Dear Leroy:

I'm so grateful to you for your (almost) daily "sit" at your computer to write down your thoughts and feelings for those of us avid readers in your grateful, growing audience.

I know what this means I know how difficult it is to do this when one feels the way Im certain you feel — lousy. "Why would ANYONE want to hear ANYMORE about how bad I really feel?" This was my primary thought as my work area gathered dust, the mail and messages piled up (under more dust), and the whole idea of response became more daunting than I could handle.

But you soldier on, sitting down and sharing the way it really is: those up and down feelings that contain fear, anxiety, and joy ?- all in the same breath! Thank you.

You mention in today's brief the events of Sept. 11. That day plays a big part in my colon cancer story also. That day was the first day that I "got" that something was terribly wrong with me. I remember thinking to myself, "... this is terrible, and I FEEL terrible."

I had been walking around feeling weird feelings for the prior full year, not wanting to disclose to anyone that something may have been wrong with my health. "I'm healthy, after all!" By the time Sept. 11 happened, I was starting to feel a quite subtle "pain" in my right side — the tumor taking over my ascending colon.

My own history post Sept. 11 was that I had too many misdiagnoses: a colonoscopy that "failed," a misread barium enema x-ray, and doctors that kept telling me that I had IBS and that I'd just "have to learn to live with it" (which I accepted). But Sept. 11 was also my turning point. That date is the one that I see as the day that commenced my new life, while marking also that my life — as it had been before Sept. 11 — was over.

My own Sept. 11 dictated that if I were to survive, that I needed to decide that I needed to entirely change my life, to "clean house." So, I did: I divorced my then-husband, declared personal bankruptcy, applied for Social Security (denied), found a great place in which to live, and made a move to that place.

Yes, I faced all of that whilst taking chemo once a week, and it was right for me. And what you are doing is so right for so many others!

Thank you so very much for all the daily travails and successes that you continue to share with us! There's a book here. I hope that you are thinking along the very same lines.

Continuing Health to you!

BTW, I was one of those ACS Survivors on the Celebration on the Hill about whom your associate wrote. I had the pleasure of being able to "dance" the lap with the most jovial group: those dancing, chanting Puerto Ricans! They were really fun!

Sent by Erika Hanson Brown | 10:53 AM ET | 11-06-2006

Check out my comments from Friday, Nov. 3, on my blog.

They might lend a little perspective. God almighty, man, you've gone to how many war zones and come back in one piece every (or maybe it's nearly every time). A lot of your colleagues cannot say that. If you still are feeling sorry for yourself (and you certainly aren't alone in that department we all do it from time to time), try walking through the children's cancer ward at the hospital.

Sent by Tom Clarke | 11:17 AM ET | 11-06-2006

The only way I could describe a cancer diagnosis to non-cancer patients was the Sept. 11, analogy. I was living in NYC (still am) but not yet a cancer patient. The shock and horror that I felt that day, that complete mind-numbing stupor and feeling of incredulousness that enveloped me for days — that was exactly the same feeling that I had after my cancer diagnosis. Except that it lasted for months after hearing my news, not days. I'm fingers-crossed cured at this point, but the horror doesn't really go away. Just like I sometimes get afraid of a subway bomber, I get afraid of a recurrence. It is just something that I've learned to live with, a mental/emotional cancer of sorts.

Sent by Jen S. | 11:20 AM ET | 11-06-2006

I remember vividly the sense of betrayal I felt when I was told I have cancer. I recoiled at the notion that my own body would attack me. To make matters worse, I was diagnosed with a very rare cancer therefore; the doctors could not give me any answers whatsoever. Everyone kept saying, "You're not supposed to have this kind of cancer. We don't know how this happened."

My sense of betrayal morphed into a chilling feeling of terror. Suddenly, I began to see my reflection differently, and consequently, the world around me also changed.

As time has gone on (and it's only been a few months since my diagnosis), I've begun to accept the fact that I have cancer. However, I still cannot bring myself to understand HOW this could have happened. The doctors smile and tell me, "You're one of a kind."

