Although it is nothing as serious as your condition, my wife suffers from a mild form of multiple sclerosis (MS). Her suffering does more to make her feel guilty than it does me, as she sometimes worries that shes "taking me down" or "being damaged." I never see that in her, but I don't think she would have ever felt that way if others hadn't broadcast such demeaning opinions. Sometimes her disease makes her life stop, while usually I feel that it is just life, period, and nothing different than having a freckle. I don't feel guilty, and those around you shouldn't either.

Sent by Spamboy | 10:42 AM ET | 07-21-2006

The guilt is also AMONG those with cancer. I regularly talk on a breast cancer chat room with women (and a few men) with breast cancer from all over the world. I can't tell you the numbers of times that someone will say "I don't feel like I belong in here. So many of you have had it so much harder than I have." There is a comparison what they're doing between themselves and what they've gone through so far, and someone like me with stage 4 disease. I tell them that their cancer is still cancer, and that there is no contest to see who has it worse. It's not "Queen for a Day", and if you "only" have stage 1 and needed a lumpectomy and local rads, it's still probably the roughest and scariest trip youve ever been on. Fellow travelers understand that. All that we can do is share what we've learned for coping, getting good treatment, being a partner with your doctors and not a bystander in your own treatment, have the occasional virtual pie fight when the going gets a bit too rough, and be kind to one another.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 2:12 PM ET | 07-21-2006

"What did I worry about? How did I feel?"

That thought is captivating: how does one think under different emotional clouds? Can we not create clouds by will, by effort? Can we not choose to be on the abyss when we aren't (of course for all we know, we are, indeed we are.) Why can't other clouds be nudged aside? All these clouds, they come wth the package. We will certainly find that the gift of words and speech will be used against us. Yet, is there no way that our intelligence and those self same words can create a perspective wherein the mind and body are informed: this is as it always was, this is as it always is: nothing has changed. Indeed, if I merely forgot, just that much, that would surely effect change.

If I cannot forget, can I not experience the truth: nothing has changed.

Sent by Gerald Berke | 2:22 PM ET | 07-21-2006

Leroy,

I have been reading through a lot of your postings and appreciate the insights both you and your commentators bring to the experience of being a cancer patient. It helps me to see a much broader picture of who our patients/survivors are, and to try to design programming and services appropriately.

Sent by Gail Amelia Katz, ACS | 2:36 PM ET | 07-21-2006

Good morning, Leroy. I don't know if you remember me...My husband and I were a crew based out of OKC. The three of us did a story several years ago. I think you'd just left CBS and didn't have the gig at ABC yet? Or vice versa? And you were maybe freelance doing something a little silly and you were embarrassed about it? Possibly? Brian and Holly Sweet. Brian was camera and I (Holly) am sound.

I'm also a friend of Amy Marash - David's wife. We got to know each other during the OKC bombing (ABC crews) and have done several things together over the years since.

Brian died a few years ago. I'm sorry to say it was from a brain tumor. However, it was a "primary" brain tumor - which, as you know by now, is more difficult to treat. So - hang in there, buddy... :)

What I want to say is this: I seldom think of Brian and his illness. His legacy - my memory of him - it is all about Brian the PERSON. We loved each other dearly and he was a fantastic friend to lots of folks. I think there must be more than 10 people, other than me, that considered him their "best friend." He was also pretty gifted in his art, but that's a topic for another day.

I think sometimes "What if I got sick? Would there be ANYONE that considered me a best friend?" And then, I reassure myself...of course...I'd have several. It's the question we all want to know, but don't want the circumstance that will reveal the answer.

Thanks for the blog. It brings back bittersweet memories...

Sent by Holly Sweet | 10:44 AM ET | 07-22-2006

Leroy, I, too, am living with Stage 4 metastatic cancer (breast) and your blog has been one of the greatest gifts of my life with cancer. I look forward to reading your words each and every day as a way to connect to someone who "gets it." Although I have a multitude of caring friends and family in my life, unless someone has lived with metastatic cancer in their own body, they cannot truly understand the journey. It has been 7 years since my initial diagnosis of cancer (before it had spread) and I, too, cannot truly remember what my life was like when I was carefree. I hope you can appreciate how much your daily reflections speak on behalf of so many of us out there. Thank you.

