Timely, as usual, Leroy. It feels like you are inside my head, reading my thoughts. I have really been struggling this last week or two, more so than usual. I must get up and go. I do, every morning, get dressed and show up for work. But I am not engaged. I feel like a robot, or wrapped in cotton wool, insulated from the real world and my feelings. I feel unable to go forward. I don't know how to kick my self in the seat of my pants and get my self moving. How do you do it? Sheer force of will? My will seems spent. And I don't even feel bad physically. I have gotten used to the slight abdominal cramping, the intestinal eruptions, never having any energy, but I haven't gotten used to the malaise and apathy. I hate it.

Sent by Stephanie Dornbrook | 10:25 AM ET | 02-13-2007

That is all so true, Leroy. My husband has been in remission from non-Hodgkin's lymphoma for 16 years, after dealing with it starting in 1988. He was fortunate to have a wonderful oncologist who had the foresight to harvest my husband's bone marrow when he went into remission for 13 months, then another 3 months of chemo and finally a bone marrow transplant in 1991. He has been cancer free ever since. But what a fighter he was all the way through, I think we both drew strength off of each other to make it through the whole ordeal... support and prayers are so important! Now we are dealing with heart attacks and staph infections, which he has also survived. I know he doesn't tell me all of the feelings that he deals with from all of this but he has managed to stay creative and somewhat optimist about the whole life experience.

I pray for you to continue to stay strong in your journey. Attitude is everything, peace to you and to all.

Sent by Judi | 10:30 AM ET | 02-13-2007

I read something the other day that gave me pause. It was an article about our health care system It said that we deserve to age gracefully and with dignity and serenity. I stopped me in my tracks because I realized that there's nothing serene about cancer. You are subjected to all sorts of invasive, jarring things. No wonder you liked the blurb about skidding in all worn out because really that's our only option.

Sent by Patricia | 10:33 AM ET | 02-13-2007

I am where Stephanie is right now. You get the diagnosis and you prepare yourself for the fight... you think I've had a wake up call. Change all the things that are wrong in my life while I have time. Then the battle begins. You are cast into a foreign world where they use words you have to go home and look up. You learn about biopsy reports, lab results, disfiguring surgeries, chemo drugs, side affects... then you deal with the treatment. All the while you are reeling from the initial shock. You go through stages where you do change for the better then you hit the wall and it seems like everything slows down. The world is still turning and people around you are still living their lives... going to work, going on trips. You slide back into the routine and use the excuse to sleep, to hide, to drink more than you should. Some days are better than others and you can accomplish the tasks at hand, others are lost and you have to remember they are gone forever. That's when you need the pep talks, to remember how you felt the first few months after you were diagnosed. And in the end you have to realize that no one can do this for you. You have to put one foot in front of the other, embrace the day and thank God for the strength to overcome the depression.

Sent by Patti | 11:41 AM ET | 02-13-2007

I work in the Neurology field. I suffered two strokes (CVAs/bleeds)in 1997 and a tumor was found in my brain. I was 33 years old with three small children. I had two brain surgeries in 1998. In February 2003 I had uterine/cervical cancer and had a total abdominal hysterecomy with chemo. Today I suffer seizures (broken teeth and spinal vertebrae), migraines, and now possibly Multiple Sclerosis plaque have been found in my brain. I'm 43 years old. I almost never miss work except a few 1/2 days for Doctors appts. or tests. It's been a rough 10 or so years physically, emotionally and financially for myself and my family. I'm NOT a patient. I'm NOT a Medical Records number. I'm NOT a survivor, victim, or whatever you want to label me. My name is Doaty. I'm a tired Mom of three teenagers in a job where I serve others. This life is not about me, it's about how much I can do for others to relieve their suffering. It's all about focus. Yes, I cry. Yes, I reach the end and am exhausted and literally crash in my bed from fatigue, sickness, chronic pain for multiple reasons, etc. The next day the sun rises, or the rain falls, and someone at the hospital needs me. This tired broken body gets up because the brain tells it to, my dogs lick my face good-bye, the kids head off wherever teenagers head off that day, and my needs are forgotten. It's all about focus.

Your disease is not YOU. I control my epilepsy, my migraines, my chronic pain. IT does not control ME. I control IT.

This attitude takes practice. It takes verbalizing out loud. It takes meditation. I fail sometimes and throw temper tantrums. I get it straight as soon as the beeper goes off and that patient at the hospital needs me.

If anybody thinks there are no hurdles to jump in this life, they've been sorely mislead. Some are just more visible. If anybody tells you their life is all roses, they're lying.

Life is good, it's all where you focus your camera.

Sent by Doaty Flanigan | 11:54 AM ET | 02-13-2007

This blog continues to inspire me. I had a good friend whose rule was that you could play the cancer card once on all the people you knew. But just once. After that you'd have to deal with whatever you were avoiding. You would have loved her... The week before she died she was trying to stop me from doing her dishes and saying that we should stop treating her like she was on her deathbed because she was anything but.

