It's not just the fatigue and the nausea that don't go away — it's the utter lack of feeling that accompanies the chemo. I can watch a funny movie and not be able to laugh, even though I recognize that the jokes are funny. I can read a book and recognize that the content is interesting without being able to become interested. It's the inability to engage the brain that is so terribly distressing about going through chemotherapy. No one talks about what I've heard called chemo-brain. Even if I knew ahead of time I still could not have anticipated what it's like and how truly awful it is.

Sent by Louana George | 8:48 AM ET | 06-29-2006

I quit listening to NPR a couple of months ago — a sabbatical from the news, more or less — when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I couldn't take anything else in. My cancer was a shock, but made more unbelievable because my husband was in his fourth of six months of planned chemotherapy for colon cancer. He was diagnosed last November. His cancer and my cancer is now our cancer. On June 23, my husband completed, on time, his grueling regimen of infusion every second Friday, and then a 46-hour chemical drip at home. I had a hazardous waste spill kit, in case we had an accident. And this stuff was going into his veins for three days, every two weeks. I've now had surgery and will start my chemo in July. Im ready. Ive got my wig and everything, though I don't quite see how a bald head will bother me when Ive gotten quite used to walking around with one breast. So anyway, I turned NPR back on because I have a much longer road ahead of me than I expected, and I need the best company I can find. There you were. Talking about what to tell people when they ask "How are you?" I was just trying to figure that one out for myself. Thank you for sharing your story, Leroy. My husband and I are out here listening. We don't need a translator. You learn the language quickly in CancerLand. We mostly speak in simple sentences now —- I am sad. I am afraid. This sucks. This hurts. Look at me. Don't look at me. Im not hungry. I'm tired. I want to live. I love you. Turn off the lights. Turn up the radio.

Sent by Patricia Benson | 8:50 AM ET | 06-29-2006

Your stories are all too familiar. I have stage 4 breast cancer, and although I've been among the "lucky" unlucky ones and have not required chemotherapy or radiation, just LOTS of surgery, I still have cancer on my mind every day. It's affected my life in so many ways... debility from internal scarring from surgery that was supposed to make me "whole" again, inability of family and some friends to be there for me in ways that I needed them to be, a year off of work and fears about possibly not being able to get back to work at all, and medical financial burdens in spite of having "good" health insurance. It certainly is a parallel universe, and those who haven't inhabited it, have no idea what it is like here. My own oncologist was honest enough to tell me once that he has no idea what it's like to have cancer, to be told that you have it, to go through treatment. He cares for us every day, knows all of the side effects, but doesn't really know the experiences that we have to endure.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 8:52 AM ET | 06-29-2006

The dentist I work for is an avid listener and reader of NPR. I must admit that I was not. On Monday morning he came in and said "I have something you must read." You see, my husband, who is the love of my life, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in February 06. It was like the world had stopped and as you say... "your life completely is changed forever". Nothing will ever be the same. As I started to read your blog it was like looking in a mirror. The things that you say can only be said by a person who has or has had cancer. Yet, your perspective and insight are amazing. I await every day to read you next one. It is helping me relate to some of what I feel and what he feels and what is going on around us with our family and friends. We are incredibly lucky to have great support, but ultimately this is a battle that is fought alone. His doctors and the people in the chemo lab are wonderful and he tells me that he does not feel alone or scared, but I think that is for my benefit. I try to be positive and optimistic but I dont think anyone can understand or feel what you and he are feeling. At this time I cannot get my husband to read it but I tell him about it. Thankfully, at this moment he is not considered "terminal" but as you can attest... all cancer is terminal. He has been taking chemo and had his first cat scan since being diagnosed last week. We sweated out the days in between til we saw the oncologist on Tues. We received what we call — good news and bad news. The good news was that the tumor had shrunk quite a bit and that the cancer had not metastisied. The bad news was that the cancer was still inoperable because of the location of some vessel which is stuck in the middle of the tumor. It is so much to absorb. We did not know what to think. The doctor said "the name of the game is survival" and because it had shrunk and not spread his survival time increased. We were really happy. You learn to accept the small victories very readily. I will include you in the prayers that I say everyday for my husband and anyone else who suffers with this dreaded disease.

