At Johns Hopkins... go to the rotunda and rub the great toe on Christ. It supposedly has help with many miracles. Seems superstitious but we take good luck from any source sometimes.

Sent by Cherie Brown | 10:43 AM ET | 10-20-2006

Mr. Sievers,

While you can wait until Wednesday, I think I speak for a number of your blog readers when I say we will be on edge until we hear the news. My family's collective fingers are crossed for good news.

Sent by Bill Combs | 10:47 AM ET | 10-20-2006

Leroy, your plans sound too familiar. The CT scan times can be awfully stressful. I wish you good news on your scans, and an excellent cheesesteak.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 10:52 AM ET | 10-20-2006

Having just had a scan last week, with only a 24 hour wait for the results, I (like many people reading this blog, I'm sure) understand the anxiety in waiting for results. Here are some alternative treatments to get you through this weekend and your waiting period from Monday to Wednesday (and I'll be really, really angry if you don't take my advice): watch dumb reality shows on TV, e-mail all of your friends and ask for their one favorite joke, watch football if you must, enjoy a decadent meal if you're up to it, pick up one of the books in the stack next to your bed that you have tons of time to read but haven't bothered to do yet, grab a Calvin and Hobbes book and crack up. And take naps. (My oldest son's favorite joke, just to get the ball rolling for you: "A man walks into a bar. He says, Ouch.") I hope you have as restful a weekend as possible, Leroy.

Sent by Jennifer Haan | 11:00 AM ET | 10-20-2006

Leroy,

First of all, your column is great. I have been reading it everyday. To me, this is kind of like ice cream. I just had a scan Monday and found out yesterday that I was still all clear. That makes ten months since I finished my treatments for Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma (I'm 35 years old). You had me laughing because I thought the same thing about the machine and having to roll my shoulders. I'll be praying for you. You'll do great!

Sent by Erik Bowling | 11:05 AM ET | 10-20-2006

Bless your heart Leroy. I am going through the waiting game myself right now and I am really scared to death over it. I finished all my tests and now the doctors are deciding what to do with me. I am waiting for them to call me with a date for surgery. I've done all the preliminary chemo, did a different test every day last week and the results are in. This I was told is a very scary surgery and a long hospitalization. Part of me (the non-rational part) hopes they don't call me for a long, long time, but another part of me (the rationale part) wants to get it over with now, so the chemo etc. was not in vain. I talk to myself constantly that whatever happens I can deal with one way or another. Im sure you do the same. Leroy, try to stay positive and anticipate savoring the cheesesteaks, not the outcome, like you did when you were a kid.

Sent by Ruth White | 11:39 AM ET | 10-20-2006

I don't know if this is directly related to CT scans or cheesesteak... but how do you say goodbye? I was originally diagnosed with stage III ovarian cancer in March 1999, had surgery, chemo, and was doing pretty well until October 2005 when I had a recurrence. That recurrence has since metastasized to my lungs and abdomen. I have, ultimately, accepted that I am going to die within the next couple of months. (I am 35.) And while I am able to look at my death as a much-needed rest after a very long, exhausting and painful struggle, what I cant come to terms with is how to go about saying goodbye to the people I love.

Sent by Michele | 11:40 AM ET | 10-20-2006

I had a PET scan on Saturday. I knew my oncologist was going to be out all the next week except for Monday, so I called her office just to make sure she got the results before she left. The PET scan place has been known not to automatically send the results. My first PET scan, they hadn't sent them for a week, and the day of my appointment to get the results, I got a call from the oncologist's office asking if I indeed had had the scan. So, the oncologist got the results the same day I did. I wanted to avoid that in the future. That scan found my met to the hip.

My appointment with my oncologist is not until next week, but she called me on Monday. There was no sign of cancer. I am in remission.

Dear Leroy, I hope you get similar good news.

Sent by Ruth | 11:42 AM ET | 10-20-2006

Boy, a cheesesteak sounds really good to me about now. Even a Baltimore cheesesteak to this Philly homegirl. Alas, not worth the price my tummy would pay. Enjoy it while you can. For both of us. And maybe some chocolate, too.

Sent by Stephanie | 11:44 AM ET | 10-20-2006

I pray that you will soon have more sundaes than cheesesteaks.

Sent by Lisa | 11:45 AM ET | 10-20-2006

What is amazing, yet incredibly enriching and gratifying, is the way that your personal welfare has become the concern of so many. This speaks volumes about the potential in this society (which at times seems so self-centered) to voice, express, and act on behalf of others in need. We can and must do more to provide greater access to quality health care, to defeat cancer and the countless other chronic illnesses, and to provide socio-emotional support for those who do battle (patient, families, caretakers alike). I lost my mother to cancer this summer, but your daily inspirations have helped immensely in the healing process. Sending prayers your way for a good scan result and an even better cheesesteak!

