So yes, isn't this what being human is about? You care for those you love, and you even might care for those you don't necessarily love, but who (for some reason or another) are in your life. It brings peace, and for me, that's about as close to a religion as I can get.

Sent by Susan W. | 4:03 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Amen!

Sent by Dan | 4:04 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Thank you!!!! Thank you for saying such kind things about the loved ones who suffer along with the cancer patient. I am not complaining because selfishly I want my husband here no matter what. It kills me to watch him suffer but I do smile and encourage him constantly. I do my crying in the shower. Everyone says that survival depends so much on the attitude you have and I figure if my husband can put up the kind of fight he has been doing for the past year with pancreatic cancer, I certainly can help him and support him and root him on. The doctors say that is one of the primary reasons he is still here... because of his fight and his will to survive. He says he is fighting to survive for me. Whatever the reason... I don't care.

Everyone says how "strong" I am and my answer is if "Jack and everyone else who suffers with this horrific disease can get up everyday and subject themselves to the treatments like chemo, radiation and the burning of tumors like you are, I certainly can be strong and help in the fight." It isn't about me, it is about all of the people who have cancer. But we are in there with you...praying for you and doing the best we can to ease your pain and suffering. I wish you well with the new treatments you have undergone and hope that the news continues to be good.

Sent by Amy Wile | 4:41 PM ET | 02-02-2007

My husband, my greatest strength, the deep, deep love that we share with each other has not been tested throughout this horrible cancer ride but instead cancer has strengthened our love and commitment to each other more than ever. When I am down from treatment my husband is right at my side willing to do whatever it takes to help ease the symptoms. When he is down from the fears that cancer brings I am there to pick him up again. This ride has shown us how to expect the unexpected and how with out each other this ride would really suck! I am very sad for all the sadness and fears that this illness has brought to so many people in my life, but at the same time without them I would not have the strength to fight it! I would be so lost and instead I am so very, very fortunate! I am the luckiest, bald, breastless woman EVER!

Sent by Marianne Dalton | 4:52 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Dear Leroy, Thank you for writing this very generous message today to the caregivers. It spoke directly to me. I lost my husband this year to pancreatic cancer after an eighteen month "battle."

And, yes it was a battle for the both of us and for our 3 children. And, yes, I do feel that I failed to keep him alive longer, as hard as I tried.

And, yes, he did thank me every day for "hanging in there" with him. And, he told me that he would not have made it for as long as he did without me by his side. It's a comfort to know that he felt that way.

Best Wishes.

Sent by Marilyn | 4:53 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Leroy,

Thank you. You've articulated something I have felt in relation to my friends who have cancer (I count you amongst those friends). Although you're the most remote from me, you're the first one to say it.

Sent by Emile Bellott | 4:54 PM ET | 02-02-2007

You are such a kind man. In spite of your own troubles you take the time to thank those around you. Your last paragraph gave me a glimpse into what I'm sure my own mother was feeling but was unable to articulate. She passed away from gallbladder cancer last year and my sister and I felt like we just had to do something but there just wasn't anything. I guess actually there was. I wish you all the best and a wonderful quality of life.

Sent by Liane | 4:58 PM ET | 02-02-2007

I'm 42 and had my first chemo yesterday for breast cancer. My husband went with me and picked a fight just as I was sitting down in the treatment chair. Sympathy would have made me cry. He knew exactly what I needed, and I am so grateful for him.

Sent by Christine | 4:59 PM ET | 02-02-2007

I am sitting in the hospital waiting room as I read this. After having a total laryngectomy 2 weeks ago, he is having all of his teeth pulled today in anticipation of radiation. As the anesthesia took affect, he wrote, "Being brave is exhausting." This is from a guy who has a commendation for his tireless efforts in Mogadishu during "Black Hawk Down." I was sitting here feeling exhausted from having my heart repeatedly broken by his bravery so today's post could not have been more timely.

Sent by Diane Martin | 5:00 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Leroy, it was very hard to read today's entry. I have become a more loving and compassionate person because of walking the cancer path with friends. I am thinking of my best friend from childhood. Now, with another friend, I can offer the understanding of the process and give witness to their journey however different or similar. I don't think about how it will be when the cancer goes away but rather gratitude for one more day to be with that person. Thank you for your beautiful entry!

Sent by Pat Z. | 5:01 PM ET | 02-02-2007

That was beautiful...

