We, your ever faithful bloggers are right behind you Leroy. We are here to support all of your choices even of they are one day at a time. I prefer to think that you are going to engulf more than the one day at a time because that's the kind of guy you seem to be! And P.S. try asking for a second gown to wrap around the opposite end! Lord knows we are paying five star prices for the acommondations, it's the least they could do for our dignity in this situation!

Sent by Marianne Dalton | 12:15 PM ET | 12-28-2006

Leroy,

I found the radiation waiting room one of the most depressing places in the whole hospital. I can't quite say why, but it was much bleaker than the chemo area. It seemed to me that the patients who were waiting for radiation were much sicker than those in chemo. I know I was the same patient both places, but the radiation made me feel much worse than the chemo did. I had radiation to the abdomen, which causes nausea, and all the other attending intestinal joys. I hope your radiation is smooth and without event. And that it does the trick!

Sent by Stephanie | 12:19 PM ET | 12-28-2006

Hi Leroy:

Taking it one day at a time is definitely the way to go! This poem has helped me a lot in times of Cancer stress:

No goals, no expectations,

Whatever is, is.

For now — just Be.

No future, no past,

Just the present.

For now — just Be.

Ups, downs.

They don't exist in this instant of time.

For now — just Be.

Cares and woes?

Don't worry, they'll still be there.

For now — just Be.

Wishes are good, Prayers might be better.

But not for now.

For now — just Be.

For one minute, for one hour,

It doesn't matter.

For now — just Be.

Breathe in, breathe out, focus on the present.

For now, just for now — just Be

Sent by Don Winslow | 12:21 PM ET | 12-28-2006

Leroy,

You mentioned in your previous blog how you like to be the first on a story and for many of us you are... and you are helping us get through this journey together not feeling so alone. Thanks again.

Sent by Gail Hunsberger | 12:22 PM ET | 12-28-2006

You are a light to many people. In fact, because of your openness you give hope to many people that have cancer or are caregivers of cancer patients. Even though we will never all be together in one place we have a strong bond that can never be broken — we have cancer. God has used your writing talents and this blog over and over to give me hope and encouragement in the realization that I am not alone in my feelings of frustration, fear, and yet having hope no matter what the outcome may be. Living the best you can with what has been given you.

Thank you for the blog and God Bless.

Sent by Judy Van Lishout | 3:50 PM ET | 12-28-2006

Leroy,

I just found your blog. I was diagnosed with an anaplastic astrocytoma (grade 3, but my neuro-oncologist called it a "jazzy three" which I think means it is closer to a four) in March of this year. I had surgery to remove the tumor and then I underwent six weeks of concurrent oral chemo (temodar, which was no big deal) and radiation. After six weeks everything looked great, but six weeks later my tumor had re-grown to what looked like to me about twice its original size. Luckily, my neuro-oncologist is totally up on all the clinical trials, what's working and what's not. He's now put me on a bi-weekly infusion of chemo (camptosar) plus a biologic agent called Avastin. This duo is approved for colo-rectal cancer, but not for brain tumors. But several docs are "prescribing off line" and getting great results with this combo. For me, after the first two infusions in September, my tumor was reduced by 80 percent! Wow. Astounding results. And it continues to get smaller. Yes, the chemo is a bit tougher to take, but really not too bad. If you want more info, call Dr. Robert Albright in Cincinnati, OH. Best of luck to you.

Sent by Jordis Ruhl | 3:58 PM ET | 12-28-2006

I wish my father had had the courage to talk about his journey and his fight with cancer the way you are doing it.

I cringe to think that he must have felt so alone, and must have been in so much pain, all the while trying to put on a good face for us kids and for my mother.

He was so stoic about his pain that I never thought he had any pain at all, but now that I am 38 and hear about cases like his, I am sure he suffered quite a bit.

I wish he would have let us offer him some confort and share his fears through the years he battled with cancer. He died when I was sixteen.

Best wishes for you, may you be granted patience and serenity to accept and enjoy the life you have. My prayers are with you and your family.

