A Different Kind of Patience

One of the most important things we have to learn, or at least try to develop, is patience. And that's because healing takes time — a long time.

Our struggles with cancers can take years. That's the doctors' goal, after all, to buy as much time as possible. That kind of patience recognizes that our lives have changed forever, that we will never go back to the lives we had before. That patience can get us through month after month, cycle after cycle of chemo, telling us that it's worth it, that it's doing something good, that we have to hang in there.

But I'm talking about a different kind of patience. With our approval, our doctors put our bodies through an obstacle course of drugs and procedures, radiation and needles. We beat our bodies up, even when they are at their most vulnerable. And then when we take a break from chemo, or our cycle of radiation treatments has ended, we think to ourselves (at least I do), "OK, that's it, back to normal."

It doesn't work that way. Stop chemo and you will still feel the side effects for days or weeks. I always wondered if my body just learned that it was supposed to feel nauseated at 6 p.m. every day, whether I was taking the drugs or not. I'm still dealing with the after-effects of the collapsed lung. The pain has lessened, but it's still there, especially when I cough. The muscles in my chest and back are still sore. And I know they will be for a few days more.

As I write this, I guess it seems pretty obvious. We have to give our bodies time to rebuild. That's when we need that patience the most. We count down the days to the end of our chemo cycles. But what a disappointment when the first clear day feels just like the last day on the poison. We want our doctors to fix us, to make it better. They try hard, but in the end, we just have to wait a little longer for our bodies to catch up. Maybe as we go through more and more, our bodies slow down the healing process, because somehow they know that as soon as we can take it, we're going to attack them again with some sort of new pain. So when our bodies say, "We just need a minute," we should listen. After all, that's the least we owe them.

I hope all of you saw the post from Ruth yesterday. We had all been worried because we hadn't heard from her for a while, but she says she has gotten through the surgery:

"I want to sincerely thank you and everyone on this blog for your support, concern and most of all your prayers. I relied strongly on all of your support, I truly did. I am a miracle, and I'm not joking either. The doctors managed to get the nasty tumor off my aerota, AMAZING! ?I am alive and cancer free for the moment, thanks to you all and all my family and friends prayers. WHAT A WONDERFUL FEELING in spite of all the pain."

I couldn't be happier for her, and for all of us. When we all stand together, we can do amazing things.

Leroy Sievers

6:37 PM ET | 02-28-2007 | permalink | comments (19) | e-mail post

The Price We Pay to Stay in the Game

It's sort of amazing how fast we all adapt to new lifestyles, how quickly we learn new habits. When I used to go to bad places as a journalist, I'd always count the number of stairs in the hotel stairwell, so I could go down fast in the dark if we lost power. I'd move my bed away from the window. "If there are soldiers on the street, where are their trigger fingers?" I'd ask myself. "Inside the trigger guard, or outside? Ready to shoot, or a little more relaxed?"

Those same habits have come with me into cancer world. On chemo, you learn the warning signs when a fit of nausea is about to come on. Spearmint gum would end those for me, so I had it stashed everywhere: in my car, in my jackets, in my office. That way it was always handy. When I was feeling the worst of the side effects, I'd make sure I knew the best routes to walk wherever I was going: level, no hills. My wind power just wasn't up to it. And I learned to recognize those times when I just couldn't fight it, when it was time to sleep.

I've learned a whole new range of habits in this last week's bout with the collapsed lung. First off, you cannot suppress a cough forever. At some point, even though you know it's going to be excruciating, you're going to have to cough. So go ahead and get it over with. I was on oxygen most of the time I was in the hospital. If I went to blow my nose, I had to remember to take out the oxygen hose. It's funny, even after being at home a couple of days, I find myself checking that before I reach for a tissue.

Pain teaches its own lessons. If I've lost track of time and forgotten to take my next pain pill, when I cough I can feel the difference in the pain if the last pill has worn off. I know something's different. I've learned that even when you find a comfortable position, it will only be comfortable for so long, and then it will become painful, too. The trick is to keep moving. I learned that I was an idiot, as many of you pointed out, and rightly so, for not going into the hospital immediately. My pain pump allowed a dose every 10 minutes. I pretty much learned to time that out in my head, and also to keep an eye on the clock, so I could get my dose every 10 minutes on the dot and not lose any time.