That's a distinction I'd rather live without.

I do liken the Sept. 11, tragedy to a cancer diagnosis (at least my diagnosis). I lost my innocence that day. The terrorist within is always more sinister than the villains "over there."

Sent by Michael Everett | 11:22 AM ET | 11-06-2006

The first year after I was diagnosed, thoughts of cancer were always with me. Now, two years later, I go for days and not think about it. Then a little pain or ache will pop up and I worry. Is it cancer again? Before your cancer recurred, did you worry it would happen to you again? How did you find out?

Sent by Cathy | 5:34 PM ET | 11-06-2006

Leroy,

Thank you for sharing parts of your journey with me. I've been cancer free for a year and a half now and I've just about puffed up enough courage to start looking back. I journal led quite a bit during my journey and there were some pretty dark times, but I haven't been brave enough to re-read it yet. Reading your journals has helped me start thinking about a lot of what I went through and continuously gives me a new perspective. I've been able to visualize a different journey through your words. I'm cancer free and struggling to accept the effects of the treatment and a new life with limitations and I gain perspective listening to you living life with a terminal diagnosis. It's amazing how self-centered I can become when I stay inside my own mind and my own problems. My only advice is that if the percentages are one in a trillion, why couldn't you be the one? Your last posting got me thinking.

I'm sitting here digesting your last posting and I think that yes, terrorism is a lot like cancer. Both instigate intense fear. Both can come without warning and change life irrevocably.

I'm looking back at my life and thinking that fear has been with me as long as I can remember. Fear of not being liked, fear of not being loved, fear of failure, fear of not measuring up, fear of what other people will think of me, fear of not getting what I want, fear of losing what I have, fear of being alone. For most of us these are just normal everyday fears that by God's grace and the human spirit we learn to live with. Sometimes we learn to cope with these fears and sometimes we deny them or ignore them sometimes we numb them with strenuous exercise, drugs, alcohol or food and sometimes we face them head on. If we are still here on this earth somehow we are surviving our fears.

Cancer the first time around didn't seem that scary. I didn't know it was cancer until after the surgery to remove it from my tongue, then radiation and recovery. Two years later, it was just a memory. Not even a really bad memory. I was left unscathed and life went on as it had before.

Cancer the second time around pulled the rug out from under my entire life. It added a whole new menu of fears. Fears, that if you're lucky, you never have to deal with. Fear of pain, fear of not being able to talk again, fear of losing the person I was, fear of not looking or talking like the person I used to be, fear of death, fear of not wanting to live like this, fear of people knowing that I had started smoking again after the first cancer, fear of the cancer coming back, fear of more pain, fear of having to make more decisions, fear of more surgery, fear of more side effects of chemo.

I felt a sharp pang of realization that I never even gave a thought to how lucky I was before cancer. Here I am at 48 years old and I'm facing my first real dose of ugly reality. There are millions of people that deal with these fears and much worse on a day to day basis. I can't even imagine some of the awful fears that people in this world live with. Even with cancer, I am still lucky. But that scares me too. What could happen next? I can't handle any more. I silently wish that I hadn't made it through the surgery I wouldn't have to deal with life anymore. I don't have any desire to be a courageous cancer survivor. Somehow days passed, the massive scar on my neck healed, pain slowly receded, through physical and speech therapy, lymphedema was managed and I could once again eat solid food, and make myself understood.

Even as recovery takes hold and I return to work and daily routines, I know in my heart that I'll never live another day without the debilitating fear of cancer returning. I'll never feel another bump in my neck or pain in my mouth without adrenalin pouring into my body wondering if it's starting all over again. I'll never experience joy without second guessing how long it will last. All of my senses are acutely on alert. I watch and feel my body with every breath and movement. But little by little, the fear recedes until I don't consciously live with it every waking moment. Amazingly, hours, days, even a week passes without the fear. Then one morning, I find a new bump, then another, then we biopsy, it's not cancer. Whew! And once again little by little, the fear recedes until I don't consciously live with it every waking moment. Days, even weeks pass now without the fear.

