I was seeing a therapist at the time the breast cancer was diagnosed. I remember saying to her "Now the losses start." She didn't think that it was a good way to look at the situation, but it's turned out to be true. I lost a major muscle group utilized for my reconstruction, and along with that, a lot of my mobility and agility. I lost a year from work, as I had to have many surgeries in that first year, and because of major complications from the first one. It may seem trivial, but I haven't had a vacation, since I've been back to work, because I've needed to use almost all of my days for cancer related things...tests, doctor appointments, educational seminars...

There have been gains, too. I've been cared for by some truly spectacular human beings, and have made friends with some of them, I've made some good friends on the BCO chat room, and have met a few in person, I've gained in empathy for my patients, and for fellow cancer travelers, and I like to think, in wisdom. I too have physical reminders that make it difficult to forget what I've been going through, and to occasionally wonder about what I have yet to go through, but that has become a bit less pressing as I've been getting physically stronger through taking classes at the health club, and working hard at getting improvements in mobility and strength. The more I do that, the more life I get back, both in longevity (I hope) and in having the endurance to do some of the things I enjoy, and (I'm hopeful) to make it back to Paris one day.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 9:48 AM ET | 12-05-2006

"But have they really forgotten it?"

Loving friends and family haven't forgotten. We wonder why you and not me. We spend time thinking of ways to take your pain away, if even for a little bit. We feel guilty when we get angry with you, how dare we, you have cancer. And finally, we contemplate how will our lives ever be the same when you die. But, we never forget because we love you.

My sister was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer two and a half years ago and not a single day went by without my thinking of her.

Sent by Anita | 9:50 AM ET | 12-05-2006

In spite of having cancer, you can still publish a thought-provoking blog that gives a lot of people an idea of what cancer patients experience, and allows cancer patients and survivors to communicate about what they are thinking and experienced.

Enjoy the day, Leroy!

Sent by Art Ritter | 9:52 AM ET | 12-05-2006

Leroy,

You did it again. You expressed exactly how I've been feeling this time around without my being able to put it in words. You're an excellent journalist. I too felt that when they told me I had esophageal cancer this time, that I'd do the chemo, surgery and be on my way again, like in the past. But this time, it's a different ball game; the surgery will be life altering, if I am fortunate enough to continue to have a life. In the past, I did radiation, chemo, had some body parts removed that really weren't necessary anyway and healed quite nicely. But this time it's different, the cancer has returned with a vengeance and it's hell bent on doing me in, very scary, but I make a conscious effort to not dwell on it, not an easy thing to do, as you very well know.

Sent by Ruth White | 11:35 AM ET | 12-05-2006

Leroy,

It seems to me that as a cancer patient we are always in a changing mode. My thoughts have changed from last year's chemotherapy to my current chemo. I feel I'm on a timetable more now than last year with a "giterdun" attitude. I can accept the fact I could be on chemo to maintain an acceptable quality of life until I die. I'm just happy I have a good looking bald head :) I am Kris Worrall cancer patient, but we're more than that!

Sent by Kris Worrall | 11:38 AM ET | 12-05-2006

I suppose I'm still in the early stages of the emotional side of cancer. That is to say, I refuse to let the notion of cancer dominate my life. I suppose that's easier for me than most because, like Leroy, I had my tumor removed and now it seems Im safe. Of course, I'll go back every three months for scans. However, there's just a part of me that will not — cannot — allow this cancer to engulf my identity.

Like many of us, I think about my cancer everyday. I wonder what's going on inside my body. I hope my body is not going to be taken hostage again. Perhaps by not allowing myself to say, "Michael Everett, cancer patient," I am in some way refusing to give the cancer the attention it thinks it deserves. I guess we all have our way of protesting this invasion.

Sent by Michael Everett McGalin | 11:40 AM ET | 12-05-2006

One question I'm never sure how specifically to answer is when a friend asks, "How ARE you?"

Do people want me to tell details each time of chemo fatigue and nausea, fears about the next PETscan, detachment from ordinary pursuits? If I just say, "I'm hanging in there," I feel I've sluffed off the question. Maybe I should ask them how much detail they would like. It's one of the ways in which talking with your friends is different.