Sent by Nichole | 5:02 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Leroy, once again, you are right on the money with your words. Friends and family make ALL the difference and give us peace and hope and smiles when things look the worst. During my first chemo, a friend organized a group of people who brought meals over on a regular basis. The meals were helpful certainly but the absolutely best thing about it was knowing that people cared and were thinking of me and my family. A hug, a card, a little note, a ride to the chemo center — they all help the cancer patient. Thanks for reminding all the non-patients out there — we couldn't fight the fight if it weren't for them.

Sent by Martha | 5:03 PM ET | 02-02-2007

I just love your comments today and they make me feel just a tad better. My Dad is home with me, enrolled in Hospice, and we probably have only a short time left. Each night, after my Mom puts him to bed, I climb in bed with him and read children's bedtime stories. I think it makes him happy and I know it makes me feel like perhaps I am doing something, anything, to help ease his pain. I must tell you, we giggle a lot during our evening ritual. Then I give him a kiss and tuck him in and hope to see him again in the morning. It is incredibly hard, day in a day out, to go to work as an oncology social worker, then come home and be with my folks. But, through my tears as I am typing this, I thank you for your words today. So tonight we may read Hop on Pop or Green Eggs and Ham... and with a hug and a kiss, I then tell my Dad I love him and wish him a restful night.

Sent by Karen | 5:05 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Leroy, How beautifully put. My husband was saying just the other day, he feels so bad, it just kills him that he can't fix me. He is a real fixer, he fixes everything. This is why it is especially difficult for him. You are absolutely right, I could not do this without him. I've said this before on your blog. Thank God for the people who love us. You are once again, Leroy, right on the target. Take care.

Sent by Ruth White | 5:06 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Leroy,

When my husband was dying of prostate cancer, there was a moment when I broke down and cried and said, "I don't know if I can bear this." He said back, "If you can't, how can I?" Right then I knew what I needed to do. So, for me, being strong in the ways you outlined today was the only way I could really help and it felt good to do that.

Sent by Diana Kitch | 5:07 PM ET | 02-02-2007

You make me cry. What a lovely commentary today. We are all with you each and every moment. We feel we know you and you have allowed us to know you at your most vulnerable.

THANK YOU.

Sent by S. Daly | 5:09 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Leroy,

I guess you are right, even though we can't save our loved

one, or ones with cancer, just the small things make all of the difference, just being there for them, eating a sundae together,

watching TV. Being able to slow down time and get to know them is a gift, and helps them forget the disease, even if it is just for a small moment each day.

Sent by Lisa V. | 5:13 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Leroy,

I write this with tears of grief and pain resurfacing after reading your entry today. I also sob at this moment for the other two special persons in my life at this moment who also suffer this terrible disease. I know in my heart that in the end further loss within my spirit will occur for at least one of those dear to me in the very near future. While it is true that life is what it is, and cancer is fact of life that seems to continuously rob wonderful people of living, the pain is never ending for those who must go on. Life feels empty after spending 25 years with someone and then suddenly finding time is just about up.

Ah, yes, I remember the lessons of patience I learned while caring for my loved one, I also learned of frustrations needing to be controlled and the powerless feelings resulting from such. I am now watching this happen again to two wonderfully beautiful people, people that will leave a void in the hearts of many. It brings about pangs of intense pain in my spirit once again, but I smile and encourage them to smile with me, thinking back to when I often said to my companion "Let me see your eyes dance with song again today, for tomorrow they may close" Again the tears are flowing down my cheeks, the pain has not subsided... even after a little over a year now.

I am not sure my life will ever be the same, there have been all to many footprints left upon my spirit in the losses suffered due to this disease. And I remember well, my companion making a similar statement as you did. My companion often apologized for her illness, her burden upon me, and the sadness she brought to our relationship. I would place my index finger upon her lips and simply say, "Shhhh, it is my privilege to be here, it is part of my journey. I love you, and love is not a burden" Indeed, I was privileged, as I held her closely in my arms until she slumbered, finally at peace, away from and out of her pain, at the moment she was called back to the side of her maker. For the compassion learned, the love experienced, the human emotion experienced...I am grateful today. Do I still grieve? Most certainly.

Sent by Robin Waters | 5:16 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Most of your readers are Cancer survivors. Hopefully, they will show this day's blog to their families. You say it so well that the message should be shared.

I consider my Support group part of my family. They also provide me with the strength to continue.

Sent by Don Winslow | 5:18 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Leroy,

You have written what all of us in the "Club Nobody Wants to Join" feel during treatment. Somehow, seeing it in print takes me back to the darkest of days and sheds a little light and a gentle reminder that our gratitude should never go unspoken. Thanks for taking back to that point in time.

