My husband did the same thing when he had radiation — he counted! I don't remember if the results were the same.

At the last appointment we received not bad news but not great news — there was an increase in the PSA. But as I badgered the doctor with questions, he finally said, "I can't give you the answer you want." I stopped, realizing he was right. You have to get into almost a mindset that is hopeful but still tuned into reality. Some days it is really hard; some days it is easy. We don't have our next test til April so that in itself is hopeful.

Good luck on Friday! I hope for absolutely the best for you!

Sent by Susan | 9:39 AM ET | 01-24-2007

Gosh Leroy, my tricks for any of this... would you believe that I was once the QUEEN OF NEEDLE PHOBIA!!!! My mother knew I would never be a drug addict because of my great fear of needles!!! It's funny how being put into this situation I have been forced to face my "fear" of the lil' ol' needle... with almost every single staging test I have been put through, there was that damn needle trying to make its way into my vein? ugh... never mind the noise from the MRIs or the taste of raspberry liquid. It is the needle that freaks me out! Am I used to the needle iv from chemo yet?? Hell no! And my arm shows the black and blue from the nurses' attempts to find a "good" vein. (My onco doesn't like to do ports for risk of infection? lucky me!)

So through all this what are my tricks"... hmmmm...I wiggle my dancer's leg nonstop and I try to keep the nurses talking to me so I can be somewhat distracted. But I still feel EVERY single prick. I am such a wimp but at least I can laugh about it! The doctor actually prescribed .5mg of ativan for me to swallow prior to the "needle nurse" finding a good vein for chemo. And I, in turn, discovered that if I take 10 mg of ativan I can deal with it! Yup — double that dose — the more, the merrier! I welcome anyone's suggestions for the queen of needle phobia! Merci!

Sent by Marianne Dalton | 9:55 AM ET | 01-24-2007

When I was doing chemo this past summer I was blessed to have a friend who refused to let me go alone. She drove from her home 70 miles away very early in the morning so she could be with me for the procedure every other week for three months. We each thought of treats to pack in a picnic basket, including fancy glasses for our beverages, cloth napkins, etc. Then during the procedure we shared thoughts, memories, favorite things we had read during the previous two weeks and such. Those 4 hours just flew by. Chemo was the hardest thing I have ever done. But my memories of it are shaped by my friend rather than the drugs.

Sent by Susan Rook | 11:21 AM ET | 01-24-2007

Whenever I go for a PET scan the first thing I ask is for them to change the radio station to NPR. The first one I had I didn't think to do this and had to listen to a terrible DJ and top 40 stuff. I also think waiting is the worst part and I don't get results nearly as quickly as you do. I've been very jealous of your relationship with your doctor and that he will call within a day or so. Many of us don't have that experience. I have a CT scheduled next Monday and since I do not have a follow-up appointment scheduled it will be some time before I hear the results. Good luck on Friday!

Sent by Dona | 11:25 AM ET | 01-24-2007

I got so much knitting done while waiting, both for tests and for results, and while recovering from treatments before I was ready to go back to work. I don't suppose you'd like knitting lessons, would you?

Sent by Stephanie Dornbrook | 11:26 AM ET | 01-24-2007

Leroy, as a nurse, I have always been amazed by what patients, especially cancer patients, can tolerate for so long. I guess the sheer will and hope to live fuels the stark courage that I have witnessed. It is a courage that allows a person to trustingly submit to what has to be done. I have watched friends and then my husband patiently endure numerous procedures and treatments to fight their cancers and extend their lives.

I am also a baby when it comes to having medical procedures myself. Maybe the stakes have never been high enough for me. I once freaked out and had to be freed from an MRI machine. Reading your posts the last couple of days, I feel embarrassed by my fears. You've helped me to prepare for an endoscopy scheduled next week. I will try to find a sliver of the courage that you demonstrate every day.

Good luck, tomorrow. I will be sending all my hopeful wishes your way. May all go well and may the lung tumors be fried!

Sent by Marilyn | 11:30 AM ET | 01-24-2007

I've always prayed during the procedures that they would be effective in my healing. During radiation treatments (for colon cancer) I prayed that every zap would kill more cancer cells.

