It is so interesting how you wrote about this topic today! I live in a world filled with children (middle school, high school, college teens) and adults. It never ceases to amaze me how young adults vs adults address my illness. I do ALWAYS "tell it" like it is and the reaction between the two generations is striking to me. Adults look at me and are sometimes speechless and almost ignorant when it comes to receiving my information about my cancer. On the other hand the young adults are able to handle the facts of the illness with thoughtfulness, kindness, without the "sad" puppy dog expression of pity that I so despise!

Leroy, I am hoping that someday you will take this blog and put it on paper to be published... calling it "conversations with cancer"... that's my wish! Then maybe someone out there will begin to understand what it is all about...

Sent by Marianne Dalton | 11:51 AM ET | 01-05-2007

The plus side of sharing is that you will feel a little bit less alone, and a little more like someone else is along for the ride — even if he or she cannot feel everything you're feeling. That's what friendship is.

Sent by Crow | 1:48 PM ET | 01-05-2007

Leroy — Cancer is a foreign experience. I know that I didn't have a clue about it, really, until I was diagnosed. And I have heard from so many folks about parents dying just 20-25 years ago, and the word "cancer" never being mentioned. It was frightening, it was a death sentence, it wasn't discussed.

So, yes, we do need to talk about it. You have been a role model for me, and I'm sure for many of us, in speaking about this experience. I discovered your blog soon after you created it, which was soon after I was diagnosed. With you as a model, I decided to create my own blog to tell my story. In it, I explore the physical manifestations of the disease, but also the emotional, spiritual, and relational aspects. I want my friends and family to read it, so that they have background on what I am, or have been, feeling even before we get together. I'm happy to talk about my illness, I just don't want to spend all of my time repeating the details.

And since I have a rare cancer (gallbladder cancer), I want to provide information and links to those newly encountering this disease. I have felt so useful when connecting with the family member of a newly diagnosed person, knowing that I can provide information through my blog to others in my situation. My blog is entitled "Life Changing Cancer" and its at www.dahlborg.blogspot.com. Cancer has changed my life. It's an experience I would never have chosen, but I am doing my best to make the best of the hand dealt.

Thank you for what you have done to make this journey a little easier.

Sent by Lynne Dahlborg | 1:51 PM ET | 01-05-2007

Marianne spoke of the difference between adults and children, as to how they receive information about our cancer.

My experience has been that the difference is more between individuals than between age groups. Many family members, friends, are just not ready to hear the details.

You can immediately pick out a receptive person — their compassion is palpable. They really want to listen and, sometimes, learn.

Sent by Don Winslow | 2:00 PM ET | 01-05-2007

No one can ever know what it is really like to experience a primary cancer diagnosis or that of a recurrence or eventually one for metastatic disease until they are the one receiving that diagnosis. At that point, all preconceived notions of how one will react and what treatment will be chosen fly out the window. How many women diagnosed with breast cancer who previously said they would have double mastectomies end up choosing lumpectomies for their treatment? Talking about one's experience serves as education for friends and relatives and increases their awareness and sensitivity towards cancer issues and certainly reduces the stigma associated with cancer. I agree that as cancer patients, we need to keep the dialogue open (and sometimes to force the dialogue). Not doing so is isolating for all parties.

I, too, find myself sometimes searching the same cancer sites over and over looking for some overlooked piece of information that could answer my questions — give some meaning or greater understanding to this experience. It is like there is an answer buried in all that information just waiting for me to find. I doubt there is, but I keep looking!

As for our lives and daily cancer experience becoming so routine and mundane, isn't that just our coping strategy? Our will to live a normal life? The strength to live fully and daily and get on with it? I think it is. Sometimes we don't tell people because there is such an ingrained desire not to complain or give in to cancer. I still want to do all that I did before my diagnosis.

But what about those people that don't want to know what we are going through? I mean, those people close to us, who just don't want to hear. Or those who insist on saying that even with metastatic disease, we will be the miracle person and be cured? I find that trivializes my disease and what I am trying to work out for myself. Is it no wonder that when death becomes imminent, people say well she never discussed her wishes or her thoughts with me? The answer is that she tried, early on in the process, but felt so shut down that she just stopped trying. A lesson to all of us: Keep communication of all sorts open. From the beginning.

I wonder if Nancy K. Clark, who always has such insightful responses to your blog, would tell me what chat room she visits. It sounds like they have some good discussions that I could benefit from. Thank you, Nancy.