Sent by Amy Wile | 8:55 AM ET | 06-29-2006

I have just completed reading your thoughts about your illness and must respond by saying it is a comfort. My husband of thirty-four years passed away in September 2005 after a two and a half year battle which sounds very similar to yours. I feel that your writings are so close to what he was feeling. I wish he had kept a journal. He was a fighter and took it well, just as it appears you are doing. Keep up the fight! None of us know what is ahead and must take what we are given the best we can.

Sent by Linda Lockey | 8:59 AM ET | 06-29-2006

I have really enjoyed hearing your commentaries. I have a friend who is dying of cancer. Her cancer started in her lung four years ago. The surgeon removed a lobe and told her she was cured. Twenty-two months ago she started getting headaches and slurring her speech. "Oh," the doctor says, "that type of lung cancer tends to spread to the brain." No one warned her of the symptoms to watch for. When they did an MRI they found fourteen tumors. They told her to expect to live six to nine months.

After radiation, chemo, and Chinese herbs, the tumors had all shrunken. Her son celebrated his sixth birthday. And everyone celebrated that she had beaten the cancer.

Then she started having seizures during which her hands would go numb and she couldn't speak. The cancer had spread to the lining of her brain. The doctors debated treatment — more radiation would cause other problems, more chemo might not work. For a while a mix of Dilantin and steroids seemed to help. The herbalist tried other combinations. Three weeks ago she had to take a leave of absence from work because she was having a dozen seizures a day. (She is an occupational therapist — being able to speak and use her hands was neccesary.)

She is pleased that she has lived long enough for her son to have solid memories of her. Her only regret is that she didn't make videotapes for him. Because she hoped she wouldnt need to — the old denial game. And when it became obvious that she was dying, she couldn't speak well enough.

The current prognosis is two to four weeks. She has in-home hospice, and is surrounded by her friends and family.

She is the bravest person I know.

Sent by Wyn Jones | 9:24 AM ET | 06-29-2006

Thank you for doing this blog, Leroy. Since entering "Cancerland", I've found my greatest information and comfort come from others going through this experience. It seems once I was diagnosed, people either distanced themselves from me or rallied around me. I don't know if my "chemobrain" is making me imagine this or if its really true, but, I think some people think they'll catch cancer from me. Other people can't seem to do enough for me. And I have absolutely no way of knowing who will react which way. I do know I religiously did my monthly breast exam but now cannot bring myself to check my remaining breast because Im afraid of finding a lump. I'm that scared. I feel normal until I take off my wig or get undressed and sense my missing breast. This disease does change everything. Yet it really has been a gift, as riduculous as that sounds. I feel like I'm really living now... I savor conversations with my family, I feel more compassion towards others and act on that feeling. I don't sweat the small stuff anymore. I feel I don't control my life totally, like I used to. It's surreal, to say the least.

But I do know I look forward to your daily postings because you put into words what we are all feeling. Thank you.

Sent by Ann | 10:48 AM ET | 06-29-2006

Like you, I couldn't get angry at my diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. I know the prognosis is poor, yet I didn't feel angry. Cancer just seemed another thing that came down the pike we would deal with it as best we could.

Now, I feel angry! My boss, co-worker, mentor, friend heard the news yesterday that she, too, has cancer. I can't believe how pissed I feel!

I think I have not allowed myself to feel angry about my own cancer because then I would have to a)admit how bad it probably is (Stage 3, with 5 lymph nodes involved, plus I have only been able to receive 25% of the chemo because of low white blood cell count) and b)admit that I am scared of what is coming. It is like my brain has gone to an objective/numb place as a protection.

Keep writing, Leroy, for as long as you can. You have been on the mark every day, so far. Sometimes you articulate things that I havent formed into words yet. That gives me permission to feel, to admit that I am feeling. Thank you.

