Hey Leroy,

Just want you to know that I still am following your daily writing. I'm so impressed that every day you can find something to write about that is worth reading and meaningful. Thanks for being there and know I'm here for you (even if it is half way around the world). I still send up positive thoughts to you each time I pass one of those Asian Good Luck Kitties! Keep the faith old friend!

Sent by Becky Hubbell | 10:02 AM ET | 10-27-2006

Hmmmm... I can relate to both the woman's comment and yours. For the most part, I've stopped talking about my husband's cancer at work, even when it's why I need to take a day off or similar. It's coming up on 2 years of treatment, and a roller coaster. It is never not there, one way or another. That said, I know its become boring to others, like a friend whining about a bad relationship. I think underneath it all, people expect "it" to have gone away by now. The fact of "it" does set up a bit of a wall, a difference that people are uncomfortable with.

At the same time, my husband is still himself in interests, preferences and so on. And I am still myself. When cancer concerns don't crowd out our real selves, life momentarily feels normal. But, oh! The crash when the concerns break it in. It can be a tough call as to which is easier on the psyche: (1) To live in Cancer World all the time, with mostly Cancer Friends, or (2) To allow ones self the luxury of living in the regular world when one can.

Sent by Teri | 11:05 AM ET | 10-27-2006

Am happy to hear of the test results. Keep up the bloggin as I have found it to be good therapy. I enjoy reading it. Thanks for sharing your experiences, as everyone has a different perspective on certain things.

Sent by Jane | 11:08 AM ET | 10-27-2006

I have to laugh. It is the only way to survive! I finally found something to take my mind off of cancer. Yes, I actually have been told I am dying of cancer and there is nothing they have to offer me. I still don't feel particularly sick from the cancer, so I can almost forget about it, especially in the face of... SHINGLES!

Who knew that they could be so painful? (Probably everyone who has ever had them.) I still don't feel sick from the pancreatic cancer, even though it is killing me, but the shingles are so painful, I can't sleep. The drugs they gave me for the pain make me so loopy; I can't function, so I stopped taking those. It's like I barely have the focus or energy to deal with my cancer and impending death because of the d—- shingles.

I know that it makes sense from a biologic stand point. My immune system is down from the chemo and the virus is opportunistic, so it makes sense that this would be the time they would crop up, but I sure could use a break about now.

Sent by Stephanie | 11:18 AM ET | 10-27-2006

Everyone seems so afraid of giving sympathy. Of saying "poor Leroy." We are so caught up in "fight the good fight"... "don't be a victim..." "stiff upper lip"...ad nauseam... and I do mean nauseam!! Why not take a break? An in-between time? Because cancer does not necessarily take a break. Cancer permeates ones life. Because it can define every waking moment. I am not advocating self pity. Or other pity. I am putting on the table a motion for the general public to stop denying how all encompassing having cancer can be. For the record....I am so sorry, Larry. And as I use to say to my children as I cuddled them after an owie....Ahhha, ahhha baby.

Sent by Judith | 11:27 AM ET | 10-27-2006

Wow. That's my first reaction... WOW. I guess some people "deal" with it by not talking about it. Others deal with it BY talking about it. To each their own. I happen to be in the latter category, and talking about it helps me to put things in perspective and organize my thoughts. And the thing of it is, I never mastered NOT thinking or talking about it. For me, it was the pink elephant in the living room. Ya know?

Be true to thyself!

Sent by Carol | 11:34 AM ET | 10-27-2006

I've been meaning to write because what you write each and every day hits so close to what I think and feel. I have stage-four ovarian cancer which has come and gone for the past two years. People ask when will I be able to stop treatment when they really want to know when will I be cured. To answer "never" would be cruel to them. They think I look too well to be suffering with this beast. I also forget for a few minutes that it is growling and chewing away the good cells until I look in a mirror to see the lack of hair, eyelashes and eyebrows. But I smile back at myself and consider myself lucky to have family, friends and God who all support and love without reserve.

Thank you for your daily comments telling it like it is. I send you my best wishes.

Sent by Deanna | 11:38 AM ET | 10-27-2006

Hi Leroy,

I know exactly where you're coming from. I am in that so called "break" right now. After taking 8 rounds of a very strong therapy for stage 4 colon cancer, my body decided enough was enough. It has been about a month since I've had chemo although I still take Avastin every two weeks. I feel great. Almost normal...something I didn't know existed anymore. My energy level is at an all time high and I am getting things done that I haven't been able to do for a very long while.

I am so happy to hear that the Avastin is working for you. I've been fortunate to have the same results as well. You will certainly be in my thoughts and prayers.

Peace and blessings.