Sent by Belinda Tucker | 11:46 AM ET | 10-20-2006

Good luck in the next few days (and with the results of your scan). Waiting is awful.

My oncologist is now in the habit of calling me with good news before our appointments so that I can relax. He called me once at 9:00 on a Friday night so that I wouldn't have to fret all weekend about a CT scan (which turned out clean!). I have also called his nurse to get results before appointments so that I'd be prepared either way when I walked into his office. That way, I had time to think about questions to ask rather than just react to the news. It gives me a tiny little piece of control over my life, even if it's just the timing of news/results.

Sent by Maggie | 11:49 AM ET | 10-20-2006

Good luck Leroy!

Sent by Sara | 11:54 AM ET | 10-20-2006

Well Leroy I have been reading your words for many months now and many times I felt like dropping you a short note, now I must add my prayers for good news. How about the cheesesteak plus a hot fudge sundae! This is going to be a long weekend for all of us.

Sent by Jim | 1:12 PM ET | 10-20-2006

Leroy,

Like all of your other fans, I wish you the best for next week. You are in my thoughts and prayers. Waiting is definitely the toughest part. Maybe you should take a drive in your area and enjoy the beauty of the fall colors. This is my favorite time of year. As a one-year survivor of breast cancer, I am grateful to have the chance to make that drive as the leaves turn from green to the amazing reds, yellows and oranges. Take in the beauty and enjoy!

Sent by Jill Brusco Fox | 1:15 PM ET | 10-20-2006

My husband, diagnosed in June with early-stage oral cancer, goes to Hopkins every four to six weeks for a checkup, and I usually make the trip from DC with him. His appointments are always just before lunchtime. I lived in Philadelphia for many years and miss the cheesesteaks. What's the restaurant? (I'm serious — I'd love its name/address.)

I'm an editor who used to receive your Nightline e-mails and have followed your latest writings with great interest. I'll keep all relevant body parts crossed for Monday.

Enjoy the cheesesteak (wit or witout?)!

Sent by Leslie | 2:54 PM ET | 10-20-2006

Michele, my mouth gaped open as I read your entry. I watched people say goodbye to life in the 1980s when I worked in the Army as a counselor to the terminally I'll, and the preciousness and uniqueness of each one never ceased to amaze me. It seems to me that, like many other things in life, when the time comes to say goodbye, you will know exactly what to do. The wisdom will be there exactly when you need it. I honor your life, and the lives of those participating in this blog.

Sent by Leonard | 2:59 PM ET | 10-20-2006

I go in for my first PET-CAT scan on Monday afternoon since starting chemo treatments 4 months ago. I share in the apprehension of what the interpretation of the scans will mean, and will have to wait until Thursday to talk to my oncologist about them. If the chemo has done its job, my tumors will be shrunken and dead and we move on to discussing liver resection surgery if the chemo hasn't finished its job, I can look forward to more chemo treatments. Neither is all that appealing, but if I ever want to get off this lousy roller-coaster ride, Ive got to go with those two choices. It takes me about an hour to drive up to Seattle for treatment and for the radiology work. My reward is to go to Dicks Drive-In and get the Deluxe burger and hand-cut fries. Its a guilty pleasure, but good news or bad, I still get to enjoy it.

Good luck with your scans — I hope that they show the Avastin working.

And enjoy that cheesesteak.

Sent by Bob Maimone | 5:25 PM ET | 10-20-2006

Enjoy that cheesesteak, Leroy. Having grown up in Philly, I know the joys of a good cheesesteak. And I know that I join everyone who reads your blog hopes that the outcome of the scan will be encouraging.

And to Michelle, God bless you. I don't have any advice. My guess is you will know how to say goodbye when the time comes. When you do, it will be important for your friends and family to listen to what you have to say. I would think that starting to prepare them now might be a good idea, because it will be hard for them to hear and accept that message. Loved ones always are hoping for a miracle at the end. In my case with several relatives who were terminally ill, I was fighting denial almost to the end

Sent by Art Ritter | 10:52 AM ET | 10-23-2006

I hope the news is good and the wait is short. You've got the right idea, whether its cheesesteak or hot fudge sundae: give yourself some delicious distractions! Today, I went up to the Sierra foothill town of Apple Hill, gloried in the brilliant red and orange and yellow leaves and breathtaking vineyards spilling over hillsides and big red barns. Then enjoyed a fat hamburger followed by fresh-baked apple pie! And now, home again, I just sat out on the back deck and devoured a caramel apple while our cat dozed on my lap. Life doesn't get much better... whatever tests or worries may lie ahead, this was a glorious day. I'm sending you wishes for a glorious weekend of your own, Leroy.