Sent by Stephanie Dornbrook | 1:13 PM ET | 06-29-2006

I have followed your commentaries since my son James became an employee on Nightline with Ted Koppel. I was so distressed to learn of your illness and of your decision to leave ABC due to health reasons. Yours was the most incisive and succinct reports of the e-mailed summaried of the day. I was sorely dissapointed that you had to leave. Jamie recently sent me your new Page url and I have read all of the wonderfully witten daily reports of yuour struggle with cancer. I am not a cancer victim and thank God for that,but I do have several illnesses which are quite painful. I share the fears, anger, and other emotions though on a lesser zcale than cancer patients. The effects on my life style which includes medicines and side effect, living in doctors' offices and tests of every description are similar. Yet, not nearly as devastating as yours. I am optomistic for you. You are living life to the fullest and I find through your writing the courage to endure whatever I face in the future. Thank you, God bless you, keep those letters coming.

Sent by James F. Blue Jr. | 1:15 PM ET | 06-29-2006

After reading about your sense that you had to comfort others when you told them of your illness I wanted to write, but I didn't because I don't have cancer and I feel a little like an intruder. So many people have spoken so eloquently about their experiences with cancer and the same feeling that other people had to be comforted. Not only can this journal help all of us open up about how we feel about the disease, it can also tell friends and family how you need us to respond.

I've lost family, friends, co-workers and the dearest boss to cancer. Whenever I hear of anyone I even remotely know having the diagnosis I want to hug them and sit and cry with them. I want to ask them everything about their treatment, their outlook and their needs. But, in our society, I think people find that too intimate. So I stammer and stutter and say stupid things or change the subject. I never broach the topic again unless they bring it up. Instead, I send them Lance Armstrong's book, It's Not About the Bike, as a way of saying "I'm pulling for you to make it."

Reading your story I realize how senseless it is to not react how I feel. The next time someone tells me of their struggle, I'll go ahead and hug them and cry with them. I'll still send them Lances book but Ill also direct them to this website where they can find real comfort. Thank you so much for what you are sharing. There are tears in my eyes right now and I'm hugging you in my mind.

Sent by Brenda Soderlund | 1:18 PM ET | 06-29-2006

Thank you for your blog. Two years ago, my then fiance was diagnosed with an extremely aggressive form of Non-Hodgekins Lymphoma at age twenty-nine. He went through chemo five days per week for several months. At one point, he was hospitalized for a lack of sleep and had severe allergic reactions to a medication. After six months of chemotherapy, he underwent a stem cell transplant and was in the hospital for over a month.

He is a survivor in every sense of the word and is going on year 2 of remission (we hope). Every check-up is met with fear and hope...strange feelings to say the least. We got married last May 2005 after having to cancel the it twice due his treatment.

As a family member, it's hard to sit back and know you cant really do anything... but perhaps one of the greatest gifts I learn was how to "give up control." I was amazed by the generosity if friends and family who stepped in the help. They did everything from dog sitting, to cleaning, to even preparing meals.

In honor of my husband last year, I decided to bike 100 miles in day to raise over $4100 for the Leukemia Society along with 25 other teammates in Lake Tahoe. We raised over $200,000 to fight blood cancers through research.

Sent by Lisa | 1:19 PM ET | 06-29-2006

Thank Mr. Leroy Sievers. I am the primary caregiver of my husband who has brain cancer. It is extremely helpful to read your posts and realize that my thoughts and feelings and reactions are common, normal, healthy and experienced by others. You have a gift with language and I thank you for articulating attitudes and feelings that I can not. All the best for your future.

Sent by Linda Semmler | 2:08 PM ET | 06-29-2006

Mr. Sievers, I heard part of your comments on my local NPR station the other day. Kudos to you for your openness. It is a platform I long for often as a breast cancer survivor. Your reoccurence is something I face every day in my heart before I give up the day to whatever the present is offering. Your eloquence captures my feelings — past and present — so well. I remember, in my anger, naming my tumor Hazel so that I would have someone to correctly vent at! My husband and dog appreciated that! It is three years this month since I finished my own course of chemo. I'm still amazed some days with how normal after that. I'm still hoping that my hair catches up one of these parts of my body are still returning to days! I will finally have some reconstructive surgery in two weeks at last ready to face it and Im just now believing that it is worthwhile. The new normal of a cancer patients life seems to be regular life but, as you say, parallel to it. For me, it's at a safe distance... trying to maintain a healthy perspective of one day at a time maybe one minute or one hour at a time. I am searched out often these daysI guess because I was a vocal patient and continue to be a vocal survivor. I'm not afraid to say the word cancer and for most people that ask for my advice or support they are comforted by that. They can easily get to the part of the issue that they really want to talk about. My new mission in life, I guess! I continue to see my docs but with longer spans of time in between. I view my "apron strings" to them more as a tether thats like a bungy cord with remarkable returnability should I need it again. Maybe as a self defense mechanism, I view all humans as temrinal now!! Those of us with or survivors of cancer are just lucky enough to maybe have learned how precious time is and whats really valuable and worth our while. That new normal again! I will read you often, I'm sure. I wish you much good luck and many prayers as you journey forward. Be well today!