Subconsciously, I'm sure my life will always have a thread of fear in it, but for now it doesn't enter my mind but occasionally. I have no idea how this has happened. Was it my doing or the grace of God or simply the survival instinct of the human spirit?

Only being free of cancer a year and a half, the effects of the surgeries and treatment are still with me and feel to me, a burden. I feel defective and set apart. I have visible and invisible scars and bodily limitations that I will live with and I have yet to become friends with the new person that was born out of this cancer. I am in the process of accepting my new life and the new body that I have and grieving what I have lost. My support group allows me to see others surviving the aftermath of cancer and find validation of my struggle and encouragement in my recovery and a comfort of now being alone on this journey. There are difficult times when this is just not what I want to be doing, and I want to give up, but in the end the human spirit doesn't care what I want the human spirit survives against insurmountable odds, allows painful experiences to fade and fears to be faced. I open my eyes and somewhere from deep inside my soul a glimmer of hope pulls itself toward my heart whispering like the rustling of the wind in the trees and bringing warmth like a sunrise beginning inside my heart, so insistent that I realize I have awakened to another day.

Sent by Francine Fowler | 5:37 PM ET | 11-06-2006

I disagree. Terrorism is highly organized, targeted criminal act. It has deep roots in poverty, historical conflict, and national policy failures, and failure of nation states. I do not know the cause of cancer much. Its dangerous to think all terrorism is random, committed by crazy people. Cancer is without free will. I do not know the point of the comparison, an intellectual fanciful exercise? Literary exercise, maybe?

Sent by Joseph Liang | 11:02 AM ET | 11-09-2006

Leroy,

Well said! I have tried to explain this cancer-induced change in perspective to my husband in a variety of ways without success. That is until one day we were watching a movie and I said, "I'm not the hero anymore, I'm the dead guy."

Sent by Kathy | 11:04 AM ET | 11-09-2006

When my lymphoma (stage 4) was diagnosed a few months after Sept. 11, it was a shock that also came out of the blue. Yet, comparing a cancer diagnosis with Sept. 11 and terrorism is more ominous when examined further.

Your professor pointed out that "the goal of terrorism is to transform the target society. Not just to kill people, but to fundamentally change the targeted nation..." Yes, cancer does fundamentally change the lives of not only the people with cancer, but also our friends and families and coworkers. All of the people who make up our own "personal nation" are also affected and in a sense are also terrorized. The unspoken questions are: "Why you?" and "Will I be next?" And then "How do I protect myself and my loved ones?"

Those of us who are terrorized by cancer do change our behavior and this column and the letters in it testify to that fact. So that aspect of the definition you gave rings true. Not much discussion is given to the causes our cancer. Where did that "terrorist" we call cancer come from? Can we protect ourselves from another attack, even if we manage to survive this one?

My friend, who was a professor at Atlanta University, was doing cancer research when noticed that the large increase in cancer in the US began at the same time that nuclear weapons testing in the atmosphere happened. Those atoms are still flying around to this day.

Can it be that your cancer and my cancer and everyone's cancer is caused by our own nations "terror weapon" that was developed and used in World War II?

Could it be that the weapons of terror that we developed to terrorize others (and now are used to scare us) are a major cause of our cancers? Are all those atoms that are still flying around the planet responsible for destroying our bodies, randomly and unrecognized by us? Is our military?s use of nuclear materials to coat bullets, adding to the ranks of cancer patients?

Sent by F.P. | 11:09 AM ET | 11-09-2006

Whenever a poster writes in to claim that Leroy feels (something they judge to be inappropriate), and suggest that all Leroy needs to do is (insert name of badly chosen idea here) to make himself feel (appropriately humbled, less sorry for himself, happier, etc.), I am always outraged and want to come to his defense. Do these people writing these posts have cancer or some other potentially fatal disease? I do. And I know exactly what Leroy feels. Anyone who is dealing with something like this goes through a whole range of emotions, some of which might be uncomfortable for others to hear or read. Cancer patients juggle many seemingly contradictory emotions at all times — hopeful for the future, thankful for another day, angry about having to deal with horrifying side effects, sad because you can't do what you used to be able to do, grief over potential losses, incredible loneliness because people write you out of their lives. Unless you've been there or are there, you have no right to judge any cancer patient's feelings. (And yes, I am having an angry moment right now. Want to challenge my right to that emotion?)