Sent by Katie | 11:57 AM ET | 02-13-2007

Within the last month I have been diagnosed with Stage 4 tonsil cancer after 49 years of perfect health. I have had a radical neck disection and in two weeks I start a combined radiation and chemo program for seven weeks. (The good news is that I have quit smoking).

I have always thought of myself as a proactive person but I now find that I have to be reactive (being a control freak this has been difficult).

My family and I have decided that cancer will be a part of our lives, but will not control our lives. Family dinners will continue as usual, car pooling, complaining about who gets the computer etc... We have made it a rule that none of us will use the "C" card to shirk our responsibilities at work or home.

Sent by K.B. Dunk | 12:13 PM ET | 02-13-2007

My friend died yesterday. I was unprepared for the sense of helplessness that I am feeling, until I realized that this was just his graceful exit from "Cancer World." Thanks for helping everyone through the emotional effects of this disease.

Sent by Karyn | 12:17 PM ET | 02-13-2007

Your entry today, sharing your struggle to function "normally" despite your cancer was a lesson in courage for me. Some others wrote in and shared their coping strategies... fierceness from Doaty, plugging on from Patti, and trying to find a way to cope from Stephanie... all lessons in courage, which is rising above fear or depression or pain to continue living a life with some quality in it. All of you are just terrific.

Sent by Diana Kitch | 12:48 PM ET | 02-13-2007

In 8th grade my grandmother passed away at a youthful age of 59. It was the first significant death of a loved one for myself. I remember thinking on the way to the funeral home how the world hadn't stopped because my grandmother had died. Everything around me was carrying on as usual. There are days when I would love to "pull the cancer card" BUT I still have yet to "use" it... I think back to my grandmother and I understand that life will go on no matter what...

Sent by Marianne Dalton | 2:25 PM ET | 02-13-2007

A great post and great comments, as usual. Something I have become aware of in the last year or so, regarding courage and perseverance in the face of trials and despair, is that the courage-perseverance just seems to happen "to me" or "through me," but is not really being done "by me" through my volition as I had always accepted was how it worked. It doesn't always happen when I say I want it to happen (in fact almost never), it just happens when it does. That may sound strange and unbelievable, but words can never convey knowing, and I suspect many others have sensed the same thing.

I've noticed though that some people are uncomfortable hearing this, maybe seeing it as dodging responsibility or some type of "avoiding reality" mechanism. But I don't think that's what it is. Call it grace or whatever word feels right, but it seems to just happen, seemingly uncaused by what I consider my volition. The despair may be deep and long, and then one day it lifts and the next thing to be done is done. And I can't really say that I somehow did it, but that it somehow just happened. I don't know if that is of use to anyone since its not really something you can "do" to get feeling better, but its another perspective.

Sent by Mac | 3:43 PM ET | 02-13-2007

All of your comments today make me feel honored to be able to participate in this blog community. I admire each and every person for their reason to get up each morning and be who they are. Thank you for your inspiration.

Sent by Pat Z. | 5:21 PM ET | 02-14-2007

I can't play the "cancer card" - my friends and family are too smart to let me get away with it. And as long as I am still physically able to carry on life with cancer, I wont play it either. I am determined not to use the card until absolutely necessary.

As much as it seems impossible to put this in a humorous light, the late author Miriam Engelberg's book of cartoons "Cancer Made Me A Shallower Person" tackles the issue head-on by answering the question "Is it OK to play the cancer card with telemarketers?". Maybe in some instances, it is OK to play the cancer card. The book is great - I highly recommend it when you need a laugh. Google "Miriam Engelberg" for more information about her and about the book (which is available from a big on-line bookstore with the name of a big river).

Sent by Bob Maimone | 5:22 PM ET | 02-14-2007

I have had days where it took a lot to keep going...to get onto the train to go to the city for specialized PT for a whole hot summer, to go to 3 doctor appointments in a day at times, to have surgery after surgery and wonder when it'd slow down. I'm happy to say that it has. Oh, I still have plenty of doctors, and regular doctor appointments and tests, but not nearly as often, and since I'm in remission, not as anxiety producing. Doing what I had to do has paid off in a remission that might not have been if I wasn't proactive, feeling better, being back to work, and day by day, getting more of "normal" back.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 5:24 PM ET | 02-14-2007

Leroy, your words, the last couple of days, have really spoken to me and reminded me so much of my husband. He went to work every day, for a year, after his diagnosis of inoperable, metastatic pancreatic cancer. Maintaining normalcy helped him to maintain hope. Six weeks before he died, he had a TB test done because it was required once a year and it was due. The sheer human courage that it takes to live, in the face of cancer, is awesome.

Cancer also made him a better, more loving person. Even he would admit this. And, I guess, it did the same for me. Thats what makes his loss so painful.

Now, I am rooting for you! Best Wishes.

