Thank you for your wonderful postings - you sure don?t have to worry if you are living your life well (cancer be damned) as you are uniting all of us who are in this cancer twilight zone.

I have long rejected the language used to describe the cancer experience. When I was first diagnosed in 1992 I realized that I was too exhausted from chemotherapy and the mental exertion of the huge shift in thinking about everything to be able to "fight". I have never been a fighter, I am not a warrior, I despise war, I?m not even very competitive - I really don?t even mind losing at games or sports or whatever. So that language did not work for me. Over the years - I was cancer free for twelve years but it returned with a vengeance in 2004 and I have been in and out of the hospital and on chemotherapy since then - I have had to develop my own language, which after all is how we create reality for ourselves, to express to myself and others how I understand this experience. Rather than fighting, I use my energy to empower and encourage the good things my body is doing, to clear the channels of energy my body needs to do what it is designed to do, which is to heal and thrive and live. If I wasted that energy trying to figure out what the heck it means to fight, I would constantly be worried about losing. And so I align myself with all the goodness in myself and the world. Then, no matter what happens, how can I possibly lose?

Sent by D.B. | 8:49 AM ET | 08-15-2006

Leroy, I?ve not been feeling very positive lately. Everything you read tells us to "keep a positive attitude". Well how in the world do you do that when everyday new weird side effects develop, just when you think you?re getting a little better? Mouth sores is the latest. I?m using Miracle Mouthwash now, let?s see what this does. I just feel angry inside. I?ve been on this God awful 24/7 infusion pump for almost four weeks. I have a fannie pack so I can do my everyday routine, but I have yet been able to return to work. Why do they say with a "fannie pack" you can resume your normal duties? I feel like I should have been able to go back to work, but I haven?t. There?s always something that crops up to set me back, diarrhea, constipation, back pains, etc. I feel like a woos, how do other people do it? Sorry for whining.

Sent by Ruth White | 11:42 AM ET | 08-15-2006

I stumbled upon your blog quite inadvertently and have been drawn to it daily like a moth to a flame. It brings back the best and worst time of my life. My husband died at the age of 31 of melanoma 27 years ago. I wouldn?t say he fought a two year battle— he decided against chemo (nothing really worked at the time). More like skirmashes. And he would ask his doctors his odds all the time when they suggested a treatment and he had one guy who always said "either zero or a hundred". So in between doctor visits he continued to work, hike the mountains, take trips. He had a brain tumor treated successfully with radiation and we went to Mexico for laetrile which of course was a waste of money and time, but it was his decision. He had a pretty positive attitude saying early on that he was going to die some day but not from melanoma. That changed at the end and I can remember so clearly when he looked at his dog and said "damn dog, you are going to outlive me". Dealing with cancer is like punching air. It?s exhausting and so much is unknown. His positive attitude kept me going. Our time together was short but it sure was sweet. Thanks for writing your blog and sharing your thoughts. I am sure you are helping everyone who reads them.

Sent by Susan Breckon | 2:30 PM ET | 08-15-2006

To Ruth- Toms of Maine mouthwash was very soothing for me when I got mouth sores. Good luck.

Sent by Cathy W. | 2:32 PM ET | 08-15-2006

My husband is a stage 4 melanoma patient and my daughter has introduced me to your column. It has given me both insight and comfort. Thank you.

Sent by Joan Kelly | 2:33 PM ET | 08-15-2006

Our God is in the healing business. I have been healed and know other that have. I don't know why some are healed and others are not. If I were in your situation I would catch the first plane out to Kenneth Hagin Minisstries Healing School, call 800-54-faith.

Sent by Barry | 5:09 PM ET | 08-15-2006

This is one gift I can say that cancer has given me, if that is possible. It (and my impending mortality) forced me to examine my life and the way I spend my energy. I hope that I can live the what remains of my life with a better connection to those I love.

Sent by Stephanie | 8:20 AM ET | 08-16-2006

There is a photograph of my aunt in front of me as I write this. She "lost" her battle with leukemia a year and a half ago. I remember when she was first diagnosed. She was in a hospital in Denver and asked me to take care of her animals. She was terrified and hadn?t had time to "adjust" to her new reality. She lived almost exactly as long as she was "supposed" to, according to the experts we all sought. She sat in the sun everyday for the 16 months. She went through transfusions to temporarily feel healthy. She did harsh chemo that required $30 per pill anti nausea medication. She was brave, stoic, hilarious, and she took care of us all throughout her illness. Our family is forever changed, of course, but she taught us all something invaluable as she faced her own death.

I loved discovery this blog. Thank you.

Sent by Jennifer Tobin | 8:28 AM ET | 08-16-2006

I hate the war imagery. I prefer to think of myself as a person living with cancer. But sometimes ...

Obituaries describe them.

They battled cancer for years,

nobly, bravely, for five years or nine years or more.

But how did they fight these battles?

I?m ready to fight.

I hate this disease.