Sent by Linda Domeier | 3:11 PM ET | 06-29-2006

Probably the most unexpected outcome of this cancer experience for me is the incredible community of people I have met. Well, not just met, but joined. I?ve gotten to know so many wonderful people who have been diagnosed with cancer, and their families and friends. We are all from such different walks of life with one intense common bond, and I never would have met them in any other way. I so treasure knowing them, and I highly value their friendship and acquaintanceship. They are such an incredible support to me and to my family and friends through this scary process. You?re right, we are not alone in this experience by any means.

Sent by Leslie | 5:20 PM ET | 06-29-2006

Thank you for posting this blog. We have had no experience with cancer in my family until my cat was diagnosed with stage IV GI Lymphoma eight weeks ago, and has been undergoing weekly chemotherapy treatments since. Reading this blog and talking to co-workers who have cancer helps to give me an idea what people, as well as my furry friend, are going through. Thank you for sharing.

Sent by Stephanie Smith | 5:21 PM ET | 06-29-2006

Mr. Sievers, I appreciate your blog. Thank you so much for sharing it with us. As a five-year survivor of a brain tumor, I found it impossible to feel sorry for myself too. So many truly innocent children die every day from brain tumors and cancer... Once you are exposed to other patients' stories, you are blown away by their sheer guts and ability for joy and hope. Remember, the only difference between us and those without cancer is that we have a brief insight into the way we could possibly die. Who is to say that is better or worse than being hit by a bus? I found that I was happiest and fear-free when I was some help to others. Funny, I learned that when my life was at its darkest — my only joy and peace came from helping others. I babysat at a hospice and rocked drug-addicted newborns to sleep. I could do those things even when I was tired from treatment. Even with no hair and an uncertain future, I was the luckiest woman in the world.

Sent by Joan Redwing | 5:25 PM ET | 06-29-2006

I heard you on NPR the other day and then read your blog. I have not had cancer but have known family and friends who have. I have been following a blog. She was diagnosed with a tumor on her brain stem in March 2004 and is still battling it. We pray for her and will surely add you to our prayers. Hope you have better days.

Sent by Chandana | 7:12 AM ET | 06-30-2006

Thank you for writing your blog. I was diagnosed in February with a rare form of endometrial cancer after having had a hysterectomy thirty-seven years ago. I guess a few little cells were left behind and mutated into a tumor. Bummer! I'm being treated as though it is ovarian cancer and will have my sixth chemo treatment on Monday, July 3rd. I am so sure this stuff is going to have licked it that I'm totally unprepared for any other outcome. I'm bald as an egg but that doesn't bother me — no wig, only cute hats and caps. My husband and I were winter visitors in Arizona but with the diagnosis we decided to buy a house and stay here for treatments because I wanted the specialists we might not have gotten in the Midwest. Now, I'm not only sick and tired from the chemo, but also homesick for some cool nights and rain. On the good side, I have lots of concerned friends here now as well as in Iowa! Your blog makes me aware of the need to write in my journal more often. I look forward to what you have to say tomorrow, Leroy, as well as the comments from others.

Sent by Marjorie Nelson | 7:19 AM ET | 06-30-2006

Dear Leroy Sievers,

Just this week I discovered your blog on NPR, and was devastated about the "real reason" that we no longer read your unforgettably poignant, funny, insightful and quirky ABC Nightline e-mails. (Prior to your work there, the internet mail postings were truly colorless and meaningless...)

Your news is doubly distressing, at this time, because I feel so guilty...After 6 weeks of x-rays, CT & PET scans (and other stuff), with only one more test to go, my results have been "benign" so far.