Sent by Ed | 5:19 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Leroy,

I have been reading your blog for a very short period of time and I am amazed at how you succinctly you have been able to put into words the life that I have been living for the past year. I am glad that you were able to make your decision about the chemo. This journey is definitely about quality of life and the side effects of those next drugs are something! (The hair loss for me was particularly hard when it first started coming out.)

This weekend marks the first anniversary of my diagnosis for breast cancer. I've had 3 surgeries, 8 chemos and 37 radiation treatments in 8 months. Not to mention the endless CTs, MRIs, MRVs, MUGAs, Bone Scans, ultrasounds and 5 million blood tests. To add insult to injury, I developed a large blood clot in my brain during chemo. I am still dealing with it even though the cancer treatments are over now. It has been so very comforting that you and our fellow bloggers have hit on so many thoughts, feelings, treatment tricks and just general ways of coping through this disease that helped me get through each day, each test, and each test result. Which, in a roundabout way, brings me to today's blog.

I don't know where I would be without the love and support of my family and friends. As you stated, they always had the brave smile when I couldn't seem to muster one up. "You're so brave." "You have a nice shaped head!" "What can I do to help?" They didn't freak out (visibly) when I went bald they seemed to understand my need for sleep and my penchant for my iPod when I was feeling particularly bad. My partner and my kids (aged 10 & 12) wanted to be so strong for me but I could see how hard it was for them. We adopted the kids 4 years ago and my heart broke when my daughter held my face in her little hands after my second surgery and told me, "I've already lost one mom and I don't want to lose another".

I find my strength in my little family. We're a team. My parents, siblings and spouses, nieces and nephews are incredible. My mom, sister and brother came to California a total of 9 different times during our "journey" to love us, help us and just be there for us. They were here for anywhere from 3 weeks to a quick weekend visit. The phone calls, e-mails and "covered dishes" that were dropped off were godsends. My friends are awesome and my co-workers hung in there with me. People say it is harder to watch someone else go through cancer and I can see and feel how this can be true.

Thank you to all of you "great loved ones" who make it possible for us to face each and every day of the rest of our lives. YOU are the heroes in this journey. My love to all.

Blessings to you Leroy. You are in my prayers every day.

Sent by Mary | 5:21 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Amen and Amen!

Sent by Sarah | 5:22 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Thank you for that, Leroy.

Sent by Caretaker Survivor, Chicago | 5:23 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Thanks Leroy. Those are comforting words for a caretaker to read.

Sent by Katie | 5:24 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Thank you so much for this. My father called yesterday to say his lung cancer is spreading and he's seriously considering stopping the chemo. He and my sister (his caregiver) have gone to a nearby mortuary and planned his funeral. And then he bought a new car. We talked about his plans, told stories and laughed. Then he hung up and I cried.

He's far away and sick, and I can't fix it. It's not going to be OK. Things aren't going to work out.

But he's going to enjoy the hell out of that car.

Sent by Carol Lindsay | 5:25 PM ET | 02-02-2007

I've been following the blog for quite some time now, as primary caregiver to a terminally ill patient. Many times, I've started to post a response to a blog entry that spoke particularly well to my situation, but I always decided against it at the last moment.

Thank you for this entry. It says everything to me that I've needed to hear.

"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." How true, and doubly so?if that's possible — when you're a medical professional and yet are STILL so helpless.

"I wish I could make things the way they used to be" is a phrase I've used. How fitting that you chose nearly the same words.

Sent by Bruce C. | 5:26 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Hi Leroy,

That was beautifully written. I have cancer, and I e-mailed this to my family. Thanks.

Sent by Mary | 5:28 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Leroy,

Once again you have put into words something I have often thought about. I have been both the cancer patient and the family member trying to support the cancer patient. My dad was a "double-dipper," first diagnosed with embryonic testicular cancer in 1981 and then with kidney cancer in 1992, which is when he died. I remember my dad once telling me that having watched how I dealt with Hodgkin's disease when I was 18 gave him the strength to deal with his first cancer. I was surprised, because I felt so helpless when he was diagnosed. When we learned about his second cancer and that there was nothing to be done for him, we struggled together to come to terms with his terminal illness. I felt that the only thing I could do was visit him and bring my then 3-year-old son to see Grandpa as often as possible. My Dad always knew we were there, for which I am so grateful. Thank you for reminding me that my simple act of visiting Dad were what he needed from me the most. As I struggle with my second cancer now, I find that the simple act of getting an email or phone call from family and friends does so much for my spirits. The simple things really do mean so much!

Sent by Caren B. | 5:34 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Dear Leroy,

I'm glad you are at peace with your decision, and I think it is wonderful(!) that the doctors' advice was to wait. The reprieve will do you good. Enjoy it, as I know you will.

