentary on telling people about your cancer. I remember telling people about my stage 3 breast cancer in 2002. Having to deal with their reactions often added to my fear. I've been writing a blog about cancer survivorship that may be helpful to other breast cancer survivors.

Sent by Denise Lee | 10:32 AM ET | 06-27-2006

I am really shocked. I just found out about your new journey through the Night Line daily email. I used to read your emails regularly and was saddened about your departure then. And now... my thoughts and praryers are with you and I will be sure to mention your plight next Sunday at All Saints Church, Pasadena. Yeah! That one. We really have movers and shakers here so take heart!

And by the way start eating a lot soy products, if you haven't done so already. They are good for chasing those lousy free radicals that cause cancer. I mean you need all the help you can get, right? There are the beans themselves, then, (ugh) tofu, and soy milk, which isn't bad at all.

So there! Take care! My thoughts and prayers are always with you.

Sent by William Atsumi | 10:55 AM ET | 06-27-2006

Leroy, thank you for doing your blog. It means a lot to hear from you and other cancer victims. You're right — one cannot talk about cancer to non-cancerous people, they really don't want to hear all the gloom and doom and cannot relate anyway. I have cancer again, this time esophagus/abdomen. Ten years ago I had lung cancer, eleven years ago I had breast cancer and had a mastectomy. In 1990 I had hodgkins. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but it's always a very scary, scary, thing. I'm waiting to find out what my treatment plan will be this time. Wish me luck. Thank you again.

Sent by Ruth | 10:58 AM ET | 06-27-2006

First of all, let me say how very sorry I am that you have cancer. I certainly remember you from past years, and remember your first diagnosis five years ago. It certainly is not something a person would choose for themselves. My mother had cancer, so I know second-hand some of what it can be like.

I will go for now I have more to say, but, for now, I just want to say, "Im so sorry."

Sent by Greg Sheryl | 11:01 AM ET | 06-27-2006

I just wanted to send you a note to say thank you for your candor in the face of this and for all of the excellent work youve done over the years. When I was driving to work this morning and heard your name, I immediately knew that you were the former producer of NIGHTLINE (whose e-mails I get every day) and I had wondered where you were after the inevitable shuffle on the show in the wake of Ted Koppel's departure.

I'm a big fan of the news — of real news anyway — and NIGHTLINE under the joint efforts of you and Ted Koppel continued to buck the trend and present informative, touching and often brilliant programs in true counter programming form for Leno and Letterman... and in sharp contrast to most of the drivel that sadly now passes for network news.

I've lost a few friends to cancer and I can't for the life of me ever understand why it seems that the good ones, who have so much to offer their friends and family — and even the world — are taken early or made to suffer so.

But, for a guy out on the west coast who cares deeply about people and the world and the sad state of affairs, I applaud you and thank you for your contributions in your work. You have touched more people than you could ever know. And I wish you only the best as you journey through your parallel universe and whatever the outcome (and Ill still cross my fingers for the best), I hope it's peaceful and with grace abounding.

Sent by Greg Stewart | 11:04 AM ET | 06-27-2006

I enjoy listening to your commentaries because you are so honest. Thanks for sharing your experience.

Sent by Kimberly Cole | 11:11 AM ET | 06-27-2006

In the four-plus months since receiving my diagnosis of breast cancer, it seems as though I've heard the word "cancer" on the radio or television at least daily, if not multiple times daily. I can't help but respond... sometimes with tears, sometimes with a simple acknowledgment of shared experience.

I have not yet joined any support groups, but I'm starting to feel the need to talk with others whove gone or are going through this. Listening to your commentary this morning — I deliberately rushed to my office so that I could listen a second time — and then reading online gave me something I desperately needed... the opportunity to hear thoughts expressed, that in so many ways resemble my own, but by someone else.