Sent by David Abad | 4:33 PM ET | 12-28-2006

Leroy,

We are behind you all the way. I am not as eloquent as many of your readers, but I applaud you and your courage to share your journey with us. Keep your head up!

Sent by Hunter | 4:35 PM ET | 12-28-2006

Leroy,

I know exactly what you mean about taking it one day at a time. Looking too far ahead and planning is not really an option anymore because things can change so quickly, for the better or for the worst.

I read your post to my mom this morning in her bed. We, too, saw the radiologist a couple of months ago. They wanted to start her ASAP on the five-week treatment. The doctor explained the process, how her first session would go, the tattoo thing, etc. Unfortunately she was too weak at the time to get radiation. And now she can barely walk, and is bedridden per doctor's orders. I am hoping that one day we find ourselves back at the radiation clinic and she is well enough to get zapped.

In two weeks she will also have to come to the decision of whether to forego her last two cycles of chemo. Her small cell lung cancer tumor has shrunk from 10 centimeters to three and a half centimeters thanks to the four cycles of chemo, Cistplatin and Etoposide that she has completed. She has since developed a blood clot and was hospitalized for a seizure.

There are so many pros and cons of continuing treatment that she is weighing.

When we get our appointment card letting us know when her next session of chemo is scheduled, I guess that is when she will ultimately decide if the pain of it all is worth it. I hope she makes the right decision, whatever that may be.

Sent by Lisa | 4:38 PM ET | 12-28-2006

Leroy,

I've had that experience too, of having a couple of my doctors checking on me when I didn't know about it. When I found out that they'd been updating one another about me some time later, I found it a very heart warming thing. It's wonderful to know that you're more than just a file to those to whom you've entrusted your care. My recommendation... check with the staff about larger gowns, or if they're not avail, long sleeve long staff gowns, which are much better covering, and lots warmer. Check with the hospital ombudsman, too. They are patient advocates with the hospital, and may be able to get some gown action for you. Consider yourself hugged.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 10:53 AM ET | 12-29-2006

Leroy and loved ones,

I loved the poem that Don Winslow sent — Just Be. I have the blessing of a "chronic cancer" Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. I have gone through a series of chemotherapy. Rituximab (Mouse Antigen) that attacks certain Lymph blood cells (can be in blood circulation, lymph nodes, or bone marrow). The original chemo had been a recipe of two other more toxic medications (did general blood count suppression). But now I just get the Rituximab. (I do crave cheese a lot — a mouse joke). I found that having a memorable, mantra was good to get through CT scans, Lab tests, scary treatments (biopsies and bone marrow tests). I use the 23rd Psalm. It worked for me. Especially in the CT scanner when you are holding your breath or when you get the hot rush from the Iodine contrast injection.

My cancer is long-term/chronic, they say five to 10 years, so sometimes I feel like I am a cheater. But, every time I experience a new ache or pain, I worry is this a new symptom, is this something that I shouldn't ignore, then I think am I just a hypochondriac!

The first oncologist that I went to said that he would advise waiting, until you have symptoms then to try surgery or chemo treatment, but, didn't say what kind of symptoms. I could not imagine waiting for some horrible event to happen. So I went for a second opinion and met a doctor at Cleveland Clinic (CCF) who advised a treatment regimen that my husband and I are comfortable with — the initial chemotherapy March-August 2005, then periodic (every three months) CTs, lab work and physician evaluation visits. August 2006 I was able to have my first prophylactic treatment (guarding from or preventing the spread or occurrence of disease or infection). I return tomorrow to CCF to be re-evaluated for treatment. I wish you the best and will keep you in my prayers. I do smell a lot of flowers now and purposefully look at the sky for the sun rise and sun set every day.

Sent by Jeanne Meyer | 11:07 AM ET | 12-29-2006

Dear Leroy

I know those gowns are small or at least I always get the small one. You feel like your going to be a peep show star. When I concluded the radiation cycle I had the system operator take photos of the machine and me on it. Well, so long as the photo wasn't enlarged you wouldn't notice that some things were too exposed.