My heart goes out to our caregivers. I was both my mothers and fathers and can verify that it is more difficult to be a caregiver than a patient.

I was in the car with my husband coming back from our cancer support groups. We were comparing notes, and I noted that though most of us were dying, his group sounded more depressed that day. As I acknowledged that it is more difficult to be a caregiver than a patient (in my experience), I realized I had never thanked him. I had thanked him for the cups of tea, the warm rice bags to ease my stomach pain, the little things, but I had never thanked him for the overall "taking care of me." So, I did. I was surprised at the strength of his reaction. It was pretty internal, but after having been married for 35 years, I could detect it. After I thanked him, I said, "I have never thanked you before." He said, "No, you haven't." I think it meant a lot to him. I will remember to thank him again — not just for each little thing — and often.

Sent by Stephanie Dornbrook | 5:36 PM ET | 02-02-2007

Keep up your spirit. Many of my church family have cancer (4) and many others around the country have gotten victory over all types of cancer by eating pure water, pure Foods (juice plus-pills, super concentrated natural foods), pure air, positive attitude (God and you can beat this deficiency disease), and prayers of thousands of believers like me. You will be victorious if it is Gods will. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthen me" -Philippians 4:13

Sent by Jacob Henderson | 12:36 PM ET | 02-05-2007

Hi,

I live in Madrid, Spain, but travel to the USA once a month because I am involved in building a huge solar power plant in Boulder City, close to Las Vegas. Thats why I have become used to listening NPR while I drive back and forth.

Browsing through NPR's web page I just happened to notice your blog and read a few of your entries. They seem truly remarkable to me. I think the noblest side of human beings is made manifest when we have to face difficult times.

Cheer up and have faith, from my experience it can help an awful lot.

Sent by Manuel Nieto | 2:14 PM ET | 02-05-2007

Thank you.

I have felt such guilt and inadequacy because my love was not strong enough to save my younger sister from dying of lung cancer. My love was/is the strongest power I had to offer.

I did not fail her because I did not love her enough. I was able to comfort her BECAUSE I LOVED HER SO MUCH!

Sent by K.M.D. | 2:14 PM ET | 02-05-2007

I read your stories tonight (2-4-07) and felt touched by your words. Your last story really hit home as I to have a fight on my hands. I'm fighting with esophageal cancer. DONT EVER GIVE UP BROTHER. Don't let this beat you, you can beat it as I will. Keep up the fight and good luck.

Sent by Kevin Snyder | 5:11 PM ET | 02-05-2007

Leroy — I'm happy you are to have a respite from chemotherapy. That was recommended for me when the first round took care of the spread and the primary tumor hadn't grown. I believe I have the same type of cancer you have. CT scan coming soon, but these 4 chemo-free months have a blessing.

Your posting, "SHARING STRENGTH," moved me to share this quote from Henri Nouwen:

"When we ask ourselves which persons in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who can face the reality of powerlessness... and have chosen rather to share our pain, and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing... that is the friend who cares."

Sent by Anne C. | 5:40 PM ET | 02-05-2007

Leroy,

Thanks for being so brave and open with this subject and your trip through treatment, I have learned as of the 1st of the year that I have the "C word" residing inside of me — invasive breast cancer. After the shock, I've wanted to read and know all I can about this disease. As I find out more, and start the Chemo treatment before surgery, I look around me and am astonished at how many people are affected by this problem, yes, it's a problem, makes it feel a bit more minor than it really is and any way to fool my mind of the severity of this issue is okay! My Father had died of lung cancer 15 years ago and this was what I had to compare the things Id be facing with. Fortunately it's changed in treatment procedures, they can control nausea, as well as some of the other symptoms — so research and development has done some good — but when will they find the cause, and hurry up for the cure?

Keep up the spirits and I wish you good health and peace.

Sent by Pam | 5:48 PM ET | 02-05-2007

Dear Leroy,

I have been reading your blog from the beginning. I truly admire your courage your sense of dedication and service. You are a great source of inspiration to all of us who are touched by this illness. As a caregiver for my husband diagnosed with renal cell carcinoma, your message today touched me deeply. To watch your loved one battle through this illness makes you so helpless. I was always wondering what more I could do. My husband tells me that he could only handle this because I am there with him with by his side. No matter what life has full meaning and fulfillment with loving kindness. My husband and I make a conscious effort to practice loving kindness each day. We are aware each day is a God given blessing to show each other more love and kindness. Now our burden is light.

Sent by Chrisine W. | 6:16 PM ET | 02-05-2007

Dear Leroy,

Thank you. I truly hope you can feel how much so many people care about you.