I take medication, submit to the surgeon,

Lie still and silent inside huge machines.

Where?s the satisfaction in that?

I want a real fight, my fight, a battle I can see,

not all those ribbons, pink and passive.

What good are they?

I want a bomb,

a weapon of mass destruction,

a rifle to aim at every threatening cell,

a sword, sharp and shining in the sun,

to wield against the cunning crab.

Where are my weapons?

I want to attack, slog through dirt and mud,

hear screams, smell smoke,

return to the fray again and again.

tired and bloody,

unwilling to accept defeat.

Then they could say I fought this battle well.

Sent by B.L.N. | 8:32 AM ET | 08-16-2006

The fighting terminology has troubled me too. I lost my Mom a little over a year ago to Lung Cancer, and every time I hear people talk about winning or a positive attitude will allow you to beat this etc. I cringe. My mom WAS a figher... but she still died. She had a lot to fight for. She was only 58— had only just retired a month before her diagnosis. She died with my first child— her first grandchild only four and a half months old... But still, she died.

I refuse to believe that she lost this fight. I think she still triumphed. Because I believe my mom still IS. Her spirit—the essence of her still exists. Cancer may have ravaged her body and left a hole in my family, but it did not get the best of her. And that is something I will always have to be proud of.

Sent by Val R. | 8:38 AM ET | 08-16-2006

I am a Rolfer and have a particular in working with people with cancer after reading Rachel Remen?s books (Kitchen Table Wisdom, My Grandfather?s Blessings) and after a fascinating session with a client recently, I was inspired to write this to our online forum:

I had a very interesting experience yesterday that reminded me of others I have had working with women who have had cancerous lumps removed from their breast. Yesterday?s client is 75 and often reminded me to be careful around what looked like a tiny scar under the edge of her bra which was very sensitive. I had done a little work around it but yesterday, she showed me the whole thing which was much longer than I had realized and said she had had lumps removed three times, benign twice but cancerous the third time. She had radiation and chemotherapy and has been seven years in remission but it is still very tender. I asked if I could work on it and with the lightest touch she jumped in pain. It was thick and ropy feeling (not exactly hard but more like the tissue of a breast that is very engorged with milk) and I very gently worked around it and then on the scar itself and she began to let her guard down and within ten minutes, most of the hypersensitivity vanished and the ropy feeling went away and the breast actually changed shape when she stood up. It was a remarkable change considering that she had had it for seven years already. She is the type that always makes me look great - comes in in pain and leaves looking transformed, but this was exceptional even for her.

It reminded me of a woman who had a sharp pain in her shoulder that she could not make sense of - as I began to scope out the situation I also touched the edge of a scar. She jumped and began to tell me the story of her cancer diagnosis and surgery to remove it and how scary it was and the tears flowed for a few minutes as she relived the experience she had told few people about. All the while I was gently encouraging her shoulder to let down and by the time she calmed down, her shoulder felt totally different to me and the pain was completely gone.

This brings up many thoughts for me. First, that people may be guarded around their wounds and their deepest fears, but if approached with great sensitivity and compassion, they actually welcome being touched there they want to share the story they have been holding on to (perhaps for fear that no one could understand...). That, faced with traumatic experiences that exceed our ability to cope, we may wall them off and the longer we contain them, the more effort it may take so that they can feel like Pandora?s Box - if they open it, pandemonium may ensue. When I find a place that feels like that, I encourage them to think not of opening it but just expanding the container. This seems to allow them to feel the pain without feeling like it will overwhelm them.

This is perhaps what happened in these two instances - I provided a sense of safety, a container that could hold the pain so that they could let go of it and feel it. In movement terms, this is taking over the holding pattern so that they can let go into your holding the space for them. As with most traumas we come into contact with the type of people who come to us, their body and psyche are organized as if there is a lot to be afraid of, whereas in reality there is relatively little or no content left. They are often amazed at being able to let go of such trauma so quickly, but in fact they are letting go of their fear of the trauma.

I once worked on a woman who had been sexually abused and when I got into the area of her diaphragm, a darkness passed over her - she told me that was the feeling that came up from time to time and it was more than she could take... I encouraged her not to go into the feeling but to drop under it, as a fish on the surface of the ocean would simply dive below if a terrible storm came up. She looked skeptical but agreed to try and after a minute she looked up at me like I was a witch doctor and said the feeling had vanished. After that, I could work there without any noticeable reaction.

I have always found that, if we can pass under the radar of their fear, people want to be touched at the site of their wounds. It is a great relief to find someone they can trust with these deep, dark secrets someone they can tell their story to, who will simply listen... These can be moments of great healing.