But as with all the new things we've had to learn, the ways we've had to adjust our lives, more than anything I relearned the most important lesson of all: The pain will pass. And almost all the time, it's worth it. It's the price we pay to stay in the game.

Leroy Sievers

6:09 PM ET | 02-27-2007 | permalink | comments (18) | e-mail post

It's Nice to Be Home

A little more than a week ago, I was writing about my upcoming Radio Frequency Ablation procedure. I said that the worst that could happen would be a collapsed lung, and then said something like, "Not a big deal; I've been through that before." Well, I was wrong. Hugely wrong. Painfully and agonizingly wrong.

The procedure on Tuesday went fine. The X-ray afterward, where they check to make sure you don't have a collapsed lung, was clear, so I came home. But Wednesday evening, I started to have severe pain in my chest and abdomen. It was so intense that I couldn't really take a full breath. I talked to my doctors. We thought it might be a reaction to the medication, a collapsed lung or maybe even a broken rib. So I gritted my teeth through a long, sleepless, painful night (I know, I should have gone into the hospital right away) and went up to Johns Hopkins on Thursday morning.

By then, they were pretty sure it was a collapsed lung. And sure enough, it was. My doctor had told me that there was such a thing as a delayed lung collapse; he had read about it in books. Now he can say that he had one of those cases. There was only about a 5 percent collapse. But the biggest problem was the pain. I needed to be able to breathe normally. And the RFA makes you cough for a few days afterward. Every cough was like being stabbed.

Pain medication started to help, and then my doctors inserted a chest tube to suck out the excess air causing the collapse. The lung reinflated immediately, but I continued to have problems. Fluid built up around the lung, possibly caused by the irritation of the tube itself, and by the RFA.

Rooms were scarce at the hospital, so by accident I ended up on the VIP floor. Very nice — wood paneling, curtains, free coffee and cookies. It was like staying in a nice hotel, except that the hotel staff woke you up every few hours to take your vital signs. At one point, I was hooked up to what is called "wall suction." A hose was run from my tube to a pump in the wall. That freaked me out a little; I have visions of something going wrong and the machine sucking out a kidney or something.

I had one of those pain medication pumps. You can push the button whenever you feel the need, but it will only give you a dose every ten minutes. I tried not to push it too often. The machine keeps a record and I didn't want to look like I was drug-crazed or anything.

Finally, Saturday afternoon, things started to look good enough that I could go home. I still have the tube in my chest, attached to a cylinder taped to my chest. Taking a shower is something of a challenge. But the pain is better now.

It was an ordeal, but here's the good news: I was being scanned and X-rayed every couple of hours. And in looking at all that, my doctor could see enough to be pretty certain that he has killed those two tumors. That makes going through all of this totally worthwhile. I'll have the third procedure in a couple of weeks.

It was sort of ironic that this happened, and that I missed posting a new blog for the first time ever the day after writing about faking an illness so you could stay home from school. Several of you did point that out in your replies, which made me laugh.

But I want to thank all of you who wrote in with words of encouragement and support. That means so much to me. It's nice to be home.

Leroy Sievers

5:52 AM ET | 02-26-2007 | permalink | comments (44) | e-mail post

Leroy Will Be Back on Monday

It turns out the pain Leroy has been feeling in his back wasn't just from the needle. He has a minor collapsed lung from his recent Radio Frequency Ablation procedure and is spending the night in the hospital. He'll be back home tomorrow and his blog will resume Monday.

Leroy Sievers

5:47 AM ET | 02-23-2007 | permalink | comments (64) | e-mail post

The Sweet Days of Playing Sick

My earliest memory of staying home sick is Jeopardy. Not the current one, with Alex Trebek. No, I remember the old one, when the board actually had cardboard cards that had to be lifted by some unknown person backstage to reveal the clue. Staying home from school, watching TV, your mom taking care of you. It was sweet, as long as you weren't all that sick. And it was made all the sweeter by the knowledge that your friends were in class while you were in bed.

Today I'm home recuperating from yesterday's procedure, and a lot has changed. There are about 300 channels on my cable box, though daytime TV still stinks. I do know that my friends are all at work, but to be honest, I wish I was, too. I start to go a little stir-crazy after a while.

