I have been reading your blog since it started, and I have wanted to write in many times. I find myself thinking about you throughout my day, wondering how you are feeling. Before I fall asleep at night, again, my mind finds its way to thinking about something you said in your blog. My thoughts are with you, and so are the thoughts of thousands of other people. And the way I see it, that is some strong medicine.

I have never had cancer, but, your blog came along about the time a good friend and mentor of mine found out she was going to have to have a major operation to save her life (and look like Frankenstein, as she puts it). I started reading your blog because I wanted to understand. I think that I am starting to, and for that, I cannot thank you enough.

My punching bag was Oscar the Grouch. I always sort of liked that he wasn't a clown!

Sent by Barbara Smith | 9:02 AM ET | 08-02-2006

In any bell curve, the end at the right does not go to zero. The 5% survival rate for stage 4 NSC lung cancer includes many people who are alive today— they beat it. The survival rate is not zero.

Why shouldn't you be one of the 5%? Really, why? Many of those who didn't make it have other problems which contribute to their death that you don't have— heart problems, diabetes, emphasema, etc.

You may just survive this, you never know. I know two ten-year survivors of stage IV NSC lung cancer.

I recommend a book by Dr. Jimmie Holland—"The Human Side of Cancer-Living with Hope, Coping with Uncertainly."

Sent by Cathy Wilder | 9:32 AM ET | 08-02-2006

Is it hard to go to the hospital, get tested, then know you have to share the entirety of your day on this blog? I wouldn't be able to do it, so I applaud you.

Sent by Clare | 9:50 AM ET | 08-02-2006

Hello again, Leroy. We had a Joe Palooka punching bag in the 50s so at least we were hitting a boxer, not a clown! Keep on punching!

Sent by Maris | 10:21 AM ET | 08-02-2006

By all means, don't let the cancer knock you down or lose your spirit. Continue to be strong, continue to move on.

Sent by Jane | 10:27 AM ET | 08-02-2006

Dear Leroy:

I am in awe of your determination and your courage. If anyone can beat this, you certainly can. You give me courage to face my daily life, which is unremarkable. All my best to you.

Sent by Marilyn | 11:18 AM ET | 08-02-2006

It's not how many times you get knocked down, it's how many times you get back up. Just like that clown.

Thanks for simply being you and continuing to slug it out. We are all with you.

Sent by David Larsen | 11:34 AM ET | 08-02-2006

Your original comments regarding this blog can still be seen "As we go forward, no topic, no matter how painful, is going to be off limits". I can imagine how difficult it must be to keep that promise now. I am very grateful that you continue to share. It has become so important for those of us engaged in our own battle with the big "C"... and I imagine, for our loved ones who share our battle and yours as well. My heart hurts for you right now. As many have said, you will make the right decision for you, as we all must when we reach these crossroads.

Bless you, Leroy.

Sent by Susan | 11:45 AM ET | 08-02-2006

Please keep going. Sometimes the struggle is all there is. Your courage helps me, too. I am thinking of you.

Sent by Marilyn | 11:50 AM ET | 08-02-2006

Dear Leroy,

This is my first comment, though I have been following your blog religiously. Cancer fighters are my heroes. My mother outlived her stage IV ovarian cancer prognosis and had several wonderful years. Cancer is ubiquitous, but each individuals experience with and of it is unique. The docs and scientists look at the data groups for prognostic predictions, but you are not a statistic.

I am thinking about you and yours always. The research field is always changing, so new treatments may be imminent. You have a lot of love and support on your side.

Sent by M.A. Sullivan | 12:10 PM ET | 08-02-2006

It has been a year today since my cancer was diagnosed and treatment began. I thought today, I would feel triumphant because it is currently cured, but I don't. I am full of uncertain emotions. I think back to the surgeries, the tests, the chemo and the radiation and still feel off balance. I don't know when the clown is going to come back and hit me in the face. I do know that I wouldn't have survived the ordeal without the help provided by my family, friends and neighbors. It was all supposed to be nothing. However, my motto was you do what you have to do. So I did. I did it for myself, for my husband, for my children, my dogs, my family and my friends. I did it to show I wouldn't back down or give in, because that would be unacceptable. I did it because I wanted to watch the birds at the feeder, pet my dogs, play in the surf at the beach, read a good book and see my kids grown up. The reality is I want to live just as you do. We all have things to do so let's keep going on with our lives for as long as we can. And give your cancer a big punch for me.