The responses on your site have shown the courage, caring and just plain greatness of so many people dealing with overwhelming suffering in their lives...It's humbling and an honor to read them.

Praying for all. Keep up the good work!

Best, Katie Kelly

Sent by Kate Kelly | 12:33 PM ET | 06-30-2006

Many do not realize that cancer is a "parallel universe," only there is more than one. One universe belongs to the patient and one belongs to the family and friends, and it needs to be said that neither universe is more important or critical than the other. We all learn to cope together and find strength from our co-inhabitants.

When my father was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 55 I came to realize that my family was now part of an elite group. Eight months later our status grew after my father passed away. I was there the day he died, my family all gathered around, watched and waited, not able to do anything. Now that our initiation is complete it always amazes me the amount of people that join our group. Co-workers, friends, family, strangers, every day there is a story of a patient or someone who just discovered they too are carriers of this internal invader.

I saw my dad pass through many of the things that have been mentioned in your blog. The denial while he continued to work with a chemo machine strapped to his belt. The "I am not sick other than this cancer" statements. We all participated in the denial as well. He was keeping pace with the battle on the outside managing the chemo and looking for hope in "experimental" options. He never looked like he was being overcome. But as the cancer grew within him it took up more and more room. Finally, one night while he slept it penetrated his intestine. He died 24 hours later from the complications.

The only thing that is lacking on my membership card is that the "type" box is left empty. No one was ever able to diagnose what type of cancer he had. This is, and was, the most difficult thing to cope with. I talk daily with my co-worker about her mother?s battle with ovarian cancer, or read your blog about brain and colon cancer, or listen to my neighbor talk about skin cancer. But for my family it was always just "cancer of an unknown origin." We never knew, and will never know, what took our father.

We are now members of this society of "survivors", only we survive without dad. I listen to NPR everyday, but have never heard your commentary. I have NPR set up as my home page, but I have never seen your stories. So it is interesting that I would discover the blog the night after I had another cancer experience with my four-year-old daughter. Last night she and I went to visit a neighbor who has cancer. When the door opened his aged mother (a woman I have never met) answered the door. She has come up from California to take care of her only son. After explaining that he was too sick to come to the door we left our best wishes and returned home. Once home I had to explain to my daughter that our neighbor had cancer. She asked if he was going to get better. I had to explain that things did not look good and he would probably die. Her only response to this was a very frustrated, deep-throated growl followed by a firm crossing of her arms and narrowed eyes. For a four-year-old who just lost her beloved grandfather this was just too much to deal with.

You have done a great service to everyone who has dealt with this disease. Your eloquence has made it possible for me to understand what my father was not able to communicate. Thank you for your perception and sentiment.

Sent by Jason Mons | 1:06 PM ET | 06-30-2006

Dear Mr. Sievers,

I read with anticipation and satisfaction your sensitive and perceptive daily e-mails previewing "Nightline" programs with Ted Koppel. Because of those e-mails, I watched that program with deeper understanding and feeling than may have happened otherwise. Having read your writing and perspective on these "news" events, I felt I/we/all who read them, had a relationship of sorts with you. When you wrote about your cancer diagnosis, I felt deeply impacted. Now, later, you are giving us "news" and perspective from a "parallel universe." It is deeply personal, as were your "Nightline" e-mails. You have a gift. I find I am deeply impacted, and feel for you. I feel priviledged to be part of the community of people that is reading what you choose to share. You are not alone, Sir. We are standing by, with great respect and feeling.

Jane Rooney

Sent by Jane Rooney | 2:01 PM ET | 06-30-2006

I had pancreatic cancer, but I chose alternative medicine; the cancer was caused by a parasite in my colon. The doctor treated the pancreas for both. After three weeks of feeling sicker than a dead dog...the parasite passed and along with it, the cancer. My heart goes out to all of you who choose traditional medicine for tx. The chemo kills more people than the cancer....I worked 10 years in the medical field. I saw it time and time again.

I will not use western medicines and chemo.. and wish more people would realize that western medicine is only as old as our country...the Orient and Europe have implemented alternative medicine with great success.

