Hi Mr. Sievers,

I heard you on the radio talking about cancer on Monday. It caught my ear. I was diagnosed with breast cancer in March of this year. I had surgery, chemo and radiation. My last day of radiation was on Halloween.

It's interesting to hear other people speak about it, or how they can put into words how they feel. I make inspirational cards. I pour my heart into them. It is a way of expressing myself. I will read your comments everyday. They are comforting, or should I say realistic and a confirmation. I pray for healing everyday, I will include you in my prayers. Thank you for taking the time to put your thoughts down.

Sent by Matilda Ali | 9:45 AM ET | 11-28-2006

What I've found for myself is that although I believe that I'm not my body, and that I'll continue to be me after my body is no more, my body doesn't know that. In the past, when I've had bad news... like having mets, or a series of surgeries, one after another, my body reacts with shock, fear, discomfort and tension even though I thought that I had a handle on it. Theyre both intwined, of course, body and mind, but the body has a mind of its own. I can understand your shock on hearing that Leroy. I thank you in advance for putting yourself out there for the documentary, and I look forward to sharing in that additional gift that you're giving to us all.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 9:47 AM ET | 11-28-2006

Leroy,

You continue to amaze and inspire me. And sometimes, your breathtaking honesty makes me cry. I hope that it helps to know that so many people care about you and root for you every day.

Sent by Trish | 10:52 AM ET | 11-28-2006

It is odd to hear that the person with cancer has the same feelings as a caregiver. My husband died of cancer in September. When I would allow myself hope in spite of symptoms, I thought it was only me the doctors slapped into reality. I remember one of the first oncologists who worked with my husband. This oncologist was the gentlest man. I said to him "You gotta talk to my husband. He doesn't know these things you are saying, he doesn't know what's happening to him." And the doctor told me "All my patients want to forget." That day I learned something. If now today you want to forget, that's OK by me.

Sent by Irene | 11:45 AM ET | 11-28-2006

Dear Leroy,

I have healed from cancer twice (11 years ago cervical just entered my fifth year out from breast). During my times with cancer, (and presently) I was extremely sensitized to the language used by healthcare providers. I was aware of holding my breath while dangling from a mountain of fear and sometimes terror — waiting for their next word. I believe that the healthcare provider plays a crucial role in our healing — in ways beyond the obvious (technical skill etc...) — in ways that have more to do with our heart and spirit.

I felt an ache in my heart when I read your words that repeated what the doctor said to your friend. I completely understand how jolting it is to hear that and in that way.

Thank you for creating this blog.

Sent by Linda Resca | 2:32 PM ET | 11-28-2006

Hi Leroy, I hope the next time you see your oncologist, you remind him of this. Yeah, you may die of cancer but it doesn't mean you can't outlive him! Then, just for kicks, tell him he's looking a little pale. It never hurts a doctor to taste his own medicine.

Sent by Libby | 3:25 PM ET | 11-28-2006

Hi, Leroy. I'm a Catholic, Spanish priest who have worked for almost ten years as a chaplain in a hospital. There I usually try to encourage people to face their fate and illness. This week I've found your blog and I've read it passionately and I've found out that it is possible to speak aloud and without complex about cancer. Thanks a lot for all you are teaching me. I really think that recognizing the truth is the best way to try to improve the illness. Congratulations for your great effort and thanks for your close evidence!

Sent by Josep Adrover Vallbona | 5:33 PM ET | 11-28-2006

I'm two years into my fight with colon cancer and I feel the same way as you do. I use to think about it after the second time the doctor said I had mets (two new tumors) and started my second chemo treatments, but now after four months of chemo, I don't have time to enough think about it. I'm just thankful for the time I have now and focus on the things I want to get done. I still have hope though.

Sent by Kris Worrall | 11:02 AM ET | 11-29-2006

Leroy,

Have been reading your blog since it was put on NPR. I have never had cancer but have had many close to me deal with it. I was very angry to read today's blog. How insensitive of your oncologist. You know you have cancer, he knows you have cancer and unless someone has lived removed from information, we all know the end result of the disease. But guess what, we all die. Maybe not from cancer, but from something. Why would he be so insensitive?

Sent by Annetta | 11:30 AM ET | 11-29-2006

The truth sucks! I've known from the get go that my cancer was incurable with a very poor prognosis. But as I outlived that prognosis (9-12 months) and felt and functioned well despite 20 rounds of heavy duty chemo it was easy to forget. Now 14 months into this my last CT showed "progression" so I started a new regimine today which only has a 20 percent response rate. I pushed my oncologist for a new prognosis but was still shocked when she said 3-6 months. Even when meeting with the "end-of-life" social worker it still seems surreal. Maybe I'm insane but I'm still hoping to be in that 20 percent and buying a little more time (OK a lot more time). I'm just not ready to die at 46 with three young kids! But at the same time I'm finding myself pushing my team for the what, where when. As I think Stepanie put it a few weeks ago I need to understand the process. How can I be dying (and so soon) if I have no symptoms?

