Take a hand towel, saturate it in water, put it in the freezer in a plastic bag. When you want something cold, it is very nice across the forehead around the wrists, etc. A big bad of frozed peas works well also.

Good luck Monday. It sounds like it should be fine. Not fun, but you will get through it.

Sent by Cathy W. | 8:55 AM ET | 08-04-2006

Leroy, good for you. You sound at peace with your decision, which is as it should be. I want to share some good news with you, because I think that good news in our world comes like rain on parched ground. As I've told you before, I was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer in May 2004. I had widely dispersed lung mets throughout both lungs, all fields. On Wednesday, I went back to my oncologist with my latest set of CT films. He confirmed what I suspected.... I'm in remission. My situation didn't call for chemotherapy or radiation because of the type of cancer I had, and other factors. My remission came because of one oral drug that has only been available for a few years. As my oncologist said, "They're discovering all kinds of new molecules for this all the time. One of them will be for you one day. Why not?"

I wish you stamina, hope and the best possible outcome, and that someone soon discovers one of those new treatments that will be just for your cancer.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 8:57 AM ET | 08-04-2006

I listened to part of Talk of the Nation yesterday on NPR. I went through a bone marrow transplant three years ago— I had CML leukemia. A lot of what was discussed struck home with me. The part of people backing away from you once they find out and the part where people give you "success stories" or critique your performance against cancer. I found myself agreeing with your comments. Each person's cancer is unique just because other people had a successful treatment doesn't mean you will. Other folks were commenting on how down I was about having cancer when I talked of the possibility of dying. As you know, when faced with imminent death, you have to look at the both possibilities: surviving or dying. People would get the most upset when I made my wishes known if I died during treatment. They immediately thought I fell into depression but could not see that although I was optimistic, I had to make plans if I fell into the 40% of those that died.

I believe we have more control of getting well that most believe. I feel there is an unlimited power in our mind that will bring about outcomes that we want deep down inside. I also believe like you, that the patient must be an active member of the medical team that is treating you. You have to ask the hard questions and press for the true answer no matter how much the doctors skirt the subject.

My thoughts and prayers are with you as you continue to fight your cancer. Being a cancer patient I understand better than those that aren't. I appreciate your making public for jouney with your disease.

Sent by Michael Rogerson | 10:01 AM ET | 08-04-2006

You make yourself sick and you make others sick due to your lack of research. You talk about chemotherapy, ice cream, and make vague references to some kind of berry from the orient as alternative medicine— how pathetic. Cures for cancer have existed for thousands of years but you have been deafened and blinded by your deafening arrogance and the silver sparkle of technology. So you are unaware that cancer cannot exist in an alkaline body (pH balance). Cancer cells cannot exist in an oxygen rich environment (oxygen therapy). Cancer cells cannot exist in temperatures above one hundred and four degrees (hydrotherapy). Therapeutic essential oils of Frankincense and Myrrh (gifts to the baby Jesus) and lavender kill cancer cells on contact (see Essential Oils Desk Reference, which has been called the most important medical book ever written, outweighing all other medical texts combined).

But you are unaware because you call yourself a journalist without realizing that means very little. So you not only compound your own problem, you add to much larger problems facing us all.

I wish you good health and I wish you were a better journalist for your own sake, and for the sake of your readers and listeners.

Sent by Chris McVay | 10:06 AM ET | 08-04-2006

Leroy, thanks for sharing your experiences today. It was a great interview. I know it will help me to be more sensitive to people I know who are in cancer treatment.