Sent by Lisa Majors | 11:42 AM ET | 10-27-2006

I just started reading your blog, and I hope that you find peace on your difficult journey. I think it's interesting that you mentioned your friends are more thrilled about your test results than you are. They are hoping against hope, too, and many of them are probably feeling helpless. I'm sure they would want to be able to kick that cancer's butt for you, but they just can't. Sometimes it is scarier to face the loss of someone you know and love than to come to terms with your own mortality. We all know we are going to go eventually, but we don't want to face the reality that the ones we love will go, too. That is part of what love is — believing someone is immortal and wanting them to be with you always. Best wishes.

Sent by Katy | 11:31 AM ET | 11-01-2006

Hmmm, I am not sure how to start this. I have had a rare bone marrow/blood disorder for almost 11 years now. There is no help. I have been on chemo for almost 11 years (Feb. will be 11 years). I have severe chemo brain which is just now being examined as a truth. I have been on 3 different types of chemo at a time which have such different side effects that I don't know if I am coming or going. Right now I am on 2, one oral the other I inject every Thursday and am sick for 4 to 5 days, have a day of peace, and start over again. I have been to 27 different doctors who have given and taken away drugs to help pain, depression, feelings and my mind.

Right now when I go into my oncologist/hematologists office all he (and most the other doctors) say is, "so what do you want to do next?" How the hell should I know? I was once on my way to a degree in medical research, an honor student, and now I have a difficult time trying to copy papers and place them in correct order and staple them. I have been fighting for 10 years to get on SSDI and have been told I have another 6 to 8 months to wait. I do things I don't even understand, I black out, I have fits of rage, then thoughts of suicide, then I am happy as can be, and the cycle starts over. I can't explain myself, and when something is wrong, I hear "don't blame the chemo, it's you." NO IT IS NOT ME. I have become such a negative, incoherent, uncaring person. I know that's not me. I know what I was like, and I can't seem to control myself to be the person I used to be or even want to be. I get into modes of thought that seem so surreal and I can't explain it, I have no words. I am now 49 and don't know what to expect. The only cure there is gives me a 50-50 chance of survival. I have used any savings that I had, I lost my insurance (life) and have to get approval from the insurance company twice a year for them to okay any of my treatments. Then every year you have to wait to find out if the drug you are taking is on the list of medications that the insurance company will cover that year or not. I wanted to work with people that had the opposite of what I had and with lukemia patients, use my plasma to help them, but no, the Red Cross doesn't allow such a thing. That is another subject. Well, maybe you can understand a bit. It feels like because I have been living with this disease that those around me are numb to its effects (I don't blame them), but to me it just gets worse. I am losing my mind, literally. I get horrible waves of vertigo, my body temperature drops to 90 or 91 degrees and then shoots up to 105, and I have silent migraines and then have severe muscle spasms, sometimes momentary blindness, anxiety attacks and even total loss of hearing — after one of these spells, my body is in such shock that I sleep for 12 to 24 hours without moving. And it just goes on. I don't feel like I am being heard and I don't even go in anymore and tell them what is going on with me. I go in for the CBCs and liver and kidney tests for the toxins. They won't give me valium for the spells; they tell me just to take ibuprofen so I drink to help take the pain away.

Sorry, it's been awhile since I have talked with someone that might understand a bit. All the others that I have known are already dead, and I miss them because they could understand.

Thanks for reading this.

Oh well.

Good Luck to You.

And thanks for the chance, even though this might not be read. I am not looking for pity, just answers and wanting people to know that if the disease doesn't kill me, the damn CHEMO is doing the job. I am embarrassed, I want people to know so I tell them, but it is like no one listens. Pity steps in. I don't want pity, I want answers, and there are none. All I get is "you are a unique patient." They have cut me, doped me up, x-rayed, bone scans, bone-marrow extractions, skin biopsies and look at me and shake their heads, and say, "we don't know." I want valium because it helped my spells and the severe muscle spasms and they worry about me using drugs, but they can put me on a horrible anti-depressant amitriptoline (worse thing in the world). Okay, never mind, I could go on. Just know that you will either make it or you don't. Try to enjoy what you have — I have heard that a lot. Be thankful — I am but I am not.

Thanks for listening.

Sent by Tonya Logue-Jones | 11:46 AM ET | 11-01-2006

Leroy, I have been off chemo now for almost 6 weeks waiting to get scheduled for surgery. I was just informed that something strange lit up on my last PET scan that wasn't there before. They don't know if it's another tumor or what. My point to you is if they (the doctors) hadn't dragged their feet after my chemo ended and did the surgery ASAP, this thing lighting up maybe wouldn't be there. Part of me was glad they were dragging their feet because I felt great, could eat everyting I wanted, the side effects from chemo were gone, and I really felt good for awhile anticipating the surgery when I knew I'd be miserable again soon enough. The other part of me wanted to do the surgery quick. Hopefully this is NOT another tumor, but this short period of feeling good might have cost me big time. My opinion is do not take the break and give the cancer a chance to regroup. You're on a roll — go for it. That's just my opinion, good luck with whatever you decide to do. It's not easy, I know.

