Leroy, I appreciate your blog more than words allow me to express. I must confess that I am a voyeur on your journey, but I felt the need to finally speak up and say thank you. I lost my mother to cancer last year, but the saddest thing for me besides her leaving this earth was that mom chose to internalize her struggle, not allowing those of us who loved her to share in the journey. I'm saddened by the opportunity lost, but it was her illness after all and I did the best I could to respect her wishes. In your sharing of the most intimate of struggles, I feel as if I finally found a place where I can begin to deal with her cancer on my terms. Thanks for providing a place of loving support for cancer patients and their loved ones to talk about the struggles, the pain, the heartache and the profound knowledge that life can be short, every day a gift to be opened and appreciated to the best of our ability.

I keep you in my thoughts and prayers and I too am grateful that your latest scan is optimistic. I am hoping that the Great Pumpkin will rise out of your most sincere pumpkin patch tonight! Happy Halloween!

Sent by Faun | 11:03 AM ET | 10-31-2006

Yep, yep, yep. On a good day, my husband and I imagine a future in which he is on chemo (5FU with Avastin) almost cyclicly, a recurrent treatment for his recurring HNPCC (genetic gastric/colon cancer). This is utterly unscientific — the oncologist is pretty clear that were in unchartered territory as many used to just plain die from this, including my husband's brother about 14 years ago, his mother, his uncle, his aunt. Now, we have vigilance and early detection, so for now it can be "treated." I keep hoping that, if we can keep it at bay long enough, some more permanent solution will arrive. The recurring poignancy of "Is this the last Halloween? Is this the last Christmas, Easter, birthday, etc." is very tough. Living each (holi-)day as if it were your last is stressful in the extreme in its separation from everyone else's norm.

Sent by Teri | 11:08 AM ET | 10-31-2006

Dear Leroy:

I write this with tears in my eyes, having just read the past two days' entries. I have been following your blog since the beginning but have never been able to share my feelings before. Three years ago I was successfully treated for stage II breast cancer. Since then I have never referred to myself as cured. I believe I am in remission, and can only hope that it will last for decades. But, at 66, I am acutely aware that one day my life will end, whatever the circumstances leading up to that moment. That is sobering and not something our culture has encouraged us to be in touch with. My addiction to your blog appears to be two-fold: first, my genuine concern for and connection to you that has evolved second, I view your blog as a guide book I may one day need to get myself and my family through the next time the cancer comes. I don't mean this in a maudlin way really, but I am moved that I will have your words to help me find and express my own.

You have become very dear to me and I can never thank you enough for the gift you have given all of us by sharing your thoughts.

Sent by Harriet H. Liss | 11:10 AM ET | 10-31-2006

Leroy,

Every day you say something that I am thinking. Because of your courage, I am saying these thoughts out loud... to friends, family and co-workers. I'm not going to hide my feelings about having cancer and the treatments. It's scary and the thoughts consume way too much of my time. This morning I decided to be the fun-loving person I was before cancer. So I put on a costume to wear to work. I work with preschool students so they will love it. Maybe today I can forget about cancer for a minute or so. I hope you can, too.

Sent by Cindy Beatty | 11:12 AM ET | 10-31-2006

Happy Halloween, Leroy. Your bravery truly fills me with hope. Be well.

Sent by Adam Miller | 11:14 AM ET | 10-31-2006

Leroy, I am praying for the chance to see you next Halloween as a six foot four tumor.

Sent by Michael Proser | 8:53 AM ET | 11-01-2006

I read this link and found it useful.

http://www.theevidence.org/episodes/episode8-comments.php

With Joe, we fought with everything we had and sometimes there was a change for the better, albeit minor, most times worse. But we always came back to the same point, and after a year and two months, he died.

Why was there notice? What was the time good for? For me, if I lost him suddenly, one day he just vanished, I probably couldn't have taken the shock.

Sent by Irene | 11:06 AM ET | 11-02-2006

I, too, want to read the last "Harry Potter"! My husband and I are having a debate over Snape and where he stands in the scheme of things. Is he a Death Eater? Or is he really trustworthy? Is he evil or just not nice? So you think the new book is coming out this summer? One more thing to try to hold on for. I'll do just about anything to be right! Even fight for my life.

