I remember when a chat friend from the breast cancer chat room, another nurse, was going for her first chemotherapy treatment. She was anxious and upset. I knew that part of her anxiety was that she, a nurse, couldn't believe that she was going to be the one GETTING the drugs instead of giving them. When she came back into the chat room after having received her first treatment, she talked about how surreal the experience had been. She couldn't believe that it was she sitting in that chemotherapy room, getting those drugs, and about to start a process that would cause her to loose her thick hair.

I haven't had chemotherapy, as I've mentioned before, but in the exactly three years since all of this started for me, I've had a lot of surgeries, complications, and medication effects that have brought me to depression and physical misery at times. A nurse friend took me to her famous hospital to see a plastic surgeon for a second opinion about the complications from my reconstruction surgery. I was very impaired at that time, unable to work and to do much of anything, and only able to get comfortable lying down. The surgeon and his residents listened to my story, and he examined me, and my friend later told me that one of the residents was crying. I hadn't noticed. I'd become a patient, and for a while at least, that side of the equation became my everyday experience. I got used to it after a while, the rounds of doctors appointments breast surgeon, plastic surgeon, oncologist, physiatrist, psychiatrist, cancer counselor, pulmonologist, cardiothoracic surgeon... on and on.

Now, I'm working, and although my life will never be as it was before all of this started, I'm on both sides of the equation now. I'm a working nurse again, and a cancer patient. The latter made me better at the former.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 12:19 PM ET | 11-17-2006

I remember my first infusion. I cried. After spending a over a year getting treatments, I feel that my chemo nurse was indeed a friend. We shared stories, were both mothers of twins and around the same age. I would like to say that chemo nurses and the staff at the oncology center are one of the most caring groups of people I have ever met.

Sent by Janis | 12:21 PM ET | 11-17-2006

Leroy, I felt pretty much the same way the first time I walked in the chemo room which was in 1995. Not much changed this time except now you get a heated blanket if you want one. Leroy I am asking you and everyone who reads your wonderful blog to wish me the best on Wednesday, Nov. 22. I finally got my surgery scheduled and I am very scared. It's a major deal and Im not sure what my life will be like when it's over. Right now I feel great, no symptoms, I eat whatever I want, no restrictions but after Wednesday, who knows? Thank you for listening to me. Enjoy your break and have some turkey for me too. Thanks.

Sent by Ruth White | 12:22 PM ET | 11-17-2006

Have you ever spent any time in the NICU? What you describe about the chemo area sounds very similar — rows and rows of tiny, usually dramatically premature babies, many with family members standing guard. You know the nurses. You look forward to seeing your child's nurse. You nod silently to the other parents. You don't need to talk about each others babies. We all know why were there.

Some babies are getting better, some aren't.

It's shocking the first time you enter the NICU, but it pretty quickly becomes a normal routine.

Sent by Julie | 1:13 PM ET | 11-17-2006

"Funny what you can get used to." Leroy you are so right. My first day to the Chemo world was one of my most apprehensive. I was so scared to walk through those doors. I cried all the way in. And that was only when I went in to meet the staff and have my tour etc. Yesterday (only 7 months later) I am met by the secretary with a smile and a "go right in Karen." They know my name. I know theirs. I really like all the staff. They are heroes. I hope in the documentary that she can see that. I know she might not feel it. But these are very courageous individuals. They sacrifice their emotions every day. Yesterday when I went into the lab (blood work only) I left a little disappointed that my Mary was not in. Day off. So you are right. It does feel a little like home. I am so impressed with the obvious effort to make this outrageous "X-File" like place feel as warm and inviting as it did.

So if the object of the cancer battle is to learn something. I have learned that our fears can be worse than the events themselves. I should have known to fear the leaving the lab and going home sick. Going in is not the scary part. I now like to go and see everybody...

Sent by Karen | 1:14 PM ET | 11-17-2006

I remember reading that when Sharon Osborne was going to have chemo, she said she was going to go into the chemo room and cheer everyone up or words to that effect. I'm glad she had a positive attitude, but it bothered me that she thought the chemo room was full of sad people who need to be cheered up. The chemo room is not usually a gloomy place. Occasionally someone would be crying because they had just been told that their cancer had spread and, yes, that was very sad. But the chemo room is also a time to share stories and advice. And it is a place where you are not judged or treated differently just because you have cancer.