And then there's the pain. I know the needle they use in the radio frequency ablation procedure is really narrow. But it causes a lot of pain, pain that lasts for a couple of days. The pain medication they give you works pretty well. But when it wears off, you know it.

I'm not sitting here feeling sorry for myself. Because I think it's all worth it. The pain, the bad TV, that feeling of being stuck in the house. It's all worth it. After all, it was my decision to go ahead with these procedures. And all indications are that they are doing some good, at least for now. So I can put up with all the inconvenience, the fatigue, the pain. I know I'll feel better in a week or so. And then there's only one more of these procedures to go through.

But looking back, I think what I miss most is that oldest of games between parents and kids. Trying to convince your parents that you're too sick to go to school, that you have to stay home. There's no reason for them to know about that test scheduled for today. And yet I have to believe that they saw through us completely. They knew when we were faking and when we weren't. Even so, I think that every once in awhile, they let us get away with it. And that was the sweetest part of all.

Leroy Sievers

6:15 AM ET | 02-22-2007 | permalink | comments (12) | e-mail post

Burdens Beyond the Cancer Ward

Two down, one more tumor to go. At least that's what we all hope. The second RFA procedure seemed to go fine yesterday. No collapsed lung, so I was able to go home rather than spending the night in the hospital. And in the scans of my lungs, no new tumors appeared. But we'll take full scans next week. It's always possible something nasty has shown up somewhere else.

I think the second time is easier; I knew what to expect this time. For this tumor, they had to go in through my back. So yes, there were plenty of jokes about being stabbed in the back. When the medication wears off, I'll let you know if that's any more painful than being stabbed in the front. And I did learn a major lesson from that first time: Today I came home with pain medication.

This procedure isn't done in the cancer building. It's actually in an area of the hospital that primarily treats heart problems. When I was in recovery, in the cubicle next to me was a 4-month-old baby who was born with a heart problem. I cannot begin to imagine the anguish his parents have gone through. On the other side was an older gentleman, also with a serious heart problem. It was a little strange not being in the comfort of cancer world. There weren't any of those usual conversations we have: "What are you taking, what are the side effects?"

I wondered if the heart patients feel the same type of camaraderie we do. Do they refer to themselves as the citizens of heart world? I sort of doubt it. Cancer patients are in the hospital regularly. We see the same people. We're able to make friends. I got the sense that it's not the case for the heart patients, but maybe I'm doing them a great disservice.

What was obvious was that they are fighting just as hard as any of us. Their loved ones wore those same expressions that we've come to know so well. Anxiety mixed with pain, topped with a helping of, "How can this be happening?" I guess no matter what disease or health problem you have, some things always stay the same. It was another reminder of the heavy burdens so many people carry. The name of the burden may be different, but the weight is the same. Crushing. It's going to be a long time before I forget the image of that little baby in his hospital crib.

Leroy Sievers

9:04 PM ET | 02-21-2007 | permalink | comments (17) | e-mail post

A New Approach

For the last couple of weeks, I've been able to kid myself. I've been off chemo for a while now. I don't feel like my old self, but I do feel pretty good. I haven't been up to the hospital for a couple of weeks. The last time I went, it was sort of like visiting old friends, a time to catch up. Not the weekly grind of another treatment, or more scans, or the next round of chemo. No, I've had it pretty good recently. But now it's time for reality, for my cancer to rear its head again.

This morning I'm going in for my second radio frequency ablation (RFA) procedure, to kill another tumor in my lung. I know what to expect now, and I'm really not nervous. The worst that can happen is a collapsed lung, and I've been through that before. And this time, I know to ask for pain medication before I leave the hospital.

But there's one more thing. Before I have the RFA, we're going to do a new set of CT scans. It's been a while since the last ones. So I come face to face again with that fear that haunts us all. Will there be something new? While I've been knocking off the existing tumors one at a time, have new ones snuck in and started growing? Will they crack through the wall of my newfound optimism? Will they remind me, in the most graphic way, that I still have cancer?

I admit it. I am nervous about that. I'd like to postpone going back on chemo as long as I can. I like not being that sick. But one white spot on the scans can turn all that around. I realize I've changed my philosophy on fighting this thing. Since a cure is really out of the question for most of us, most doctors have turned to the idea of managing the disease. Trying to keep it under control as long as possible. Buying time. And that usually means chemo.