Sent by Polly Hastings | 10:07 AM ET | 08-04-2006

We have a lot in common. I am a journalist who got a cancer diagnosis. My diagnosis of cancer came in May 2005. I had oral cancer. My paper, the South Bend Tribune, also agreed to allow me to write a series of stories about how my cancer diagnosis and treatment affected me and my family. I have written four so far, with a fifth one in the works. You can read the stories by going to THIS WEB SITE. My cancer is in remission. You really touched me when you talked about your scans and your results. I know that we live life around those scans. I'm working on a poem about those scans. I think you see the irony in your career as a war correspondent and covering wars and seeing the destruction that war wrecks on a society and now being involved in this personal war against cancer. The treatments - whether you're talking about surgery or radiation and chemo — often work like bombs that can destroy the "evil" cancer cells but cause a lot of collateral damage to good non-cancerous cells. You spend a lot of money on those treatments just like societies spend a lot of money prosecuting a war. The cancer war often requires you to divert funds from other line items which means that other needs go unaddressed and other bills go unpaid. It almost becomes a "guns" versus "butter" choice. But you have to make the commitment to fight the cancer, because it attacked you. But the fact is that even if you "win" as I did, winning has an odd feeling. When I got those first scans back three months after my last radiation and chemo treatments, I screamed for joy and pumped my fist in the air. There were many shouts of praise to God. I had won my "war" against cancer. But after the celebration came the morning after an the realization that my body and my finances resembled London or Russia after World War II - victorious but devastated. I had lost 60 pounds, had a feeding tube installed in my stomach and I had a bunch of medical bills to go with all of my other household expenses that I struggled to pay when I was healthy. Still - like the Russians and Brits after World War II - I shudder to think about how worse things would be if the cancer had "won." You hang in there. Telling your story inspires many people.

Sent by Howard Dukes | 12:05 PM ET | 08-04-2006

Bless you for bringing this subject "out of the closet." I just lost a dear friend to ovarian cancer after a 12-year-battle. There are so many cancers we can't cure it is unthinkable that worldwide 290,000 women die every year of cervical cancer which is PREVENTABLE (for details go to PINCC.Org). And yes, this is a plea for help, i.e., a note from you to the world.

Now, about your dilemmas: You are on the right track re going for the quality then when life is nothing but cancer move to Oregon so you are free to make your decision re how long you wish to go on. That's what I would do. My partner died of lung cancer 17 years ago. If it is any consolation, she did not die in terrible pain even though the cancer had gone to her spine because it also went to her brain where there are no pain sensors and she died rather quickly.

Being an agnostic I can't offer you prayers, just my caring to a fellow traveler on this bumpy life road. I am a retired psychotherapist if you ever need a professional listener who is not a dear friend so you won't have to worry about burdening someone dear to you. In peace, Pat Sax.

Sent by Pat Sax | 1:12 PM ET | 08-04-2006

I caught the tail end of the show on my way to my first radiology consultation. It helps to know others face this, there is a place to vent. I look foward to following your blog as I travel through the next two months of radiation. I guess I should consider myself lucky. Operable, radiation only, still it is this constant assualt on denial. I feel good, in this moment I am safe and happy. Thanks for being there... I sense this is a new club I have just joined. Lynda Spangler, Merlin, Oregon

Sent by Lynda Spangler | 1:39 PM ET | 08-04-2006

Leroy,

I'm happy about the decision you reached. Isn't it a wonderful feeling to have a break and pig out on whatever ice cold stuff you like? Those moments are so very precious, I live for those moments. Ten months seem like hell of a long time, but those little breaks no matter how brief will get you through it. By the way, whats is this Chris person's problem, he sounds like a very angry person, I didn't quite get his meaning, did you? I raise my ice cream to you too, Leroy. Enjoy, enjoy and enjoy some more to sustain you until the next brief intermission. You are a winner.

Sent by Ruth | 1:42 PM ET | 08-04-2006

I have been reading your comments for awhile now. I don't have any new insights to add to your treatment or experiences. I am writing just so that you will know there is one more person who supports you and prays for you on your journey.

Sent by Joan Egan | 3:02 PM ET | 08-04-2006

I've heard your commentaries in the past and listened to you on Talk of the Nation yesterday as I was driving home to Portland from Seattle. I had my diagnosis, oral cancer, almost five years ago. As I walked into front door of my house I'm thinking cancer, cancer, cancer, COOKIES! My wife had baked cookies. You talked about how important the little day-to-day things are and I couldn't agree more. I have not had that life-changing attitude where I have need to have big experiences I just want read the paper, do the crossword and eat cookies. Thanks for your broadcasts... may you continue for a long time.

Sent by Scott Kuzma | 3:05 PM ET | 08-04-2006

I hated not being able to have something cold when I was doing chemotherapy. Cold milk is my beverage of choice. Wearing gloves while typing to stave off the tingling sensation in my fingers took some getting used to. Enjoy your weekend and all the cold stuff you can. I'm praying for you and your peace with your decision. Your fighting spirit is so encouraging for cancer patients, those done with treatment, family and friends. Thanks for the blog.

