Before my husband died in September I saw one tear, only one. He said I am afraid to die to my brother in law. The following week he died.

For the year and two months where we knew about the disease, the disease and the treatment so viciously changed him we did not talk about it, afraid to cause more hurt, just trying to protect each other. Silly huh, since it was the cancer causing the hurt anyway.

Sent by Irene | 1:45 PM ET | 10-10-2006

I very rarely talk. I am an expert at putting up walls. Very few people know. And the few who do know, they can't help but treat you differently. I choose not to tell largely because I don't want pity. I want to be treated like a normal human being. I am still me! I am not a brain tumor! This thing invades so much of your life- without ever having received an invitation — I don't and won't give it anymore attention than it deserves.

The strange thing is that some days you have perfected putting on a facade so well that you can, for the slightest moment, believe that there is nothing wrong. There are other days when things are tough. Really tough. And for a fleeting moment — you want to crumble and tell those around you- spill your soul in a flood of tear and fears. When they are talking about future plans — you can't help but hear that little voice in your head that questions: Id love making this/these plans, but sorry I can't guarantee I will be around to fulfill them.

I know people love me. I know family and friends would be there in an instant. Perhaps it is an attempt to obtain some sort of control in this out of control situation. Normalcy is paramount in the healing process. I don't want to be know as the girl with the brain tumor. I want to be known as me. And if that means keeping it to myself- then so be it.

Sent by S.R. | 1:49 PM ET | 10-10-2006

Leroy, I couldn't agree with you more. I have dealt with this in the only way that I knew how...to be open about what was happening. There was no way to hide what was happening to me...it was too big. I also knew that I couldn't go through it all without the help of others, and I needed to share what was going on, and what I needed. Some did drift away...my siblings, for example. Some didn't, and still haven't. Thank God for true friends.

When I first became a nurse in the early 80s, there was a lot more secrecy about cancer. Some doctors "shielded" their patients from the diagnosis, families got doctors to agree to not tell all or part of the patient's diagnosis or prognosis, and families didn't talk among themselves. It put acid among the relationships. People inherently know when something is wrong with them in most cases, and they know when they're being lied to or kept in the dark. I couldn't imagine anything worse than knowing that you were very ill, and not being told the truth about it, or being able to talk about your fears, feelings, choices, and hopes. Fortunately, the easy access to medical information, and a general move towards patient empowerment have changed that. I always thought that as someone's nurse, it was wrong for me to know more about a patient's illness and prognosis than they did... to be expected to keep that secret.

People in our culture are often afraid of emotions and feelings. They are in error to think that way. The only way through the pain is through it... not around it, not by ignoring it. And on the other side is relief of a shared burden, emotional closeness, and far less isolation and loneliness.

Sent by Nancy K.Clark | 1:51 PM ET | 10-10-2006

Thank you for today's message. As an oncology social worker, I see cancer patients and their families on a daily basis facing end of live decisions. So very often when I ask a spouse about what their loved one would want relative to comfort measures or hospice care versus heroic life sustaining measures and the answer is often "I don't know. He/She would never talk about it." It is so important to share those thoughts and have those discussions. It is also important to share with loved ones all of the life hopes that cancer has threatened and fears that cancer has dumped into the middle of the entire family's lives. It is cathartic to talk about their cancer, so I am told from the various women's retreats I help facilitate, and equally important for loved ones to talk and share their hopes and fears. Thank you for putting it all out their on your daily blog. I read it faithfully and share it frequently.

Sent by Karen | 1:53 PM ET | 10-10-2006

I have cancer and I have accepted it. I have a twin that had ovarian cancer and that was really bad. The doctors said they got it all. She went thru chemo and then her stomach started hurting the doctors kept saying it was from the chemo. She had a PET scan done last week. Yesterday, the doctors said the cancer is now in her liver and stomach. She should stop working and start making plans. This has all happened since March of this year. How am I supposed to be strong during this time? I do not want to loose my best friend, my sister, my twin, it is killing me inside. Please, if anyone out there knows of twins, they know how close we are. Please someone just tell me how we (her and I) are supposed to get through this. I am not sure of what I can say or shouldn't say. I don't want to get her upset but I also want to know everything that is going on.