As an aside, I am especially interested in your new treatments, since I also have tumors in my lungs now. I don't have insurance (but am not poor enough for free care) so I wonder if the treatments are an option for me.

Thanks for sharing your walk with the world. I often e-mail your columns to others around me because you have expressed an attitude or presented an issue so well.

Sent by Wim Plaat | 11:32 AM ET | 01-24-2007

Your post made me think of my second diagnostic procedure. I was under anesthesia of course, since it was a "real" surgery. As they brought me out of from under the anesthesia the anesthesiologist told me that it was all over, and I was done, how well I had done... blah, blah, blah. Of course the only thing my drug addled brain heard was "you're done." So I got up, and I tried to leave. Of course I was still no where near ready to leave, but I was going to leave.

Attempts to restrain me only made the situation worse, and I apparently lashed out and was going leave, no matter what. It took most of the OR staff to get me back on the bed, where I was promptly (and correctly) restrained. Of course I slipped back into sleep, and didn't recall any of this, until my surgeon told me about it months later. I was able to apologize to the anesthesiologist at that time, since she ended up being the same person who helped to remove my port.

Ah... the joys of anesthesia.

Sent by Brit | 11:35 AM ET | 01-24-2007

I do have to make a comment on Crystal Light. I used to drink it all the time on chemo to get a change from the 10 cups of water I was supposed to drink each day. I usually drank the lemonade flavor.

One of my lymphoma drugs, adriamycin, was a beautiful red color. It is a deadly drug, and I called it "Jonestown Coolaide". Within 20-30 minutes of getting it put into my port, I would have to pee this weird shade of pinkish-orange. Well, one day, I decided to try a new flavor of Crystal Light, some kind of "tangerine", I think. I mixed it up, and it was the exact color shade of my post-adiamycin urine! I about hurled, and had to dump the whole container down the drain!

It is funny the associations that our minds can make with things like this.

Sent by Art Ritter | 11:38 AM ET | 01-24-2007

I was treated for esophageal cancer 6 years ago. I had the whole shebang... chemo, radiation, surgery, more chemo. My trick for handling tests and waiting for results was this: I figured whatever was there in my body was there whether or not I had a test to show it. Somehow that allowed me to downplay the significance of the actual test and see it more like a window to my insides. I also figured that there were lots of people with abnormalities inside them who had no clue that there were problems. I took no particular pleasure in this but it reinforced my way of handling the tests as not being of any great significance.

Sent by Alan Quint | 11:39 AM ET | 01-24-2007

Good Morning Leroy,

I don't have Cancer but some friends do, so your site gets a lot of talk time. I do, however, have some tricks for the Nuclear wing of the hospital: CATs MRIs rad. injections, rad. Iodine IVs and yeah, different nasty concoctions to drink. OK, enough memory lane stuff.

Now to the tricks: the nasty stuff tastes terrible, right, so buy yourself lots of boxes of straws (bigger bore or dia is better and faster) Put the straw in the vile concoction and then put the straw in your mouth. Move the straw towards the back of your tongue. Not far enough to gag you but far enough back to get the stuff past your tongue (it sends the yuck signals and gets pissed off). Now suck! The vile stuff bypasses your tongue and mouth so they don't get any of the wonderful flavors. Try testing this at home with something flavorful so you get the feel for how far back to place the straw, without gagging and at the same time not tasting anything.

Now what to do with the extra boxes of straws? Get a friend and go out to every place that has this vile stuff and give them boxes of straws and these suggestions. Also, mention to them that it might be nice to see some colorful stickers of fun things on those lead lined cups they bring the rad injections in, anything and lots of colors, please. Also some color in the cold rooms with the big machines would be nice.

While I'm talking to you about suggestions here is another one: Sometimes depending on folks' needs for canes, crutches or wheelchairs, ramps are useful to get into the house, apartment, etc. They can be expensive and difficult to build. Here is the solution: The Ramp Project. It can be found at www.wheelchairramp.org or at www.mcil-mn.org "Metropolitan Center for Independent Living." (Side note: NPR, you might want to contact these folks and have a link on your site, the ramp project is very cool!) They have a manual available and it's also available on tape, disc and in Braille. The ramp project began in the summer of 1991, in St. Paul, MN, if I remember right. It has now spread all over the United States. There are volunteer groups of folks making ramps for people and many times helping with the costs on a sliding scale. The really cool thing is the whole system is modular, and because there are no footings it can move if you do. If you don't need it any more people donate ramps back to the local ramp project and then they are reused. I'll check back later to see all the other cool ideas you'll get today. Keep up the good work Leroy your helping a lot of people! Thank you.