When talking with friends, even those who are exceptionally sensitive, I often feel as though I'm engaging in "show and tell." Sometimes there's a sense of voyeurism. Sometimes a total disinclination to reveal anything other than whats most obvious, i.e., my physical symptoms. It's obvious that I have no hair, no eyelashes, my fingernails have become striated. Its not obvious that my fingertips and toes tingle, or even sometimes my entire foot. Like you, I have my war wounds. Mine is a scar on my left leg, from where my soleus muscle had to be removed, because it had become necrotic this compartment syndrome was the consequence of an allergic reaction to one of the drugs accompanying my chemo.

Unlike you, I decided not to make the announcement myself to my co-workers. Instead, I asked my boss, who is one of my best friends, to let them know. And I asked her to tell them that I didn't want to be bombarded with emails or visits of sympathy. I wanted them to let me continue to work, to try to keep things as normal as possible. So far, they've respected my wishes.

On Friday I visited an acquaintance who had surgery for her type of cancer. I needed to visit her as "payback" for all the many visits I received during my own stay in the hospital. I wanted to be a visitor who would make her feel better, by giving her a venue to say whatever she needed to say, not to offer trite phrases about her chances being so much better than those of people who were diagnosed 20 years ago or to tell her "to be strong." When people tell me to be strong, I try to realize that they mean well and dont know what to say. At the same time, I find myself resentful. I think to myself, "Don't tell me what to fell! I'm going be strong sometimes, and Im going be weak sometimes, and I think I have the right to choose which Ill be at a particular instance."

There have also been those who seem to view my illness as an opportunity to demonstrate how sympathetic they are, even though I havent asked for their sympathy. They gaze at me with woeful eyes and, when saying goodbye, do it as though were parting forever. I think to myself, "Stuff it, 'Im not yet in my coffin!"

And, so, I have a large circle of well-wishers, but a much smaller circle of people that give me what I most need - a sense that I am still very much part of life. And most of all we share laughter and a sense of amazement of what being human encompasses.

Unlike you, I'm still a novice at this. My chemo isn't done, and I'll need to have a mastectomy, followed by radiology. After that, who knows? If I've learned anything it's that my ability to exercise any sort of control is limited. What I can control is my response to what happens, so I try to take things in my stride, I try to create normalcy.

I've never had the sense, "Why me? Rather, why not me?" At the same time, my natural optimism buoys me, says I'll be a survivor... though sometimes I think that's merely a reflection of the egos inability to admit that it's not the center of the world.

In any case, I thank you for sharing your story, your insights. I will be sure to check in weekly, and I send you my heartfelt best wishes.

Sent by Shosh | 11:12 AM ET | 06-27-2006

Enjoyed your commentary this morning on Morning Edition on my drive to work. I am enjoying my life as a "cancer free" patient for the past year. Cancer free, chemo free, radiation free, I feel as free and light as a bird. Every single day is a miracle, why did I used to waste my time complaining about the weather? But I too wonder every time I meet a person who asks "How are you?" and I'm thinking, "Do they know?" How should I answer this: A full blown detailed explanation complete with side effects? Or just "Fine, thanks, how are you?"

Sent by Ann Regan | 11:22 AM ET | 06-27-2006

"If this has spread, it's 100 percent fatal." That's what I heard from my dermatologist three years ago. It hadn't, and it wasn't but not a day passes when I don't check myself for more traitorous tissue. We all live with these fears of course but that diagnosis bisects life in an important way. Thanks for sharing your story with others of us who have heard and so far survived some bad days.

Sent by Nora Cox | 11:23 AM ET | 06-27-2006

I just read my email today re whats on "Nightline" and heard the awful news about your illness. I immedately went to the blog.

I must confess that although I skim the Nightline emails, I pretty much stopped reading them and almost completely stopped enjoying them when you left the show and stopped writing them. Over the years I wrote to you a number of times telling you how much I appreciated your emails. My recollection is that a couple of times you wrote back.

I am so distressed to learn that you are ill, and wanted to send this immediately. I will go back and read the blog and then probably subscribe to the podcast as well.