Sent by Emily | 6:17 PM ET | 11-20-2006

We agree about the wonderful staff of our chemo rooms... there have been three different ones for us, and the love and caring we have found have kept us going. Our latest at the University of Colorado is so bright and much like the one you describe, but the one in our small, regional Kansas hospital was so crowded your recliner literally touched that of the person next you as they faced in a circle. Talk about up close and personal, but even under those conditions, there was an immediate bond with the nurses, the patients and the families.

Unfortunately, my husband will never again be able to eat french fries after the sweetest little lady brought some for her lunch on one of his "sick" days. He swore she ate each and everyone as slowly as she could, never noticing what it was doing to him, and due to the extreme since of commune and politeness of the group, no one said a thing. I often think about her and wonder if her journey continues.

Sent by Nikki | 6:21 PM ET | 11-20-2006

My husband has multiple myeloma we agree 100 percent with what you said about the chemo room. It made me think of the X-Files and the movie Coma — creepy and yet reassuring because this ghastly place will be helping my husband.

Sent by Pamela Larsen | 6:23 PM ET | 11-20-2006

Hi Leroy,

I haven't started chemo yet, my chemo is held off until the doctors have figured out what is in my brain (tumor? lymphoma? infection? long story) — so I'm being sent to MD Anderson for two weeks. But the doctor I see here at home, I've been seeing for over a year for a low iron level. For the past year, I have walked past the chemo room every time I was there for an iron appointment, and I just kind of shivered at the thought of how awful it must be for those folks. I didn't think too deeply about cancer, I just walked a little faster to move away from view.

Well, surprise! A year later it turns out my iron problem was a symptom of the cancer. And I'll be in that room. Totally surreal. I've decided to take a more compassionate approach whenever I see people in a room... I am afraid of or don't want to deal with. It could be me, or a loved one. I've never thought about cancer before because it doesn't run in my family... ha! Well, compassion is definitely one of transformative lessons so far.

Thanks for your blog, I really enjoy reading it.

Sent by Gina Gambony | 6:27 PM ET | 11-20-2006

From Stoller's book Stranger in the Village of the Sick page 134... "Cancer patients, old and young, male and female, have often learned to live with their illness and accept the difficult fact that death is part of life. Those lessons have enabled them to maintain their dignity and improve the quality of their lives. For me, that is the mark of courage."

Yesterday I got my first haircut since my last chemo on April 4th. I didn't cry when my friend shaved all my hair off in January in prep for the chemo I did cry when she cut my hair for the first time. It is amazing what becomes normal and routine. It is equally amazing what we then begin to celebrate. I am grateful to have hair.

Holding you, Ruth, and all of us in the light on Nov. 22nd and everyday.

Sent by Fran Chickering | 6:29 PM ET | 11-20-2006

Leroy:

I really, really do hope that your friend decides to some filming in "your" chemo suite! Why? I maintain that if more people were to be exposed to the reality of what happens in them, what the feeling is, how difficult and, at the very same time, how wonderful the experience is, we just might start having a leg up on our war against cancer!

A few months back I was in DC with the Colorado delegation of American Cancer Society Celebration on the Hill Ambassadors. One of my very special treats of the visit was to be able to spend an afternoon in the infusion suite at Georgetown University Hospital Cancer Center with a very dear friend, Janet Turcotte, as she took her first round of a full day of chemo cocktails after a recent recurrence of colon cancer. (Her colon cancer tumor marker is coming down — yea!)

Walking into that floor (and it's been four years since I first walked into my first experience), I felt — once more — that mixed sense of dread, sadness, efficiency, love, fear, and hope that permeate the very air of every single one of those chemo suites across the nation. It so struck me that this chemo suite was no different from the one I first encountered!

I felt again how fragile we all are while, at the same time, how lucky we all are to have those dedicated people — "angels," I call them — who so lovingly assist all of us as we go on our chemo journeys: identified patients, caregivers, and very frightened friends. Those people working in every chemo center do so much to allay those fears and frightened thoughts!