I had a wonderful Christmas morning. To share the morning with four children at the Shriners Philadelphia Hospital was a wonderful experience. All the children were recovering from extensive spinal surgery yet they eagerly participated and are courageous. One child was in remission from AML, leukemia, I believe he was only 8 years old. He is a Eagles fan and the Eagles did not disappoint him that evening.

Stay in there, and keep observing the lighter side of your experiences.

As for doctors and surgeons, it is a difficult field to be both a person and then the competent human systems analyst of the body gone mad and the chief architect of its rectification.

Cancer does not provide a professional courtesy (exemption) to doctors.

Sent by Joseph Lyons | 11:12 AM ET | 12-29-2006

Leroy,

I in the course of changing my life, I caught your Dec. 26 posting on NPR. I ran to the computer and printed it out and read it every day. I don't share your present affliction but am facing something I consider similar. I thank you for your strength and courage. My father died of cancer when I was 19 and I never knew or imagined the pain and struggle that he, my mother and younger siblings experienced. He and I had no communication through the entire process. I know God brought you to me for some reason and when I read your blogs daily feel a healing within me. May God give us all what he has given you!

Sent by BaNar Singleton | 11:14 AM ET | 12-29-2006

One day (hour, minute) at a time — Yes! It's Zen and it's also used by AA who have adopted the wonderful prayer:

"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

This also works for stage IV cancer patients like myself. Thank you and all the commentors on your blog!

Sent by Carolyn | 3:14 PM ET | 12-29-2006

My mom is wrapping up a 30-day radiation regimen, which came after a six-month chemo regimen. This will be the fourth (or is it the fifth?) time she's gone through this pattern in the last 12 years, and thankfully she's feeling healthy enough to pack her bags and go on a cruise next week.

She always says the waits have been the worse part of the radiation, since the actual zapping only takes a few moments when it finally happens. The one thing that's gotten her through it patiently has been an mp3 player. I never thought I'd see the day when she'd start downloading music, but cancer is apparently a motivator even for improving ones tech skills. So for her at least, it's been one song at a time, along with one day at a time...

Sent by Andy Carvin, NPR | 2:37 PM ET | 01-02-2007

Dear Leroy, Around our house, we go farther than "cancer sucks." We simply call it "f***ing cancer." My husband is now in his fourth year of remission from stage 4 Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. He had 6 months of chemo, and also had Rituxan to break up a sinus tumor. We both took Xanax nightly so we could sleep. I highly recommend anything to help with sleep/out of control anxiety.

My husband teaches 4th grade, and his fellow teachers rallied to give support and meals to us throughout the school year that he missed.

There are some friends and family that I would now do anything for. They were amazing.

Our doctors were fantastic, yet the process of making initial decisions was a helpless feeling.

Please don't give up. My husband found that he was really cold so much, and he liked to go to the tanning bed. He looked healthier, and people would comment on how he was looking better. He still likes those tanning beds!

Every 6 months, he has to do the big scans with the barium drink. It's getting easier for all of us.

This can be beaten.

Sent by Jan Silloway | 4:57 PM ET | 01-02-2007

Having been there and done that, (every day for 30 days) I have to agree the waiting was the worst part. I did, however, get a serious radiation burn following my last treatment as they boosted the dose to make sure they killed any remaining cancerous cells, and it did.

As far as clothing options for treatment, I had it down pat, loose fitting sweat pants, boxers, T-shirt and flip-flops. I bet I spent less than 5 minutes behind the lead door during a sometimes two-hour visit.

My tumor was in my groin area so this attire allowed me to toss my shoes off and easily remove my pants before laying back on the table. Then all I had to do was lower my boxers while the tech aligned me for the blast. Its funny how you actually get used to dropping your draws in front of strangers.

Anyway the good news is I've been taking it one day at a time for the last 1172 days with no evidence of disease.

I wish you good luck with your journey and thank you for sharing it with us!

Sent by Chuck Peters | 5:05 PM ET | 01-02-2007