Sent by Elena Widder | 10:48 AM ET | 07-22-2006

I would say it's incumbent on all of us, with cancer or not, who live in fortunate circumstances, rather than war or starvation, to make the most of our lives. We owe it to others less fortunate.

Sent by Phil Norton | 10:59 AM ET | 07-22-2006

Ten years ago I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I chose to heal myself naturally. Today I'm healthy, happy and whole, and I follow the advice of doctors like John McDougall and Dean Ornish as well as Patrick Quillin, which is a vegan diet and moderate exercise.

Sent by John Wolfe | 11:01 AM ET | 07-23-2006

What about those with hurthle cell carcinoma of the thyroid?

Sent by Lori Manzi | 11:02 AM ET | 07-23-2006

Last year when I was being treated for cancer - that awful routine: chemo, surgery, more chemo and finally (ending in January this year) radiation, my clients continually reminded me "how can I complain about my pain when yours is so much worse?" No, it's not and it wasn't; it was just my pain. Now that I am solidly in the throes of recovery, I know that, wonderfully, life does go on, but the major difference is that I am reminded daily that this life really is short. Choices I make, trips I take, even jobs for which I apply are now based on two facts: life does go on - I have debts that won't allow me to spend all day practicing yoga. Secondly, now I know life does have an end point; therefore, every choice makes a difference. Interesting how that bit of information can color my friendships, my relationships with family members and even the work I am doing with my clients. As terrifying as last year and the awesome treatments I received were, that's how good my life is now. I finally understand so much about what really matters.

Sent by Susan T. Lindau | 11:08 AM ET | 07-23-2006

I think a lot about the "guilt of living." Why was my cancer caught early? How did I get by with minimal side effects and manageable long term ones when so many others suffer so much more? Why did my friend's child struggle begin before mine and continue to this day in a constant battle for his life with multiple major surgeries, toxic 18 month chemo and radiation? Why is an 8 year old and his family going through this agony? Why did another friend's husband cancer start and finish with a terminal outcome in 8 months? What makes me different and what makes them different? Do their families look at me and feel angry, because I certainly feel guilty that I had it so comparatively easy. Are they glad someone else squeaked by and relieved that my family was spared their agony? Is there a trade-off on some cosmic level of my life for theirs? I wish we all knew the answers.

Sent by Chris | 12:46 PM ET | 07-24-2006

Leroy,

I happen to read your blog. The comment that is close to my heart is about money going to war. I think same idea was brought up by my 14-year-old daughter when she was going through a bone marrow transplant. She came up with this idea (www.peaceisthecure.org) if you put the war on hold for one day you can double the funding for leukemia. If you put the war on hold for one month, you can double the funding for all cancer.

So to answer your question... there is plenty of money. $300 billion has gone to war. The current cancer budget for research is six billion according to the NIH. We could have done approximately 50 YEARS of cancer research with 300 billion we used to kill for chasing "imagenary WMD." Real people like you, like Sonia (died at 15) could have had the benefits of cancer research. Now I have to live with this torture of my daughter's death... who knows for how long.

Sent by Beena Bawa | 1:28 PM ET | 08-02-2006

I'm a former CBS News colleague and remember your straightforward, honest, no-nonsense approach to work and life. There's remarkable writing on this blog and in your Morning Edition pieces that show that despite cancer and its affects, integrity remains important to your life— and for that, were all thankful.

What I haven't found here, though, is what moved you to take this remarkable step of going public with your challenges. There are hints scattered about, and as others have written, the benefits to the rest of us are clear— but I wonder what led to your decision to reveal things that many in a similar situation would rather not discuss publicly?

And despite what you and Neil Conan concluded this morning on Talk of the Nation, I'd highly recommend coming here to Hawaii, spending time surrounded by beauty and in a nurturing culture...and imbibing a few of those weird beverages with paper umbrellas sticking out of the glass.

Thanks for your writings. It's meaningful to more than you might realize.

Aloha.

Sent by Steve Okino | 9:36 AM ET | 08-04-2006