I, of course, never want to repeat the chemo experience I honestly don't want to go into another chemo area again. I'd much rather think of myself as "normal," not needing to go there and be there. However, my own colon cancer experience has forever changed me. The chemo suite is "my" world now. The cancer fight is "my" fight now. I'd like to make it my business to take the world by the figurative hand and walk them through the experience.

I honestly think that if more folks were exposed — somehow — to the reality of the inside of the treatment centers that we'd have less cancer.

I sure hope that your friend will start that process by doing that filming!

Sent by Erika Hanson Brown | 12:27 PM ET | 11-21-2006

Your blog has been a great help to me in understanding what my father went through last year. He passed away in February, and even writing those words still seems surreal. We used to refer to each change in his treatment or status as "the new norm" — much like your feelings about getting comfortable with what seems so foreign at first — the chemo room. I know how significant having that break can be — enjoy it, enjoy Thanksgiving, and save your reserves for the next wave — mostly, just enjoy it! It seems like those patches of "normal" change all too often in fighting this disease and you've certainly earned the right to that! What a blessing to have someone sharing their experiences with those of us who haven't gone through it personally, but have loved others who have... thank you — my family will keep you in their prayers!

Sent by Tammy Reasoner | 12:32 PM ET | 11-21-2006

This is a shout out to Ruth.

Praying for you for Wednesday!

Let us know how you do!

Sent by Beth | 12:33 PM ET | 11-21-2006

I've just passed the one year mark. I was diagnosed with oral cancer, with a hard ball sticking out of my neck. Yes the fear of the unknown had its grip in the beginning. From having my head and shoulders snapped to a table for radiation, to being hooked up with a drip for chemo. The one thought I would repeat over and over was: This is my meds for today for a healthy tomorrow. This got me through the tough times when the energy was sucked out of me. Family and friends tryed to understand what I was going through but thay missed the mark most of the times. Still all in all if they weren't there it would have been worse. There is one thing that I would love to share that worked for me — Faygo Red Pop — when the sinew drainage got to bad. Gargle with Red Pop it would clear the palet and throut. This was a blessing to find out.

Life has changed or is it my outlook on life. We look at things in a differant light today. Colors seem brighter; I'm not getting upset over the little things anymore. Going in for check-ups today are great the reason why is im still able to go. It's been a few 24 hours sence I've drank, smoked or used drugs. With my passed I never thought I'd live this long, today I'm the one who goes out of his way to help. There have been three of my friends that have come down with some form of cancer since I started treatment. I give them my blessings and strength to survive the momment fear strikes and to use it as hope for tommorrow. Use each day to help the next person you never know when you my need them to help you someday too.

Sent by Chris | 12:37 PM ET | 11-21-2006

I have a friend that found out he has cancer in his legs that has spread so much that he needs his right leg amputated. But he doesn't want to have it cut off. I love him and told him I would be there for him but it seems that he doesn't even want to try to fight it. And when I try to talk to him about it, he doesn't even want to talk about it. I want him to try to fight it but I don't know how to get him to talk about it.

Sent by Lori | 3:43 PM ET | 11-21-2006

I am a dentist/artist, 70 years-old in my fourth year of treatment for lung cancer.

I illustrated a journal about the chemo experience which I would like to share with anyone who might need it.

All my best to you, Leroy.

Sent by Marshall Turner | 12:26 PM ET | 11-27-2006

I am so scared. My first chemo is on Friday — the day after Thanksgiving — I don't know what to expect — I feel so alone. I will be going every three weeks for six rounds of chemo. I really don't want to deal with certain family members on Thanksgiving. They can be kind of crude. I want this all to be over with.

Sent by N. Francis | 12:34 PM ET | 11-27-2006

Thank you for the words of encouragement. I survived Thanksgiving. I had my first chemo today — this was the longest six hours of my life. The good news is the cancer from my breast is gone — the bad news is I now have two spots on my liver. The chemo doctor seems to think that the chemo will take care of this. For now I think I will let the chem run its course until the next CAT scan. If I see no improvement, I think I will consult a liver specialist. Once again thank you for the words of encouragement.

Sent by Norma Francis | 2:15 PM ET | 11-27-2006