I really just wanted to tell you that you are in my thoughts and prayers. I dont know whether you are a religious person or not, but even if not, I hope you will accept my desire to do something. At the moment the only thing I can think to do is pray. I am a Reform Jew and reasonably observant, although a Conservative or Orthodox Jew would probably not agree. My interest in and involvement with my faith has increased as I have gotten older (I think I am a few years older than you are) and probably reached some sort of critical mass three years ago when I watched my father die over a period of 2-3 months and I saw what tremendous support my congregation in Houston (where I grew up) gave to my mother and my father (and my brother and me).

I'm rambling... just know you are in my thoughts and prayers. I wish there were something more practical I could do to help.

I'll keep reading and praying. You please keep trying to get well. Many, many people must feel about you the same way I do... I wish you recovery, goodhealth, joy and many, many more years of life.

Sent by Andrea Grefe | 1:52 PM ET | 06-27-2006

I, too, sat on the doctors, table and heard the dreaded words: "I am almost 99 percent certain that you have cancer and I want you in the hospital ASAP to confirm my diagnosis. I would like to speak with your husband."

That began my journey — twenty-three years ago!

I believe that we make too much of that word. It takes over your life, if you let it. After all, we are all terminal.

I am still here, always waiting for the "other shoe to drop" but getting on with my life (minus one breast)!

You can, you must not let it take over your entire being.

Sent by Jeanne Rakowski | 2:24 PM ET | 06-27-2006

My father died of cancer when he was four years younger than I am now. Our names are Sievers also. I heard your piece on NPR while driving to work for the last time before retirement from thirty-two years of working as a custodian at an elememtary school. My last thoughts about that long chapter in my life will be forever tied up with your own last thoughts.

Thank you for sharing your life with us.

If you?re ever in Santa Cruz, you have a place to stay.

Sent by Kenneth Sievers | 2:30 PM ET | 06-27-2006

Leroy, thank you for doing your blog. It means a lot to hear from you and other cancer victims. You're right — one cannot talk about cancer to non-cancerous people, they really don't want to hear all the gloom and doom and cannot relate anyway. I have cancer again, this time esophagus/abdomen. Ten years ago I had lung cancer, eleven years ago I had breast cancer and had a mastectomy and in 1990 I had hodgkins. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but it's always a very scary, scary, thing. I'm waiting to find out what my treatment plan will be this time. Wish me luck. Thank you again.

Sent by Ruth | 2:34 PM ET | 06-27-2006

I grieve about a passing tangentially related to Mr. Sievers postings here — i.e., the passing of Nightline. I don't know if Mr. Siever or ABC/Nightline has archived anywhere the daily email postings he sent to subscribers. I hope so. It seems to be there is a book to be written using them as primary resource materials, a contemporary re-imagining of the classic, deciding what's news. Mr. Sievers daily briefings were highly eloquent and candid looks into the newsmaking and news reporting process. I miss them almost as much as I miss Mr. Koppel.

Sent by Paul Siegel | 2:36 PM ET | 06-27-2006

I am sitting in my office at work crying and I thank you. My mother died two years ago due to complications of breast cancer. I haven't cried over her death in months and I needed another good cry. Thank you again, although I am not sure my co-workers would agree with my sentiments of thanks.

I went onto NPR's website to look up another story I heard this morning and stumbled upon your blog. Your words are heart felt and powerful. When my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2000, she would have appreciated your honesty and frankness. Funny, she had a similar experience about a hospital worker referring to cancer as CA. I found it interesting that in the initial days of telling everyone, she, like you, was comforting us. She also became the strength for us as we watched her endure two surgeries, chemo and radiation. I feel privileged that my mom asked me to attend her weekly cancer meetings with her. Every Tuesday night we went to the hospital and talked with doctors, counselors, nurses and other patients. What a life altering experience for me. Not only did I learn the strength that my mother had, but I learned the strength and will of others. I noticed as time went on that asking why and trying to find answers became less important. I discovered through my mom that just being with her was the most important thing for me to do. To this day, I am amazed at what the human body can endure without dampering the human spirit. I would encourage all cancer patients and their families to attend a similar group for support.

