It's a normal part of the conversation in my breast cancer chat room to share advice about how to cope with going through chemotherapy. Suggestions are given about how to lose your hair (don't let it fall out, it's a mess. Buzz it off when your scalp starts to tingle and get sore) How to deal with the skin burns from rads (lather on the aloe vera cream). What it means when your nails turn black and fall off (that's a side effect of some of the chemotherapy). We talk about which wigs are best, how to cope with the fatigue (read exhaustion) that treatment causes. What to do about husbands or others who turn away when they're needed most. The room was filled to overflowing last night with women who've been dealing with all of this for years, and new ones, just learning the lingo of their new lives. It all seems so friendly, so mundane... until you sit back and look at what were saying... no recipe exchanges or political discussions. It's just cancer.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 11:48 AM ET | 01-04-2007

And yet it's still not satisfying to the part of me that always rebelled against authority, because now I'm being told to do the things on the other side of the line. It's not my choice. As with so many things that have happened to me since my diagnosis, I have no real choice in the matter. After I finished my six months of poison the doctor gave me a month off to get feeling better before the scans and as you've said before the waiting is the hardest part. I have a whole month to wait to find out if the last six months have been worth the effort or a waste of precious time. I wish I felt good enough to enjoy the time, but a least I get to spend the time with my family.

Sent by John Clark | 11:51 AM ET | 01-04-2007

No wonder I feel like I have cooties.

Sent by Cheryl Leatherwood | 11:52 AM ET | 01-04-2007

Leroy, you said it perfectly! That is exactly how I felt, only I don't think I ever put those feelings into words or even thoughts. But when I read you post, I had a real flashback to that cold gray room.

You are so important to all of us in the cancer community with your gift of putting our experiences into words. I know how disheartening your news has been lately and how tired you must be. I pray that God will give you strength. I know that you have courage. I pray for strength for you to get up and go to radiation every day, strength to smile when you don't feel like it, strength to continue to write this podcast. Never forget and never doubt the good that you do when you reach out to your cancer family.

Sent by Cathy | 11:54 AM ET | 01-04-2007

Leroy, As a cancer "newbie," I have just joined in reading your blog, and have found that it resonates very clearly with my own short experience with the disease. I look forward to following your journey. My best wishes to you!

Sent by John | 11:55 AM ET | 01-04-2007

Well, maybe we can join together to be the band of outlaws for whom the "rules" don't matter. Thankfully, it isn't "us against them" — it's all of us against cancer. For now were walking on the wild side. :)

Sent by Katie | 11:56 AM ET | 01-04-2007

Every six months I listen to a disembodied voice telling me to "hold your breath," and then, "breathe." After seven years I know the chief CT tech, a lovely woman named Wendy. She has raised five daughters alone because cancer stole her husband. Sometimes I think that I must glow in the gloom of the CT tube. I've been radiated, CTd, MRId and PETd. All because of cancer. But, seven years later, I am still here ... glowing in the dark.

Thank you for your blog and for sharing your journey. You make my day and my journey relevant because of your courage and generosity.

Sent by Kathleen Shapiro | 12:01 PM ET | 01-04-2007

Dear Leroy,

There is yet another line we get to cross, and is much better over here on this side, much less scary. That line is to acceptance instead of fighting so hard. That sounds bad and isn't quite what I mean. I have signed up with Hospice and am no longer going to doctors, no longer receiving treatment, no longer getting irradiated. Those things have their place, but not in my life anymore. And now, my life is much safer feeling, more peaceful and surer. I can concentrate on living my life, what is left of it.

I am still working full time, and my sick leave is actually accumulating for when I really need it. I didn't think that would ever happen again. No more bad news from doctors, telling me grim tidings. No more needles, poisons, or irradiation. Don't get me wrong, these things all have their places, just not in my life anymore. I am beyond their reach, across another line, into a new zone, one I have no name for.

Sent by Stephanie Dornbrook | 12:12 PM ET | 01-04-2007

Leroy, I take Eubitux and Camptosar. All of my previous treatments came in bags. The Camptosar comes in a thick glass bottle. When I asked why, the nurse said she didn't know. I concluded that it was so strong it would burn through the bag. Sure hope it works! I really enjoy your blogs and look forward to reading them each day. I've got my Mom and chemo friends reading too. You are generous to share your life with us. Have a blessed day.

Sent by Debbie | 12:14 PM ET | 01-04-2007

I ignore the warnings also — you know why? Because we're immune to that stuff. It can't hurt us — we are special.

Now, don't you feel sorry for those vulnerable humans?