Sent by Stephanie | 11:11 AM ET | 11-02-2006

Leroy — I have followed your journey since the beginning, but I must confess the last few blogs have given me a heavy heart. While your struggle is different than mine, your feelings follow the same path. I lost my 11-year old son, Teddy, in a car accident six years ago. It is a chapter in my life that I have learned will never close. So many of your thoughts match my own — you have in-betweens where that loss isn't on your mind, you think about the things he will miss or never experience, and you realize the world is not black and white. You embrace every little thing as you realize how precious life is and how quickly it can be gone. As one of my favorite quotes reminds me, "It is not my job to see through you, but to see how I can help you through."

Sent by Robyn Deterding | 11:30 AM ET | 11-02-2006

Leroy,

I stumbled across your blog the other day. My wife was similarly diagnosed with cancer four years ago, and after surgery and chemo we thought it was gone until it reoccurred this fall. It has been especially difficult dealing with it this time, and I feel her situation and outlook are much like yours. It is difficult because we have three young children, and it's hard to visualize how they are going to be affected. I haven't told anyone because people weren't very understanding the first time around. I could tell you about countless thoughtless comments, but I'm sure you've heard it all. My wife's big scan is in December. You're right, the waiting is the hardest part. It has given me some peace to read your entries. To know that many people are fighting like my wife is. I look forward to hearing more good news about your treatment. I'll be thinking of you as we trick-or-treat tonight.

Happy Halloween

Sent by Anonymous | 11:34 AM ET | 11-02-2006

My friend died last week of cancer. She was 58. Her time ran out, the cancer cells took over. She had a really great life. In a way, that makes it more difficult to understand and accept the outcome. While the lesson is, of course, enjoy the moment, sieze the day, etc., it is still somewhat paralyzing to decide in any moment how to live, what to do, what is really the best way to take advantage, etc.

Sent by Kami | 11:39 AM ET | 11-02-2006

Leroy,

It indeed is a time game and, like you, I have had avastin and good results with it, but then I question, how long? You have touched so many lives in such a positive manner and you express the feelings of those of us going through this illness so well. God bless you.

Sent by Aisha | 11:43 AM ET | 11-02-2006

When my husband was dying of a brain tumor, he finally began to watch the new TV shows, he never had before — what if he liked one and it was cancelled? So he waited until they were proven. One of his quirks I miss 11 years later. He knew as a psychologist that this was silly, but it made him what he was. Your comments today about what you are looking forward to made me smile and think of my husband.

It's always good to have a goal — keep setting them, keep living the time you have. God bless you.

Sent by Elizabeth | 11:53 AM ET | 11-02-2006

Don't ask, don't allow them to tell.

That's my policy. I did have a doctor, my regular family doctor, begin to tell me the statistics on Avastin use for metastasized breast cancer, and I firmly but politely asked her to stop. It was similar to what you heard yesterday. I said, "My friends and I do not listen to statistics. We say we each are a study of one and feel the statistics do not include us. We do this in order to stay upbeat and strong." She responded nicely and stopped telling me statistics.

Good news on your CT scan!

Sent by Nancy Oliveri | 12:08 PM ET | 11-02-2006

Dear Leroy,

Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts. I find you always get right to the heart of things. Last night, I couldn't walk with my daughter for trick-or-treating. She went with a few friends and another mom and I followed in the car. Someone came up to me and asked me if I knew that I was contributing to global warming by sitting in the car — why couldn't I walk, too? I lost it! I wanted to enjoy Halloween, if only by car, because like you, I wonder what next year will bring. I CAN'T walk very far. I didn't want to let the comment ruin the holiday, but I can't shake it. Why do strangers want explanations? My daughter looked beautiful, and she was half angel/half devil — which could be said for a lot of us, I guess. Happy Halloween!

Sent by Lynn Giudici | 12:11 PM ET | 11-02-2006

Dear Leroy
My husband has been diagnose with stage 4 lung cancer, and I wish he was brave as you are because he will not have the CT scan to see if the tumors has shunk, he say he will not "Get in King Tuck's Tomb" So he is being very difficult but he looks great today and is doing fine

Sent by Stella | 3:40 PM ET | 06-04-2008