But I'm trying a new approach. Same goal ? manage the beast, keep it caged for as long as possible. But let's say there's a new tumor on my scans. Can't we just kill it, too? Can't we use radiation or RFA? Aren't they just as effective as chemo? I know the whack-mole approach, taking them on one at a time, doesn't address the systemic problem. It won't attack the cancer we can't see. But to be honest, my chemo wasn't doing such a great job of that. Maybe the best way to manage my cancer is to imitate the little Dutch boy. Every time a hole appears in the dike, stick a finger in it. Every time something shows up on the scans, kill it.

At the same time, I think about the other possibility. What if there are no new hotspots on the scans? What if my luck has held? I think most of us don't like to go too far down that road. It's like wishing for a puppy for Christmas. You're setting yourself up for disappointment. I think I'm prepared mentally for either outcome, as prepared as I can be. So after my little break, it's time to stand up, stretch a little, take a few deep breaths, and get back in the fight.

Leroy Sievers

9:32 AM ET | 02-20-2007 | permalink | comments (20) | e-mail post

Like Groucho Said...

So many of you have written in asking about Ruth, and unfortunately, I haven't heard from her. I'm hoping that the old cliche is right, that no news is good news. I'm hoping that she's recovering and will write in as soon as she can. It's interesting but certainly no surprise that so many of you, who all have your own problems to confront, have written in with concern about someone else.

When we started this blog eight months ago, we weren't really sure what was going to happen. But it has turned into something remarkable. It's turned into a real community. We worry about each other. We try to reassure and cheer each other up. We're just there, even if it's only electronically. We worry about the people we know, we worry about all of you out there who we don't know. We may not know your names, but we know what you're going through. We may not know where you live, but we're there with you nevertheless.

Groucho Marx said, "I wouldn't want to be a member of any club that would accept me as a member."

I know that none of us wanted to be in this club. None of us chose to join. But we're in it. And in a strange way, I couldn't be prouder. So I just wanted to take today to say, "Thank you," to all of you. My life is richer, my world is larger, because of all of you.

And to Ruth, and to all of you who are recovering or are about to have a procedure or are just fighting that daily battle, I will say again: You're not alone. We're all in this together, and for that I am forever grateful.

Leroy Sievers

6:14 AM ET | 02-16-2007 | permalink | comments (33) | e-mail post

Lose More Slowly

I guess that cancer changes our perspectives forever. It becomes the prism through which we view everything else.

I was reading an article in this month's Vanity Fair about film noir. They quote a couple of lines from the film Out of the Past from 1947. Jane Greer asks Robert Mitchum, "Is there any way to win?"

Mitchum's reply: "There's a way to lose more slowly."

Before, I probably would have thought that was just a cool, tough-guy line, cynical and world-weary. When I read it this time, I thought it perfectly summed up the way most of us approach cancer.

How many times have we heard something like that from our doctors or nurses? "We can't cure you, but we'll try to give you as much time as we can." The thought may be the same, but somehow it sounds better coming from Robert Mitchum. But that's really what we're all trying to do: Lose more slowly. Hold off the Beast for as long as we can.

But I have to admit that I don't much like the word "lose." You hear it a lot. I say it. Someone "lost" their battle with cancer. It makes it sound like they failed somehow. They weren't up to the fight. I don't buy it. Maybe I just don't want to ever think that the cancer "won." That certainly doesn't seem right.

So I guess Mitchum was right. Whatever words we use, however we want to say it, we all want this process to go more slowly. Me, I intend to make the cancer work to try to get me. I want to make it as hard as possible. I don't intend to go easily.

But one last thing. I do wish that I looked as good in a hat as all those guys in the noir films.

Leroy Sievers

6:13 AM ET | 02-15-2007 | permalink | comments (14) | e-mail post

The Mental Challenge

It's funny how we all seem to think — and say — the same things. A number of you wrote in over the last day or so with the same thought. You can get used to the physical part of cancer: the pain, the nausea, all of the symptoms of cancer and its treatments that beat up our bodies. When I say "get used to" I don't mean that it ever gets easy. You just learn what's coming, and how to get through it.