Again, thank you for sharing your story and your heart felt words. I wish you strength and courage. I wish your family and friends faith... in you.

Sent by Helen Patton | 2:50 PM ET | 06-27-2006

I have walked down a similar path with my late wife, Joan, who was diagnosed with advanced colon cancer in 1998. No time carries more meaning for me.

Joan approached her illness in a way that allowed her to live and grow and be present for our two teenage children. These were very difficult times (understatement). Still, she managed to teach many, as you are, that it is how you live your life and care for others, not necessarily how long you live, that is important.

Shortly after being diagnosed with liver metastases she commented, "Thank God I haven't been a ——-. I cant imagine having this diagnosis and thinking I wasted my life being a jerk."

Joan would say that she didn't want to die, but if she must, she wanted to teach others that dying was not something to be so greatly feared. She did this well.

There is much more I could tell and have told about her experience in a book I authored — Lessons from Joan, Living and Loving with Cancer, A Husband?s Story, Syracuse University Press, November 2005.

Please let me know if you would like me to send a copy.

Wishing you improved health, but more importantly, good days, warmth of family and friends and appreciation for the many good things you have done and have yet to do.

Sent by Eric Kingson | 3:25 PM ET | 06-27-2006

On September 7, 2005, I received the most devastating news imaginable. My mom had colon cancer! I knew she had been sick, but was hoping for a diagnosis that was not as deadly. Months prior to the confirmed diagnosis, I noticed how sick she was and how she had lost her energy and spunk. When she had, what I thought would just be a routine appointment turned out to be the day that would change my life forever. When I arrived home from work on September 7, 2005, I remembered walking in the house and my mom was standing at the kitchen sink, I walked in and asked her how did her appointment go, but something didn't feel right as she turned to me, her voice was trembling and she told me that she would have to have chemotherapy. At that precise moment, I felt like someone had sucked the life right out of me. I remember feeling shortness of breath, almost like I was a twilight zone. I remember saying to myself, this can't be happening! I could vividly see the fear in her eyes and the fear on her face. I recall telling her that everything was going to be okay, even though I was frightened to death of her diagnosis, but I did not want her to see me stressed out. I then went into my room and sat on the edge of my bed and cried and prayed. The next few days, were really a blur. I had so many emotional meltdowns for the next few weeks that I was so scared was on the verge of a nervous breakdown and I knew that I would have to pull it together for my mother because she would need me now, more than ever. I don?t think I have ever felt so fearful in my life. When in doubt about anything, I always pray and I knew that my Lord and Savior were with me during this time because he gave me unimaginable strength. I talked to the Lord daily about this situation and he gave me the strength to be accepting of his will. I had no clue what was in store for my family and me because I had heard so many horror stories about chemotherapy and the thought of watching my mother be so ill weighed on me heavily. I could not concentrate on very much because my mind was constantly on my mother. I remember the day she had her port surgically inserted (which is a device used for the chemotherapy to work though her body) I knew right then and there, that this was going to be a tedious journey for my mom physically and emotionally. My mother has always been a mild and meek woman, so I was so concerned what toll this would take on her. As my family nervously waited her first chemotherapy session, I recall, allowing myself to cherish each precious moment with her because once the chemo started I did not know what condition she would be in. Her first session was September 14, 2005. I had taken off work to be there for her first treatment and sat with her for a while, while the chemo was being administered. To my amazement, I guess I was oblivious to the fact that so many families are coping with this dreaded disease, as the doctor?s office was packed full. I remembered thinking, "I am not alone." My heart was so heavy watching the family members and in particular, the cancer patients. I used to have an idea of bravery, but that has totally changed, as those individuals that go through chemotherapy are the bravest souls I know. It was startling to see the resiliency in these people and thankfully, my mom was one of them. I remember my father bringing her home after her first session and she was in such good spirits, not what I expected at all! She was obviously drained, but all in all, I could not have asked for a better first session. As time went on she would have good days and bad days. The first month of chemo went pretty well.

