I wish you could just jump out of your skin tomorrow? Get in the car with Laurie and take a drive in the country with a picnic and a bottle of very good red wine ?- escape us and your tingling fingers and the thought of Monday. Eat, drink, and trace the sun through the branches of the tree. That's what I wish for you tomorrow. You have given us so much, let tomorrow be for you and Laurie.

Sent by Susan Wilson | 10:46 AM ET | 08-25-2006

Thank you for writing and sharing. I was just diagnosed with adenoid cystic carcinoma on June 30, and your column was one of the first things I found (and one of the most helpful!). I started a blog also and will continue to lead folks to yours through links on it.

I truly miss having "just-another-day".

Sent by Teresa Hartman | 10:58 AM ET | 08-25-2006

A few months ago, a friend told me that my "Cancer personality" was hard to take, and she just wanted the old Nancy back. I did too. However, as you well know, that's easier said than done, especially when you've been told that your disease is incurable. I've struggled to get back to some form of normality ... to do the things that I used to, and to not have cancer be in the forefront of my mind as much. It's getting a bit easier, especially with my recently learning that my cancer is in remission, but I'm not the same. Going through nearly three years of this struggle changes one plain and simple. Care free is a lot harder come by. Just last night I was enjoying dinner at one of my favorite restaurants with friends, and I had to leave midway through dinner. Because of complications from my reconstruction surgery, I have wide bands of internal scarring from my chest to my lower abdomen and in damp weather, when I've been sitting too much, or just sitting in certain chairs, the sensation is of having wide leather belts around my torso that are pulled several notches too tight. That REALLY puts a limitation on how active I can be. It's hard for others to understand, because I look "normal." I'm going to do my best to enjoy this remission for however long it lasts, and hope that it lasts the rest of my life. I wish us all well in our various journeys with this thief and murderer that we call cancer.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 11:06 AM ET | 08-25-2006

Leroy, I think you are amazing! I was turned on to your blog a few months ago by a very dear friend and fellow cancer survivor. I'm in my own battle with this horrific disease, recurrent ovarian cancer and I have come to rely on you to be my voice. Family and friends ask me what I'm feeling and I tell them to go to your blog because you write exactly what I feel. The cost to you must be enormous as you publicly examine your innermost thoughts and fears. But, I for one am forever in your debt.

God Bless You!

Sent by Lorraine | 11:08 AM ET | 08-25-2006

Life is full of uncertainty. Even some people don't have any diseases; they still live with a lot of worries. I believe that all people live in some kind of "pain" or "limit" or "burden" or "debts"... whatever. No one really lives "happily ever after."

By the way, it is all right if you don't want to think of anything. You don't have to toil yourself for the blog. What you really need is rest. Nothing is more precious than peace and life.

Sent by Jennifer Chen | 11:40 AM ET | 08-25-2006

No, today isn't just another day. I just found out that my daughter is living in Haifa, Israel, is going to have her first child, my first grandchild. A very special day for a wonderful reason! I am so excited, but behind the joy is the dark fear. Will I live long enough to welcome this long awaited child to the world and our family? As my surgeon told me, "Pancreatic cancer is a bad cancer to have." I have survived for nine months and my first scan came back "Good." I'm still not absolutely sure what that means, except that it is not bad. But what about the next scan? And the next? And the likelihood of seeing this child graduate from college us just about out of the question. Even seeing him or her off to kindergarten is unlikely. How sad. I want to feel only unbridled joy at the announcement of my impending grandchild, but it and the rest of my life is tinged with sadness and a sense of loss. It may help me savor each moment, but the loss is still real.

Sent by Stephanie | 11:42 AM ET | 08-25-2006

Your topic for today may well be the main thing people without cancer don't "get about it." I had a four-year remission, and people couldn't understand why I still thought about it, still researched hopeful new drugs, still thought first of cancer with every new ache. Some comments were so thoughtless they were cruel. The consuming pervasiveness of cancer and wondering what bad news is going to jump up and bite me next never go away. They color every day, every event, and every part of my life.

Sent by Paula Howry | 11:45 AM ET | 08-25-2006

Cancer overarches everything.

What was abstract before — "We're gonna die some day" — now is personal and immediate, and it has a name.

OK, so be it.

What can we do with the rest of our lives that is helpful, not just to us, but to others as well? Well, we can write a blog, look at a flower, take a hike (maybe just to the bathroom!), read a book, watch a movie, pay the bills, mow the lawn, talk with friends, have lunch with a special person.

We can stay engaged in life.

It's not easy, but life never has been easy, not at any time and not for any one. We take our moments as best we can and make of them as much as we can.

And whether you know it or not that's what you have been doing for all of us.

Thank you.

Sent by David Larsen | 11:49 AM ET | 08-25-2006

I am impressed with your strength to look the cancer in the face every day, to think about writing about it honestly and openly. I think that gives you a power over it, a control that is the ultimate triumph.

Your comment about how the cancer taking away your "just another" days may be more important then whether you beat it or not, is striking to me, and explains why many people simply determine to almost ignore the cancer, and forge ahead, almost foolishly, with their everyday life.

You have a lot of people praying for you and thinking about you.

Sent by Neil Crowe | 11:53 AM ET | 08-25-2006

Thinking of you and yours with lots of prayers and good wishes for "just another day."