Sent by Judy Van Lishout | 3:07 PM ET | 08-04-2006

I heard part of your commentary yesterday, but I had to turn it off after a while — it was hitting hard, because my 22-month-old daughter has leukemia. The strange thing is that I have learned that she is one of the lucky ones — at this point, she is in a group that gets "cured" 90 percent of the time, and she has some of the best doctors on the planet and we have good health insurance. But still, it sucks. I hate cancer. I worry about fallout from the chemo coming later, maybe when she is in her 30s (that is a combination of "yahoo" and heartbreak — when she is in her 30s... ).

Anyway, this all leads to a question — what is the intolerance to cold? Does it make you sick, or you don't like it, or causes bad effects? Eat lots of ice cream for me today! And maybe eat a dish for Chris, too — it might make him a happier and more tolerant person.

Sent by Dawn Judd | 3:10 PM ET | 08-04-2006

I just stumbled upon this article on Yahoo and wanted to send a comment. My wife has had cancer since 1984 and was told she was terminal in 1995. That diagnosis has not changed since then. My youngest son, Justin, was one of the five kids in "Lion in the House", and he died in 1999, so I have some knowledge of cancer.

I am thrilled to see a man chronicle his battle with cancer. Only from your insight and courage will we be able to combat this horrible disease.

Keep fighting and keep writing, I am proud of you.

Sent by Dale Ashcraft | 7:03 AM ET | 08-07-2006

Leroy - I've just made the decision to "go on" with the next round of chemo. Will have my first of this series on Wednesday, 8/9. I have a rare form of cancer called Mullerian with endometroid features but am being treated as though it is ovarian. I'd really like to meet someone who has (or, hopefully, HAD) this type of cancer. Anyway, I hope we've both made the right decision to go on with the chemo. I keep reminding myself that I can say "stop" if it gets too difficult. But for now I'll go on because I'm expecting to see my first grandchild in the spring. And, I want to keep reading your journal.

Sent by Marjorie Nelson | 7:04 AM ET | 08-07-2006

Congratulations on making your decision and moving forward. There is a certain peace in that and in taking action.

When I went through chemo, it was for a shorter time than what you might be facing. There were times when it seemed like it went on forever, but now that I have been done for a year, it seems like it was forever ago. That time will pass more quickly than you think it will (plus chemo-brain and fatigue will make it seem like it?s going faster... it?s odd to think that there are beneficial aspects to those conditions!)

Enjoy your ice cream!

Sent by Maggie | 7:05 AM ET | 08-07-2006

Our family was plunged seriously and completely into the cancer fight one year ago. Details not necessary. There have been amazing things we have learned about each other during this time, especially about the value and power of connection.

When I heard your first commentary, I knew of what you spoke. I was saddened by your situation and yet I was relieved to hear it spoken of. There must be comfort in knowing others who know.

Your commentaries and this blog are bringing together the most amazing community of those who live with this and those who care with them. I find your writings and the responses to be incredibly uplifting. I am surprised by how many people are in this battle, how varied the treatments and their response, and how many good strong hearts there are out there. There is nothing like bringing a little light into dark corners to make it more understandable. Our cancer patient is finding your blog to be a rich place to visit on her journey — the connections and recognitions are very profound, and helpful.

Thank you for speaking aloud, letting us hear your thoughts and feelings while they are fresh, and thank you for the courage it took to open your life up to public scrutiny at such a critical time. I think what you are doing with your cancer journey will have positive effects that you cannot imagine. I can see some from here.

Sent by Carol | 7:07 AM ET | 08-07-2006

My husband sent me the link the the NPR page with your article from your interview on "Talk of the Nation". I am in the UK with my thirty eight-year-old daughter who has been diagnoised with terminal Ovarian Cancer. She had her first Chemo treatment on Thursday evening and she made it with flying colors.

Thank you for sharing your story. My husband and I both are cancer survivors and we feel like we have been given a new chance at life. It is so hard to watch one's daughter go through the journey and know that the chemo will only give her another year or two. Thanks again.

Sent by Carol Reece | 7:08 AM ET | 08-07-2006

You made the right choice.

Sent by David Larsen | 7:09 AM ET | 08-07-2006

I've been reading your comments since the beginning, but never felt compelled to respond until I read Chris' comments. I hope they made you laugh instead of cringe, and I hope Chris finds a better outlet for her distress than here. (Or better yet, I hope she finds some happiness.) Meanwhile, please know how much I appreciate your insightful and inspiring real-life writing.