Sent by Ruth White | 12:17 PM ET | 11-01-2006

Leroy,

Being a fan of NPR, I have enjoyed your blog and find myself experiencing a keen sence of understanding to your journey to cope with the "800 lb pink elephant" that is cancer. I was diagnosed with leukemia about a year and a half ago and have sought to gain the obliviousness to the fraility of my life that I enjoyed before the diagnosis. Not that being oblivious was right by any stretch of the imagination, but a luxury that I believe most "healthy" people do at times enjoy. Having gone through the ups and down of daily chemo, bone marrow tests, and that ever-present nausea which no matter what I eat or how I psyche myself up, always seems to kick my feet out from under me like Charlie Brown going for that ever-elusive football. I find peace in your words and my ability to share in your journey. All in all, you are a proverbial shoulder for myself and I am certain countless others out there to take a break from our cancer and get lost for a moment. As I return to the reality of my life, it gives me comfort to know that I am not alone in my fight and that there are those out there that serve as a beacon and safe haven for those who can't find the words. Best wishes and good thoughts on your fight, you will beat this!

Sent by H. Martin | 12:24 PM ET | 11-01-2006

I think that there are moments in between, and they get longer as time progresses. However, while I don't think about my cancer as frequently as I used to (like non-stop), there is always the knowledge of it somewhere in the back of my mind. There is a weight that I bear, often unconsciously. But it's there with me all the time. I'm not quite as light-hearted as I used to be, though moments of joy or pleasure are so much more intense.

I think that we're just a little ahead of our friends who haven't had to go through this yet.

Sent by Maggie | 1:03 PM ET | 11-01-2006

Leroy, please continue to write about yours and our issues regarding cancer. It is good therapy for all of us. I will continue to pray of all of us.

Sent by Joyce Moore | 1:05 PM ET | 11-01-2006

When thoughts about cancer become too much, breath meditation can help, I have found, especially when the anxiety is not too great. Inhale into the belly, then exhale gingerly sending the energy along the back of the body, up the spine to the top of the skull then down the front of the body through the face, continuing downward on the front of the body through the heart, groin and out the feet. It's an infinity loop! Inhale again, etc. This practice stimulates the vagus nerve. Having mantra helps — "my heart," on the inhale, for instance, and "o" on the exhale, or whatever you please. Mantras are self-distracting: the mind cannot hold two thoughts at once. Best to all.

Sent by Jane | 1:07 PM ET | 11-01-2006

Dear Leroy,

I don't have cancer. I came upon your blog with interest because a friend is currently in the midst of a "pancreatic cancer journey," as she calls it. I've recommended your columns to her. They often touch on experiences and issues I've dealt with over the years, during a lifetime of physical challenges, in a manner I find intelligent and accessible. Thank you.

I'm writing right now because of your most recent blog, where you say that, "Some of the other side effects — the nausea, tingling in my feet — come and go, but I always am conscious of the fact that I don't feel like myself. Ever... I do get distracted, caught up in work or a book... Of course, as soon as you realize that, the spell is broken and it's back again... So yes, those "in-between" times are golden.... The rest of the time? I'm still me, but sometimes I'm just a little distracted. Cancer will do that to you."

How do you know it's a spell? Maybe getting caught up in work or a book is not a distraction, but just a different, equally "real" moment?

I have a traumatic brain injury. The first few years, barely able to think, it seemed the name "Ruth" didn't apply to whoever it was I'd become. Over time, my brain did some healing, and as my self-concept changed/expanded/accepted, Ruth (whoever she is) returned. Sometimes I feel "like myself" and, other times not.

I get confused for hours, days, some times, weeks at a time, and then, suddenly, the clouds part and here I am, again. But, who is this I?

I have been practicing in the Zen Buddhist tradition for decades now, sometimes lazy, sometimes not so. From that practice/philosophy of life, coupled with the brain injury (I never lost awareness, although I did lose almost all ability to think for over a year), it seems that "feeling like myself" has little to do with feeling good or ill, nauseous or not. It has to do with the ability to be fully present. Not 98 or 99 percent, but 100 percent, present.

And then (famous zen koan): Who am I? That changes moment to moment. The teaching is that the mind creates the story, the history, the "me" we get so attached to. Only this moment, gone as I write it, is "real."

I hope I'm not being preachy. I'm writing because this particular topic is so fraught with... what's the word? Confusion? And understanding in this way has been helpful to me.

May this moment find you being you. May this moment find you. May this moment. This moment. This.

