Hope is a beautiful thing, and it's wonderful to read that you have it back. I often say that doctors giving prognoses of how long anyone has to live aren't practicing medicine, but witch doctoring. Oh, there are statistical averages, but they often came to be before some of the newer treatments that are more successful were around. They also take away hope. Don't get me wrong, I don't believe that patients should have no idea that they're facing a life threatening illness from which they may not recover, but when I pressed my oncologist for an idea of how long I had after my lung metastasis was found, he said "I don't know if you have two years or twenty." That was two and a half years ago, and to some of my doctor's surprise, I'm in remission. Leroy, may you have a long time to remain hopeful.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 9:50 AM ET | 11-14-2006

I'm glad to hear you're not quitting. You never know for sure the outcome of a fight until the fight is over. Perhaps you will be one of the fortunate ones who becomes cancer free.

Sent by Crawford | 10:00 AM ET | 11-14-2006

I came across this as I was searching for a radio station online so that I could get into my journaling. My dad was recently diagnosed with terminal cancer. I am so grateful to find your journal online and plan to share it with my sister. The doctors told us at first that he would have 1-6 months to live, but then changed their prognosis to 12-18 months with chemo. My dad has had 4 chemo treatments so we are at the beginning of the journey, I know he is counting down the months in his head, but you have shared a different view that perhaps he is experiencing. Thank you for sharing your world, we will be reading your journal and sending great love your way.

Sent by Cynthia | 12:05 PM ET | 11-14-2006

It's a tightrope we walk every day isn't it?

Sent by Tom Clarke | 12:06 PM ET | 11-14-2006

After having endured five chemo cycles, I ask myself that same question every day: How much more can I take? When is it okay to say, "Enough?" I ask this not just for myself, but for my family, friends, and loved ones too. They all have a stake. My family is probably much like yours they don't want me to quit. They still believe that metastatic breast cancer to the lungs can be "beat." I don't blame them for harboring such illusions. Denial is the best they can do for now.

We live in a world where aggressive last-ditch medical treatments are the norm. As patients, we are expected to go to the mat, even if our bodies are bloodied, bruised and exhausted. "Don't give up!" many of my greeting cards advise. But what others think of as "giving up" is, to me, an acceptance of the inevitable. Chemotherapy might provide a few more months, but in my case, it's not a cure. But am I ready for that acceptance? It's a question that I struggle with along with you.

Yet this thought comes to me nearly every day in prayer: if I'm going to leave this world sooner rather than later, why not sooner? What is the advantage of leaving later? I don't know. Maybe one more holiday, one more birthday, one more visit to a dear friend. The decisions aren't easy, ever. Like you, I long for a time when I'm off chemo so my body will feel free of the toxic burden and I can enjoy normal activities like normal people. But how long would that last? And would it be worth it? I just don't know... God bless you, dear one, and good luck with this difficult decision.

Sent by Ellen | 2:38 PM ET | 11-14-2006

Keep up the fight my friend. You are in my prayers.

Sent by Marie Quintanilla | 2:42 PM ET | 11-14-2006

I am toasting your hope and the guilt-free Thanksgiving break you will have too, Leroy. Thank you for sharing your journey! May the road ahead be smooth!

Sent by Sarah | 2:45 PM ET | 11-14-2006

Dear Leroy:

Today my husband had his 18th session of chemo (each five hours) and his 19th is scheduled for two weeks from today. Statistically he should have died four months ago, but instead he is getting stronger. He has regained 23 of the 28 pounds he lost and has decided on where we are going to have a celebratory dinner when he is cancer free. We live a normal life because he treats his pancreatic cancer as a footnote rather than the full story of his existence. He is a man with an attitude and it is a great attitude.

Someone a lot like you. In answer to your question, yes, every day he is alive matters, to me.