It's the mental part that's the toughest. That's where the beast does the most harm. You learn tricks to lessen the nausea, but how do you get past the depression, the anxiety, the fear? Those really are more painful than the toughest round of chemo. It can be almost paralyzing sometimes. Surrounded by friends and loved ones, you can feel alone. On a beautiful day, the world can look pretty dark. You want to go do something, even something simple like a short walk, but sometimes making your body take that first step is just too hard.

It's the mind that keeps us awake at night. We worry. What will happen next? Will it be painful? What will they find in my next scans? What the heck is happening inside my body? There's no easy solution, no easy way to soothe that voice in our heads.

I think the only thing we have to fight the mental demons with is will. Sheer willpower. It's easy to say, "Oh, just pick yourself up and move on." Incredibly hard to do sometimes. But in the end, that's what we do. We make our feet move, we force a smile, we push the fear and the dark thoughts out of our minds so we can focus on something else. We persevere.

The medical community is making great strides in cancer research. New drugs, new treatments that will attack the tumors and kill or at least damage them. I have no doubt that in the coming years, there will be all sorts of new things to keep the cancer cells in check. But there's really nothing that can help cage the beast in our minds. Except for us. And that's a lonely fight sometimes, but a fight that we can't walk away from.

Leroy Sievers

6:35 AM ET | 02-14-2007 | permalink | comments (24) | e-mail post

There Really Are No Excuses

It's the ultimate excuse. There's really no response. Once you say "I have cancer," that can pretty much end any debate. And the beauty of it is, you can use it on yourself, too. I don't feel like doing anything today... 'cause I have cancer. I'm not going to work today... 'cause I have cancer. I'm not going to try very hard today... 'cause I have cancer.

Now, some days, more than we'd like, that's absolutely true. Some days you just can't do much more than get out of bed. But it can also be a trap. I know I get lazy at times, and it's easy for me just to tell myself, "It's OK, I've got cancer."

But some days — most days — it's not OK. We still have to get out there and try to do the best we can. That doesn't necessarily mean we can do all the things we could before the cancer. But I think it is important that we try.

It's easy just to sort of let yourself go. I desperately needed a haircut, but to be honest, I was just letting it go, because I thought that if I went back on the chemo, I would lose it all anyway, so who cares. After all, I have cancer. But I'm not going back on the chemo anytime soon; at least I don't think I am. So no more excuses. No more of "that" excuse. I got my hair cut this past weekend.

It's easy to say this, less easy to do it. It's hard to rise above the cancer, hard to summon the will power to do the things we have to do, let alone the things we want to do. It's the hardest thing any of us will probably ever do. At the risk of indulging in psychobabble, it's the struggle that defines us. When we all talk about "living life to the fullest," I think that's what we're really talking about. The struggle to live life to the fullest. The fight to do anything when your body is screaming, "Stop!" The struggle to still be human when the pain is overpowering. The struggle to be ourselves. And in that struggle, there really are no excuses.

Leroy Sievers

6:39 AM ET | 02-13-2007 | permalink | comments (25) | e-mail post

What if I'd Never Gotten Cancer?

It's just become another part of my identity. I'm tall, I'm big, I wear glasses, I have cancer. Even though it's only been a little more than a year since this disease began its attack, it's hard to remember what life was like before. What did I think about? What did I worry about? What did I see when I tried to look into my future?

What if? That's not a question I spend much time on. It seems like sort of a waste of time. Almost like asking, "What if I had a billion dollars?" Or "What if I looked like Brad Pitt?" Or one of my favorite "what if's" from an old Saturday Night Live: "What if Spartacus had had an airplane?" What if I'd never gotten cancer?

I'm not sure who'd I be. I don't mean to say that cancer has become my identity. It hasn't, at least not completely. But what if? My career would have taken a very different path. I'd probably spend a lot more time worrying about that. I wouldn't have the blog or this podcast.

Those are the superficial things. What about me? What would I think when, say, I saw someone who had clearly lost his hair because of chemo? I'd feel bad for him, but I'd probably think that the hair loss was the worst thing he was going through. I'd try not to stare; I'd look away. I'd have no idea about the pain, the sickness, the fear that is a part of his daily life.

I wouldn't know how much my body can take, how much I can take. I wouldn't have been tested, physically or emotionally. I wouldn't know that I can, in fact, bear this burden. I wouldn't have had the opportunity and I wouldn't have found out that I can help others with their burdens, and that I can let them help me with mine.