Sent by Sharon | 1:55 PM ET | 10-10-2006

Another great post, Leroy. Our daughters were 8 and 6 when my husband was diagnosed with rectal cancer. We shared with them what was appropriate and not surprisingly with young children, they never thought talking about colons, rectums, poop, etc. might be impolite.

Fast forward 18 months to a dinner with some family members. Our daughters were very animated while talking about some digestive issue my husband had while under going chemotherapy. A family member expressed concern about their fascination with this issue. I paused for a minute and then said "Their dad had rectal cancer — why shouldn't they feel free to talk about things such as this?" I strongly believe that by NOT talking about cancer, people suffer. You have done a great job by raising your voice and I hope you have inspired others to raise their voices when they might have otherwise sat quietly on the sidelines.

Sent by Andrea Clay | 2:07 PM ET | 10-10-2006

I am a doctor. My father is also a doctor. He was diagnosed with esophageal cancer about five months ago. He has gone through chemo and radiation therapy. At first we thought he was having a great response. Recently we discovered that he has metastases to his bones and lymph nodes. This changes his prognosis from "not so good" to "just plain bad."

When I went through my medical training I developed a few truisms that I often shared with people with cancer and their families. One of those has become especially important to me over the past few months. I have also learned a brand new lesson.

The first point is simple. With a diagnosis of inoperable, incurable cancer you can be certain that your loved one will be gone. The time frame can not be estimated. One truth that stands out is this, only one person has to live with the decisions you make while your loved one dies. That is you.

The second point has been a revelation. A surgical oncologist who is a friend told me that many people come to her and say, "Cancer is the best thing that ever happened to me." When I first heard this my stomach turned. I was repulsed by what seemed like a lack of sentiment.

However, since then I have realized that cancer offers a unique opportunity. My father has had problems with his heart since my childhood. He had his first heart attack when he was only 38 years old. I always thought he would die quietly in the middle of the night of a heart attack. Me and my dad have always been close. That improved when I followed his footsteps into medical school. Since his diagnosis with cancer I have the unique opportunity of talking with him about everything. This has made our relationship even better. We can put all of our emotions on the line every moment we spend together. It is a pleasure and it allows the luxury of time to cement our friendship. All the things that one may "plan" to do with those they love, but never make the time are the things we now make time for.

This is a wonderful contradiction of cancer. One perceives the eminent loss of time, but in truth there is a lifetime to be lived in every minute of every life. We often defer this opportunity. Now that my dad has cancer we choose to live those lifetimes one minute at a time.

Thanks for listening.

Sent by Danny | 2:11 PM ET | 10-10-2006

My sons tell me they don't want to hear about my breast cancer if I mention how I am feeling or how the hormone treatment is affecting me.

They say they want to talk about nice things. If I mention that I don't feel well enough to go out on a particular day, I am told to take an aspirin.

I talk to my women friends and they are a wonderful source of comfort.

I am not surprised by my sons' responses since they have never been very caring and have always focused very much on themselves. I often wonder where they came from since I didn't bring them up to be that way. Anyone who has a loving, caring family is very fortunate but not everyone does.

Sent by Leslie Kaye | 2:13 PM ET | 10-10-2006

My wife was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer on her 40th birthday, April 14, 2006. What a colossal blow that was! But our approach to a cruel turn of events has been, not "Why me?" but "Why not me?" or an even more hopeful outlook, "What now?" We started an e-mail blog to friends and family, trying to keep loved ones apprised of the myriad ups and downs of this lifestyle that alone is cathartic. But it also allows those we love to participate and render whatever support they can it strengthens us and lets them help as well. We heard your commentary a few months ago and shared it with our family and friends. Thank you for sharing your experiences with us and validating what it's like to live with cancer.