Sent by Pete Tarantola | 12:16 PM ET | 01-04-2007

Leroy, thank you for raising this issue, and for your continued thoughtfulness. For thyroid cancer, one of the common treatments is radioactive iodine. For high doses, most people are hospitalized. I remember one of my treatments, walking into a hospital room where everything was covered in plastic — the floors, the walls, the phone, the bed. When they give you the dose, they are wearing a radioactive suit and gloves. The pills look so innocuous, except that they are contained in several lead pugs. And then you, sitting there on a plastic bed in a hospital gown that will have to be burned when you leave, are told to swallow the pills. And then the hospital staff leaves and you're all alone in that room. No one can come see you because you would radiate them. Your food is slid into the room on a plastic tray. I had terrible reactions to the I-131, but was told that I had to try not to vomit for the first 24 hours so that the radiation could get into my system.

Once a day, someone comes in wearing a radioactive suit and carrying a Geiger counter, which they scan over your body, and it starts to click. Each day this continues, until they finally say it is safe for you to leave. You have to strip the room yourself and place everything in radioactive materials bins before leaving.

I have never felt so alone as when I sat in that hospital room, hoping this poison was saving my life.

Sent by Sarah | 1:48 PM ET | 01-04-2007

As always in your posts, you're right on the money. Being on the other side of the line is definitely how it feels to have cancer. Hang in there, Leroy.

Sent by Martha | 1:50 PM ET | 01-04-2007

Leroy,

I've been listening to you and reading about your life for the past year or so and I cannot imagine, as much as I try, what it is to be in the fight against cancer. I do, however, have a better perspective and understanding of the fight by your continuous testimony. My grandfather Roman, my aunt Doneen and a good friend, Kim, have left my life due to cancer. I did not grasp fully the time I had left with them, and I wish that I had given more of my time to them. I wanted to thank you for sharing your life and further changing my soul.

I do wish there was something I could do to ease the struggles for all involved when cancer enters a person's life. If you (or anyone) read this, I work with a company that makes a machine that does concentrated radiation. I don't want this to be a sales pitch or anything. I get nothing by mentioning them. If you have not heard of it, the company is called Tomotherapy. You can look it up on the Internet with your doctor and see if they might help.

Sorry, but aside from prayer, that is all I know to do to help. I do pray that you and all those with cancer would be given everything you need to make it through.

Sent by Phil Dreger | 1:55 PM ET | 01-04-2007

I have not gone through the pain of the body but the pain of losing someone to cancer — how do you name a demon?

Sent by Dew Sides | 1:57 PM ET | 01-04-2007

I firmly agree in your statement "If we don't talk about it, who will?" While I have not been inflicted by cancer myself, the woman who raised me suffered from bone cancer. She was my grandmother and we lived side by side for many years. She was my best friend, worst enemy and my heart. She taught me about friends, boyfriends, my period and many other things most mothers teach their daughters. What she didn't educate me on was her cancer. For almost a year I had no idea what was going on with her. I was left confused, homeless and alone when the cancer finally took her away. I wish I had known more about everything — good and bad. Thank you for educating me now. It has been 20 years and I still need to understand.

Sent by Dawn Walker | 2:10 PM ET | 01-04-2007

Hi Leroy,

I know that lately you haven't received good news and your last comments reflect this. I just want to say that I'm part of the thousands of readers who read your blog everyday and wish the best and pray for you. You're alive and fighting. Remember doctors don't have the last word. Wishing you all the best, happy new year.

Sent by Claudia | 3:02 PM ET | 01-04-2007

I don't mind walking the line and in fact during my existence here I have actually fallen over the line, but always to pick myself back up and get back on the line... cancer, once again, that evil enemy, has taken away my choice of whether to stay on the line or cross over it... and this time I am barreling over that line... I have hope that this line will be the last line I have to cross!

Sent by Marianne Dalton | 3:59 PM ET | 01-04-2007

Mr. Sievers,

I am writing to let you know how brave and gracious that I believe you are in sharing your innermost thoughts and feelings about your disease and its impact on all aspects of your life. As a Hospice Social Worker, I have found your musings extremely valuable in my efforts to gain a greater insight into and empathy for the people and families whom we serve. As a human being, I have found your words to be touching and poignant. I have encouraged other Hospice staff members (from social workers and chaplains to nurses and administrators), personally and through our agency's newsletter, to read you messages for similar benefits. In addition, I have cited your blog as a potential resource of support and information for the families with whom I have had to honor to meet, who are facing similar life-challenging illnesses... I hope you don't mind. You should know that you have touched many more lives than you will ever realize, and I greatly admire how you have turned a potentially devastating situation into a beautiful gift to others. Thank you for your generosity.