No, I'd be getting ready for work this morning, worrying about the latest corporate shakeup and what it meant for my career. I'd be worrying about traffic — there's a big water main break nearby. I'd be glancing at the paper and running out the door. That's what I did for many years. I'm not saying I was wrong to live that way. I liked my life. But it was very different. I was different.

We don't get to choose what happens to us. We're not given a list of experiences and allowed to pick the ones we want. We don't get to decide how we're shaped by our lives. Do I wish I'd never gotten cancer? Of course. Who wouldn't? But it's made me a different person. A better person, I think. At least I hope so. Now what would Spartacus have done with that airplane?

Leroy Sievers

5:44 AM ET | 02-12-2007 | permalink | comments (29) | e-mail post

We're All in This Together

Ruth, whom many of you know as a regular writer to this site, wrote in today to say that she is scheduled for surgery next Tuesday. She is scared — scared about the surgery, about the outcome, about what her life will be like afterward. And she's also facing one of the most terrible things about surgery for cancer patients. Once the doctors operate, if they find one set of circumstances, they'll finish the operation. If not — if the cancer is in the wrong place or too big — they'll simply close up and not finish the surgery.

Did I say "simply"? Hardly. I don't think that most people going in for surgery have to face that kind of terrifying unknown. Go in for an appendectomy, the doctors take it out and sew you up and that's it. Most operations are pretty straightforward, barring, of course, "unforeseen circumstances." But for someone with cancer, it's a little different. Often the doctors won't know what they're facing until they begin the operation and until they get inside and see for themselves.

When a cancer patient wakes up, they have only one question: What did you find? That really is a life or death question.

So Ruth, know that our thoughts and prayers will be with you on Tuesday. I hope that the doctors find the best possible situation, that they are able to complete the surgery and that the worst thing you'll have to face is a couple of days of hospital food. Know that we'll be there to help in your recovery.

If the worst happens, know that we will be with you then, too; our strength will be your strength. We will all be with you, and with everyone else out there facing similar challenges. Don't be afraid. We're all in this together. You're not alone.

Leroy Sievers

6:05 AM ET | 02- 9-2007 | permalink | comments (42) | e-mail post

A Signal of Recognition

When I was young, my dad bought a Corvette, the last of the Stingrays. Once I turned 16, I was allowed to drive it — any kid's dream. My father patiently explained one more thing about driving a Corvette. When you passed another, you left your hand on the wheel, but just raised your fingers in a very cool sort of wave to the other driver. It was just something Corvette drivers did — a recognition that we were driving cooler cars than everyone else, and that we knew it.

These days, I drive a Jeep Wrangler. It turns out that Wrangler drivers do the exact same thing: that same cool wave, just raising your fingers to another Wrangler driver. Now, you'd never do that to a Cherokee, or any other kind of Jeep, just the Wranglers. It's another secret brotherhood thing: We drive cool cars; we know things other people don't.

Today I was driving around and a man turned in front of me. He was wearing a surgical mask. I had an immediate flash of recognition: cancer patient. Now, it's possible that he was wearing it for some other reason, but I doubt it. You see so many patients wearing their masks at the hospital, concerned about infections when their immune systems have been beaten down by the treatments.

He was by me in an instant, but I wished there was some sort of wave for us, for the secret brotherhood and sisterhood of cancer patients. Some way I could have let him know that I know what he is going through, that I live his life, that I understand.

Of course, if I had really waved at him, it would have been a meaningless gesture. He wouldn't have understood. Maybe we should come up with some sort of signal. It wouldn't be to say, like the Corvette and Wrangler drivers, "Hey, we're pretty cool." No, it would be to send a very different message.

I wish there was some way of letting him — and all of us — know that there are others who understand, others who are walking the same road. I wanted some way to signal him in that instant as he passed by, that he is not alone.

Leroy Sievers

6:35 AM ET | 02- 8-2007 | permalink | comments (33) | e-mail post

'Wow, What a Ride'

I find myself at a bit of a loss today. I'm not doing chemo, so I can't complain about that. The pain from the RFA procedure is finally going away, so I can't complain about that, either. I had a major fight with my insurance company, but in the end, they did the right thing, so I can't even complain about that. So what to write about?