Sent by Dave and Pam Farnworth | 2:17 PM ET | 10-10-2006

I agree that, for those in a cancer patients life, talking about it really helps everyone involved I have never had cancer, although many people close to me have. But I know how difficult it can be to talk about something deeply painful and terrifying sometimes you just don't know where to start. Sometimes there is so much to say that it's almost impossible to even pick a starting place. And sometimes, there is no coherent way to put into words what you're experiencing. I try to keep that in mind when those suffering in my life don't talk much about their illnesses.

Sent by Jeni | 2:28 PM ET | 10-10-2006

I was reading your stories on your journey with cancer... I recently lost my father, and friend, to the side effects from his chemotherapy. I am sure you have spoken to many people who boast about alternative diets, fast and medicinal cures and I am sure you have researched several. Please check out 714X, look online and if you can research Billy Best. I believe he has a 714X support and information group. Before my Dad died his symptoms reversed and he felt great. Peace and keep the fight going. Thanks for your stories.

Sent by V.S. | 2:32 PM ET | 10-10-2006

I struggle with what to say when. I am only talking about talking to close family here. Do I talk about how I feel, if it is not great? Will I just sound like a whiner (a big turn-off)? And what can any of them do about it, anyway? The doctors don't seem able to help much, why would I burden my family with what they can't affect? Do I mention tests that I am scheduled for, even though the results may be negative? Do I mention the findings of said tests, even if I don't understand them, or wait until there is more concrete information? That is the route I prefer, though I run the risk of seeming to hold out on my family. That is not my motivation. I may be on a roller coaster ride called cancer, but if I can spare my family the needlessly sleepless nights and daily anxiety, I will.

Sent by Stephanie | 10:19 AM ET | 10-11-2006

As someone who fought a battle with two cancers in the past year and half, both now in remission (and with a decent chance of "cure"), I have to say I talk about cancer, and how it has affected me, differently depending on the reactions I get from people. I have friends that will ask about the details and, if so, I spill (I have several long term quality of life issues that are ongoing), or they will show an interest in how this affected my view of death and my future (I am in my 40s) and if they do, we have had some great discussions.

On the other hand, some of those closest to me (family members and my husband) really don't seem to want to know too much, especially now that the treatments are over, about how this affected me psychologically and still affects me. Perhaps they (especially my husband) burned out as a caretaker when I was going through one after another grueling treatment. Perhaps they just don't know what to say and so are scared to bring it up.

I try, when I sense that kind of reticence, to respect those boundaries. At least now when I am in remission. Although I feel they are missing a huge piece of who I am now.

Sent by N. R. | 10:21 AM ET | 10-11-2006

Today was the first day that I saw your blog and signed up immediately for your daily email. The link was sent to me by my 43 year-old brother diagnosed with Stage 4 Colon Cancer in December 2005. I pray every day I wish for a different diagnosis every day I yearn for the way it was every day I curse this disease every day I cry and cry every day. How can this happen to such a vibrant, happy, healthy young man with so much for which to be thankful? I yearn for any news that he is willing to share and so scared to ask. I hope that by reading your messages I can learn how to help, support him and his family. I love him. I want a life full of hope, promise and health for him.

Sent by Cathy | 10:23 AM ET | 10-11-2006

I was told I have lung, liver and pancrease cancer last July. I started going to CTCA in July. I get my chemo every three weeks, which makes me weak have aching joints and some nausea. I just started reading My Cancer commentaries a couple weeks ago. I really think I am handling my cancer well, my problem is my wife is depressed about the cancer which makes me feel bad that she is so depressed.