Sent by Trish Stewart | 7:10 AM ET | 08-07-2006

Thank you so much for answering those questions hanging out in the back of my mind, "What will I do if I should face a grave illness? How will I behave? Will I be brave and courageous? Can I do it?" You show us, with honesty and humor, how it can be done. It's such a gift to others. Oh, yes, the writing is pretty good, too. I draw great strength from your commentary. Thank you again.

Sent by Susan Donnell | 7:10 AM ET | 08-07-2006

I just heard your story on TOTN yesterday and was especially struck by the observation you commented on about how some of your professional care givers had difficulty looking you in the eyes or pronouncing the word cancer, and how little support there is for them dealing with other people's trauma. I am sure you understand it is not you - it is their own secondary traumatic stress or "Compassion Fatigue" that causes them to act that way. It also affects relatives and loved ones. As paradoxical as it is, it is our own empathy to other peoples pain that can cause us to withdraw. With hope and healing...

Sent by Karl D. LaRowe MA, LCSW | 7:12 AM ET | 08-07-2006

Good luck and God bless you. I have just listened to some of your commentaries and they have helped me. I just finished six months of chemo for newly diagnosed 3a colon cancer. Now I am in the waiting period till my next c.t. and colonoscopy. I hated the oxaliplatinum, which caused the cold intolerance, and I started to hate the 5 FU towards the end also. But all in all, you know it's tolerable and there are worse chemo drugs. You are helping a lot of people and that is a blessing.

Sent by Robbie Bracken | 7:13 AM ET | 08-07-2006

As a medical oncologist, I am often asked the questions: How can you do oncology? Isn't it depressing? And while there are days I question it myself, I am sustained by the amazing strength, courage and dignity of my patients. We celebrate small victories together, good scans, and breaks from chemo. Sometimes we shed tears together too. I wish you a good response to your next chemo and minimal side effects. Thank you for sharing your journey.

Sent by Joni Nichols | 7:17 AM ET | 08-07-2006

I have been reading this blog every day, and on Friday, I listened to the

podcast of "Talk of the Nation." I appreciate that show for giving you a chance to share your story, Leroy, as you must have reached many people who havent been following this blog. Thank you again for talking about your experiences, Leroy, and for the opportunity to hear from others calling in with their experiences.

I have written before about my cancer diagnosis just two months ago, and my search in so many places for information, not just about the disease, but also about the experience of having a diagnosis of a likely terminal illness. This blog, and now this show, speak to me on so many levels as I look for inspiration, connection, and mentoring from those who are farther along on the cancer journey.

The show was terrific thank you so much! I will enjoy a root beer float this weekend, and think of you, and your treatment ahead.

Sent by Lynne Dahlbord | 7:17 AM ET | 08-07-2006

Life gets so much easier once you decide which road to go down, whether this is in regard to cancer treatment or other major life decisions. It's the limbo-life that's so hard because your mind has too many places to go. Now you can invest all you've got in this new regime you are doing.

You wonder if you can tolerate non-stop chemo. It's a good question. I am so lucky I have three women I know well who have Stage 4 breast cancer as I do who have been very successfully doing chemo full time for years. When one drug fails in six months or a year or whatever that time is, they have gone onto another drug. One of these women has worked full time through this and the others have continued to work part time.

I may have to go on a schedule like that soon, depending on the results of my CT scan. I don't like the idea. But everything is relative. Right now the idea sounds like too much, way too much for me, but then this amazing woman came over today. Her name is Barbara and she's done full time chemo for years - three? And her attitude is so refreshing. She looks incredible and she works full time and his attitude is like "yeah, what's the big deal?" I asked if she were faking because I do that sometimes and she was pretty clear with me that she is really okay with where shes at.

Good luck, line all your resources up, and get going !

Sent by Nancy O. | 7:21 AM ET | 08-07-2006

I have a stage 3-b lung cancer now and just went through my first chemo last Wednesday. I am doing well and have not experienced too many bad side effects.

The journey will not be easy and full of struggle, but the struggle will be easire as long as you are in charge and not the cells.