Sent by Ruth Klein | 1:12 PM ET | 11-01-2006

I have stage four breast cancer and I too am tired of thinking about cancer and about myself all the time. Its getting very boring. It seems at times that being in denial could be soothing. I too am getting a break from the chemo for at least a month and am hoping I can do something more interesting with the time than I have been.

Sent by Cindy H. | 1:19 PM ET | 11-01-2006

Good Morning Leroy,

I have found that it is likely healthy to maintain a balance between moments when I forget (well, does one ever truly forget) that I have lung cancer. My surgeon said that when he removed my upper right lobe of my lung that he "got it all." While I have a 70% chance that the cancer won't return, I have the dark cloud behind each thought that I may be in the 30 percent category of the cancer returning! I take breaks from thinking about it but am aware of it lurking every moment of my day. I find if I keep going and living my life in healthy and helpful ways, the cloud diminishes for short periods of time. I do not want to cast it away from my life completely as an insurance that if the cancer returns, I won't be completely surprised! I have always like surprises but that would be one I wouldn't want. I do need to know if the cancer returns though so I can decide, just as you are doing, what is the best approach to take.

Bless you for keeping us informed!

Sent by Sharon L. Cilono | 1:43 PM ET | 11-01-2006

I want to thank you Leroy for your daily writings. It means so much. When I read your blog, it's a daily reminder of how we all have various opinions. Thank god for that. This is such an open forum. I agree and disagree. It's all good uh?

Sent by Meredith P. | 1:47 PM ET | 11-01-2006

Hi Leroy:

I just saw your article on your continuing experience with cancer and was impressed.

On the matter of "Why talk about cancer every day?" the only thing I have to say on that is that people can say anything they want because you really cannot understand if you are not in the other persons shoes... and that is so relevant to responding to any personal challenge in life. Its common to say Get over it!" or "You'll get over it!"

That I guess has some intrinsic truth to it depending on how temporary the nature of the challenge is but the point is people need to talk and express how they feel as long as they need to and pretending that situations do not exist by not talking about it, is not the thing to do in my opinion... that way from my experience we do take a much longer time to come to terms with it.

And talking helps other people... we never know when we might have to draw on information stored which might have just been so irrelevant to us at the time we got that information but then overnight turns into a personal reality.

I do not have cancer but time has taught me that is important to allow people to work through things their way if they want to and that we support their opinion and approach.

You keep going guy! Keep on writing! I'll be reading!

Sent by Juliette Lee | 2:01 PM ET | 11-01-2006

I think that there are moments in between, and they get longer as time progresses. However, while I don't think about my cancer as frequently as I used to (like non-stop), there is always the knowledge of it somewhere in the back of my mind. There is a weight that I bear, often unconsciously. But it's there with me all the time. I'm not quite as light-hearted as I used to be, though moments of joy or pleasure are so much more intense. I think that we're just a little ahead of our friends who haven't had to go through this yet.

Sent by Maggie | 12:25 PM ET | 11-02-2006

Hi Leroy,

I agree that the in-between times are few and far between. It may be different for those who are not in Stage IV, but for those of us who are, it is an everyday battle that we are fighting. There's no letting down or running away. Cancer is an in-you-face menace that we have to face down. Thank you so much for you words — I have 99 percent of the same thoughts and feelings and it is good to know I am not alone in those.

Sent by Sue Snyder | 2:17 PM ET | 11-06-2006

I am glad to see that you are courageous enough and have strength enough to write and to educate the public on this horrific disease.

My father died of lung cancer when I was young, although at the time he had extended his life with chemotherapy, which at that time was just experimental through the National Institute of Health.

I have a nephew who is a leukemia survivor.

I am participating in an NIH program on fibromyalgia, which I struggle with daily, so of course I understand exactly what you mean about cancer being with you every day.

I suppose it's difficult for those who haven't experienced living with a long-term illness or condition to understand that it becomes part of you, like your eyes or your hair color.

It's not something so easy to forget.

Sent by Kathleen | 12:56 PM ET | 03-20-2007

first things first: STOP CALLING IT YOUR CANCER!!!!....IT IS AN INVASION IN YOUR BODY, AND YOU HAVE THE POWER TO TELL IT(CANCER) TO LEAVE...MOST IMPORTANTLY BELIEVE WHAT YOU SAY!!!! YOUR WORDS HAVE POWER.....EVERYTHING FIRST START WITH A THOUGHT, THEN WORDS CREATE THE PROCESS. THE CANCER IS AN INVASION IN YOUR(your) get it,,, 'YOUR' BODY....TELL IT TO LEAVE...AND I STAND WITH YOU TO SEND THAT FOUL THING AWAY FROM YOUR BODY......

Sent by MA7dre | 7:56 PM ET | 08-27-2007