Sent by David Snipes | 10:25 AM ET | 10-11-2006

My sister died seven weeks after being diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. She was the eldest of four sisters, very independent, and had never married. The other three of us and our husbands all came to stay at one point or another. I moved into her home for the duration and became her primary caregiver with the help of the wonderful people from hospice. After many years of dealing with my husbands health issues, I am comfortable talking about death and I was not afraid to speak openly to her. I found that she welcomed the opportunity to share her thoughts and emotions, but would only open up with those who asked. I believe she feared adding to anyone's emotional burden. For one reason or another, my other two sisters were unable to talk to her about what was happening — and they missed out on one of the most intimate and loving experiences imaginable. She and I spent many hours talking about her life and her death. Sharing this experience openly was our greatest gift to each other and our time together will remain among the most precious memories of my life.

Thank you, Leroy, for sharing your thoughts with us and for providing a forum for others to share as well.

Sent by Brenda Varner | 12:28 PM ET | 10-11-2006

I agree with you completely and for two reasons: there is STILL a stigma around the word "cancer" and we, I feel, need to talk about it to take the hex off having cancer. I want the word to be less HUGE for people who have cancer and for those who have a loved one with cancer.

I remember the night I told my support group I was hiding some of my more negative feelings about "my cancer" from my husband and the facilitator as well as others reminded me that when you hide those feelings you are depriving those who love you a healthy grieving process.

I want cancer to be an open subject as open as other illnesses. Not hidden in the shadows. Let the sunlight in this room.

Sent by Nancy Oliveri | 12:29 PM ET | 10-11-2006

I found that people were afraid to ask me about my cancer and treatment I think they were afraid it would upset me. I am not afraid to discuss my experience now I am past chemo and was not afraid then. Unlike S.R., I never worried that my cancer would define me... after all it was a part of me (albeit rogue) and while life changed dramatically for me for a while I did not lose myself. I did not find people pitied me but I gained strength from the support of others who had dealt with the disease. I also felt that I helped others by showing that I could go forward with my life even with a cancer diagnosis. I think a burden shared is a burden easier to bear not that you have to give all the gory details but people really do want to show they care. Thanks, Leroy, for sharing with us all and raising all of these difficult issues.

Sent by Kitty J. | 12:36 PM ET | 10-11-2006

I'm a radiation oncology nurse. I've worked in oncology: medical, radiation, hospice, for more than a quarter century. I am on my way out the door to speak at the Cancer Well-Fit Project, a local program that provides physical exercise and education to deal with the rigors of cancer and its treatment. I will, once again, speak on the side effects of therapy. I recalled your commentary carried on my local PBS station, and went to the site for some words to share. I found plenty. Thank you for sharing your wisdom. You are wise.

Sent by Kathleen L. McGowan | 1:46 PM ET | 10-11-2006

Leroy,

There are different levels of "talking about it." When I was diagnosed with esophageal cancer I got the word out quickly. I was overwhelmed by the response from family and friends. On a day to day basis however, I don?t like talking about my negative experiences. I used to run marathons and put in thousands of miles of practice runs, often with friends. Many of my runs were painful and I found that I couldn't talk about it, or listen to other?s talk about it during a run. The negative images would amplify my pain and I'd end up stopping. The only way I can keep moving forward is to put the pain out of my mind. Cancer treatment has caused me to feel bad on a daily basis for months. There's not much I can do about it except try to ignore it. Talking about it only makes me feel worse. Instead of talking to those around me about how bad I feel, I write in a blog. (Jeromeslife.blogspot.com) Some readers think my blog is somewhat dark. My response is that cancer is somewhat dark. I'd rather express my dark thoughts through writing, in a blog or journal and try to keep conversations with loved ones positive. They don?t really need to know that I'm feeling a little worse right now than I was the last time they asked. I usually say I'm fine, thank them for asking and talk about something else. My goal is to continue putting one foot in front of the other and to reach the finish line. Talking about my daily pain will only slow me down or cause me to quit.