We are all tremporary beings on this earth and we all have to leave it sooner or later. I am looking at my situation as my second chance to live. I could have had a heart attacK or die in an accident as well. Remember that you soul will live forever. We have only borrowed our bodies in our jounney on earth and the journey does not end here.

Hang in there and NEVER GIVE UP. No matter waht happens stay strong.

Good bless you and give you long life.

I will write again.

Sent by Frank Zeinali | 7:22 AM ET | 08-07-2006

I listened to your segment on Talk of the Nation today (I listen via Internet, so a day late). It was a wonderful piece that brought up many important topics regarding cancer. One thing that especially resonated with me was the observation that the cancer diagnosis is often more difficult for the family members to deal with. My father died from colon cancer 1.5 years ago. From diagnosis to his death, he never talked much about his ultimate hopes for remission. He aggressively pursued surgery, chemo, and radiation treatments although the toll on his physical health was terrible. When we were told the last, final bad news (Oct 14) - that's it, no more options and the cancer is multiplying - my mom, my sister, and I broke down into racking sobs. My father, sitting calmly in the hospital bed he would never leave alive, told us, "we knew this was coming, I hate to leave you all, but it can't be helped, now stop crying or you'll make me sad." I guess during those months after his diagnosis while I was researching everything I could find about colon cancer, treatments, best practices, and on and on, he was internally coming to terms with the end of his life. For myself, that day was like hitting the ground from a freefall - for him on some level it was the news he expected to hear - he never thought to beat cancer only to buy a little time.

I will continue to listen to your commentaries and read your blog with great interest. I wish you success on your latest round of chemo.

Sent by Rhonda Bratton | 7:35 AM ET | 08-07-2006

I'm so sorry about your cancer, but also very grateful that you are speaking and writing about it. So many folks keep it all to themselves, and that makes it more mysterious for everyone else.

I've heard you a few times on NPR and I'm always so impressed with the clarity and warmth of your message.

I send you my best wishes and my prayers.

By the way, this is the first time I've visited a blog.

Sent by Judith Newkirk | 7:37 AM ET | 08-07-2006

Thank you for the conversation with Leroy Sievers about cancer on 8/3/06. So many times I've shied away from discussions with people who have cancer because I felt awkward and unsure of myself. Since hearing Mr. Sievers, I now realize that it was only my negative perceptions which caused those uncomfortable feelings in me. I would see a big "C" in front of a person and I would have to talk around and through it. Now, I'll see the goodness in that person, and we'll go on from there. Thank you NPR and Leroy Sievers. You've helped me to change a negative perception into a positve one.

Sent by Phyllis Coke | 7:39 AM ET | 08-07-2006

I have a friend who is seventy-something who has recently been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. My sweet thirty-six-year-old niece died in December after being diagnosed with breast cancer four years ago. Cancer is a tough reality.

Fighting the battle is what I would do.

I think you are finding happiness in your current place. I try to do the same.

Just discovered your journal tonight and enjoyed reading your thoughts. Thank you.

Sent by Linda Clark | 8:52 AM ET | 08-07-2006

I am a forty-nine-year-old, two-year survivor of an aggressive form of breast cancer and chemotherapy, and still undergo weekly treatments with an antibody to keep reccurrence at bay. I had 2005 off, but then the drug Herceptin proved itself in clinical trials for early-stage breast cancer, and it was back to the treatment room once a week for a year, at least, with nothing more than Tylenol as a "chaser." The worst side-effect for me this time around has been the harsh reality that I lucidly witness in the treatment room each week. As a result, I found myself in the self-help section of the bookstore and picked up Life Lessons by Kubler-Ross and Kessler. It enabled me to realize that it is actually a privilege to be in the company of the terminally ill, and that my role was to allow myself to be the instrument of God's intent for our mutual benefit. Thus, I'm writing to let you know that it has been a privilege to read your postings, and I hope that perhaps you might read the book and take comfort in it as I did. Best wishes to you.

Sent by Barbara Hunt | 8:55 AM ET | 08-07-2006

I caught part of your discussion on TOTN yesterday. It stirred up some painful memories of nursing my mom through her terminal brain tumor. But one thing you said was very comforting: that loved ones should follow the patients' lead when it comes to how they deal with their illness. I believed at the time that I was doing just that but people less involved with her day-to-day care seemed to be second-guessing me. I just felt that, since in all likelihood she had less than a year left, she should spend it in whatever way brought her the most comfort.