Sent by Ellen | 11:48 AM ET | 11-09-2006

Dear Leroy:

I have been reading your blogs and they are fierce, honest and sometimes humorous. There's so much irony in life, and you describe it eloquently. Many mornings before heading to work, I take a walk around a park near my office and pray. One of the things I "ask" for is to be a better writer, to write as well as you. Thank you for sharing this experience with me. I've learned so much. Yet I couldn't put into words exactly how I've changed. And that's OK.

Sent by Tim Louis Macaluso | 4:33 PM ET | 11-09-2006

"Until the tests come back, I can't be sure, but I have only seen two other cases that look like this," the gynecologist explained, looking uncomfortable. "I think it may be leiomyosarcoma — a rare and aggressive cancer. Well know for sure in three days. You can look it up on the Internet and learn more about it."

No kidding. This really happened. The gynecologist dropped the L-Bomb and left it to the Internet to define the blast zone.

I was a 43 year old teacher with two kids in college and one in junior high school. I considered myself to be a tough ole broad who felt that crying about anything was a waste of time and energy. I went home and typed in the word, l-e-i-o-m-y-s-a-r-c-o-m-a. My Mom was sitting behind me as I Googled. I clicked one of the search options, read a few paragraphs, and I turned to my Mom and said, "I'm toast." A single tear began to travel down my face. I turned my head so she wouldn't see this chink in my armor. Inside, I was falling helplessly from a tall ladder with my mouth opened wide to scream but there was no sound coming out.

If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?

Basically, only patients in the early stages of leiomysarcoma have a chance of surviving. My cancer appeared to have spread from my uterus, to my cervix, and who knows where else. I was definitely not in the early stages.

And so the war inside me began. "Suck it up, Cathy!" I told myself. You've got things to do. If this is real, events are going to move really fast."

Three days.

In three days, the enemy would have a name. I would have to wage war against whatever kind of cancer and wherever it was hiding in my body. I knew I could not put up a good fight if my kids were vulnerable.

I used my three days to amass an Army of people to help my kids deal with the fallout of my cancer and yes, the possibility of my death. I did the usual stuff — a financial planner, verifying death benefits, etc. But I also addressed details like meeting with a school counselor friend of mine to sign a release to help my son choose his high school classes, monitor his grades, and kick his butt if needed. I called colleges to arrange options to keep my girls in school if money would run out.

Then I told my kids they weren't to miss one single thing because of this — not one day of school, not one basketball or soccer game — that the best way to help me now was to stay the course in their own lives. I would not let cancer take their life away, too.

And if I die? They were too young to leave their mom in a cemetery just yet. I told them to split the ashes three ways into three separate containers.

"Take all the time you need to figure it out," I said. "If you want to keep me around to talk to, then put me in an I Dream of Jeannie bottle on the mantle for a fireside chat now and again. If you're ready to get rid of me, put me on a breeze while playing Dust in the Wind. If you have some unresolved conflict with me, put the ashes in the toilet, piss on em, flush, and get on with your life." While this may seem to be a macabre sense of humor, my kids understood it and I think were comforted by it. And I meant it. Still do. Every word.

Three days later.

It wasn't leiomyosarcoma. My cancer now had 50-50 odds. A coin toss. I did not feel a sense of joy or relief. My inner feet did not climb halfway back up the ladder. The enemy was still out there waiting for a fight. Cancer is a terrorist. It can attack without warning — anyone, anytime, anyplace.