Sent by Chris | 12:40 PM ET | 08-02-2006

Leroy

I have a miniature clown punching bag on my desk at work. Please keep bouncing back. Whatever you decide today with respect to a medicinal path to follow next, always remember that sometimes this disease gets cured while the medical world cannot explain how. It just happens — I have heard and seen the real life stories. Keep punching!

Sent by Joe Regan | 12:44 PM ET | 08-02-2006

Mr. Sievers

MD Anderson Cancer hospital in Houston is successfully experimenting with "mustard gas" to kill tumors. There are 4 other hospitals in the program. I wish you all the best.

Sent by Mary Scruggs | 1:53 PM ET | 08-02-2006

Your blog is so timely for me. I'm currently going through Stage IV breast cancer treatments — currently recovering from back surgery to relieve pressure on the spinal cord caused by a tumor. Your comments on neuropathy were helpful to me. Im not able to walk without a walker right now, and were not sure if that's from the spinal cord pressure or taxol. Time will tell, I guess.

I had a PET scan on Monday, and today I go for my "bad" news doctor visit. I know there will be some news of spreading, since the tumor on my spinal cord wasn't even on our radar. I'm also having severe pain in my back shoulder blade. I won't be surprised if that's something. It is discouraging to find out that all those months of taxol weren't working! So, now we have to try something else. Today we figure out the next course.

I visualize all of this like the arcade game "Whack a Mole". A mole comes up through a table and you use this hammer to whack it back down — only to have another mole come up in another spot — so you whack it down. The moles keep coming and you keep whacking, until one of you wins. My brothers bought me a table top version of the game. Unfortunately, the moles do usually eventually win... but not always! So we keep whacking away....

Life is too sweet we have no choice really but to take that "bad" news as just new information and go from there.

Hang in there, and thanks for sharing your story!

Sent by Ruth Schrichte | 2:24 PM ET | 08-02-2006

Are there any oncologists reading this blog? This should be required reading for all those who hope to achieve national certification in oncology. I wish the human side of medicine were advancing as quickly as the scientific side. No, I take that back. I wish they were both moving forward more rapidly.

Sent by Harriet Winner | 2:25 PM ET | 08-02-2006

Mr. Sievers, your blog is a brave and touching news dispatch from the cancer battlefield. My battle with cancer is, so far, mostly a mental one, although I lost my left kidney to renal-cell carcinoma last November. Luckily for me, my cancer hadn't metastisized, and I have a 60-65% chance of never having a recurrence, but one never knows if theyre going to be the lucky one or not, when dealing with such an implacable foe. It's always in the background, lurking. I'm not sure how I would, or will, deal with advancing disease, but I hope I have a resevoir of guts, like you seem to, with which to fight.

Sent by Mike Armstrong | 2:31 PM ET | 08-02-2006

Dear Leroy, I think about you everyday and thank you for articulating the life of a cancer patient better than I ever could...despite the fact that my oncologist and friends have urged me to write about my fight. I too am stage IV, advanced (how terrifying that word is) breast cancer. I have battled for 12 years, nine in remission and then a recurrence three years ago. I have been in constant treatment since then, but in that time there have been as many amazingly wonderful moments as bad ones. After the awful shock of the recurrence, I woke up two days later and said, "Im not going anywhere." And I haven't. I live by the words from Dr. Bernie Siegel's book Love, Medicine and Miracles. "In the face of uncertainty, there is nothing wrong with hope." When I first met my oncologist, she said, "We do not deal in prognosis in this office, we deal in hope." I knew I was in the right place. Keep going, we need you!

Sent by Susan Edwards | 2:34 PM ET | 08-02-2006

Dear Leroy,

My son Ryan would have been 6 on Monday. He didn't make it to his 6th birthday. He had a very short and beautiful life which ended August 24, 2005.