And thank you, Leroy. Reading your blog is one of the first things I do every morning. Happy healthy new year to you.

Sent by Em | 4:18 PM ET | 01-05-2007

Hi Leroy,

I hope you don't mind, but I just had to send a comment to Stephanie, who wrote recently about "stepping over the line" into Hospice care. Stephanie, you are amazing. Thank you for sharing your experience and helping me to understand.

Sent by Trish | 4:24 PM ET | 01-05-2007

As you've mentioned before, not everyone is ready for all the details or all the truth. There are times and people to whom you owe the complete truth, but you have to pick and choose people. I find that a year out from my treatment, some people are just plain nosy. They ask intimate questions about how it affected me without being close enough to know. I pretty much blow them off. My family deserves answers for any questions they choose to ask, but as I've been able to put the experience behind me, so have they so the questions are now few and far between. I've always tried to answer their questions with the truth if I had it or with the uncertainty, which was all we knew at the time.

Even as I write this, I still only share with my husband any problems I'm having or if a doctor has suggested a biopsy. I try not to worry anyone if something is questionable. Until the results are in, there isn't a lot of use in sharing. It only increases my anxiety and incites theirs. So far, all the biopsies have been negative so only my husband and I are aware of them.

As for sharing my deepest feelings about my cancer and treatment, I have shared more on this blog than anywhere else and I am truly grateful to you, Leroy, for the healing it has given me.

Sent by Chris | 4:43 PM ET | 01-05-2007

In 1993, I took steroids and "mild" chemotherapy drugs and other experimental drugs. At times it felt like an out-of-body experience and I slept so hard that it seemed to me that I was in a coma. I had surgery and recovered from my problem for the most part. It became a memory of a bad time in my life.

When my husband was diagnosed with cancer, the things I learned in 1993 became positives for me. I knew how it felt to be on steroids and have emotions that weren't connected to any events. I knew why he ate and ate and ate. I knew how it felt to have drugs that made me feel like a foreigner in my own body.

I was grateful to have some small idea of what he was going through. Before we had the up close and personal experience with cancer I had no basis for understanding the torture that is cancer and the torture it's treatment can be.

There is a time where hope and denial butt heads. I ought to have realized he had no chance but hope didn't allow me to. In the last couple of months of his life, he repeatedly spoke of the difficulty of living without hope, of giving up. He told me about the night the doctors came for him in his sleep at 2am to take him and he god rid of them. He told me about dust bunnies he saw scrambling across the floor. He phoned me crying his eyes out because he said the doctor said there is nothing else they can do, he will die. It is all I could do to get right to him and by the time I did denial had relieved his morbidity and we had Chinese takeout for lunch and I took him in the wheelchair to the garden to sit. The intimacy of these moments, teetering between the worlds, affect me deep into my soul. I think they always will.

Sent by Irene | 4:47 PM ET | 01-05-2007

I agree with your post, but there is also the flip side of people, too. Those of my friends and family who know I have cancer but it is too hard for them to face. I have tried to talk freely because, let's face it, this is my life now and the subject is quickly changed or they look away. It is hard on them so I let them guide the conversation.

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

My twin sister's beautiful shiny dark brown hair is falling out. She bought some scarves and some new "portable" bangs. I bought her a terry cloth turbine and some scarves and some "portable" hair for her neckline. I don't recall ever seeing the bald head of a person who's been nuked with chemo drugs. So I asked her the other day what it looked like. She said it was patchy. She said it's all over her pillow in the morning when she wakes up. It clogs the shower drain. She's embarrassed to go out of the house. I cried. We've been hooked at the hip for 54+ years. I'm thinking of shearing my salt/pepper locks and shaving MY head so I really know what's it like.

You are so right, Leroy, the spectators need to have their questions answered, no matter how silly, how probing, how painful the answers are.

Sent by Penelope | 5:08 PM ET | 01-05-2007

I started reading your blog because my brother-in-law has brain cancer, stage 4 Multiforme Glioblastoma. He is very much not wanting to talk about anything related to the disease with anyone and, in fact, doesn't even acknowledge that he has cancer anymore. He does not consider the possibility that wont be 100% cured by the follow up chemo and radiation. He believes the initial surgery removed it, the follow up treatment is a little "cleanup", and that hell go on to live a long life and help others the way so many have helped him.