Three years later. I'm still around. The cancer is gone... or is it? Check-ups are mentally brutal. I don't return to work after a check-up anymore. I take the rest of the day off. For the first hour after a check-up I sit in my car, look up at the blue sky, listen to the rustle of the leaves in the breeze, and feel the warmth of the sun as it comes through the window and touches my skin. I breathe in deeply and allow myself to cautiously climb up one step on the ladder. I turn the key to start the car and drive to nowhere in particular. I am no longer sure where I will be tomorrow.

Sent by Cathy | 12:59 PM ET | 11-13-2006

I, too, am a recent "cancer survivor" having my one year anniversary on Sept. 27, 2006. I truly feel like I am a "walking miracle." One year early my mammograms were "totally clear" and when I went for an annual one. I came up with two kinds of cancer, one in each breast. As far as I was concerned, there was no "debate" as to "a plan" — get them both OUTTA HERE and as FAST AS POSSIBLE!

I didn?t heal right and had to an open chest wound where you could SEE into my body on the one side for a full month before chemo could even begin! My visiting nurse and I both believed that somehow I could get that enormous "hole" to close up and as God would have it... it did!

So it was on to "chemo". Every possible negative reaction (other than instant death) happened to me following each infusion treatment. Bone pain of indescribable proportions first to my back, then my chest, and then my skull, and ultimately peripheral neuropathy to the point I could not walk from the lazy boy to the bathroom.

But, somehow I managed to tolerate the very strongest chemo drugs that are out there today for breast cancer. I was "half-way through" my planned sessions and they put me on lesser strength chemo drugs and I nearly died! Blood counts went to hideously low levels and additional hospitalization, etc. I lost not only all my hair, but all my fingernails, all of my toenails, and ultimately all the skin on the bottoms of both feet.

But right from "day one" upon hearing my shocking diagnosis, I turned and looked at the wall behind me and said, "Well, girl, get your fighting gloves on." Plus, as it turned out I had a spouse who was NO HELP WHATSOEVER. I lived in the isolation of the Cumberland Mountains with my closest neighbor (who went away to work every day) about a mile away. My husband would just "take off and leave me there" for hours on end.

But what WAS my "saving grace" was my internet "support team." I emailed them every single day, no matter how sick I was. At one point I sent out one message that was "total gibberish" and my grade school friend called my house and TOLD my husband to get me into emergency — NOW! Imagine the embarrassment I felt having to have my spouse be TOLD I needed to go into the hospital! I literally, had all my same chores to do each and every day and often heard "whats for dinner?"

Anyway, I wont bore you with more details, but I just dug down really, really deep and despite my lung collapsing from my port, and other "events.? I am still here today and looking forward to my first Relay for Life.

I managed to drive myself to Florida with my beloved Pomeranian dog, Sparky, who sat right next to me for hours and hours on end during my fight so that I could spend every day purposefully trying to rebuild my trashed body. I lost so much weight that I looked like a Holocaust refugee. But I made up my mind to "beat it."

I have no intentions of reconstruction. My identity does not come from having breasts and why put myself in jeopardy of other issues that could cause even more problems? Plus during my own battle my very best friend, in NYC, also was diagnosed and she died while I was at the hardest stages of chemo.

So, Leroy, go ahead and spill whatever thoughts you have. About ANYTHING. Dealing with cancer is a giant "crap shoot" for every single one of us.

I will be starting training with my dog in January for him to become a licensed PAWS Therapy Dog. It will be my own small way of "giving back" for all the blessings I feel I have received for being given yet "one more day."

In ways, cancer is a blessing in that it shows a person immediately just WHAT we are made of as a person and I actually feel much richer for having had this experience (as weird as that might sound!) I retired at age 50 and am so glad I had that as a goal for myself because had I waited, my life would never have been as full and rich as it is today. I still have my every three months check ups and take the daily "after medications" that are supposed to retard reoccurrence, but I choose not to live my days with that fear paralyzing me. I?ve done all the things I ever TRULY wanted to do during my lifetime and anything additional is simply "frosting on the cake." I am at total peace within.

Sent by Lorraine Berkholz | 3:38 PM ET | 11-21-2006