Sent by Jacqueline Roose | 3:54 PM ET | 11-14-2006

I have stage IV breast cancer. I also have young children, a little girl who's 8 and a son who's 17. For me, there is no giving up... ever. No matter how bad it gets, I will fight for every bit of time I have with them. God gave me these miracles and I am counting on him giving me another miracle to let me live long enough to see my little girl grown. My son wants to be a radiologist and I want to be able to see him achieve his dream. I've put too much time into these children not to fight as hard as I can for them. I am currently in remission and hoping to stay that way for a long time. I also realize that I may have many battles ahead of me; I've just got to be prepared and ready if they come.

Sent by Sherry G. | 10:42 AM ET | 11-15-2006

Well, Leroy, I not only hope you get to savor your Thanksgiving meal off of chemo, but that you end up with the bigger part of the wishbone! As always, I follow your blog from Belgium with attention, concern, respect and affection.

Sent by Maris | 10:44 AM ET | 11-15-2006

You remind me how lucky I am to be there. At that spot you yearn for, feeling normal again and in control of my body. I too was told that my prognosis was not good, that was a year and half ago; plus one major cytoreductive abdominal surgery and six months of chemo ago. But here I am, feeling as good as ever. Keep the faith. You never know what is in the cards. But quality is definitely more important than quantity.

Every day is a gift.

Sent by Allison | 12:29 PM ET | 11-15-2006

Leroy,

I hope this does not seem dismal as it is only intended to expound upon your thread. My mother spent a year on chemo and although it was not a good experience, she decided to endure the year and see. In her eleventh month she developed pneumonia and had to stop for two months. Her CA125 had dropped from thousands to single digits so it didn't seem like a bad idea. In 2 more months, though, her ovarian cancer proliferated with a vengeance and the doctors removed massive amounts of tumors (42 lbs for the second time in a year). They gave her three to four weeks to live. I moved her into my house across the country to help her through her final stages of life. To everyone's amazement, she endured yet more treatment and flourished for 9 months. I really believe that had her GJ tube not fallen out and had she not decided to leave it out, she would have lasted years more with a week a month of pure misery. When we went on what we felt was her last vacation to the Bahamas, her tube came out and the doctors got her back into such a great condition that she opted to leave it out. Within a month the acid that backed up into her stomach ended up eating through her aorta. The tube allowed us to drain the acid and we had found something that was very manageable.

The point of all this is that whatever a person feels they can endure is the right decision and the entire circle of family and friends will or should always honor that. There may be some tugging on heart strings during the decision making process but in the end, any decision is good and can be subject to change.

May your days be comfortable and plentiful and may your hope abound always.

Sent by Ed Brown | 12:35 PM ET | 11-15-2006

I was diagnosed in 1987 when I was 41 with Breast Cancer. I went through seven and a half months of chemo and radiation. At the time I was afraid to live every day, couldnt think about making any plans for the future or even buy a winter coat. My life certainly changed and looking back I really believe for the better. I try to laugh every day, appreciate everything (from watching planes land and takeoff at the airport, rainbows, changes of season, etc.) I live near the Art Museum in Philadelphia and there is one particular tree that I love. I always say that I would love to photograph it during the changes of the season, and now I will. If thoughts and prayers matter, which I believe do, I'm sending all my best thoughts and prayers to you.

Sent by Barbara Stein | 2:30 PM ET | 11-15-2006

I carry a 4 X 6 recipe card in my pocket at all times. On it is written, one word, hope. As long as it is with me, I'm never hopeless. Some days that is all the hope I have but it is enough to carry me toward the other days when hope is plentiful and life is good.

Sent by Myrna Baker | 10:48 AM ET | 11-16-2006

Leroy,

I wrote you a few months ago after hearing an interview on NPR. I lost my dad this past February, but thought youd be encouraged to know that he beat cancer after a fatal diagnosis and lived more than 20 years longer than they told him he would before having to go through any of the treatment, etc. again. I read your blog today and just wanted to let you know that sometimes the guy in white does prevail — and that I know from going through it with my dad that hope has more of a positive impact on the body than people give it credit for. Keep the faith — and thanks for bringing the emotional context of this disease to the surface. I know that I'm one small voice in a sea of many for whom it is incredibly meaningful! You're in my prayers!

Sent by Tammy Reasoner | 11:16 AM ET | 11-16-2006