He was diagnosed with anaplastic large cell non-Hodgkin's lymphoma in November 2003. His first hospital stay began on Halloween when he was 3 years old and lasted until the holidays. He was in and out of hospitals for 2 years. The cancer would be eliminated and then come right back. After a transplant at Duke University, his cancer returned before we were able to leave Durham and come back home. The cancer was kept at bay but the extreme treatment ended up being too much for his heart and it gave out.

Our journey has been difficult but we never gave up hope and enjoyed more out of life with him then most do with a healthy child. He, too, experienced many horrible side effects from the drugs. But in between those moments, we laughed and shared and loved.

There is no answer to the questions you have before you as you are faced with decisions to make on your treatment. I want so desperately to give you an answer. It's the proverbial Hopson's choice. I can tell you that with persistence, you can find many ways to ease your burden — whether you choose treatment or not - with drugs and other homeopathic treatments.

We believed in conventional medicine. I make no judgments on others who pursue other lines as well. As for the side effects, there was almost always a better way to administer the drugs or there were anti-medics and over the counter solutions that eased the pains and side effects. We were relentless in trying to improve Ryan's quality of life. We fought until the bitter end but employed every weapon — be it L-Glutamine from GNC for mouth sores or EMLA cream to lessen the pain when he was being stuck by a needle or narcotics for pain.

I am not suggesting that these will be solutions for you, but I do want you to know that there are often solutions to side effects and pain management that the doctors are not always tuned in to. You are your best advocate for a quality life. Whatever your choice, I have no doubt you will endeavor to live your life to the fullest.

I do not know if Ryan's Web site will provide any comfort to you, but if you find a time that you might want to hear about someone else's struggles (which I found helpful) - feel free to visit his site. I have not updated in some time but have planned to do so before the anniversary of his death.

My greatest hope for you is that you remain confident with any decision you make and that you enjoy the gift of time you have to spend with loved ones.

Sent by Lori DiGiosia | 2:37 PM ET | 08-02-2006

My thoughts and prayers are with you. I too have often thought that when the diagnosis is given life changes forever. I don't know what I would do. But then do we have many choices, just do the best you can with what you have. There is no rhyme or reason for life I guess we are just along for the ride. My husband Bill was diagnosed with prostate cancer last September and life was changed after that. He was operated on November 8, and so far his PSA tests have been negative, but the thought is there every six months, you never quite escape it. Take care and the very best of luck.

Sent by Terri Bates | 2:41 PM ET | 08-02-2006

Hi Leroy,

Your punching bag analogy made me laugh — nice, you're still a good writer — and reflect about why cancer is so often "fought." It sounds like you're in rarified territory when it comes to making decisions, but remember that in a prize fight even an overwhelmed fighter can have many elegant and courageous moments before the final bell. Good luck with the decision making. It's still your life.

Sent by Dave Parker | 2:56 PM ET | 08-02-2006

Leroy,

I am really sorry to read about the bad news. Yes, do keep fighting, keep slugging it out... it's your nature get knocked down 50 times, get up 51. People do live, do survive, and do have remarkable experiences despite their cancer. Treasure and cherish the things you love most live them, and keep on fighting.

Sent by Steve D. | 4:15 PM ET | 08-02-2006

I was diagnosed with stage IV Wilms tumor when I was seven. After a five year regimen of chemo, radiation, and several surgeries to remove my affected kidney and lungs, I went into remission. I am now 26 and have not had any major health problems, but I get nervous every time I have an unusual ache or pain. I have often thought about how devastating it would be for me to get cancer again, as an adult, and have to go through all the related complications. However, after reading your blog and the posts from other patients, I hope that I can muster up the courage that you have shown. Thank you, you will be in my prayers.

Sent by Sarah | 4:17 PM ET | 08-02-2006

Leroy,

Cancer has ravaged my family, so I'm familiar with what youre going through.

I wish you all the best as you try to decide what you're going to do or not do about your course of treatment and life during the next few days.