Sent by Anna Michals | 12:02 PM ET | 11-29-2006

Hi, Leroy!

I've been reading your blog eagerly since I first discovered it last week. I was diagnosed with esophageal cancer in June, and have moved from gulping down every shred of info about EC, and through three cycles of chemo — with it's attendant side-effects — to having the cancer there, but not all-consuming my consciousness. I resonated with your posting today about thoughts of dying. I look back over the months since diagnosis and realize that I have moved from thinking about dying from cancer to living with cancer. It feels like each of your postings are picking my brain - but with so much more eloquence and grace! I've always been an independent cuss, and so making my own (informed, I hope) treatment decisions has come pretty naturally. I am currently opting for quality of life over length of days — preferring to keep the esophagus that has served me so well over these 59 years - than trading it in for one fashioned from my stomach. At least that's the plan for now!

Thanks for your honest and true reflections and observations in the face of a pretty challenging reality. You articulate the kinds of thoughts and feelings that keep me motivated in my particular journey.

Keep on keeping on — and know you don't walk alone!

Sent by Alan Beauregard | 12:07 PM ET | 11-29-2006

To say I appreciate your comments would be a gross understatement. We must have visited the same treatment center. The newcomers, with the deer-eyed daze, then there were those of us to whom it had become second nature. Sign in here, fill out this form, go to the cath lab, get the port accessed, have blood drawn, go for echos every two weeks. I just read back through my journals for the first time. (I completed chemo in July 06) It's amazing how much of it I didn't remember. It must be one of the saving graces of the drugs. When I was just diagnosed with diabetes type two, (they say it's from the chemo), I had very little reaction. I mean, it pales by comparison, you know? I will remember you in my prayers. Thank you so much for sharing. It means so much.

Sent by Lee R. Berkshire | 12:28 PM ET | 11-29-2006

It angered me to read what your oncologist said in your hearing. Perhaps he didn't realize that you were able to hear him. I hope that this was the case otherwise I feel that what he did was very unethical.

In any case, I am sorry that he said that in your hearing. I think that people with cancer should be encouraged to hope realistically. Unless there is some valid reason to say something so blunt and forceful in a patients hearing and I really can't think of such a reason offhand, I think it is tremendously insensitive, callous, and obscene, not to mention downright injurious to the patient to say something so devastating and hope-destroying as what your doctor said, in the hearing of someone who needs every ounce of realistic hope that they can have.

I believe that hope may be able to do even more for you than the drugs that they are giving you. People cannot live without hope.

Sent by Greg Sheryl | 12:36 PM ET | 11-29-2006

Hi Leroy,

I read this just before heading out to chemo. Made me realize again how lucky I am to have such a perceptive and gentle oncologist. He "gets" me and what will help. I don't remember either a hurtful or insensitive word. He knows I'll ask when I do want an updated "prognosis." At my first appointment, he told me three to six, six to 12, maybe even 18 months "treatable but not curable." Frankly it is the one thing I only had to hear once but as you said it can somewhat recede. Each day each one of us finds her or his own challenges and joys. When someone else's reality breaks into our careful construct, well... I sometimes find it as hard to hear others tell me how I am going to "beat" this. And if I don't, does it mean to them that I have failed somehow, morally, physically? Failed them or me? I may "beat" this just by having lived since February 8 with as much stamina, humor and grace as I can manage, one day at a time.

Wishing you and all of us another day of living.

Sent by Jan | 1:15 PM ET | 11-29-2006

Leroy,

As others have said, I'm shocked that your doctor would speak those words to others. I can appreciate his honesty and openess with you, but not to third parties. That sounds like a horrific violation of doctor-patient confidentiality. But, as John Shula has so effectively pointed out on his Web site, God is in control and can still work miracles, contrary to what doctors think is possible. I pray for a miracle of healing for you daily.

Sent by Harve | 1:16 PM ET | 11-29-2006

Leroy,

Maybe I'm in denial, but I'm not sure the doctor is right. I know he thinks he is, but I think, who knows? Odd things happen. That's what I think.

Sent by Cathy Wilder | 1:20 PM ET | 11-29-2006

Dear Mr. Sievers,

Each time I begin to write you, it becomes unclear to me as how to start. This is the first time that I have gotten this far.