Sent by Jerome Frank | 2:16 PM ET | 10-11-2006

I tell people I have treatment... not cancer. If you have cancer, you might die, if you have treatment, you will live. If they want details, I'll dish. If not, then let's talk about grandchildren. For me, its all in the attitude.

Sent by Robin | 2:27 PM ET | 10-11-2006

My mom has just begun treatment for her second type of cancer, this time around we learned of the eventual outcome at the beginning. She has always been upbeat and open about her cancer and this time is no different. She is amazing. If someone has a question, she'll answer it. Silence is not the road to healing or even acceptance. Im surprised at the people who come to her and even us, her family, amazed at how open we are about the joys and struggles that we face daily. Person after person tells of some relative or friend who had cancer and "... it was never discussed." I find that sad. Much of what is talked about isn't light and happy, but what you gain from those conversations cannot be put into words and I will always remember many of those conversations. I never find pity from these people and I don't think my mom does either. The reactions range from sadness to outrage to an odd sense of pride gained from her determination. Im more surprised at how some of the people we are closest to react. Most of her siblings have failed miserably, never calling, never sending a note and even act as if they've been slighted when she cannot make a family get-together because she she's tired, sick, or even because she cannot run the risk of infection. Her friends on the other hand have been awesome, accepting, concerned, what to know and best of all still able to do and talk about all of the usual things. I find strange that the best family often is not.

Our time is limited yet every minute were together is full and has so much meaning, time doesn't feel rushed when were together. A gift from cancer. I know how that sounds, but it's true. Some of the things we find funny would horrify most people (maybe us too a few months ago), yet those laughs are all ours and mean a lot. Yes, I am now able to take devastating news calmly without the blink of an eye and ask rational questions imminently after. Yes, witnessing the most trivial interaction between people or having the most mundane day to day thought will hit me so hard I can't stand it. Two more gifts from cancer. Cancer is what it is, we know the general path it's going to take us, but she and the rest of us with her are going to live our lives as happily.

Sent by BMR | 5:02 PM ET | 10-11-2006

Dear Mr. Sievers,

I have had two family members and two in-laws pass away from cancer. One of my first cousins has had multiple cancers for the last 20 years, has raised and launched two great young men, and is still going strong. Another has had melanoma on her eyelid — the same cancer that our grandfather died of at age 58. My father died of heart disease three years ago. My beloved pediatrician brother was killed in a jogging/auto accident last fall. I think a lot about death, and my husband and I often comment, "Well, you just never know..."

I don't know that I have anything to contribute to your life, but I know that I was very touched as I listened to one of your broadcasts on public radio the other morning on the way work. I think you have a gift in the way that you are sharing the reality of your world (and providing your listeners with an insight on experiences that they may one day share — if not themselves, then maybe with one they love) with us. Your story has already and will continue to inspire much compassion in the world. Thank you for taking on the struggle to continue sharing. You are being remembered.

Sent by Sandra Floyd | 5:16 PM ET | 10-11-2006

Humor works. I was diagnosed with breast cancer in Nov 1993 and my left breast was promptly named "Naughty Booby." I scolded her — "I've always taken such good care of you — how could you turn on me this way?" and my annual mamograms are known as "mug shots of the girls."

Seriously, I refused, from day one, to think of myself as a "victim" or a "survivor." I chose to see my cancer as an illness that I received treatment for and even after all this time, I still consider myself in "remission," not cured. My surgical scars remind me daily of what was, and the thought of what may be in the future is there, in the mirror, every morning. Cancer also gave me freedom to stop worrying what others think, what may happen tomorrow, and "permission" to enjoy life as it comes. Do I wish I had never had cancer? Yes. Do I regret it? No, it's made me the person I am. Everyone who hears those words "I'm so sorry, it's cancer" deals with it in their own way. Hang in there. In spite of it all, life is beautiful.

Sent by Barbara Fortin | 3:06 PM ET | 10-12-2006