Sent by Doris | 10:55 AM ET | 10-23-2006

Your comments today certainly hit home. Not the cheesesteak (I'm in South Carolina and we have country style smothered in gravy) — but the waiting for the results part. My husband had another brain scan this morning and our appointment with the neurosurgeon wasnt scheduled until two weeks from today. I knew my husband was anxious and so was I. While he was getting his scan, I just popped up to the 8th floor and told them we had to have an earlier appointment. I didn't care if it was only for five minutes, but we were not going to wait two weeks. I got what we wanted. They were understanding and I didn't have a problem. I just wonder why they schedule the appointments so many days after the scans. Our doctors won't do that anymore. I've learned my lesson. You truly have to take your health care into your own hands at all times. Usually all you have to do is let the doctors know what you will and will not accept and then you get treated the way you deserve to be treated. Believe it or not, my husband's radiological oncologists first words to us, after introducing himself, were "I work for you." So far he's been our favorite. The only thing he wouldn't do was cut our grass. (I did ask!) We have to try to keep a sense of humor when we can.

Sent by Nancy S. | 10:59 AM ET | 10-23-2006

I am a daily blog reader of My Cancer. My heart and hopes are with you. Waiting is beyond difficult — but I truly do understand, as many of your readers do, how it feels to wait and hope for medical results that are good. We are with you. And you are with us. All the best to you. We are all waiting with you.

Sent by Amy Chinn | 11:02 AM ET | 10-23-2006

I am the mom. I could be your mom watching you go through this terrible ordeal. Now, I am watching you, listening to your every word, understanding what is going through your mind. I need that because my son doesn't share any of this with us, his parents. He's just that way. He, like you, has no problem saying the "C" word... neither do any of us now. For years our families were cancer-free and then all hell broke loose. But it's my son right now. He's not one to express his feelings and we've have tried hard to help him do this. He does with his wife, and that's the most important thing. They were only married two years when he was diagnosed and soon after, his wife became pregnant... before the chemo. Now they have a beautiful five month old son. I would gladly take my son's place so that he can see his son grow up to be the wonderful person he will become. He is lucky to be in remission now but I know what the waiting is like every time the CT scan is done... he is due to go for his second checkup on 10/31. I wish you the best possible in your fight. I can't tell you how important your commentaries have been for me to read when I just happened upon them today. I will be out here in your audience and you will be in my thoughts and prayers... waiting for miracles, accepting the truth.

Sent by Marion Kinne | 11:04 AM ET | 10-23-2006

Maybe I'm just one pushy broad but when I have my PET scans I know that the results will be ready within 24 hours. I just call them and get a copy of the report, go pick it up and read the damn thing — usually before I've gotten back to my car. I am due for my PET in December and my MUGA (heart scan) shortly. Leroy, you're in my prayers and thoughts.

Michelle, hospice is a wonderful organization filled with caring people who can help you. If you have not called them yet, please do so. They have helped at least five family members and friends to have an easier last few months. God bless you.

Sent by Robin | 11:07 AM ET | 10-23-2006

Maggie's comment about her oncologist calling her with news, and her ability to access the oncologists nurse in advance of appointments, really hit home for me. So many doctors — wonderful oncologists and others — focus only on the physiological components of the treatments they provide, and fail to recognize the significance — especially for cancer patients for whom so much is out of control — of the psychological issues. It's so easy, low-cost and low-tech to think about how a patient may feel about something and respond to that — and yet so few physicians do that. Perhaps it's their training that causes them to have to tamp down on their feelings in order to get through their days without being overwhelmed by the suffering they see?

In any event, along these lines, one memory that will stay with me forever is the kindness and concern that I experienced in an encounter with the Chief of Radiology at the hospital where I got my chemo and then my followup treatment. On the one-year anniversary of my breast cancer diagnosis, which was also right before Christmas, I learned that my chest x-ray showed "a shadow" and that I needed additional films. Needless to say I was pretty freaked out. It so happened that the Radiology Chief was the one who was on call on 12/22 when i had my followup images taken, and I was telling him how upset I was (first anniversary, whatifwhatifwhatif, how was i going to be able to wait until after the holidays to get the results etc). Well, low and behold, that night I got a call from him at home, letting me know that the "shadow" on my lung was nothing to worry about, and wishing me a merry Christmas. I was so grateful I nearly fainted.