Sent by Beth Brashear | 4:07 PM ET | 01-04-2007

Dear Leroy, I've been following your story. When I hear cases like yours I always hope that I can help. Then I found this comment section and I pray you take my input seriously.

I work at a place where we see an average of over 20 cancer cases medically verified as cured per month. These are done miraculously by God's Holy Spirit. I implore you to carefully read through the Gospels and Acts of the Bible looking for what pertains to your case. Notice the phenomenal ramifications of Luke chapters 9 and 10 and Matthew 10 for starters. This is all there for our present as well as eternal benefit. Please avail yourself. Praying for you...

Sent by Pete Sawyer | 4:20 PM ET | 01-04-2007

Leroy,

I thought of you the other night while waiting for my son to go in for an emergency CT scan. I crossed that line and sat with him through the procedure and then waited for the call from the on-call doctor.

After the experience, I have a better understanding of what you and so many others go through on a daily basis. And yes, I see the medical staff as saints for dealing with a needle-adverse child and a passing-out mom.

You are never far from our thoughts.

Sent by Marie | 6:22 PM ET | 01-04-2007

My sister and I made a trip to Ward, Arkansas, to see Kathryn, Mother's cousin's wife. We took Kathryn to a cancer clinic in a nearby town. I believe Kathryn had to get a thalidomide shot. This poem by Ted Kooser makes me think of our visit with Kathryn:

'At the Cancer Clinic'

She is being helped toward the open door / that leads to the examining rooms / by two young women I take to be her sisters. / Each bends to the weight of an arm / and steps with the straight, tough bearing / of courage. At what must seem to be / a great distance, a nurse holds the door, / smiling and calling encouragement. / How patient she is in the crisp white sails / of her clothes. The sick woman / peers from under her funny knit cap / to watch each foot swing scuffing forward / and take its turn under her weight. / There is no restlessness or impatience / or anger anywhere in sight. Grace / fills the clean mold of this moment / and all the shuffling magazines grow still.

Sent by Catherine Vivio | 5:26 PM ET | 01-05-2007

Hi Leroy,

I noticed the same thing when I was going through treatments. Going through chemo and rads is a different twist on the idea of living dangerously. I always wanted a life with adventure, but these weren't the adventures I had in mind.

As someone who grew up in a very health conscious home, a cancer diagnosis was a most unexpected thing. The toxic treatments completely terrified me, especially that first dose of chemo. Think anaphalactic shock — probably caused by fear of the toxic stuffs rather than the IVs of stuffs themselves. It seemed like the treatments might create more problems than solve. By the time I got through radiation, I felt like I could qualify as a small Superfund site.

Luckily for me, except for my sudden inability to hold still and hold my breath (fear of being fried and toxicities again), radiation turned out to be a much less painful experience than chemo.

Hang in there! And thank you for sharing.

Sent by Lilly T. | 5:30 PM ET | 01-05-2007

Leroy — I have only gotten to know you through your blog. You seem like a very humble person who would think that they are simply just writing what they observe and how they feel fighting this terrible disease. Your courage and strength has changed the world for the better. I hope and pray that you are with us for many, many more years. Pat

Sent by Patrick Lau | 5:41 PM ET | 01-05-2007

The note from Sarah above about the treatment for her thyroid cancer. I can imagine that people will see that note and still not get it. Sarah, we do understand.

Sent by Irene | 5:43 PM ET | 01-05-2007

I still think it's amazing that despite our different ages, backgrounds, doctors, geographical locations, etc. how similar our experiences are. I wrote something similar regarding radiation and chemo in my blog on October 6, 2006, in a blog entitled "I hate cancer-speak." You can find it here, if you're interested:

From one Stage IV NSCLC guy to another, best of luck.

Sent by Tom Clarke | 5:45 PM ET | 01-05-2007

Pete — Sweet post, but the Bible is a place to confirm your faith. Cancer is a science-based reality. I believe in God, too, and can appreciate your firm belief system, but your post is "over the top." I don't know your level of medical or science knowledge, but I found your post troublesome. If curing cancer answers were in the Bible, then who needs the Universe Of Knowledge (i.e. God's gift)? Pete, you're disconnected from reality IMHO.