Sent by Tom Smurthwaite | 11:43 AM ET | 01-24-2007

Hey, I also count during radiation. It seems as I get closer to the end of the treatment process the length of time for each treatment is getting shorter.

For the CT scans my doctors office has several flavors for the contrast: original (can't keep that one down), mixed fruit (kinda gross) and banana (my favorite). Also, the nurse told me I can add Hershey's chocolate syrup to the banana — that makes it almost tasty.

For the MRIs I bring my favorite CD and just concentrate on the music and I meditate (Reiki style).

Sent by Sherri | 11:46 AM ET | 01-24-2007

Depending upon the procedure, I envision the cancer cells being killed or eaten (Pacman style) so that the medicine had a better chance of being effective. If it is a scan to determine the extent of cancer, the vision is clean and beautiful tissue. Or I just sleep through whatever it is. But even sleeping means I'm calm enough to rest.

Sent by Robin | 11:47 AM ET | 01-24-2007

When I am in a situation that requires strength and patience I imagine GROWTH: the growing of ivy up a wall-a tigers cub reaching for its mothers neck, a bulb flower bursting through a frozen ground. All living things reaching for sun and sky to be above the muted plains of our lives. Visualizations allow the breath to calm and the power of life to take over Clicks, Fridays and Raspberry Crystal drinks. I am with you every day.

Sent by Lowry Maclean | 12:21 PM ET | 01-24-2007

Leroy, I really don't have any tricks to get me through the chemo. I always take a book with me & then pull the radio close to my ear & play the classical station. I read & listen to the music until the Benedryl they give me before my chemo kicks in & then I sleep off & on most of the six hours.

Sent by David Snipes | 12:23 PM ET | 01-24-2007

I am 23 years old. I had an MRI of my abdomen done yesterday as part of my first cancer screening since I lost my right kidney to renal cell carcinoma last July. I have to say that it was probably the worst medical procedure I've ever undergone, not because it was painful, but because I couldn't help but read into everything: all the silences between scans, all the different injections that were given to me throughout the procedure, the three doctors who came into the room at one point and discussed I don't know what, even the look on the technician's face after the procedure was finished. And then I thought about the many aspects of my life that would change if something is in fact found: Being able to go for a walk, being able to sit up on my own, being able to enjoy a good meal, being able to finish my graduate degree, being able to smile. I can't say I've found a method to help pass the time yet at least not a positive one. In fact, I got so emotional during the exam, I couldn't help but shed a tear or two.

I also thought of you while I was in there. I wondered what goes on in your mind when you get your exams done. I'm not too sure I want to get "used" to them. I would much prefer to keep such medical procedures as foreign to me as possible.

Thanks again for your thoughts, Leroy. For quite some time now I've been reading your blog as a good dose of comforting reality.

Sent by Raul Chavez | 12:26 PM ET | 01-24-2007

I don't "know" Maeve McGoran, but I know how to pronounce her name because I've heard it so many times during the credits. Give us dedicated NPR listeners a little credit.

Sent by Ruth | 12:58 PM ET | 01-24-2007

My son had cancer when he was 18 months. He has been off chemo for 4 years now. I remember he used to love to drink the "orange soda" (he had orange flavor instead of raspberry) until he started getting diarrhea. Back than, he was too young to know what was going on. My husband and I just kept eating for comfort. Even our dog gained a lot of weight because we fed him whenever we ate. I remember chewing the same piece of gum for 3 hours while my son was in surgery.

My son is almost 6 years old now and it is getting harder to take him to his quarterly check up. A few visits ago, he told the "poking nurse" that although she has very pretty hair and nails, he still didn't like her! We have to bribe him with a trip to Toys 'R' Us after the ultra-sound, chest x-rays, audiologist (chemo damaged his hearing) and blood test. We are just thankful that he is easily satisfied with "small" toys. We only eat turkey bacon at home. Recently, he discovered real bacon at the hospital cafeteria. Sad as it is, we have also been bribing him with a trip to the hospital cafeteria.