He immediately forgot about making that phone call — but that is a memory that is burned in my brain. So every Christmas (and fortunately I have had six since then!) I send him a card (and a little present — he loves all things Volkswagen so I search all year for VW mementos — I've sent him chocolate VWs, toy VWs...) in honor of what he did for me. And every year he calls me to thank me for the gift — and every year, I say "no, thank YOU" for giving me such a precious gift!

Sorry to ramble — but I want to say one more thing, to Michele (above). I cannot imagine what you are feeling right now — but the fact that you WANT to say goodbye to your loved ones is the greatest gift you can give them. A dear friend of mine died a few years ago at age 50 of ovarian cancer, and for the six months before she died she would not allow anyone to come see her and wouldn't talk on the phone. I respected that, of course, and didn't push — but I would have loved the opportunity to hold her in my arms and tell her how much her friendship had meant to me. I am sending good wishes and love to you, Michele.

Sent by Suzanne | 11:22 AM ET | 10-23-2006

Leroy,

Enjoy the cheesesteak and here's to many, many more. Know that there are so many of us pulling for you and every other cancer patient.

Sent by Marie | 11:25 AM ET | 10-23-2006

Funny, I have my PET/CT scan on Tuesday. I am not holding my breath — stable disease would be a blessing at this point. I feel ok, so how much worse could it be? And who cares if I feel ok? Sometimes I get too wrapped up in expecting some sort of "positive change" represented by these little dots on a piece of film instead of recognizing that I feel pretty good now and I should enjoy it.

What are those dots anyway? Although I had bone metastases, I didn't feel them. But when I actually "saw" them — oh, the anxiety. Two months after my initial diagnosis and after three doses of chemo I know the cancer is in my bones, but it doesn't hurt, so I don't care. Try not to worry too much about the dots and concentrate instead on how your own body feels. Dots don't mean a thing.

Good luck Leroy, we're all pulling for you.

Sent by Aaron Pollack | 11:27 AM ET | 10-23-2006

I would love to have a Philly Cheesesteak! There's a place near where I work in Oakland, Calif., that's called Philly Cheasesteak — and they're great — but I'd like to try the real thing, so please report on Tuesday on the Cheasesteak! I have metastasized colon cancer and expect to get a couple years out of my reduced life under chemo. I find the very best thing for me is my relationships (my son: numero uno!), a little work, and lots and lots of Haiku! Please try some Haiku with your Cheasesteak and I think you will find it amazingly comforting to perceive the "bright moments."

Sent by Carolyn Torrente | 12:00 PM ET | 10-23-2006

So, Leroy, what kind of cheese do they use on the cheesesteak? I've been told there are many secrets to the perfect cheesesteak and even rumors of Cheez-Whiz. I think this is worth comtemplating. Better than thinking about stupid cancer. Hope all goes well... with the cheesesteak.

Sent by Sandi | 12:02 PM ET | 10-23-2006

Cheesesteak? I've never had one. Does it have cheese on it. If it does, you're one lucky guy. I can't eat dairy products because of my lactose intolerance, even with Lactaid. And I really love pizza and chocolate sudaes (one thing I can eat with Lactaid) too. If you need something to listen to, to while away your anxious wait, try Mozart's Symphony 25. It really used to dig into my soul... I have a profound hearing loss now due to otosclerosis; this is like a living death, not being able to hear music or the ones you love. Try watching a DVD with the sound turned off, think of the sound effects you lose, the incidental music this will give you an idea of what it is to be deaf. But it is not a truly silent world for me. There is a lot of cacaphony (head noise) inside my head and it can never be turned off. My only solace is in the visual world. But how much can you read, how many movies can you watch (with closed captioning?) I have to watch a movie twice because the first time I have to concentrate on the captioning and miss the visual effects.

This is not to minimise your cancer, only to take your mind off of it, even for a moment. I really appreciate this Blog of yours because it does take me away from my problems and anxieties, if only for the while that I'm reading it. And I get to wallow in your profundity and of your commentators too. And what a great learning experience it is to read this blog.

We have to take every moment for what it is.

Peace.

Sent by William Atsumi | 12:08 PM ET | 10-23-2006

On Monday, I find out the results of my genetic test for breast cancer. My 36 year old sister, who is positive for the genetic mutation, is in the hospital from mastectomy surgery and starts radiation in a few weeks. Im afraid — I've seen what she's gone through and I wonder if that is what is ahead of me.