Sent by Carol | 9:35 PM ET | 02-05-2007

Dear Leroy,

Having lost my 44-year-old son to cancer on December 15th, we somehow made it through Christmas. Roger had made his home in Germany for the past 27 years. Leroy, you said you hoped your friends would get together to drink and tell funny stories at your expense. Thanks for the timely tip! It's time to do that with Roger's sisters and me. How can I bear this loss? With your help, and the help of all who've been there. Thank you all, with deep love...

Sent by Jackie | 1:37 PM ET | 02-07-2007

I'm crying my eyes out as I read this entry. My 48-year-old husband has just been diagnosed with Stage 1 multiple myeloma. We have 3 children under the age of 11 and we have no idea how to break this news to them. At this point, he's pretty stoic about it all, but I'm in Hell. I would gladly and gratefully change places with him if I could. After all, he says that I'm the strongest person he knows. This is just too hard.

Sent by Patricia DuBose | 1:39 PM ET | 02-07-2007

My Dear Stephanie,

No, thank YOU. Knowing that you know means the world to us. Even if you only say one time "Thank you for all you do," that's enough. We do it because we love you.

Period.

And if we never hear it directly, we still know in our hearts. Never forget that.

Sent by Bruce C. | 1:44 PM ET | 02-07-2007

Thank you for that Leroy. I have often felt that my disease (Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma) that I have been battling for almost 7 years now has been harder on my family, friends and community. As I sit here in the hospital away from my beautiful husband and 2 gorgeous kids (9 and 7) going through the steps to receive a stem cell transplant, I am humbled by all the friends and family who have helped "make it go away" the best they could by cooking, driving, watching our kids, and simply smiling and cheering me up on those day when I need it. If they can do their part, I can do mine, and my prayers are that the good docs are doing theirs. Then well all be able to move past this. Thanks so much for your blog — I read it often, but this is the first time I have taken the time to write back. Keep it up!

Sent by Suzanne McDermott | 2:20 PM ET | 02-07-2007

My friend, who I have known all my life, was recently diagnosed with bladder cancer. She is dying all the way across the country. I visited her and there was very little I could do to ease her pain or help her two small children or her husband deal with her eventual loss.

The week after I returned, my co-worker was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I went to see her at the hospital and she really didn't want me there, it was awkward, and I was embarrassed. I felt so powerless. I hadn't done anything to help either of my friends.

I had a fight with my husband because when I tried to tell him how I felt. He said I couldn't know what it was like to have cancer. I wasn't blaming them for how I felt and I was mad as hell at him for not knowing that.

I had e-mailed my friend your link because I was amazed at how well you captured what it was like — the Christmas tree in particular, because we were dealing with that while I was there. Another friend sent me this post today because she knew I needed it, and I did. Thank you so much. It was exactly what I needed. Exactly. Thank you.

Sent by Anne Sisco | 2:34 PM ET | 02-07-2007

I was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma more than twelve years ago. I don't need to tell you about the devastation that this brought on. I was forty-five with two young children.

Over the next several years I underwent numerous rounds of chemotherapy to keep the disease in check while I had the pleasure of watching my children grow. Throughout that time, my wife was my rock and guiding light. Knowing that she would be there after I was gone gave me a sense of peace and allowed me to face my own uncertain future with a grace I would not have otherwise known.

Then she was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma. She went through three stem-cell transplants and endured tremendous pain caused by the bone-eating aspects of her disease. Through it all, she fought on, uncomplaining, thinking primarily of our children. She died last June and it was a blessing for her.

Now, with my own future uncertain, I struggle with my new role of solo parent to two teenagers. These last years have been the most challenging of my life. Throughout, I have maintained a journal documenting our family's experience. Many who have read it say that I should get it published.

I do not know where to begin that process. I am not certain that there is merit to the idea, but I would appreciate a professional evaluation. So I am writing this today to see if I can get suggestions on how I might proceed, perhaps referrals to resources I might contact.

In any event, I am glad that you are sharing your experience with us. The world needs more education about cancer and the effects it has on those who live with it and how it can change the way you experience life.

Sent by Douglas | 12:20 PM ET | 02-08-2007

Cancer changes lives. The diagnosis makes you hold your breath —waiting for the last shoe to drop. Those who care/do — for a traveler in the cancer play are the "BEST SUPPORTING ACTORS." They listen, cry, hug, celebrate good news, and surf the net for new treatments or the latest news of fringe treatments for your diagnosis. Thank you to all the caregivers.

Sent by Jeanne Meyer | 1:37 PM ET | 02-12-2007