I know food is probably not the first thing on your mind. When my son is nervous, I tell him to think about floating clouds and imagine the different shapes the clouds can be and we make up stories. This is probably too childish for adults, but fantasizing helped us through a lot of difficult time.

I have been reading your updates and totally understand how you feel. Hang in there. I know it is soooo damn hard! I think of you everyday. Good luck on Friday.

Sent by Grace | 1:04 PM ET | 01-24-2007

You will be in my thoughts and prayers on Friday.

Sent by Kathy Welsch | 1:05 PM ET | 01-24-2007

I usually counted when getting daily radiation for 6 weeks. The 3 zaps I received on my brain were always the same in length. 20 seconds, 20 seconds, 7 seconds (my version of a second while counting). Getting my head latched down to the table was always uncomfortable. Since I did not have a choice on the treatment, I just made myself relax and kept my eyes closed. Once I peeked through the mask during a zap. Thought I'd see flashing lights or something, but I didn't. I also visualized that the radiation was truly breaking apart the bad cancer cells into a million tiny pieces.

During an MRI on my head, I make sure the music is turned up LOUD and sing in my head the song being played in the headphones. Or, if there are not headphones, I usually pray — about everything. The time usually passes pretty quickly.

Good luck to you on your continued journey. Keep on writing Leroy.

Sent by Jenny | 2:58 PM ET | 01-24-2007

Hi there ... I've written to you a couple of times. I've now become a regular reader of your blog. A friend of mine has terminal cancer ... it's horrendous. I like reading what you are experiencing and have, in fact, shared some things with my friend.

I really just wanted to say that I'm very excited for you for Friday!! Keep up the good fight!!

Sent by Madeline Fries | 2:59 PM ET | 01-24-2007

I discovered a neat trick from other chemo patients when I first started doing the "Red Devil," the adriamycin/cytoxin concoction that makes you ill, makes you pee pink, and all those other wonderful side effects. The side effects never kicked in until 36-30 hrs later, so my big anxiety was having my skin punctured each time to get to the port. I bought a $30 tube of numbing stuff at the pharmacy downstairs, would apply 20 min before chemo and it helped immensely. This tip is for Marianne Dalton with needle phobia. I'm sure it would also help with regular needle sticks. Though those four months of chemo were harrowing, the nurses and dr. were so kind, compassionate, nurturing. Unlike the radiation experience... you walk into a large, cold room and are told to remove clothing. For me, its been being topless for two months (and I don't even get paid to do it...) You are instructed to fit your head and arm into the "mini-me" mold, be quiet and don't move. It's all been impersonal and humiliating, despite my attempts at jokes and humorous quips. I learned to close my eyes and go to my happy place, which was pretending my husband was hugging and kissing me. It worked! I have my last rad. treatment tomorrow a.m!!

Leroy, I can't wait to hear about your ablation and its results, were all pulling for you!

Sent by Sherri Eggleston | 7:47 PM ET | 01-24-2007

When I was going through my six weeks of radiation for breast cancer a few months ago, I, too, counted through the three different blasts (60 seconds, 30 seconds, 120 seconds). I got bored with that after the first week, so then I started going through different music in my head. I'm a pianist, so I literally played these pieces note by note in my mind. I found that Bach in particular was good for this. Even if you're not a musician, listening to music in your mind can be a nice and effective distraction during all kinds of medical procedures that require being still.

I will be thinking of you on Friday — be strong!

Sent by Gretchen Hoag | 7:52 PM ET | 01-24-2007

Funny how so many people count! I have tried visualizing cancer cells disintegrating during radiation and chemo, but I get sidetracked and forget to stay in the battle. I find myself drifting into a daydream about mundane things like grocery shopping or work. Then I worry the "bad guys" have multiplied during my lapse in active battle through visualization. No, visualization does not work for me. During MRIs, I do not pray my cancer will be cured. I pray I will simply survive the claustrophobia. I pray I will not begin screaming and begging to be released. I pray that if the fire alarm goes off, the technician will release me pronto!