This has been one of those days where work has actually overshadowed the cancer. I haven't really had much time to think about it today. But there is one quote that I want to leave you with. One of you sent it in a while back, and I loved it. I was going to write about it, but I couldn't find it again. Luckily, Tannis sent it in again today, so I thank her, and the person who sent it in originally. Here it is, a paraphrase of something motorcycle racer Bill McKenna said:

"Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, totally worn out and proclaiming, 'WOW, WHAT A RIDE!!!'"

I just love that. And so for today, I think that's message enough.

Leroy Sievers

9:29 AM ET | 02- 7-2007 | permalink | comments (14) | e-mail post

Scars Mark the Battle We Fight Every Day

I played football in high school. I wasn't particularly good, but I played anyway. I was an offensive lineman. I never thought about it much at the time, but I realized years later that I never touched the ball in a game. Oh, I saw it go by every now and then, but I never actually touched it.

One of the things I do remember is getting paint marks on my helmet. Back then, helmet to helmet hits, head to head, were encouraged. And if you hit the other guy so hard that you got some of the color from his helmet on your helmet, well, that was some sort of badge of courage. Of course, if he hit you hard enough, the same thing would happen, but no one really thought that way. No, the more marks on your helmet, the tougher you were. By the end of the season, all the colors were a record of sorts, of all of the hits you'd taken and received.

I look at my body these days. It's different. I have a groove in my skull, you can't see it but you can feel it, where they cut in to take out the brain tumor. You can also feel, quite distinctly, two of the screws they used to put my skull back together. I still have marks on my forehead where a metal framework was screwed into my skull for the gamma knife procedure —screwed in with regular screws and wrenches.

I have eight small green dots tattooed on my chest. They were aiming points for the radiation that attacked the tumors on my spine. Not the kind of tattoos I'd show off in a bar, but a record nevertheless. And I still have a very distinct square on my chest where the radiation hit. The skin is just a slightly different color. It's very easy to see. Overlapping that is a much bigger square, about six inches by six inches, that they shaved to do the RFA procedure a week ago. I guess that will grow back.

I have about a twelve-inch scar on my abdomen from my first cancer surgery back in 2001. It's still easy to see. I always liked the fact that it curves around my belly button. It makes me laugh to picture my surgeon taking care to protect that.

The veins in my arms have been stuck a million times, but you can't see the marks.

The psychic wounds and scars are something we can talk about another time. All I'm saying is that all of us are a little battered. We've been beaten up over time. All those scars mark us as veterans.

I remember looking at those paint marks on my helmet with some pride. I guess I thought they said that I could take a hit, and also that I could give out hits. And then you just put your helmet back on, buckled up the chinstrap, and went out again. Pretty much the way we do every day.

Leroy Sievers

8:04 PM ET | 02- 6-2007 | permalink | comments (18) | e-mail post

'Something Is Different Because I Was Here'

I think it's safe to say we've all thought about it. Where it would be. Who should speak. What songs to play. How many people would show up. It would be embarrassing to have too many empty seats.

I'm talking, of course, about our own funerals. For cancer patients, death hovers over everything. It feels sometimes that Death is sitting in the corner, looking at his watch.

The decisions we make are all about postponing our deaths. Trying to buy more time. Or, when the time comes, managing the process. We worry about the effects on our loved ones. But when we think about our funerals, there's really one major issue: How do we want to be remembered?

I was watching the TV show House the other night. An old man — he had cancer, by the way — had come to the hospital to die. At one point, he said to his doctor, "I want to know that something is different because I was here."

I didn't hear the next couple of lines because those words just grabbed me. Isn't that all any of us really want? To somehow know, or hope, that the world is different, better, because we passed this way. I'm not talking about some earth-shaking action. You don't have to win a Nobel Prize or write the great American novel. Though whoever out there who's going to find the cure for cancer, we hope you might just hurry up a little.

I'm talking about the little things that make this a better world. An act of kindness to a friend or stranger. A hand on a shoulder at just the right time. Taking a stand when others dare not. It's in those ways that I think we really make our mark.

I've said I'm at peace with my cancer, and where it will most likely lead. Sometimes I think it makes people crazy when they hear that. It doesn't mean I've given up, or that I have looked at Death and nodded, "It's time." Far from it. But I am at peace because I think I've done my best to make a difference. I haven't always succeeded, but that's what I hope people would say at that funeral in my imagination: "He did the best he could."