Yesterday, he got his first MRI after the surgery and first round of chemo/radiation. Our family is on pins and needles waiting to hear the results (everyone except of course him because he has no doubt that the results will prove to the world that he no longer has cancer). I hope and pray every day that he is right and that his positive attitude will create that reality for him... but based on what his surgeon told the family and the follow up info I've gleaned from the Internet, I know that the statistics are against him. This is a fact he is determined to remain blissfully unaware of. This is his fight and he is handling it in the way that is right for him. I do my best to stay on board with his approach but it's hard to censor myself sometimes.

After he's corrected me a couple of times, I often find myself just pressing my lips shut and not saying anything at all for a while to avoid saying something that's too "real". He is amazingly steadfast and committed in this approach to dealing with the situation. He used to spend hours researching the littlest details on the Internet when he wanted to purchase something, but now, about this, he simply doesn't want to know. He won't look up or read anything anyone sends him related to his disease (including available clinical trials, info about Avastin, alternative treatments, survivor stories... this blog). It's human nature for those who care about him to want to know how he is feeling and tell him about things that sound hopeful (like Avastin) and ask him what we can do (or not do) to help ease the burden. But we have to respect that he is driving this ship...and that kind of communication is just not to be right now.

I've picked up from other people's comments on previous days that there are other people like me who have a relative with cancer that just doesn't want to talk about it. Among many reasons, that's the main reason I cherish reading your blog every day. You are willing to look at this disease from all angles. You consider all the possibilities and figure out how you feel about them... and share those thoughts, no matter what. It encourages others to do the same and we all benefit from their experiences and feelings as well. My BIL may not be fully considering everything, and may not be willing to discuss his feelings, but I feel like I am much more able to understand what he might be going through or will be going through because of you and all the other kind people here. I'm not sure if that will translate into anything that will help him through it, but even if it doesn't through you at least I'm able to have an outlet to deal with my own emotions about him and this disease in a way that doesn't disturb him or his plan for himself.

You, a total stranger to me, open my heart and cause me to think every single day. Isn't it amazing all the different ways that you are helping people though this blog? Thank you again so much. Bless you and your family.

Sent by Nichole | 5:12 PM ET | 01-05-2007

You have been on my mind ever since I woke up one morning and heard you on the radio telling me that your doctors were trying to kill you. Sounds crazy, but those words made me smile because soon enough, I knew I would be having similar thoughts. Just days before I had been diagnosed with pharyngeal cancer, and back then, we didn't know what path we'd take — poison, slash, or burn. Since then, I have undergone surgery and radiation treatment, and each day I think I am doing a little better.

Anyway, I just want to say that you are my touchstone, Mr. Sievers, with every confusing, chaotic, depressing, amusing, touching, heartfelt, and downright hilarious insight you have into this hideous disease and the path that it takes us on. I will never be able to convey to you how much your words have meant to me. Certainly not with the eloquence and emotion that you display day in and day out. All I can say is thank you? thank you from someone on the other side of the line.

And yes, from day one, my husband and I have spoken frankly about my cancer with our two teenagers, with family, friends, and loved ones. I have been startled on more than one occasion when some folks have tentatively asked, "Have you told the children yet?" How could we not include them in this?!? Of course, we inject a healthy dose of humor into a tough situation and through our shared laughter, our family stays strong. My wish to you and everyone out there dealing with this disease... stay strong... remember to laugh... keep going...

Sent by Peggy | 5:15 PM ET | 01-05-2007

You've had other readers that have written in about their loved ones that never talked about it. I don't know about everyone else, but those are the stories that haunt me. We don't want our loved ones feeling so alone and having to feel like they are supposed to keep this all to themselves. The other posters before me have all said it so well. We want to go on this ride with you. We don't want to be left sitting on the side watching you. We may not know the right things to say and we may not understand it all, but please let us be there with you.

Sent by Chaney | 5:16 PM ET | 01-05-2007

Couldn't agree more about needing to talk about it with friends/family. People want to be needed and relied upon; people want to be included, even if it hurts. Before my cancer diagnosis, hearing of others cancers struck great fear into my heart — I mistakenly thought cancer (always) equaled death. I know now that is not always so, each cancer patients journey is different. I regularly email a large group of folks to give updates and they so appreciate it. Perhaps we with cancer are educating others in a very meaningful way by sharing. Thank you Leroy for inspiring us with daily thoughts/questions. Love to you.