I think about my cancer too much of the time, yet never in the MRI. I think about surviving the MRI, not the cancer. Actually, during radiation and other confining situations, I mentally walk through the rooms of every house and apartment I have every lived in since I was five years old. Why? I have no idea. I just get some sort of odd pleasure by mentally retracing my life trough the places I have lived. It is like a "virtual" tour through my past. Radiation is so fast that I just about get through the front and it's over... and yes, just out of curiosity, I counted today in radiation (total of 26 seconds). Tomorrow during radiation, Leroy, I am going to be thinking about you. Good Luck!

Sent by Susan Paprocki | 7:58 PM ET | 01-24-2007

Hi,

I, too, have struggled with where my mind goes during the longer procedures. During the MUGA scan and the MRIs in particular, I count the click, click, clicks and the bangs... and the ominous silences. I try to count out minutes, but usually lose track. I also pray. I do not want my mind to go any place else. Other procedures are usually quick enough, have enough distraction or enough anesthesia to prevent the dark thoughts.

Sent by Jane | 8:00 PM ET | 01-24-2007

Leroy,

When I write a young man we know who is serving in Iraq, I try to just tell him about everyday life rather than ask him about the war. It just occurred to me, maybe you would like to hear a non-cancer story once in awhile! Just everyday life!

So, the other day my husband and I were driving to work together (we have the pleasure of being faculty members at a small rural community college). At the same time, we noticed a very large mallard standing much taller than the other ducks that were gathered on the lawn of the VFW hall, near the river that feeds the lake we live on. We thought maybe it was just a trick of our perception, maybe the angle we looked at it. We were in a hurry, but a few days later saw the ducks were back at the VFW so we drove into the lot to get a closer look. And there he was —his huge mallard, the size of the Canadian geese who are also our neighbors on the lake! We looked more closely, and he was not quite as pretty as a mallard. He had blotches of brown in the green and his tail feathers looked different than the other males. He moved awkwardly, I suppose from his large size, and he was a bit of a bully.

We learned from a neighbor that he had seen the same "duck, but that it was with the Canadian geese that like to hang out in the lake in front of our houses. Apparently, he cannot figure out where he belongs.

One of my husband's students informed him that it is possible, but not common, for a goose to breed with a duck. However, the offspring (or was it the offspring's offspring?) are sterile. Like a mule?

Well, I don't know what he is, but we have fun coming up with names for him. Like Guck, Doose, MalGoose, Canadian Duck, Gooduck, etc. And of course, Ugly Duckling...

Quack Honk, Quack Honk!

Sent by Kelley E. | 10:31 PM ET | 01-24-2007

All the best to you on Friday! Can certainly appreciate your being excited about the procedure! I'm going to ask my own doctors at Hopkins about this procedure for myself. Hope they say yes! I'll be at Hopkins myself on Friday so Ill definitely be sending positive energy your way!! Take care.

Sent by Sandy Lathe | 10:33 PM ET | 01-24-2007

As I went through 3 surgeries, months of chemotherapy and office visits with my oncologist, the worst part was the waiting and anticipating.

I found that it was very helpful to talk with people who had already gone through the experience. In addition to being an example of someone on the other side of a particularly gruesome procedure, they always had thoughts and ideas about how to cope.

It was always helpful to have a friend, and I was fortunate to have a lifelong friend who was a physician. She came to all my appointments and chemo sessions and was with me at the hospital as I waited for surgery. She was a steadying force and a calm touchstone for me.

And, lastly, I learned to meditate, something that previously there was never time for in my busy life. I was able to reduce my knee jerk response of fear and worry to the situation at hand and stay more calm than before. It was (and is) invaluable.

And, Mr. Sievers, you'll be in my thoughts on Friday.

Sent by Judith Nast | 10:34 PM ET | 01-24-2007

I became addicted to crossword puzzles during my treatments, I never went anywhere without the New York Times Puzzle in my purse, not that I was often able to finish it. I could ignore the waiting and everything going on around me. Even after a year, I still find myself putting one out on the days I need to see any sort of doctor.

The day of my surgery to remove the remnant of my rectal cancer after chemo and radiation, my husband and I were working on the puzzle together as they were hooking my port up to the IV. Afterward, he said it must have seemed kind of callous to the nurse, but it worked for me.

As for the tests and the multiple nasty drinks I was forced to imbibe, I used to think of my doctors in the same position to get myself through. I will never enjoy any type of orange flavor again, I was afraid to try another flavor for fear of never being able to enjoy it again.