Sent by Allen | 11:42 AM ET | 12-05-2006

Thank you for giving voice to what so many are going through, including myself. Until I read your blog I thought I was all alone, in my attitude and way of thinking. Some people try to relate to me the cancer victim and see a healthy looking person and it confuses them I guess. Some act like I am a helpless invalid and that scares both them and me. I didn't know how to explain that I am still me, a person dealing with life and its problems and pleasures. So I decided to lie and say that I am cured or getting there, that way I cut out my cancer from their lives and they can still relate to me, albeit strangely. Because I still need people in my life. Didn't have the words or the energy to try and express what seemed universal truths to me but bewildered everyone else. Now I send them all to your blog and you speak for me. Thank you so much. I use your words, your expression of your journey through the blog. The journalist in you is responsible for, sharing information and opening up communication channels with people in my sphere and me - the cancer victim. I may not know all your reasons for starting the blog and honestly I don't care right now. But I don't think you did it for me or others, you were being yourself and for that I thank you.

Sent by Kemi N. | 11:46 AM ET | 12-05-2006

Well, most importantly, you'll always be Leroy Sievers. And that is what I wish you for now.

Sent by Anna | 11:49 AM ET | 12-05-2006

Dear Leroy,

Once again you put into words what so many of us are feeling and I thank you so much for that. Of course you are much more than just a cancer patient... but cancer patient you are, nevertheless.

There are many phases of being a cancer patient and right now my situation is very similar to yours. Recurrence, chemo, side effects, tests, waiting, neuropathy, nausea, fatigue beyond measure, too many doctor appointments, and a very hazy future. People tell me all the time, "You look great!" and I think maybe I do, even though I often feel so indescribably bad. Thank God I don't seem to look how I feel — can you imagine how frightening that would be to everyone!

Do you — or does anyone else out there — ever have the experience of waking up in the morning and for a few seconds, or maybe even a blessed minute or so, not remember that you have cancer? Aren't those wonderful moments? The initial re-entry into cancer world is always disturbing... but it soon evens out into the daily reality of what we are going through.

Here's wishing us all more of those blissful moments of forgetfulness and hope for the future.

Continued blessings to you and to all of us.

Sent by D.B.C. | 11:52 AM ET | 12-05-2006

I started reading your blog a couple of months ago and you say exactly what I am thinking. I have had 28 treatments (every three weeks) and I am hanging in there with a positive attitude. I also try to live each day to the fullest. Most of the time it works. Sometimes your blogs inspire me and other times they depress me. All in all, keep it up and I will write again to let you know of my progress. This is my first time writing. I wish I could meet you to get to know the person who is writing five days a week.

Sent by Jan Roy | 11:54 AM ET | 12-05-2006

Oh, Leroy.

This was a hard one to read, maybe because it seemed such a hard one to write, describing a stark reality.

Just consider changing one thing: the period at the end of the phrase "I will always be Leroy Sievers, cancer patient." Make it a comma, a blatant invitation for more, an expectation of complexity: "Leroy Sievers, cancer patient, man of compassion, journalist, friend, educator, guy who takes too many powerful drugs yet survives," etc.

"Cancer patient" is ONE truth about you, not THE truth about you.

Sent by Ceese Stickles | 11:56 AM ET | 12-05-2006

My cancer was diagnosed in August this year. I've had two surgeries, one including a chemo treatment, and now I'm on oral chemo. My friends seem surprised each time they see me, that I do look the same. I don't yet feel like a cancer survivor, I'm not done fighting it yet, but I'm trying to get used to that "branding" of me.

Sent by Katie | 11:58 AM ET | 12-05-2006

Leroy you are also a hero to so many of us. Thank you for being the person you are in this thing called life. We all will make to the finish line in the road of life; some of us have detours in life.