In October, things started to take a toll I started to see physical changes in my mom. She was very tired and would experience bouts of nausea. My mom was doing chemo every other week, and the weeks that she would actually have chemo started to get pretty tough, as time progressed. The end of October, my siblings and I planned a surprise party for my parent?s 40th wedding anniversary and although my mom took chemo the week of the party, we managed to pull off the surprise, flawlessly and she managed to muster enough strength to be there and enjoy the occasion. It was great to see her spirits lifted because I knew at that point that the chemo was draining her.

In November, my mother had her first follow up scan since starting chemo and the scan didn?t really reveal any changes in her condition, which was very disconcerting for me. The rest of November was okay, however, Thanksgiving, is a big family event and chemo happened to fall on the week of Thanksgiving. My sister and I were concerned that we would have to cook Thanksgiving dinner, but God managed to give my mother the strength to help prepare our Thanksgiving dinner. Thanksgiving 2005, we definitely had a lot to be thankful for because the year had been pretty rough for us all. I remember a bible verse in particular that reads, "In everything give thanks for this is the will of Christ Jesus concerning you" and this verse gave me the strength to carry on and to continue to be strong for my mom.

December was very memorable because Christmas is a time for love and togetherness and this holiday in particular, is my mom's favorite. I can remember from the time I was a little girl, my mother made holidays so special for our family. She always made Christmas such a magical time and that never changed, even as I got older. Christmas 2005, she had chemo the week of Christmas and it was a very melancholy time for me because I was so used to her liveliness during this time of year, but this year she was not well. I remember December 23, 2005 I was up late wrapping gifts because she had gone to bed early. I remember crying as I wrapped those gifts because my mind went back to happier times when we would laugh, talk and wrap gifts together but this year, she simply did not have the energy. I thought at that moment this would be a Christmas unlike any other, because she was sick and it really broke my heart to see her be in so much pain. On December 24, 2005, I remember awaking to her cooking breakfast and thinking to myself, God is so good because he gave her enough strength to enjoy the holiday with the family. We enjoyed the day and not only did she have a pretty good day she was able to celebrate and socialize with the family and I knew that the presence of the Lord was with us.

January 2006, my mom did well, but it was apparent that she was becoming more sluggish as each treatment became a lot more aggressive. On January 31, 2006, she actually became very sick during her chemo session and had to be given a shot for vomiting and nausea. When my Dad called to tell me that she had gotten sick, I remember feeling so much anxiety because I didn?t know that the session thereafter, would mimic the session on 1/31/06. The session she had on the following week went well although she felt lethargic I was relieved she didn?t get sick as sick as she did before.

As each week passed her condition fluctuated, but in February, we finally got some good news, her CEA Level (antigen in the blood that detects cancer) was starting to lower and for first time, I started to see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. By March her CEA level was 4.7, at the beginning of chemo, her level was 37.4 and the normal number is between 1 and 2! Her numbers were drastically improving and we were so hopeful that things would continue to get better. My mom had another following up with her oncologist on April 4, 2006 and I received news that was truly music to my ears, her CEA level was 2.4, which was in the normal range and was told she only had 2 more chemo cycles left. I remember leaving the doctor?s office so happy and I remember the day being so beautiful and sunny, as I got in my car, I cried, this time tears of joy. My prayers were answered! With my mom having 2 more treatments left, that would make her last treatment fall on the week of Easter and I remember thinking, how ironic, that her chemo would be ending after Resurrection Sunday! What better way to know and believe that the Savior Lives!