I also think experiencing all the tests they so cavalierly order would do some of the physicians a world of good.

Best of luck on Friday — you'll be in my prayers. And for the record, I think sleeping through any procedure is a plus.

Sent by Chris | 10:37 PM ET | 01-24-2007

Leroy,

Do you have a Palm Pilot or a Treo? You can download games like poker, Sudoku, and many other no-brainer pastimes that will keep you occupied. I don't like waiting round for anything, but since I got my little toy, the minutes and hours pass much more quickly. Hope Friday goes well.

Sent by Diana Kitch | 1:46 PM ET | 01-25-2007

Even though I'm getting more and more claustrophobic as I age, I've come up with a couple of mind tricks to get me through the MRIs. First, ask for the washcloth to cover your face — some places do this automatically. Then I imagine I'm at the beach, because that's the only place where you might have a towel over your face.

My second trick is strange. Having just had my 50th birthday, I'm very conscious of aging, so I imagine I'm undergoing a very exclusive anti-aging treatment. When I told a couple of the female techs this one time, they were great. When they pulled me out of the MRI they said in unison, "You look so much younger!" Great of them to play along.

And re: the contrast. I'm "lucky" in that I get that intravenously.

Sent by Jordis Ruhl | 1:52 PM ET | 01-25-2007

Leroy — I'm so excited (and even a bit jealous) about your upcoming procedure on Friday. I wish they could use the procedure on me, but my remaining tumors are county-fair prizewinners in size and too big for ablation. So it's back to the big green chair for more chemotherapy tomorrow to be "marinated" again.

What do I do while in the big green chair during chemo? The whole day is "cancer day" for me — I mostly catch up on e-mail from friends and relatives who want to check on my progress, read your blog, and then fall asleep contented that you have the cancer beat well-covered.

The Crystal Light they use at my radiologist's office is pretty horrible — the strawberry-kiwi flavor just doesn't hide the barium sulfate very well. I'll have to bring some big straws next time. And maybe I'm weird, but I don't mind the "warming" feeling they warn you about when they pump the iodine contrast solution into your veins — I'm always amazed how fast it circulates through my body. It always makes me appreciate the fine workmanship of the human body, even if mine spends too much time in the shop these days.

I'm also always fascinated by the images that the CT and PET scans produce. I always request copies of the scans on CDs from the radiologist so I can spend some time "cruising" through my own body in slices that are 5 millimeters apart. It's almost like a movie.

Again — good luck on Friday!

Sent by Bob Maimone | 1:59 PM ET | 01-25-2007

Hi there,

I'm 27 and September last year realized that my mum went for a check up to the doc only to realize a few days later that she has Colon cancer. My knowledge levels are low on this topic and have never found the perfect person to answer all my questions. I live 600 kilometers away from my mum and get to see her once a month. October 5th she had a part of her colon removed and has been put onto chemo recently. She has all these side effects that just hurt too much to watch her in this pain. She has gone blue in the body, a running tummy that never seems to end, constantly tired. Is this all the way it's supposed to be? Some say minimum 5-year life span — is it true? I don't want to lose her. Eventually it will happen but not now. Not in 5 years. How many people do know have had lived longer and what's the longest? Am I talking nonsense? Please someone help me make sense of this horrible world...

Sent by V. | 2:28 PM ET | 01-25-2007

Well, I thought I was the only one crazy enough to count during radiation blasts. I had 4 "shots," 5x a week for 5 weeks. I can honestly say I never got the same number. I was convinced they were just randomly pushing buttons behind the iron door!

Good luck on Friday.

Sent by Jamie | 2:29 PM ET | 01-25-2007

The best thing I ever learned was the breathing techniques for childbirth. I used the relaxation techniques during any needle sticks and every single radiation treatment. I counted, too — my breaths.

Drinking vile liquids is the hardest part of my treatments. I just have a hard time keeping the crap down. The dietician at the cancer center told me the straw trick and it really helps.

So does sticking to lemon and citrus flavors when possible. But, goodness, I hate the thick stuff before a pelvic CAT scan.

Oh, can't wait to hear about Friday. I will keep you in my thoughts all day.