Thank you for including us — the Public in Public Radio — in your life and thank you for your faithful service to us.

God Speed!

Sent by RN McDowell Jr. | 4:20 PM ET | 08-02-2006

Dear Leroy,

My heart goes out to you and your family. So many of us know the devastation of yet more bad news, of not being able to think of anything else even though we remain functional, and getting back up on that horse (or giving that punching bag one more strike) and moving on to the next plan.

I can't thank you enough for sharing your news with all of us, and for creating this blog. It has been so helpful for me to read your and others thoughts, opinions and stories.

I know there are many people out there with positive thoughts and prayers for you, and I am one of those. I never had a punching bag as a kid but my boys have a batman one that I'll remember to use when I get my next notice that the current chemo is not working!

Best wishes for continuing to be strong.

Sent by Andi Daschbach | 5:56 PM ET | 08-02-2006

You are a good man. You are doing good work. The beauty you are sharing with thousands now is as beautiful as hugging an abandoned child until he trusts again. Through your pain shines great light, and that is perhaps the most glorious thing you can do with the life and the body you have been given. Thank you. You are — and will ever be — loved.

Sent by Priscilla | 5:58 PM ET | 08-02-2006

I just learned of your cancer and of this blog from one of your reports on NPR I wondered what happened to you after you were no longer with Nightline. I was shocked to learn of your condition. Keep fighting, stay strong... I'm pulling for you.

Sent by Jane Cohen | 5:59 PM ET | 08-02-2006

Hi Leroy:

I have been reading these blogs for several months now, but I have been moved to comment today after your devastating news of yesterday. I really wanted to let you know that your ability to open up your life and share your experiences has made a big difference in my life, and in my husbands fight for his life.

I am a practicing family physician and helped to diagnose my husband's stage four esophageal carcinoma with mets to the liver in January, 2006. Thankfully, we (I feel like I have cancer as well) were able to enter a new trial phase 1/2 at MD Anderson Cancer Center, and he is responding to treatment so far, although now the neuropathy is advancing and we may need to stop the treatments soon, with mixed feelings, of course. He is thought to be handling the chemo very well compared to the others in the trial but still—it is always something. From the most raging painful hemorrhoids, to crippling episodes of gout, nausea at first but now just very dulled appetite (for food and for life), and that does not even take into account the emotional toll. I have been able to help him with some of these problems but really have received no help for this from MDACC we cannot imagine what this must be like for those without medical experience. To his oncologist at MDACC my husband may be no more than a laboratory rat (thankfully, we have a warm caring oncologist in Pensacola who helps answer questions).

We read your blogs daily, and my husband often sends these on to our children, other family, and friends and tells them this is often how it is with him, and praises your eloquence. It has been interesting to see the responses (and lack of responses)from our loved ones.

I also cared for my mother during her five year battle with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma (a particularly severe form and MDACC saved her) and then last year with first metastatic brain cancer, unknown primary, then lung cancer reared its ugly head as the primary. It was both painful and a privilege to be involved in her care and her final time on this side — her leaving for the other side was in some ways joyful given the suffering of recent months and her last words were "Oh, its so beautiful!"

I have also had thyroid cancer, treated by surgery at age 14 and by a large dose of radioactive iodine about four years ago for some residual cancer. Then last year I was diagnosed with melanoma-in-situ, and there is always concern with recurrence.

I was a critical care nurse for many years before I returned to medical school, and with all my experience in medicine I have been with many people who have experienced death and then returned with resuscitation, and they all report very similar tales, did not want to come back, and are forever changed by the experience. I have no doubt that our true home is on the other side, and that this is just a boot camp to learn very difficult lessons.

Leroy, another thing I have learned and seen is that miracles happen all the time, inside and outside traditional medicine so please hang onto that hope. No matter what, everything will be alright!

You and your loving companion will remain in our thoughts and prayers, and please know that you have made a difference in our lives and this world.

Sent by Cynthia Harbaugh | 6:02 PM ET | 08-02-2006

I am very moved by your blog. I am sure it is good for you as well as for us all. I had a lympth node removed from my throat, it was cancer. The primary source was not found. I then had radiation over my face, throat and neck.