This past September, my brother, who recently turned 56, was diagnosed with phase four melanoma. The doctor explained that the tumors within my brother's body were the size on baseballs and that neither chemo nor radiation treatment would be not helpful. The doctor concluded by saying the duration of my brothers life is anywhere between four and six months. My brother has no idea he was so ill. With both of our parents still alive and in excellent health, this news of my brother's health has been beyond surreal on so many different levels. Just the other day, my brother and I spoke about the process of his death. Our conversation was so candid, that I am still unable to articulate correctly what took place.

I came across your series by chance. As I jumped from comment to comment, I was amazed as how your writings captured so extraordinarly the emotions one encounters upon being diagnosed with this terminal disease. I find myself searching through your comments hoping to find something that might be able to alleviate or bring forth some clarity to this painful and hopeless journey.

I am truly sorry for your illness and admire your strength in writing about it so frankly. I find myself starting to cry — so I must go. Hopefully, I can read your next comment. All my best to you, Mr. Sievers.

Sent by Carol Cummins | 1:32 PM ET | 11-29-2006

Mr. Sievers,

When my stepdad, just diagnosed with stage 3 lung cancer, finally asked "How long?" I think he regretted asking the question. I think he expected the oncologist to tell him he would have many years, but the oncologist was honest about the stats. It sent him into a depression for a few days, and I feared he would give up and not even try the chemo. He has a great support system that pulled him back up, got him out walking and laughing again. I think information is power, but we have to know how to use it, and not let it use us. I hope you can get walking and laughing and put that comment on a shelf!

By the way, my Dad did start chemo on Monday and was astonished at how he felt. Just fine! No nausea at all! So we are so glad he didn't throw it in!

Sent by Kelley | 4:41 PM ET | 11-30-2006

I don't like having cancer and chemo, but I do love having the awareness of death which has made me realize how sublime all life is and has enabled me to truly cherish my son and my many dear friends. Thank you for your blog and thank you to all those who provide their wonderful comments.

Sent by Carolyn Torrente | 4:43 PM ET | 11-30-2006

Leroy, The problem with journalists is that we often hear things we shouldn't hear (as well as being able to read documents upside down on peoples desks). Cancer may not kill you for another 20 years, so enjoy it while you can. Remember Art Buchwald, who was told he was going to die last year if he stopped dialysis. He stopped dialysis, and he's still writing his column for the Washington Post. Hang in there, please! Cheers, Tom

Sent by Tom | 4:46 PM ET | 11-30-2006

I'm still kind of blown away by this posting after thinking about it all night. It brought tears to my eyes when I read it yesterday. While you and I can appreciate the candor of our oncologists to share the brutal truth of our prognoses (I should have been dead months ago), it would be like that first awful experience of learning you have cancer to be reminded of it again, months after you had some time to process the first bad news. I know that statistically, my chances of full recovery are small, but I've gotten used to the idea that maybe I'll be one of those in the 6 percent who completely recover. I would be a wreck if I was given the same original prognosis again, and be even worse if I heard that prognosis given to somebody else without having heard it again first. I know that Ted Koppel is probably a friend and I hope that he gives your story the respect that you deserve for willing to be so open with us. I look forward to seeing how the story comes out, and really enjoyed your interview last week on Talk of the Nation (a plug for your readers who didn't catch the interview — it's still available on the TOTN Web site for listening).

Glad that you got the extra bonus days off chemo for Thanksgiving. I got a whole extra week off for Thanksgiving and am not looking forward to going back in tomorrow to get back on the roller coaster.

Sent by Bob Maimone | 11:21 AM ET | 12-01-2006

In May, 2003 my dx was breast cancer stage IV. Since I was only 43, my prognosis wasn't so grim and no one gave me months or years. My research indicates only 20 percent make it beyond five years. But it is five years of continuous treatment. Never ending treatment until you just give out or no treatments work anymore. Then you die, or fade away, or pass to a better place. Like your post said. It just doesn't feel real when we live pretty well and we are productive and we are still living. I stay close to other cancer folks because I can learn so much. Another young woman encouraged me so much when I first was diagnosed. And I visited her in the hospital one week before she died. She said she was just amazed at how fast the time all went and how fast she went from feeling pretty good to hospice and death. So, we aren't ready. We just try to keep on. And, I pray for that miracle. We still have miracles.

Sent by Elizabeth Sullivan | 12:48 PM ET | 12-01-2006

One of the universal feelings I think most of us with "terminal" disease have is that somehow we have failed our bodies or our bodies have failed us. "If only we had done X, Y or Z sooner or better, maybe this would never have happened. But as you know, we are all "terminal," it is not a question of yes or no but only of how, when and where it will happen. Those startling accounts of people going into complete remission only to die in a car accident a week later seem to reinforce the adage of when your time comes. As an ER doctor, It has happened to me more than once: Sad that the patient died but secretly happy it was not my fault — or was it?

Sent by Geoffrey Davis | 3:10 PM ET | 12-06-2006