Sent by Robin Smith | 2:31 PM ET | 01-25-2007

Leroy, I've been a reader of your column for some time but have never posted a reply. I have breast cancer (diagnosis 7 years ago, double mastectomy, chemo and radiation) and am in remission. Here is my approach, as you requested: I wore my mother's ring (she is deceased) to every appointment as a comfort. I prayed during every test and radiation treatment, not that I would be cured, but I prayed to cooperate with this circumstance in my life and with the process of assessment and treatment. I prayed that I would learn and become a better person because of this experience. I prayed for all of the people involved in my care, that we would all be our best selves during our time together. And during chemo, I focused on the people administering my drugs, establishing relationships and hoping that they would look forward to each appointment with me. I requested the same nurse each time (Dawn) because I enjoyed and trusted her. I reminded myself that thousands of patients had endured and triumphed over this process before me. Now my prayers are of gratitude for every day of life. I thank you for your words of depth, honesty and intentionality. I pray that every day is meaningful for you.

Sent by Judy | 2:35 PM ET | 01-25-2007

During a bone marrow biopsy, my doctor at the time counted backwards with me as a distraction. He said he could get me through it without anesthesia (since its a fairly quick procedure), and he did.

Somehow I became brave with needles by dealing with them directly. I would watch the needle go in as if to prove myself brave. I became desensitized to them, except for the couple of times the chemo nurse had trouble with a vein. Now, almost five years out, that same bravery is much diminished.

For Rad Sim at Sloan Kettering, the room had stained glass on the ceiling. I also would take photographs as much as I could of whatever procedure I was having. Perhaps it made me more of a participant than merely a patient.

I remember during my very first important blood test, I envisioned myself as an older man with greying hair, holding a baby. Visualizing a future gave me hope. And for CT scans, I try to visualize myself —without sounding too corny — as part of all living things, the universe whatever, as a way to minimize the significance of myself, as one isolated cancer patient. I picture myself as being whole and untainted.

For the contrast, mine is a clear combo with white cranberry juice. It's not that bad really. It's the thick creamier liquid I remember drinking once for a combo CT/Pet Scan that was pretty nasty.

Leroy, you're a great man for sharing your story. Good luck on Friday.

Sent by Glen D. | 2:50 PM ET | 01-25-2007

My husband always goes to chemo with me. We don't usually talk much — I listen to music on my iPod or we both read. But I know he's there, and it makes a huge difference. It's inside those machines that I really have to face being alone with this disease: CAT, MUGA, Bone Scan, Radiation, etc. Usually I try emptying my mind and focusing all my attention on my breath — something I learned in a meditation class. I do it imperfectly, but it helps me stay calm. Sometimes I listen to old hymns inside my head. Something like "A Mighty Fortress is my God!" booming out with loud organ accompaniment and the Morman Tabernacle Choir. I'm not particularly religious, but those old songs from childhood do give me strength. I also sometimes say prayers like the 23rd Psalm ("Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for Thou art with me..." or the Serenity Prayer: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change courage to change the things I can and wisdom to know the difference."

Sent by Doris | 2:56 PM ET | 01-25-2007

I'll be sending positive vibes to you tomorrow. You're an inspiration to everyone who reads your blog.

My "cancer adventure" involved 11 months of chemo, plus all the attendant CT scans, exams, biopsies, etc. I found 25 mg. of xanax before all these procedures helped enormously! I especially liked it for chemo because it didn't make me sleepy and I actually enjoyed using that time to read. As for mental preparation going into a procedure or test, I was glad to be doing anything that had a chance of taming or even vanquishing the monster.

Sent by Ann Stern | 3:09 PM ET | 01-25-2007

Leroy — I simply want to say thank you for your blog — I don't have cancer and no one in my family is sick, but I am deeply interested and moved by your blogs. Just thank you so much.

Sent by Linda Hilsen | 3:16 PM ET | 01-25-2007

Dear Leroy,

Thank you for sharing your very personal experience about battling cancer. I'm moved and inspired by your bravery, pragmatism and honesty. Your eloquent stories help me to keep life in perspective, and remind me of what is important.