Sent by Emily V. | 11:55 AM ET | 08-25-2006

I think of my pre-cancer life as a time of naivete and innocence, when I thought that I had control over my body and I would live to be a very healthy 100. There are times when I wish I could go back to the day before my diagnosis and there are times when I cherish everything that I have learned through this experience. My life is forever changed, and I have to accept that. I finished chemo a little over a year ago, and in that time the reality of cancer has faded. It?s always in the back of my head but not at the very front as it used to be (and it was so exhausting to be so aware of it). So, time does help, as, in my case, does chemo-brain.

Sent by Maggie | 3:44 PM ET | 08-25-2006

Thanks for your words about the "new normal" days those of us with cancer have! The further I go on this journey of combating melanoma, the more I realize how many hidden issues others around me have had in different times in their lives. I have stage IV melanoma—positive chest, neck & lung lymph nodes — and my husband was diagnosed a few months back with MS. Once in awhile someone will say to us how incredibly heavy of a burden we have (we live in a ground floor apartment). Im usually at a loss of what to say in return, but steer it towards the positive in our lives — he's going back to work Tuesday and I'm starting a new treatment Monday and especially that were in Gods great hands. There are always shortfalls, things we used to be able to do and enjoy, but we keep adapting. Thank you so much for your daily writings, Leroy, as you're an inspiration!

Sent by Eunice | 3:55 PM ET | 08-25-2006

Leroy, I have been reading your blog for several weeks now. I think you are very courageous and I admire your ability to articulate your feelings about your life and disease. I don't have cancer, but your writing reminds me that every day is precious and a gift. None of us know what is just around the corner.

Sent by Elsie | 4:20 PM ET | 08-28-2006

I've been in treatment for Stage III breast cancer since December (mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiation, immunotherapy) and won't be finished until around May 1. Yesterday, my boss said to me, "Well, you're feeling good now, right? Back to normal?" as if this whole little episode were over now. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at her ignorance. Like you, I'd sometimes like to get back to normal, but that "me" and that life is gone forever. Mt eyes have been opened.

Thanks for writing here every day, Leroy. What I love is that you don't sound like a poor cancer patient (someone to be pitied) but like an intelligent, articulate man who has deep and thought-provoking ideas.

Sent by D.S. | 4:33 PM ET | 08-28-2006

More than 30 years ago my mother died of breast cancer — it was long before the whole world even uttered the words in polite company, much less discussed the seemingly medieval-like tortures of having a mammogram. My mother endured her cancer quietly and yes — with dignity.

Unfortunately, I was a typical self-absorbed teenager during her illness who couldnt really comprehend all that she was going through, I just grew up learning to never make a sound lest I disturb her from her all too infrequent rests.

My dear Leroy (as you have become dear to so many whom you will never meet), your voice has given me the opportunity after all these years to finally hear my mother speak. To hear about her fears and frustrations, hopes and disappointments that she undoubtedly faced during those 7 long years alone.

I want to thank you for letting me hear my mothers voice once again.I have missed her desperately, but I have learned more about her in the last few months since meeting you.

Thank you for bringing her back. (And if you send me to my room then well both know shes closer we think!

Sent by Linda Cortright | 4:36 PM ET | 08-28-2006

I agree with Susan Wilson up at the top of the comments. Even you need a break, a mini-vacation, a getaway — whatever. Get out of town with Laurie and go someplace not too far away from home for a few days when you're on an "off" week from chemo. You can be just plain Leroy and nobody needs to know you as "Cancer Patient Leroy" or any of the other things people think of you when they find out you have cancer.

I was diagnosed with stage IV rectal cancer with liver mets in the middle of June and have been undergoing chemotherapy since the beginning of July. Needless to say, family plans for a summer vacation fell apart as I work my way through treatment and the various unpleasant side effects. But I couldnt just let the summer go by without doing something special with my family. I just came back from a little four-day mini-vacation in Victoria B.C., which was just long enough to nearly forget about things and almost forget that I have cancer. I probably should have waited another few days to go since I had my last round of chemo last Thursday and was still feeling a little sick and tingly in my hands and feet, but it was worth it just to get away.

Find a bed and breakfast out on the shore or up in the mountains, or even just do an overnighter someplace close that you've always wanted to visit but never had the time.

We'll miss your blogs while you're on vacation, but please take the time to take a break.

Sent by Bob | 4:42 PM ET | 08-28-2006

Yes, the thoughts of cancer are with us every day. I went through breast cancer last year, and now am dealing with husbands liver cancer. There is no more "what it used to be." But I have gained so many angels on this earth as a result of it.

And don't you love when people say "you look great." That always makes my husband laugh. Says to put that on his tombstone! Heck, he doesn't have cancer on his smile!

Stay strong and know that there is so much suffering in this world, but so many angels do walk among us.

Sent by Jane | 4:47 PM ET | 08-28-2006

Pre cancer days... sure why not! But here we are today, feeling all these feelings... overwhelming but what choice do we have? If I can get past the fear which sometimes takes all I have and not loose my focus in the present, I can enjoy what I have. Thanks Leroy for your time and thoughts... everyday sure is different.

Sent by Meredith | 4:53 PM ET | 08-28-2006

I have an extraordinarily rare disease. It is horribly painful; causing what can only be described as creeping paraplegia, and then quadriplegia and then death. It is also incurable. I have accepted it and am ready to go. My main problem is physicians (and others) who continually want me to have regular testing, such as mammograms etc. I am so tired of arguing with them and yet I do need their pain medication. Pain medication is a whole other story itself. Why does everyone else feel free to tell me what to do with the time I have left?

Sent by Joan Cornish | 2:39 PM ET | 08-29-2006