Watching a loved one go through what my mother did is a hell— I would not wish on anyone and yet, it was all the time I had left with her, so I wouldn't undo any of it.

I wish you the best of luck with your own illness. Thank you for sharing so openly.

Sent by Lori Horvath | 8:57 AM ET | 08-07-2006

We have been told that early detection is the best hope in fighting cancer. A push has gone on for fighting breast cancer, skin and colon cancer with detection through mamograms, routine check-ups and colonoscopies.

The other detection systems are abnormal symptoms like jaundice, dizziness or blurred vision.

I am fifty-six and did the normal physical every year with the blood tests, ekg, etc. and every thing always looked great.

I was always in excellent physical condition. However, I never got checked for abnormal organ condition other than the deep breathing and thumps on the chest a back.

If I were to go in for another physical today, I would get the same passing grade.

Three months ago while I was sleeping, I had an annoying pain (but not a hurting pain) on my right side similar to a side ache that I would get when I was a child, but much more mild than that even.

My wife talked me into staying home that morning until it went away, but it didn't, so I called my internist. He suggested I go to the emergency room to get checked out for kidney stones and gall stones.

After they did an ultrasound on me, I identified with "that look" you have talked about.

Well the next step immediately after the ultrasound I found myself pounding down gatorade which helps in the CT Scan.

This all started at 1:00pm and ended at 9:00pm. That annoying pain I had has never been experienced again. I guess after the "C" bomb is dropped, your brain cells get rearranged.

The point of all this is, had I known that normal physicals and blood tests do not bring out the fact that you are being eaten alive with no symptoms, I would have gladly paid for a CT scan from the head to the hips to get a potential early detection.

No one has ever mentioned this as part of a complete physical.

A reocurring theme of yours is that you feel fine, except for the side effects of the chemo.

So how do you know if you do not get the scan done?

I have a rare one called cholangiocarcinoma, stage IV. I am told there less than 2000 cases of this every year. I go in for my scan next week and get the results next Friday to see what two months of chemo has done.

The purpose of even writing this is to encourage you to carry the banner for routine CT scans to detect those "other" cancers. Katie Couric had access to a much larger media than you and was very affective into getting the colonoscopy message out. Like it or not, you are in a great position to spread something that is good and I for one will help in any way.

I do not think I am alone when I say that what I would have liked to have is an earlier chance to fight this thing. Thats all.

I can understand why the insurance companies are not on board. The numbers just don't fall in their favor.

Good luck to you.

Please give this some consideration. We (all cancer patients) need someone like you who would consider doing something about this other than talk about the journey.

Sent by Lou M. | 9:00 AM ET | 08-07-2006

I hope that you can make it over from the Kimmel Cancer Center (I preferred a window seat in the 2nd floor infusion center) to the "Christus Consolator" under the dome of the Billings building, the Edwardian representation of the Johns Hopkins Medical Institution. On either side of the entrance are logs where patients, families, and friends can write whatever moves them. I have read about the loss of a child as a relief after horrible suffering, prayers to help pay the bills, and thanks for a successful outcome. I can honestly say that I have never been so moved as upon reading these stories, despite decades spent as a physician and researcher. And I would not have found this open vein of the human experience if I were not a patient. You never know what life will bring you. Thanks for your honest writing. It has touched so many.

Sent by Jay Everhart | 10:34 AM ET | 08-07-2006

Thank you. I am sure that you have recieved many thanks over the past few months but I had to add mine as well.

I don't have cancer— what I do have is a life and reading your comments has reminded me to live my life and put aside the small distractors and keep focused on the larger things in life. For me, that is my children. By this time next year, I should be returning from Iraq. I have been giving much thought to the things I will encounter while deployed. Your journal has put things into a new perspective for me.

Sent by Gunny Aucoin | 10:35 AM ET | 08-07-2006

I listened to you on NPR on Wednesday. I live in Liverpool, N.Y. We were having a heavy thunderstorm and I sat in my car for a long time. Your voice was so strong and I was mesermized. My mom developed breast cancer when I was nineteen and a student teaching in college. She was forty-nine and lived to be just sixty-four. Back then we didn't talk about cancer a lot. I think what you are doing is awesome. Fortunately I have not been diagnosed with any cancer and I will be seventy next year. But I lived in fear of it for a long time. Now I only get concerned when I go for mamograms and occasionally I have to do a sonogram. I wish you good luck. I would like to know how old you are, if you have a family, etc. I love your article about this weekend and hoping for ice cream, cold beer, etc. Today was a perfect day in Syracuse and as usual I want to celebrate every good day. I saw my parents struggle through every day of their fifties. I'll pray for you.