When you get a disease like cancer, you don't stop caring. You don't stop trying, as tempting as that can be at times. Each day we have left gives us another opportunity. "Something is different because I was here." I hope when the real time comes, someone says that about each of us.

And in my imaginary funeral, when people are done saying nice things, I hope all my friends get roaring drunk and tell funny stories at my expense. I don't think they'll let me down on that, either, when the time comes.

Leroy Sievers

6:03 AM ET | 02- 5-2007 | permalink | comments (59) | e-mail post

Sharing Strength

I got an e-mail recently from a friend of mine, telling me how cancer had struck the people close to her. And in the e-mail, she said this, "It's so hard not to be able to save people."

It's hard to imagine the pain behind that statement. And that's one of the reasons that I think, in many ways, cancer is harder on the loved ones than it is on the patient.

Seeing someone who was always so strong, but who is now vulnerable, is truly heartbreaking. To see them suffer, and not be able to ease their pain, to not be able to make it better, can tear your heart apart. Just to feel so helpless as this unseen monster attacks the people we love, it's just not fair.

I understand that, but I also think that my friend is wrong. I understand the frustration in not being able to do something, do something now. To somehow cure them, to make it go away. To just make things the way they used to be. That's not possible. Acknowledging that doesn't ease the pain. But when I say I think she's wrong, this is what I mean.

No one can cure cancer yet. They can treat it in a dozen different ways, but no one can make it go away. But all of the people close to us, all of our friends and families, the people we love and who love us, make surviving this disease, for however long, possible.

You are patient when we are angry and short because of the pain. You see us at our physical worst and tell us that we look great. You smile when that may be the bravest act ever. You are there with a word, a touch. You are just there.

None of us could get through this without you. Don't ever forget that. We are sorry to place our burdens on your shoulders, to share this sadness that no one should have to experience. But we know that your strength becomes our strength. And that's why I say that my friend is wrong. You all save us every day. Every day.

Leroy Sievers

5:12 AM ET | 02- 2-2007 | permalink | comments (44) | e-mail post

I'll Sleep Easy Tonight

Journalism professors always tell you never to bury the lead of a story. So here it is: No chemo. At least not for a while. Now, virtually every one of you who has written in over the last couple of days has said the same thing: Take the chemo. Kick the tumors while they're down. And I went up to the hospital today prepared to agree to just that, albeit a little reluctantly. Being off chemo these last eight weeks has been terrific. And when your doctors tell you the next chemo will be much tougher, well, that's sobering.

I truly love my doctors. Not just because they are among the best in the world, but because they are patient with me. They let me work through things out loud, asking questions that I'm sure are sometimes annoying. But they also give me straight answers. They're honest.

So for two hours today, Dr. Christian Meyer, my oncologist, and Dr. Ross Donehower, Director of Medical Oncology at Johns Hopkins, talked me through this decision. I'm at the point in the disease where there are no more easy choices. No one knows what will happen exactly. If A, then B, or maybe C... or perhaps D and E to top it all off. So in the end, you have to make the best decision you can.

I have to admit that my doctors surprised me a little. After going through all the options, it was finally time to make a decision. And their advice was to go through the remaining two Radio Frequency Ablation procedures to kill the two tumors still in my lungs. Then we'll see what happens. If, or rather when, tumors do reappear, I'm no worse off if I start the new chemo then instead of now. And there's one huge advantage: quality of life.

Everyone seems to agree that the next round of chemo, with the drugs Irenotican and Erbitux, has much tougher side effects than I've been through before: nausea and vomiting, diarrhea, hair loss and bad acne. Who would have ever thought that 30 years after high school, acne would rear its head again? So in the end, quality of life won out. I'll still be monitored closely, and if tumors do appear, we'll jump on them. But if not, I'll get a little more time to feel reasonably normal. By the middle of March, that last tumor in my lungs will hopefully have died a painful death.

And then I guess we get ready for the next round, whenever it comes. I'm comfortable with this decision; I think it's the right one. I'll sleep easy tonight.

Leroy Sievers

5:47 AM ET | 02- 1-2007 | permalink | comments (88) | e-mail post