It has been a little over four years now with no reoccurance. I attend a mens-only cancer group. It helps a lot and I have seen a lot of miracles. Prayer, meditation and turning it over is the best answer I have. Good luck and keep on blogging!!

Sent by Charlie Spruell | 10:10 AM ET | 08-03-2006

I tried to write to you yesterday, but a black-out intervened. I felt so deeply your dilemma about treatment. It seems so harsh these days when people with no medical training are given such overwhelming news, and differing options, then told "OK, now you choose." I hope that at least your doctors have been clear about the pros and cons of all of the options.

I hope that you are able to find quiet time to sit without distraction, be with your thoughts about the situation, and listen to that still, small voice that will come when you listen for it, and guide you. Your cancer, odd as it sounds, has been a gift to all of us who are fellow travelers on the cancer trip, and to those who havnt alike. Because you've been able to share so openly and with such candor, you're modeling for people that you'll never know or hear from how to cope, how to advocate for oneself, how to be fully human, and how to face death. Who else could do more with a life? Thoughts are things with power, and by including us all in the group of your family and friends, you're connecting to the powerful intentions of all of us for your highest good. God bless you.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 10:12 AM ET | 08-03-2006

You are important. I give you a big hug.

Sent by Rosemary | 10:13 AM ET | 08-03-2006

It's ok to be scared. We will be scared with you.

Talk to your oncologist, talk to Laurie, do a little reading, make a decision, hug Laurie, hug your cat (or other warm, furry animal of choice), and DO NOT LOOK BACK. There will be no right choice or wrong choice: "Even the wise cannot see all ends."

The decision you make needs to be for you. Not for anyone else, including us. My hopes and thoughts go with you.

Sent by Lisa | 10:14 AM ET | 08-03-2006

How great that someone is voicing all the thoughts I've had for nine years. I have lymphoma and have been in and out of treatment and, unfortunately, survival doesn't get easier as one goes along. In the last year the cancer has spread to my organs as well it is progressive so I knew this was inevitable, but it's still hard to accept. When I was diagnosed, I felt as if I had walked through a glass wall, with my old life behind and everything new on the other side. There is something so lonely about having cancer. Thank you for helping assuage that loneliness with your blog and your appearance on NPR.

Sent by Barbara | 3:46 PM ET | 08-03-2006

Thank you for giving me such a candid look into your very personal thoughts and feelings. My sister has metastatic synovial sarcoma in both lungs. Surgeons successfully removed 17 tumors from the left lung and have cancelled her surgery on the right lung indefinately. She is unable at times to get the words across about how she feels and after I read your blog, I am better able to understand just what she is trying to express about her own feelings. Thank you for this. As my heart breaks to hear your bad news, I have faith that you will make the decision that will be right for you.

My thoughts and prayers are with you.

Sent by Julie | 8:59 AM ET | 08-04-2006

After each new day's blog, which I've been reading regularly, I always want to respond and always find that my emotions have been brought too close to the surface by your writing and by the comments that follow. Today, however, I feel that I must write to you. I'm so sorry about your bad news and that you are now faced with a difficult decision. You are doing such a superb service to us all with your blog you keep hitting the nail on the head with every entry. Thanks for sharing your life with us— you've enabled a large community of people affected by cancer to have an ongoing conversation about many things that are important to us.

My husband diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins lymphoma a week after he retired in 2003 (great timing). His NHL was indolent at first and treated with localized radiation, but it erupted into stage IV in November of 2005. We have been in a pitched battle since then and learned in May that the six months of chemo treatments didnt work. His oncologist has now recommended a stem cell transplant and we are currently trying to determine what type, where and how soon. This is our big decision.

We try to face every day with optimism and do a pretty good job, although that is harder some days than others. In addition to our wonderful friends and family, encouragement also comes from all the other cancer patients weve met at the oncologists and at the hospital. I've never met such a wonderful group of people - rarely complaining, always thoughtful, helpful and positive.