Sent by Laura | 5:48 PM ET | 01-05-2007

As always, you're right on, Leroy! This post made me chuckle, remembering an incident last winter when I was being given Adriamycin, a chemotherapy drug I believe many women with breast cancer receive. It's not a "clear fluid" at all, but a scary-looking, bright red! And the information I had been given in advance stressed how damaging it can be if the tiniest spill (internal or external) occurs. It sounded as if they were planning to inject battery acid through my vein. Nurses have to put on full-length gowns and gloves and eye coverings before administering it. Then they get a large syringe and inject it into the IV line, verrrry slowly and carefully. Well, one day, the nurse started chatting with someone across the room as she gave me my Adriamycin. I looked down and saw that it had seeped out and puddled on my skin, beneath my wristwatch! Trying to stay calm, I called her attention to it rather frantically. She just said, "Ooops" and wiped it off casually!! I guess all the danger matters more or less depending on which side of the line one is on...

Sent by Doris | 5:50 PM ET | 01-05-2007

Hello,

I was referred to this blog by a wonderful young woman who battles this insidious disease with courage and faith in the world around her. It seems strange that she should be the person giving me the address of this site, as it was a mere two years ago I called upon her for a shoulder to lean on, as I cared for my partner of twenty-five years, struggling in the final stages of ovarian cancer. I did not know her very well, and yet she shared with me that she had been through this with her deceased husband. Her compassion was so deeply appreciated then, and I kept in touch after losing my companion. Indeed, I was devastated when I spoke with her not six months ago, and listened to her telling me that this most unkind and devastating disease was now robbing her of her health and stamina. My heart ached for her, for her husband and for all the people who love her and care for her so deeply.

Meeting with her the other day gave me hope for her future. I can only applaud her for her courage and her determination to beat this all.

Reading the comments here brought much back to my mind. I will add that I remained at my partner's side throughout each treatment, including radiation. I would not allow the separation, as I knew that separation would also affect her spirit. It was mandatory for me to garb in proper attire for the radiation, and proceed with caution, which I did. We made a game of this, often playing space people from another time and place... of course I was the alien then! It did help, I would like to think.

My hardest time arrived, not when she peacefully slumbered off in my arms that night, but months later, after everyone in her life at one time had long abandoned her, as they could not face the reality of what was happening. The cruelty of their criticisms about the care I provide her, how I allowed her to act childishly and not face her disease, how I let her eat what she wanted when things just tasted bad to her, as well as many other judgments. It was painful, as I wondered at first if any of what was said had validity, and even worse, were these her thoughts at any time. The pain began to grow from the comments, until one day when near the waters edge, praying, I realized that not one of her family members ever came to take her for a "Sunday Ride," they never offered to take her for treatment, never phoned just to say hello. Many days she cried, not understanding why they did not at least call. Yet they were the first to say I stressed her by making her go out, taking her for rides, and trying to stretch the last of many years shared into a very short amount of time comparably. They passed comments of how I allowed her to act like a child, because I struggled to provide her the frivolous things she had never had as a child. If anything I thought she deserved her childhood before she left this earth. So what if she wore funny hats, and shirts with silly sayings... who did this truly hurt? No one, I thought... their talk was idle talk from guilt of their own as I look back. They were in a far better position to provide her with the things she asked for, and more, as she asked for very little. I have no guilt today, as I know I did all I could do, I was there until the very end, and all through the five years of processes she endured. I have no regrets, except that we were denied opportunity to grow old together as planned years ago when we first met.

Thanks for allowing me to express all that I have never had the chance to say prior.

Sent by Robin Waters | 8:36 PM ET | 01-05-2007

A fellow cancer fighter with a similar sense of humor sent me your site. I am grateful. My friends seem to be distinct in their support of me: humor, chatty notes, spiritual words, and just ignore the whole thing. It proves infinitely fascinating to me, which is which.

I'm so blessed by your openness to share with us what is often so private. Thank you.

Sent by G.L. | 3:06 PM ET | 01-06-2007

Mr. Sievers, I absolutely loved your piece today. It is so on target. I read it to my husband and he was awed. Hope the radiation will do the trick and you will get back on track. Think about you often, particularly when I'm at the cancer center (No. 5 chemo today with one more to go for Carbo, Taxol, and Avastin) and then every three weeks for Avastin. Have been wondering if you have made your decision about continuing chemo. Always wishing you the best.

Sent by Sandy Lathe | 2:23 PM ET | 01-08-2007

Hi Leroy,

Thanks again for writing your blog... you're so articulate, I really enjoy your writing... there are few people in this world w/that talent. I've been watching the movies that Michael Landon Jr. has been making. They're a series, 4 so far, this last one just came out on rental. The title is Loves abiding joy. They are similar to Little House on the prairie shows his dad produced.

I'm still praying for you every day.

Sent by Carol Whitman | 2:42 PM ET | 01-08-2007