Her last treatment was a day of celebration, but it was bittersweet because I couldn?t help, but think of the other people I have seen in the Cancer Care Center over the course of the past few months. I don?t know these people by name, but they are in my prayers everyday, I pray that they know God and have unwavering faith because that was the only thing that sustained me during this time. I know it may sound strange, but the Christian journey is one full of twists and turns, but in all honesty, this experience has given me a closer and more intimate relationship with God and what a precious gift! My daily talks with Jesus gives me strength that I never knew I had in me. I am a lot stronger than I would have ever imagined. More importantly, it has proven to me just how strong my mother is. I have always thought of her a strong woman, but she was a warrior throughout this journey. Her strength through this adversity gave me strength. I am amazed at how she never questioned God?s purpose for her life. I am amazed at how she was so accepting of God?s will. Now, I am much more mindful of complaining about small things because I know, just how selfish it is now. I now have a better definition of the word "blessed." The word "blessed" in my own person vocabulary simply means that circumstances can be worse than they are so I thank God for my "mountain moments" and my "valley moments." I have a better comprehension of cleaving to God in good times and in bad times. I am reminded of a sermon that my minister preached entitled from, "From Bitter to Better" he examined Exodus 15: 22-29, "The Waters of Marah and Elim," when Moses led Israel from the Red Sea and they traveled to the Desert of Shur and went three days without water. The people were angry with Moses because they were thirsty and water of Marah was too bitter to drink and riddled with diseases. Moses then cried out to the Lord for help and the Lord showed him a piece of wood, which he threw in the water and the water became sweet enough to drink. God?s commandment in verses 25-26 of that chapter states, "There the Lord made a decree and a law for them, and there he tested them. He said, "If you listen carefully to the voice of the Lord your God and do what is right in his eyes, if you pay attention to his commands and keep all his decrees, I will not bring on you any diseases ... for I am the Lord, who heals you."

I now better understand the Savior?s purpose for my life. I now feel such a connection to a disease I once dreaded and feared! I am thankful that I was able to be with my mom, every step of the way. I am thankful for this journey that I am on now. I don?t know what the future holds for my mother, as far as her cancer is concerned, but I know that the blood of Jesus covers her and in that, I find peace, comfort and security. Her prognosis now is good, she goes every other week for Avastin (a drug used to starve the blood supply to colon cancer tumors) and she will continue on this for the next few months, but we are just thankful the chemotherapy part is over. It has been a few weeks since her last chemotherapy treatment and I can already see subtle changes. She gaining more of her energy back and she is more like her former self. I feel it is made my relationship with her much more meaningful because you never know the day when you will receive news that will change your life forever, so I cherish every moment of everyday, that I have her in my life. My life will never be the same, but I have gained so much from this experience and have learned many valuable lessons. I have amazing people around me and I know that helped, as well. God has blessed me to have wonderful and family and friends. It was beautiful to see the love of God in so many people. My mother had many prayers lifted up on her behalf, through these people. I have had special people who came into my life, during this time, who were so supportive and caring to my mother and I am thankful for those individuals, as well. I know that God is an ever-present force in my life and I hope that anyone who goes through a similar experience will lean on the heavenly Father for solace because "Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord, shall be saved" — Romans 10:13.

Sent by Christy Granderson | 12:46 PM ET | 06-28-2006

Our son was diagnosed with B-cell leukemia when he was just two years of age. The 3 year 4 month nightmare of chemo began (his roadmap made other cancer treatments look like a cake walk), but ended as a blessing. He is alive (age 8 1/2), doing great and the joy of our lives. I never felt sorry for him — either he would live and we would rejoice or he would die and we would rejoice that he was with Christ. It was us family members that carried the burden. Although my heart ached at the pain from his treatments, and like other parents with a child with cancer, wed switch places in an instant, I knew either alternative for him was magical. When I would start to feel sorry for myself, somehow God would always kick me in the butt. (We would end up in-patient with a kid who had brain CA). Hard to feel bad for yourself when the kid next to you is going to die. Anyway, what I am trying to say, is that there really is a blessing in all this. You begin to appreciate all the blessings you have had in your life. You even begin to envy those people who are terminal — they get to go to heaven while we remain stuck here on earth with all its problems and brokenness. God speed your journey, whichever route you take.

Sent by Denise Meeks | 8:53 AM ET | 06-29-2006

Hi, Leroy—

I'm sure these articles are helping a lot of people. There must be thousands of people going through what you're going through and they must take great comfort in hearing you give voice to exactly what they are thinking.