Sent by Joyce | 12:00 PM ET | 12-05-2006

I don't understand how this disease affects each person different. I want to say "it's not fair", but that isn't the right way to feel. I'm happy for your sake that you don't look sick and can still work some of the time and go and do things. I had a girlfriend who battled this disease for 8 years and you'd never know she was sick. She did chemo on her lunch hours and continued working. There was no nausea. On the other hand, my husband was diagnosed 8 months ago and looks like he's aged 30 years. He can't even hold his head up much anymore much less work. He went on disability right away and it was downhill from there. No energy at all, extreme loss of weight, tingling and pain in leg and arm, loss of hair and now he's confused and can hardly walk. From management in a large corporation one day to this. We did manage to finally control the nausea and found a combination of pills that worked for that. It's lung with mets in liver and bone and two weeks ago found out it was in brain. Just finished 12 rounds of radiation for the brain and that has wiped him out worse than the chemo. Each person is different. I had a friend say she wouldn't do any treatment if it were her. I don't agree. I told her she might be the one that can stand the treatment so don't NOT do it, but there comes a time to stop it, too. It's very hard for me and my family to watch this person we love shrivel up in front of our eyes. May God bless you Leroy and everyone else visiting your blog.

Sent by Betsy | 12:03 PM ET | 12-05-2006

Four years ago, cancer had only briefly touched my life through the death of my grandmother while I was still in my single digits. Within the last few years, two of my aunts have been diagnosed with breast and ovarian cancer and have had successful operations. Another lost her battle to stomach cancer a week before her son's birthday last year. My grandmother, the rock of our family, was diagnosed with colon cancer a year and a half ago. We thought she beat it when her oncologist diagnosed her with "incurable" stomach cancer. We are all so scared to lose her that we go on every day, trying to ignore and put on the "happy face". But end up crying into our pillows in the dark.

Thank you for giving me a perspective of what my family has had to endure. Without your insight, I wouldn't know that their "I'm fine's" are really just a cover. I wish you luck in your war on cancer.

Sent by Brett Hubbard | 12:26 PM ET | 12-05-2006

I love what Ceese Stickles says about you. It is so true.

Sent by Irene | 4:07 PM ET | 12-05-2006

I understand exactly what you mean! I had colon cancer three years ago, had surgery, have an annual colonoscopy and that's pretty much it. I had it and took care of it. Someone last week referred to me as a "survivor" and I felt bad about it — I don't think of myself as a survivor in the same way that people who fight every day for a long time are survivors.

Sent by Jane | 4:20 PM ET | 12-05-2006

Aneeta,

Your post brought tears in my eyes. Just when I started to feel that maybe everyone had moved on and getting along with their lives, I was so touched by what you wrote. Thanks for reminding me that while our family and friends may not express it, the fear and concern is always there and they hurt as much as we do.

Someone asked me what support group I belong to for metastatic cancer and I told them... Leroy's group. You have helped us all so much and I wish you would publish a book about these daily gems that have uplifted me so much in this difficult journey.

Sent by Aisha Zafar | 4:40 PM ET | 12-05-2006

Hi Leroy,

I was one of the people who called in and spoke with you on NPR. I called from the health center where my husband who has lymphoma was having his chemo... same place I had my chemo a mere two years ago. I've wanted to write to you to wish you well and thank you for your frankness and honesty about this scourge. When I lost my hair I decided to go out into the world as a bald woman. It was a big deal for me since I wear two hearing aids and I hid that with my long hair. But my feeling that people need to see what cancer looks like trumped my vanity. I've not been the sort to candy coat... so your blog entry today about coming to terms with the fact that cancer does, in fact, interrupt and change our lives resonated with me.

I'm now re-experiencing my trauma with it as my husband goes through his. We're both trying to maintain our optimism, but as you well know it's a daily struggle against anxiety and loss of control. I think the challenge that doesn't get discussed enough is how to live in this "in-between" place honestly and openly and to help those around us settle into that space as well and not feel like they are required to be "super-nurturers," cheerleaders or avoiders. Your blog helps to achieve that. Many thanks for still being a journalist.

Footnote: A few years before being diagnosed I was using microscopic images of cancer cells as inspiration in my paintings (I'm an artist). I had an article published in the Journal of Communication Arts, ("Fresh Eyes and Nuclei") about my experience of being an artist in residence in a pathology lab and the difference between how the scientists and I viewed the cells. About a year later, I was commissioned to do a large painting for a new Harvard Medical School Cancer Research building here in Boston. Four months later, I was diagnosed with cancer... if you'd like to see my cellular landscapes or read the article, you can check out my website at www.randygarber.com... just another "take" on what cancer looks like.

Sent by Randy Garbr | 12:39 PM ET | 12-11-2006