But no matter what the outcome, the past few months of reading your writing, Leroy has reminded me that reading and writing, in an effort to connect about this experience of being human, helps me.

Thank you for your work and I wish you the best for your test results.

Sent by Grace Talusan | 12:19 PM ET | 10-23-2006

Reading Stephen Levine, who has worked a lot with the dying, can be helpful, I think. In particular I like his idea of referring to cancer not as "my cancer," but "the cancer." Ditto for "the pain," not "my pain." Doing so can help soften our distress, he suggests, and perhaps help us here lighten the burden by sharing and depersonalizing it. Best to all.

Sent by Jane | 12:21 PM ET | 10-23-2006

You teach me so much with your words and your generosity — letting us all into your world so we, too, can value life more. I wait, hold on, pray for you and all my friends who battle cancer. Best of (luck?) making that cancer a bit more uncomfortable.

Sent by Teresa | 12:23 PM ET | 10-23-2006

Good luck tomorrow... wow, it's really something to read all the above. I am waiting for my own news tomorrow. Breast cancer as metastasized to the liver, is not usually operated on. Surgeons operate on metastasis to the liver for colon and a few other cancers, but until very recently, not for breast cancer mets. I am meeting with a doctor tomorrow who is performing surgery on some people with breast cancer metastasis in the liver. I have had these little spots since I was first diagnosed with cancer in 2000 and I'd love to give them away. So now I have to hope I am a "good candidate" whatever that may mean. I hope to find that out tomorrow. I can only imagine how incredible it would be to be told he can do surgery. He, this same doctor, operated several years ago on liver metastasis in a friend who has colon cancer. Who had, I should say, as my friend is now, eight or nine years later, cancer free.

Good luck in receiving peacefully whatever news you receive.

Sent by Nancy | 12:28 PM ET | 10-23-2006

Dear Leroy,

I first heard you on our NPR station and have been reading your blogs ever since early summer. Like so many people all around the world, our family has been touched by cancer several times over the past few years. Some have survived and some are now gone. I sat with my sister through several treatments and watched her fight so hard against breast cancer. Now our daughter is battling a brain tumor. I know how it feels to be the sister or parent...waiting to hear the results of a scan. I wouldn't even attempt to know what it feels like to be the patient, waiting to hear. Your writing has drawn each of us together into a caring community and we all thank you. Waiting with you and keeping you in my (our) thoughts and prayers.

Sent by Beth | 12:37 PM ET | 10-23-2006

I've been thinking about you all weekend. Checked e-mail and lo and behold the poem (copied below—hope its fair use) was the Writers Almanac (NPR) selection today. I copied it here because I thought you, and others, may like to read it now. I just finished chemo exactly 60 days ago. Feeling good, but still riding the roller coaster of fear and hope, fighting and surrender. This poem is also for you, Michele. I'll be thinking of you, too.

Pat

Poem: "What You Realize When Cancer Comes" by Larry Smith, from A River Remains. Copyright WordTech Editions. Reprinted with permission.

What You Realize When Cancer Comes

You will not live forever?No

you will not, for a ceiling of clouds

hovers in the sky.

You are not as brave

as you once thought.

Sounds of death

echo in your chest.

You feel the bite of pain,

the taste of it running

through you.

Following the telling to friends

comes a silence of

felt goodbyes. You come to know

the welling of tears.

Your children are stronger

than you thought and

closer to your skin.

The beauty of animals

birds on telephone lines,

dogs who look into your eyes,

all bring you peace.

You want no more confusion

than what already rises

in your head and heart.

You watch television less,

will never read all those books,

much less the ones

you have.

Songs can move you now, so that

you want to hold onto the words

like the hands of children.

Your own hands look good to you.

old and familiar

as water.

You read your lovers skin

like a road map

into yourself.

All touch is precious now.

There are echoes

in the words thrown

before you.

When they take your picture now

you wet your lips, swallow once

and truly smile.

Talk of your lost parents

pulls you out, and

brings you home again.

You are in a river

flowing in and through you.

Take a breath. Reach out your arms.

You can survive.

A river is flowing

flowing in and through you.

Take a breath. Reach out your arms.

Sent by Patricia Benson | 12:54 PM ET | 10-23-2006

I appreciate Mr. Sievers. A real man's man. Healing takes place in areas that are not always physical. I wish more men would try to "heal" in this manner. Yes, face what's going on, tell other people about it, and you don't have to sound cheerful about it, that's OK. Thanks, Mr. Sievers, for your very honest assessment of yourself.

Sent by Virginia Glass | 11:30 AM ET | 10-26-2006