A friend sent my husband a copy of Stephen Jay Goulds article on cancer statistics, "The Median Isn't the Message", which I highly recommend for any cancer patient and their loved ones.

We will keep you in our thoughts each day and hope for the best for you and Laurie. I have a quote from Nietzche taped to my computer screen: "Strong hope is a much greater stimulant of life than any realized joy could be." Hope, hope, hope, Leroy! And thank you for your selflessness in sharing your journey.

Sent by Betsy | 9:33 AM ET | 08-04-2006

Neil Conan- you often overtalk your guests that sometimes obliterates their message. Please! I'm a type A as I can guess you are from your talking speed and tripping over your own words.

Also as a cancer survivor after seventeen years, everytime any blood test that is even slightly questionable, I get fearful. Maybe a new cancer.

Sent by Albert Rothman | 9:41 AM ET | 08-04-2006

Larry - I have followed your blog from the first time I heard you on NPR. I was diagnosed with stage IV rectal with liver mets about two weeks before I heard your first piece on NPR, so every daily post has been a treasure for me. I've gotten a great deal of comfort reading your posts and all of the responses. I've just come home from spending the day in the "infusion suite" at Swedish Cancer Institute in Seattle and had to wait until now to offer my reply to you. My fingers are tingling from the Oxaliplatin right now, but I must write you. Whatever you do, don't give up! You can't - no matter how many times you get that punch to the floor, you must pop up just like that damn clown, and maybe even with that dopey grin like the clown had. Like everyone has said earlier - you can be part of the statistic that lives on to survive, but you have to keep playing the chemo roulette to stay in the game. Hang in there. We all need you too, and are pulling for you.

Sent by Bob Maimone | 9:45 AM ET | 08-04-2006

Leroy, you amazed me when you wrote for Nightline, to the point where I had to write you and let you know how great you are. I used to look forward to the Nightline e-mails, just so I could read how you deciphered events. But, these blogs take my breath away. I've read every one of them, and last night's blog punched me right in the stomache. I wanted to write you immediately and tell you not to dare give up... I was aching, and angry at the same time. You never, ever know what the next day will bring in medical research. My uncle was given two to four years with cancer of the lymph glands. He lasted twenty years and died of a heart attack. Please fight this damn thing, and know that were all pulling for you and praying harder. Luv ya lots.

Sent by Heather | 9:53 AM ET | 08-04-2006

I first heard you on NPR driving back to Sacramento from a visit to Stanford Medical Center in Palo Alto. I just passed five years after a fairly new stem cell transplant regimen at Stanford placed my Stage IV fully matasticized Non Hodgkins Lymphoma into remission.

You have put a human face on the battle against cancer. As a fellow soldier in this war, I salute you and pray for you. Cancer is the worst kind of enemy. One person lives and one person dies with the same diagnosis. But each year more people live — either for a while or longer — than before.

Bless you for putting a human face on our struggle. You seem to have made the same promise I made five years ago. "In the time I have left, I want to make a difference!" You make a difference to me each time I hear your podcast. It is a brave and wonderful thing you do.

Keep slugging!

Sent by Ben Timmons | 7:00 AM ET | 08-07-2006

Because I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in August 2002 I met my friend Ellen. She too was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in August 2002. We were the same age. She also used the inflatable punching bag analogy to describe her cancer experience. I gave her one as a gift so she could kick it back whenever she wanted. Ellen passed away this spring. I miss her.

Sent by Joan Marie | 1:55 PM ET | 08-07-2006

leroy, my thoughts are with you. my son-in-law iis beginning his second round of chemo for lymph gland cancer. his first round was about two years ago. you have our prayers and we need yours. i have just heard of a lady surviving twelve years and has no reoccurence now.

Sent by peggy anderson | 10:58 PM ET | 04-18-2007

my sister lived with cancer for 23 years .she fought all the way. dont give up

my sister had cancer for 22 years.she never gave up.they said she would be dead in one year but she lasted 22. so please dont give up my prayers are with you.fight as hard as you can

Sent by girardi | 9:30 PM ET | 04-06-2008