I lost my mother this past summer. She suffered from Multiple Sclerosis. It's so hard to be alive when you're in pain, and losing your bodily functions. Mom had tremendous anger the last few years, and directed it at those of us who reached out to help her. It took months after mom's death for my mind to find the happy memories of her. The bad ones are now quickly fading away.

Because of my experience caring for mom, I especially love hearing you say "But it's still life, and it's a life worth living." This outlook is a tremendous gift to your family.

God bless.

Sent by S. Beck | 3:44 PM ET | 01-25-2007

OK, this is by far the corniest coping technique listed so far but when a procedure gets too painful, annoying, scary or whatever, I start singing in my head the song "My Favorite Things" from "The Sound of Music." Talk about positive imaging! And if the unpleasant thing goes on too long, I start making up a list of my own favorite things and listing them to the melody, ALWAYS in my head. It can really take me away from what's going on and keep be amused and distracted. I save that trick for when things are really bad. Relaxation breathing techniques work well for me for the less hairy stuff. Also, chatting and joking with the nurses and technicians always makes everything much more pleasant.

At the hospital where I have my CT scans done, I get to bring in two bottles of Snapple, in whatever flavor I want, for drinking down the contrast dye.

I always have great plans for what to do during chemo (knitting, reading, puzzles, music) and bring in a huge totebag of stuff and then end up falling asleep after just 30 minutes only to wake up with no time to do any of the fun stuff I've brought along.

Best wishes for Friday. Can't wait to hear your report.

Sent by Martha | 8:15 PM ET | 01-25-2007

Leroy, thank you for all your blogs. Informative and inspirational. Thinking all good thoughts for you tomorrow.

Sent by Elizabeth | 8:17 PM ET | 01-25-2007

When I did chemo last fall we had Chemo Parties. My husband and I would pack up Scrabble, Candyland, or a funny movie and attempted to have fun! More often than not our days at the hospital playing games led to nurses asking us to keep it down or shutting the door to our room. While the actual treatment was never ever fun, we did our best to lighten the mood.

Sent by Megan Hutchinson Krings | 8:19 PM ET | 01-25-2007

Hi Leroy,

This is my first visit and the first time I have ever even blogged. I'm sending healing light, thoughts, and prayers in your direction for tomorrow. I am also a survivor, almost 4 years from stage 3 colon cancer. Lots of bumps in the road since. I pray, meditate, and visualize throughout tests and procedures. I've also asked friends and family to wrap me in healing light at the particular time ? it's a wonderful comfort that you can actually feel.

Another suggestion is to take yourself to a favorite spot, (for me it's a particular beach) and just be there and rest. It's a mix of acceptance along with a fighting spirit. Sounds like you indeed have both. Blessings to you for this journey.

Sent by Kathleen | 3:41 PM ET | 01-26-2007

My constant companion during procedures was classical piano music on the iPod. Podcasts (especially NPR!) are very diverting as well.

I was also very grateful that I had had experience with meditation, as the practice has been extremely helpful to me.

Sent by Bridget | 3:47 PM ET | 01-26-2007

Dear Leroy,

When I was going through chemo and radiation (at the same time) I used visualization. As I was laying on the table during the radiation, I imagined it killing all the "bad guys" and leaving the good ones alone. With the chemo, I had constantly for five days, at home, and believed that it was doing the same thing. During this whole process, I was very positive and in my heart I knew I was going to OK. I am a survivor seven years. My mother and father died of cancer, so I've been on both sides. Good luck to you. I like reading your articles and wish you the best.

Sent by P. Hartman | 4:03 PM ET | 01-26-2007

I have had a lot of CT scans over the past year. I always have to drink this fluid called gastrografin. It's a little bottle of hideous flavored stuff that has to be mixed with three cups of liquid. The typical schedule is out of bed at 5 am for the first cup, read or listen to music till 6 am when I drink the remaining two cups, then into the CT machine at 7 am. It always seems easier to me to get the thing done early.

One of the PET/CT technicians suggested that I use cranberry juice to mix with the "ghastly" grafin as that covers the taste reasonably well. It works pretty well for me I mix it with about two cups of a cranberry/apple/pear juice combo that I buy at Trader Joes. It still doesn't taste good, but I can just drink it without doing any hold-my-nose type tricks.

Good luck! You're helping me to stay hopeful too!

Sent by Bill | 5:07 PM ET | 02-04-2007