Sent by Sherri Eggleston | 5:19 PM ET | 01-05-2007

After reading today's blog, I found myself feeling confused. I, too, agree that we have to talk about it with our loved ones. But what happens when you take that approach and your sister says that she is "sick of your cancer" or people who give you the unspoken message — don't tell or even those that just plain disappear. Please understand that I have not been one to talk just about cancer, I want to be part of life and all of the daily stuff but I also don't want to have to pretend that all is well — so perhaps I have not balanced it well enough or perhaps after six years of dealing with this — people really are sick of it and me. Guess I'm in a sad place with feeling very lonely with the cancer.

Sent by Lori | 5:54 PM ET | 01-05-2007

I find it hard to try to explain what it feels like to have cancer to others because I'm not really sure myself. The knowledge seems to stay in my brain, but not reach my soul. I've read to biopsy reports, seen the PET scans, have the physical reminders (no hair, rock hard expander-breasts, brand new tattoos), and could feel the lump before it was removed. But the fact of it doesn't penetrate to the core. The fact that it could kill me REALLY doesn't penetrate. I look around at my fellow patients and think, "Yep, you've got cancer". But what am I doing here?

Sent by Marcia Becker | 5:58 PM ET | 01-05-2007

I couldn't agree with you more for today's comments. I was diagnosed with breast cancer in September and have been going through chemotherapy for the past two months. I send out weekly e-mails to my family and friends explaining everything in detail, whether good or bad, and they appreciate it very much.

All my best to you with your treatments.

Sent by Rachel Desmarais | 6:00 PM ET | 01-05-2007

Leroy, I want to commend you for your courage in writing everyday about this all-consuming event in your life. I have been reading everyday, as I was diagnosed with rectal cancer 9/2004. It has been a long road of chemo, radiation, and major surgeries, and now I am left with a permanent colostomy at the age of 47. I have tried the past 2 years to find the right words to covey my feelings to my husband, children, and extended family. Your entry from yesterday (1/4/07) "Crossing the Line" exactly expressed my feelings and emotions. Thank you for sharing and I will keep you in my thoughts and prayers. Stay strong and always believe!

Sent by Maria Jung | 6:02 PM ET | 01-05-2007

Hello Leroy,

I heard one of your commentaries on NPR — it was the one where you talked about your hopes for the new year and it really touched my heart. It resonated with my own hopes and fears as I went through treatment for metastatic colon cancer (translation — as you probably know — terminal). It was a shock — as most diagnoses are. I was 31, in "good" health and on vacation. Next thing I know I'm getting a C-scope and admitted into the hospital and operated on — all within 24 hours — never say I don't know how to have a vacation! It was a blur and I was so naive that when they told me I was stage IV I asked how many stages there were. Only 4, the answer came. Oh, ooooohhhh — that's not good, I thought. Yet I felt fine (minus a foot or so of colon and a piece of liver, but hey that's chump change). I went through 8 months of chemo and 28 days of radiation to emerge dazed, tired, probably radioactive with slightly less hair — in remission not sure what to do without the structure of cancer treatment!

I decided that if I didn't have much time to live that I had a choice — each day I could choose to live with joy and hope or despair and depression. Each day (but not every night!) I chose hope (heck, if I didn't have much time, darn it, I was going to live!). And so 8 years and 5 months later, I stand still somewhat dazed at my good fortune — still cancer free. I really only asked "why?" one time. A couple years ago I asked my onc "Why me? Why did I survive? What was it about my genetics or whatever that saved me?" He really had no answer — just said it happens sometimes that way (guess I just wasn't tasty enough for the cancer!). I figure death knows where I live, but is saving me for another purpose.

I will say cancer gave me a totally different perspective on life and in odd ways, I'm grateful to have had the experience (wouldn't wish it on anyone and wouldn't want it again...) So fellow traveler, I wish you well and hope your travels are not too bumpy!

Sent by Heidi Duff | 9:57 AM ET | 01-08-2007

Hi Leroy-

With cancer, I felt like life was suddenly boiled down to black and white and 2-dimensional, like a comic strip, but I was walking through it. I could usually pick any situation and put people on either one side or the other — the ones that could listen and those that couldn't. The ones at the store that looked at me with pity and the ones that teased me for being a bald woman. Everything was boiled down to the basics, it seemed. This included my way of thinking of things. Life seemed less complex, as crazy as that may sound. All of a sudden, it didn't matter if I was overweight, had wrinkles or grey hair, if my house was too small or my neighborhood wasn't the best. I was grateful for each experience, even the unpleasant ones because they reaffirmed that I was here and solid. I stopped worrying about what I didn't have and began thinking about what I did have. Soon I was thanking God and whomever else would listen for allowing me to be in a country where I could receive treatment, that I could still feed my children, that I was able to meet my most basic needs. That has been one of the best things that came out of the disease, because I have been able to keep sight of it. The other best thing is taking life by the horns. Nothing like a little scare with death to make living seem more necessary!