Rachel Remen tells the story of a nurse who was seeing her for counseling as a cancer patient. She was having a very hard time letting other people take care of her for once and when talking of this difficulty she said amidst her tears that she never understood why parents would put a bandage on a child to make the boo boo better. It felt so silly to her since the bandage could not make the pain go away - Rachel replied to her that of course it doesnt help with the pain, it helps with the loneliness... I think this is part of why sessions like the ones I described above can be so dramatic - cancer or trauma can make one feel so helpless and alone and when someone can go there with you, can touch your pain yet not get sucked into it or tell you what to do about it, it can help a lot with the loneliness...

Sent by James Schwartz | 8:41 AM ET | 08-16-2006

Thank you, Leroy.

Sent by Jennifer Tobin | 8:43 AM ET | 08-16-2006

Your blog is where I go first when I sit down at my computer. I am middle-aged and (as far as I know) cancer-free, but your blog speaks to me because I am constantly aware that life is short and in a way, were all—even the youngest and healthiest of us—just in remission. This is not to deny the unique experience of being a cancer patient or the courage, honesty and grace with which you are facing your prognosis I only mean that your perspective is hugely needed by all of us. You don?t know what the future holds, but right now you are more alive than many people will ever be. I know better than to think that?s adequate consolation I just want to thank you for initiating some terribly overdue discussions and for prompting all of us to examine our lives and put them to better use. I also want to thank Laurie for her own grace and openness, and for sharing you with us.

Sent by Rebecca Stanley | 9:31 AM ET | 08-16-2006

"I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith?. (2 Tim 4:7)

This is printed on my grandmother?s headstone after her death from cancer. I feel that yes, her fight with cancer was ultimately what lead to her death. But how can we fight the battle if the cancer researchers and governmental agencies that regulate these things can?t give us the proper equipment. How many of us wonder whether there will ever be a cure for cancer. Why would they release a cure for cancer if whole hospitals are built and doctors make their practice of specializing in the treatment of cancer? Imagine what would happen if they cured cancer. What an empty place those hospitals would be, and imagine the doctors who would be out of jobs which would hurt the economy. All this doesnt even include the money that the pharmaceutical companies would lose because they werent selling the $50,000 chemotherapy compounds to treat the patients or even the $30 anti-nausea medications that the patients have to take because they took the chemotherapy compound.

I am sorry to rant and rave. With the last seventeen deaths in my family being caused by cancer, it makes me consider my own mortality.

Thank you for being you.

Sent by Julie | 11:08 AM ET | 08-16-2006

My dad and brother both died from cancer and yeah they fought the cancer, but they died. I have gone through two bouts of thyroid cancer—relatively easy to live with—but cancer none the less. I don?t think of my dad or brother as losers to cancer. They lived the time that their cancers allowed them to live and although the ends were painful to watch, I was able to let them go because their bodies werent able to go on. Benjamin Franklin wrote a beautiful letter to his niece when her dad died, and I?m paraphrasing that there is a spirit that lives within the body, and when the body is unable to give the spirit the joy and freedom to live as the body was intended to live, there is a way to let the body go and let the spirit free. That way is Death. I read that in 1978 when my dad died, and it has even greater significance for me now. I dont like to think of myself as a cancer victim or a cancer survivor. I live and for my family and me, that is paramount.

Your column is priceless. Thank you.

Sent by Emily Velasco | 12:53 PM ET | 08-16-2006

Hi Leroy,

I haven't written for a while but I have read (and do) your column daily. This past weekend I buried the ashes of a 24-year-old man who died of AIDS. He fought — fought with everything he had. And many things failed, but not him, nor I, nor any of those who loved him. He lived every day, including his last, as if who he was made a difference and loved with every fiber of his being. HE, nor you, did or will fail.

Thank you. Be well.

Sent by Sandra Yudilevich | 5:31 PM ET | 08-16-2006

I have had my "incurable" cancer for seven years. I am not battling my cancer, in my opinion. There is no research being done on it because of its rarity and certainly no "cure". I just "deal with it". If I were a 85 yr-old diabetic like my Dad, I too would just "deal with it". Everybody has some problematic "thing" to deal with everyday.

I am currently reading Viktor Frankls? "Man?s Search for Meaning". He was a concentration camp survivor. He survived by just sheer luck and the belief that he would one day be liberated. I told my medical power-of-attorney that if he even mentioned the words "lost his courageous battle with cancer" in my obit, I?d haunt him for the rest of his life. Maybe I will die from the effects of my cancer, but then again, I could get run over by a car crossing the street. In the end, we all die from something, so I dont bother to give it much thought. I focus on living today and not what tomorrow will bring.

Sent by Larry Hamm | 11:20 AM ET | 08-17-2006

The chemo didn't fail you, you sure didn't fail it... the damn cancer went around the chemo. That is how my husband's oncologist explained it to us.

It is a nasty, evil disease that changes to combat defenses thrown up against it that is what happenes, we fight and it fights back. But when we go to heaven it is simply dead. Every attempt you make to keep going is that much longer the researchers have to come up with a new treatment, and maybe that one will kill the killer.

Sent by Lahm | 5:12 PM ET | 08-22-2006