Sent by Carol OShea Haber | 10:45 AM ET | 08-07-2006

As I listened to you and the other callers on the radio, I was struck by so many different people who share the same thoughts and feelings about their cancer. I've noticed that no matter what kind, your age, gender, prognosis - we are all in the same leaky boat.

I am a cancer survivor. I am twenty-six and look perfectly healthy. Even after my surgery, save a bad week or two, no one would have ever known I was sick. My mother went to appointments with me, I think most people thought she was the one with cancer.

Next week is the anniversary of my diagnosis. This whole year, I would think back to what I was doing the same time last year before cancer... Now when I think back to last year it is of doctors' offices, fear, scans, operating rooms. I almost can't remember what my old self felt like.

I got married this summer. I registered for gifts that people told me would last a lifetime and I wondered how long it will be. I removed any mention of death or sickness from our vows.

My prognosis is good. I hate when I am told I am lucky it was stage 1. Im thankful that it was discovered at an early stage. Chances are I'll be okay and I won't die of cancer. But I feel so angry and cheated. I can't have children because of my cancer. I wonder what the future will bring. I feel isolated, not many people are faced with their own mortality at this age.

Everyday, I get up and try to live my life the way I want to. To try to live with hope. To get married and buy pots that will last for a lifetime.

Sent by Sarah H. | 10:49 AM ET | 08-07-2006

My daughter underwent twenty-six months of chemo for ALL with Myleiod markers, two years off and then three years more. She started out at three years old and is now thirteen and doing well.

During the time when you have no immunity, as you know, you need to be hospitalized for any fever because of the possibilities. The first go around we were in the hospital so often I called it home.

The second time around she developed a fungus in the lungs which was anticipated would doom her. It is the same fungus that eventually kills cystic fibrosis victims.

I won't get into how it came to be, but at some point I started giving her Olive leaf (a natural antibiotic - read about it on the internet - it isn't supported by pharmaceutical companies, I assume because there is no way to make big bucks off of it) four times per day. The fungus disappeared. I would stop the Olive leaf two days before each chemo treatment and start it up 1 day after - the fungus would come back on the 2nd day and then go away. Eventually I leveled with the oncologist that I was giving her the olive leaf and what was happening with it. He told me not to stop giving it to her during chemo.

Additionally, for the two years after I started we NEVER had to go back to the hospital for a fever for antibiotics to save her life. She just didn't get fevers anymore.

Thought you might want to know about this. - FYI - she is still cancer free and we start our 5th year off chemo after the second go around. :-) Praise God.

Sent by Deborah Maguire | 10:51 AM ET | 08-07-2006

Folks take better care of their cars than they do of themselves because it is easier: taking care of one's own health is just too confusing and too much responsibility for most. I know because I used to be like that in my twenties, before I got cancer twenty years ago. If my words seem cutting, radiating hardness, it is because you as a journalist, have a responsibility to others. Sort of like doing investigative work instead of descriptive. How could you not know about the "Definitive Guide To Cancer?" It is a source for many so called cancer cures. "From Doctor To Healer," describes the difference between the two - and there is a difference. Most doctors today are like the majority of journalists, looking without seeing. And so another day goes by, another page in history will be written, and another generation will die before they glimpse the truth buried beneath the surface. And even if you wave the truth in front of them, they will call it a lie because their belief system is more important than facts. Read "The Art of Contrary Opinion" and you will understand the bigger story beyond war and medicine, the awful truth which should be told but never will: folks are herded willingly into battle fields and operating rooms via careful and thoughtful manipulation. And the even less believable, brighter side to the bigger, darker story: we are surrounded by magic and miracles.

Sent by Chris McVay | 10:53 AM ET | 08-07-2006

Hi Leroy

Thanks for the blog — I've just been introduced to it. I am recovering from bowel cancer and I am writing a blog as well.

Best wishes.

Sent by Simon James | 11:47 AM ET | 08-07-2006