And a thought to Nichole who is worried about the family member who is overly positive... I, too, was overly positive throughout my disease. Overly positive is sometimes necessary for those of us being handed our lives and told to make the best of it. Statistics and "reality" always felt to me like a sentence on death row — it put a ceiling on what I felt was possible. It's not false hope, it's not running from the realities, it's letting go and not being caught up by the fear that permeates this disease. It's believing in your own power and possibility. To me positive thinking was a way to make it possible to dance with the disease, and for me, I came out the better dancer.

Many blessings to you all on this journey.

Sent by Mindy Cardenas | 12:27 PM ET | 01-08-2007

I think you have to pick and choose who you decide to tell about your cancer — you will know which are which — those who look away and end conversations quickly and don't call, those are the ones who aren't able to hear — the ones who sit and look deeply in your eyes and ask questions, any questions and really, really listen, those are the ones who want to hear and can tolerate hearing and are going to be your go-to people.

Stick with them. If you reach out enough, and you must reach out some, you will find your people who will be there — the universe will provide — but I think having preconceived ideas about who they may be, especially that they must be family, is a trap. You may be disappointed — family can sometimes amaze you with their lack of support. My daughter who has cancer has a caring bridge page, and all of my family has the address — not one has ever, ever left her a message- bad, right??? Maybe, but the Web site is filled with messages from all of the people who love her who aren't family — she has never once asked about or commented on the absence of family in that place — she is wise and knows she is loved. My poor family just can't cope with the intensity of their feelings about this reality. They love her, but they can't talk about it — not their fault — it just isn't possible for them right now. Find your people — they're out there. They may even be looking for you — we have made such incredible friends through this journey we never asked to be on, but we're on it anyway!!

Sent by Alice Williams | 12:32 PM ET | 01-08-2007

One of the issues I run into is that the word "cancer" covers such a wide spectrum of diseases, whose real meaning varies from "minor inconvenience" to "death sentence". It's such a loaded word. People likely react to it based on their own experience with family or friends, which may or may not correlate to your own situation. Telling people stage, grade and a general indication of prognosis can help them understand more clearly where we are at, if they have a general familiarity with cancer basics. Thanks for your blog.

Sent by Jeff | 12:48 PM ET | 01-08-2007

You are so unreal. I enjoy reading about your journey and thank you for posting your journey. My sister is going through pancreatic cancer and it's extremely hard, so your blog is helping me between the tears. Thanks.

Sent by Debbie Mclaughlin | 12:50 PM ET | 01-08-2007

When my eldest sister was diagnosed with lung cancer so advanced that she essentially had no treatment decisions to make, all four of us sisters came together to see her through. My other two sisters were unable to deal with the reality of her situation and simply could not face the truth, could not bear to talk about it, could not move beyond their terror to share her journey, as if their denial could make it not so. They missed one of the most intimate and loving experiences imaginable. There was nothing she wouldn't talk about, no question I wouldn't ask, no communication barriers between us. And because she didn't have to protect me, she could let me care for her fully, and I did.

Sent by Brenda | 12:54 PM ET | 01-08-2007

Leroy,

At 18, I don't know if you'd say I'm a child like the one you saw in the radiation room, but I'm certainly still too young for cancer. Yet here I am. Rhabdomyosarcoma.

I don't agree with you when you say it's not worth asking "Why me?" Whether you believe in divine puppeteering or not is irrelevant. We must ask why did this happen to me, and then ask, how can I transmute this hellish tribulation into something positive, productive, and inspiring? Why me — how does my unique set of gifts potentiate via this adversity?

It is despicably unfair that a child should have to go through this, but a high percentage of the young survivors will propel off this nightmare springboard towards something very special. And they have their whole lives ahead of them to change the world a 78-year-old man does not.

Cancer has changed me so profoundly that electing for a 20% chance of survival + The Transformation is something I might have done voluntarily. So don't despair when you see a gaunt, hairless child. At least not completely.