Be sure to check with the FDA that the chemo your doctor is prescribing is not banned... too many patients are too trusting of the medical instituitons...and watch out for residents and fellows looking to make a name for themselves using new experimental drugs.... Don't be fooled that you are their first priority.

Sent by Shana Hamilton | 2:03 PM ET | 06-30-2006

When I was told I had Stage 1V follicular Hurthle cell thyroid cancer (thats a mouthful) in 2/2004 I was also told at the same time by my top-doc in thyroid cancer that "you have nothing going for you." He put out his fingers of his right hand and began with: one, you are too old (55, this cancer likes young people those under 45), your tumor is too big, you have vascular invasion, on and on. I was in shock for days. I was also told there is "nothing we can do for you." Thyroid cancer does not respond to chemo or radiation. The only treatment is radioactive iodine. Hey, I'll give that a try, even though there is only a 3-percent chance this might work. Please keep writing; you give us all wonderful insight and the strength to go on. Oh, the final insult is there have been no strides made in thyroid cancer since 1930 — it is the same radioactive iodine now as was used in 1930. No research to speak off, a few clinical trials with no new options.

Sent by Liz Ruane | 2:54 PM ET | 07-01-2006

I lost my husband, Johnny, to cancer two years ago. I understood so well the things that you said. The parallel world of cancer is nothing that I could have imagined before he and I walked off that cliff. Johnny was a strong, beautiful, healthy man. He didn't smoke, hardly drank and worked out at the gym. He unloaded a load of furniture a few hours before we raced to the emergency room with his first symptoms and received his devastating diagnosis. We had no warning that we would step into what at first seemed like a twilight zone nightmare. We went from hospital to hospital searching for some shred of hope, but no doctor offered any - only palliative care.

A few days after the diagnosis, I found that I was becoming more and more paralyzed. I knew that I needed to function, for Johnny and for our daughters, but badly needed to fall apart. I found a hospital restroom on a distant hall, sat on the floor and sobbed. Of course I prayed for him to live, for this to be a mistake, for a doctor who would fix things. I also prayed for strength and guidance. As I sat there, a story came to my mind that I had read in Ann Landers once. She wrote it to help a young couple who were having trouble accepting their handicapped infant. This is how the story went.

A young couple was planning a trip to Paris - their honeymoon. They had spent months learning French phrases, reading about places to go in Paris, and looking at travel guides. When their date finally arrived, they got off of the plane and discovered that they were in Holland. They of course said "There's been a big mistake. Our reservations were for Paris." They were told, "Well, you're in Holland. We have many beautiful places to see in Holland. Enjoy your stay."

Ann Landers told the couple with the baby that, like the honeymooners, they would first have to grieve for the trip (or baby) that they thought they would have. Then they would need to find out what was wonderful about the baby that they did have. That is what I realized I needed to do. Our old lives were over. Get past it. Look at this awful, new, intense, scary reality, and find out what's beautiful. There was a lot. I know that you know the painful parts - the physical pain and the emotional trauma. I am also sure that you've found the good - the new intensity of relationships and senses, the clarity of mind and priorities. It made us wish so much that we could explain to everyone around us how short and precious their own time might be.

But we were lucky because we had in recent years grown into the habit of saying to each other "Aren't we lucky? I guess we've got it made." We had quiet ordinary lives, but it was like our secret success to love each other so much and know it. You might think that this is particularly sad, but it was the opposite. We didn't have to think "If only we had known what we had when we had it." We did know. We had savored our lives together for years. It helped a lot when we knew that his days were running out. We knew that we had had our fair share of love and more.

Our youngest daugher will be married this fall. She'll walk out at her beach wedding without Johnny. But she and her fiance already say, "Aren't we lucky?" to each other. "We've got it made." I think it's a wonderful legacy and will prepare them for anything life sends their way.

Good luck, Leroy. I hope you have many more wonderful days.

Sent by Laura Ray | 3:03 PM ET | 07-01-2006

I have breast cancer. 8 yrs ago it was stage 3. Now it is stage 4. It is in my sternum, spine, rib, liver. They say that average 20% live for 1 year. I am 48, healthy (other than cancer) will I be the odds. I am so scared.

Sent by Pat Molter | 10:43 PM ET | 09-13-2007