Sent by Marilyn | 5:26 PM ET | 02-14-2007

In my family we call this playing the cancer card. We don't play it unless we really feel the need, but, every once in a while we pull it out, dust it off...and shameful as it sounds.... we play that card! Its our little personal comic relief for a nightmare situation.

Sent by Lorraine | 5:28 PM ET | 02-14-2007

Yes I have pulled out my Cancer Card a couple of times...some because I have needed to but a couple because of wanting to avoid something. Its as if I have needed permission to not go somewhere, a challenge against what I think I "should" do. I don't know whether thats "right" or "wrong" of me. The jury's out and I am pondering on it. Thanks Leroy.

Sent by JJ | 5:41 PM ET | 02-14-2007

At the risk of raising everyone's ire, the "cancer card" can get thrown around too often. As a caregiver, I have experienced the "cancer card" as an excuse for having one's way on everything from what we have for dinner to spending money on non-essential things when we should be saving for our children's future, which will more than likely be without my spouse. At the same time, I understand my spouse's need to live fully with the life he has left. I guess compromise is the best policy.

Sent by sj | 3:19 PM ET | 02-15-2007

Was it here I read it? Some days the only way forward is: Left foot, right foot, breathe.

Sent by Katie | 4:45 PM ET | 02-15-2007

Well we passed another one of those scan dates. How I hate them - and the next one is two months away again. My husband's stage IIIB rectal tumor that has spread to his lymph system in the groin area has shrunk somewhat. The bad news is it is still inoperable because of the location and, of course, the fact that removal probably would not be a cure. But for now, we have two more months to enjoy life with a wedding to go to in Cancun for son. God is good! April 10th will come and go and God will still be good, scans or not.

Sent by Marie | 4:51 PM ET | 02-15-2007

Leroy, your curiosity and your vulnerability and honesty and perseverance are able to keep me interested in your progress and the progress and outlook of others posting here. It was enough to make me want to stand up and cheer when I read Doaty's "kick-butt-no-matter-what" comments! While I know we all have days of unbearable grief or unimaginable pain, I have to say that I want to put Doaty's words on a wall where I'll see them every day. I can't express it as well, but I decided at some point — I don't know just when — that no matter what, I am alive TODAY and I will live it to the best extent my body and mind will allow. I may not always feel good or energetic, but for today, this moment, I do, and I'm alive and I will plan to be here tomorrow and for as many tomorrows as I get. I won't judge myself or my days by what was, but by what is, right now, today. Ruth, I hope you've come through surgery well and will see Doaty's comment. I hope it gives you strength. I hope I can even live a tenth as well as she does. I wish all of us a measure of that ferocious will to live.

Sent by Ginny | 5:21 PM ET | 02-15-2007

I agree with Mac.... Grace has a way of showing up and helping us through when we just let it. I've had that experience many times while dealing with cancer and its multiple effects. Often, Grace subtly enters when I let go of the outcome and trust in something larger than myself to help me through.

I think discernment is the key here. It's OK to go within, regroup and let yourself deal with the sadness/grief of all the losses.

It's also very helpful to have that fighting spirit when the need arises. To do either to any extreme however, is not ideal to navigate this cancer journey.

Trust your own inner knowing to discern what you need at any particular time and be kind enough to yourself to allow whatever that may be.

That's my take on it, an ebb and flow of sorts depending on your situation, personality, ability and needs at that particular time.

Sent by Kathleen A | 5:36 PM ET | 02-15-2007

Lance Armstrong in It's Not About the Bike made a big impression on me. You must get up out of that chair and walk each day. And then you must walk farther. Maybe today is the day they find a cure for your cancer and you want to be ready for the rest of your (longer) life.

Sent by Tim | 5:52 PM ET | 02-15-2007

My wife rarely used the cancer card and only at those times when she was just too sick to do anything. But last week she used it for me.

I'm hard of hearing so she has been my telephone person for the past couple of years. I had a doctor's appointment this week that I needed to cancel because she has gone on comfort care due to the complications of surgery and that damned cancer. So, she called and they asked why I needed to cancel, so she said, "Well, I'm dying." My son-in-law was in the room and we thought he was going to die laughing at how straight forward Mom was. She eventually got the nurse on the other end of the phone laughing, too.

Sent by Chuck | 6:03 PM ET | 02-15-2007

My partner just finished eight months of chemo and radiation for breast cancer. I find that we often say "we had cancer" as our excuse for no longer doing the things we don't want to do. Maybe were just tired - physically and emotionally after this most recent journey - but frankly I don't have the time or patience to do anything out of obligation guilt anymore. And if I'm feeling trapped in a conversation with someone, I sometimes say "we had cancer. I have to go now." and get on to the joys in my life - my kids, family, friends, a simple walk. Cancer continues to have a place in our life, but at the moment its a good excuse to do the living were most drawn to, that which feeds our spirits, and excuse the rest.

Sent by Kelly | 3:48 PM ET | 02-20-2007