Let us know if there is ANYTHING we can do.

Alan Magazine

Sent by Alan Magazine | 11:39 AM ET | 07-04-2006

I am an anomaly. I have uterine cancer. The doctors said it was very early, grade one and the slowest growing. After my hysterectomy, they said all my lymph nodes and frozen section were clean. Yeah!!

A week later, I was told that it had spread to my lungs by my bloodstream. It responds to chemo better than if it were lung cancer, but I don't feel like I have a chance. I am so depressed having gone from cured to stage IV uterine cancer in a week. Everytime I look at my 7 great-nieces and nephews, and my nephews and nieces, who I am so close with; that they are all paying my doctors bills — I feel that I will never get a chance to see the 7 little ones grow up.

I have a wonderful, supportive, loving husband that adores me, and I have a son who loves me, like he thinks I walk on water. But he is 31 and I think I will never get to see him get married and have kids.

My dog, a Maltese, that I love soo much just woke me up in bed last week and snuggled with me. I told him I loved him and kissed him and snuggled. Then I didn't hear him breathing. He died in my arms.

I am a 6th grade math teacher. All of my kids wrote me cards and letters. Some of them were so moving you couldn't believe a child wrote it. It seems that I am one of the most loved teachers in my school. My kids score super high on the statewide tests and they tell me I am so much fun and so caring and that they love me.

So why me? I know this is long but I know I am such a good person. So many friends have visited and called but everyone thinks I should "think positive." How can I? I don't smoke. I eat right. I'm active. I have a very high IQ - which they say is supposed to mean something about living longer. I responded to the first drop of blood in a cancer that, when detected, is 90% curable and they told me it was early — yet I'm already metastatic. I have so much love in my life and I can't keep positive. I feel smited.

I pray and pray and I don't feel anything gets answered. I have a brilliant and loving older sister who cancels everything to come to every appointment I have. I have a multimillionaire nephew who would pay any bill I have, but does not want me to say thank you. I told him I had good news: my new doctor at Sloan-Kettering is covered under my health insurance. He said "Oh, I thought you meant good news about your health. I don't care what it costs — the money means nothing to me."

I can't be positive, I can't think positive. When I cry I try to hide it from everyone except my husband.

Anyone have any ideas?

Sent by Trudi Glatt | 11:48 AM ET | 07-04-2006

I just want to share with all you people one of the sayings that has been said by a famous doctor that if they asked him what disease he would prefer his son to get between diabetes or cancer, he would choose cancer because you can treat it easily unlike diabetes, and you can just handle it.

Sent by Khadeeja | 12:23 PM ET | 07-04-2006

I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer 02/07. It gets VERY quiet when you say pancreatic cancer. I envy all of you that has even the slightest odds of survival.

Sent by Barbara Waters | 10:46 AM ET | 05-09-2007

My husband recently had a Radical Retopubic Prostatectomy at Johns Hopkins and the surgery went great except for the finding of extracapsular penetration of stage 5 prostate cancer but it was not in his lymph nodes or seminal vesciles.
Anyway, enough of the technical stuff. I am very concerned since he got the news about having advanced prostate cancer as he seems so distant and negative. I was dx'd almost 30 years ago with Multiple Sclerosis but am still able to function and have only minor complaints, I regress, My major concern is trying to get my husband to have a more positive attitude and I am concerned also about my condition and being able to give him the care he deserves and requires any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

Sent by Chelle | 8:59 PM ET | 05-24-2007

My cancer is the disease by which I will exit this world. It is not a beast that I have to conquer. If it returns it will not be because I have failed to beat it. As a result of having cancer I have learned the value of friends and how to listen. I have learned the importance in little things and to take pride in never moving when I am stuck with a needle. I now know how little time there is to do the right thing and how long it will take to undo the wrong thing. And I have become a better nurse and teacher. Maureen Giuffre, R.N., Ph.D.

Sent by Maureen Giuffre | 7:52 AM ET | 06-26-2008