Sent by Miles Levin | 1:00 PM ET | 01-08-2007

I am still blaming the anesthesia from my surgeries in August and October for the alarming (to me) lapses in my memories. I can't keep track of what aspects of my ordeals I have told to whom. I don't want to constantly rehash the same things to the same friends, so I find I'm keeping a lot to myself. A friend told me about a Web site called CaringBridge which offers Web pages for individuals to use. I have been using that site for 4 months now as a place to share information, agonize, complain, give thanks and sort out much of what I'm going through. My family and friends can read it at their convenience — or not. Then our conversations can be about specific questions they have about my whole experience or about nothing to do with cancer. It's hard work to put it all down in black and white, very emotional, and also very freeing. Some people don't read it, and so I follow their lead in discussing my experiences.

Leroy, I visit your blog daily to learn more about sharing this experience. Thank you for educating us all.

Sent by Katie | 1:53 PM ET | 01-08-2007

Elm, the chatroom is at the Web site breastcancer.org. The site has discussion boards and medical information about breast cancer research, diagnosis, treatment, and side effects management, all of which is written by bc experts, and vetted by their medical panel. The site was started and is managed by a radiation oncologist from Philadelphia Marissa Weiss, MD. It's also a worthy organization for donations, as women and men from all over the world come there to learn about, talk about and heal about breast cancer.

Thank you for you kind words, too, Elm.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 1:56 PM ET | 01-08-2007

Time. I can't say that time has passed faster or slower since I was diagnosed. I do know that "right now" is easier to deal with than it was before diagnosis. You know... it puts "things" in perspective.

In July of '06 my oncologist told me I was cured. I told him I would not hold him to that statement. He said "you can hold me to it". Then I realized that I can't hold him to it, because I am unable to believe him. I think this is so because cancer has even put the word "cure" in perspective. For me, I'll accept the word "cure" for "right now." While I am not now preoccupied with cancer — cancer for me is like my shadow. It is there, always. I don't have to look for it or think about it because I know, like my shadow, it is there. When I do think about cancer, I wonder how long will it be before this shadow has another go at me.

I never thought I would see 2003, and here I am. Today — right now — I am cancer free —- or if not free, today my life is not threatened by cancer.

Tomorrow?? Perspective.

I hope you do not run out of time. Life is good.

Sent by Art Crespin | 3:14 PM ET | 01-08-2007

I, too, have cancer. I am old enough to remember that the word used to be whispered and always followed with a long sigh, and young enough to know that retirement is not viable. WHOs statistics show that 1 in 2 men and 1 in 3 women will have some type of cancer in their lifetime. Those are impressive stats. I naively thought because I was an oncology nurse that I would be exempt somehow. There is no putting cancer away after 5 PM. I feel sometimes like I've taken empathy to a new level, definitely a greater perspective. The good news is that Western medicine is turning cancer into a chronic illness. A life we can hopefully qualify instead of quantify and stop worrying about the unknown. We never were meant to be immortal.

Sent by Sheila | 3:30 PM ET | 01-08-2007

My neighbor and I share an oncologist and metastisized cancers. Hers ovarian, mine bile duct. Occasionally we two get together with a third friend for Sunday morning catch-up sessions on each other's lives. Our grown children were entertwined as friends — that is what brought all of us together.

Today I was doing a show and tell of my recently healed hands — burned from an allergic reaction to my chemo. Carol asked if the doctor gave me anything to put on it as my hands blistered and all the skin peeled. I told her I didn't call the doctor and didn't see him as I wasn't scheduled for chemo. Kitt and I burst out laughing when we both began reciting the instructions on our appointment sheets about when to call the doctor.

I am a high school teacher and I've faced my illness with the opportunity to teach. When students ask questions, I answer them. It helps them with a variety of problems — first, caring about me, second perhaps help understanding the illness of a parent or grandparent who wont talk about cancer. I don't try to hide anything, it's a little hard to do since I haven't any hair and won't wear a wig and the swelling in my legs makes me clutch at the wall from time to time. Colleagues or students just grab me by the arm and deliver me to my destination. Everything seems to work all right when I am in my classroom, if it didn't I'd pack it in. It is hard to maintain a positive attitude, but I understand that is the main thing to help battle the disease.

Sent by Cheryl McDowell | 3:48 PM ET | 01-08-2007