Thank you for today's posting, Leroy. That really describes so well both the struggle with loneliness and the ways I have felt connected to others through my own cancer battle.

As for the struggle with uncertainty, I find myself much more appreciative of denial as a defense mechanism. I posted a few days ago that I was facing a recurrence scare (thanks to the oversensitive imaging technology we now have available) and had to go for an additional exam. Well, I had that yesterday and was told not to worry — things still look to be cancer free (yay).

A recurrence for my kind of cancer would have been extremely bad news, but I really only let myself worry about the possibility *right* before I went to see the doctor. The rest of the days leading up to that visit I just lived my life with the occasional moment of fear when I remembered the upcoming appointment.

What has been destroyed forever is my sense that somehow that denial is *real*. I know I'm going to die, maybe sooner than I want, maybe of cancer, maybe of something else, and I know it scares me, all in a way I didn't know before. But I still appreciate that my mind just can't focus on that all the time.

Sent by N.R. | 10:03 AM ET | 03-06-2007

Hey Leroy,

As with most groups, we cancer survivors self identify. Consequently, we will probably always feel that we are members of the cancer world. Having "been there" we have an understanding that people who've never had cancer don't have.

Currently I'm "dancing with NED" (I love that phrase!) though I'm going through a course of chemo "as insurance" — my husband's spin. However, I will need to have CT scans for years to confirm my continued NED status. I don't think I'll ever feel safe, and having that bottle of barium contrast at the back of my fridge is a constant reminder.

Sent by Katie | 10:05 AM ET | 03-06-2007

Leroy:

I'll tell you what happens afterwards: you gradually — very gradually as you recuperate from the assault that has been perpetrated upon your body and your life — start coming back to life. In my own case I started to realize that I was making it "one day at a time" because I have lots of work to do. I have my experience to share, ears to listen to those suffering, words of comfort and experience to write, and a promotional ability to help bring greater awareness of our cancer to more people.

I emerged from my colon cancer experience with a clear knowledge that my future work was to especially bring women information about which they weren't as aware as they should be: 1. Constipation can kill, 2. Women can, indeed, do get colon cancer (!), 3. The taboo surrounding the discussion of matters colon needs to be destroyed, and 4. An apple a day is a very good thing!! These are just a few of the things I've learned since encountering the beast (I was Stage III when diagnosed). Today I'll be acting as a spokesperson for the American Cancer Society's CRC Awareness activities we here in Colorado are faulted with the fact that our state has been given an "F" in the Legislation Report Card — meaning that Colorado has not yet passed legislation requiring any coverage of colorectal cancer screenings and/or have failed to even consider such legislative measures. How can this be in my supposedly enlightened state of Colorado? Well, if I have my way, this will change!!

You, by writing this blog so very honestly, have done so much for people. You've shared your experience, strength, and hope with the world at large, and you are receiving the bounty of love that comes your way from having done so. It's my hope that you will continue doing so, lending your cancer survivability and story to our collective effort to destroy the beast. There's a group of us coming to DC in a few days to call upon Congress, specifically about the issue of matters colorectal cancers. Our group, the Colorectal Cancer Coalition, or C3 (http:///www.fightcolorectalcancer.org ) was honored just yesterday by being the group invited by the New York Stock Exchange to ring the opening bell. Now that's progress! Keep at it, Leroy we're — all of us out there — all FOR YOU!!

Sent by Erika Hanson Brown | 10:10 AM ET | 03-06-2007

Dear Leroy,

I think I understand your uncertainty and loneliness, even though neither I nor anyone in my immediately family has ever been diagnosed with cancer. For me, the issue is my daughter's struggles with severe anxiety and depression. She is doing ok now with meds and in fact is about to get married, but there have been many crises, including about a year on a med that made her throw up almost every day. She went to two highly regard GI specialists, and neither had any idea it was the med, she discovered that purely by chance when she decided to go off it (and change to something else) for unrelated reasons. She's quit jobs, quit school (although has since gone back and is working on a masters) all because of her issues. I have spent countless hours on the phone with her over the years trying to cheer her up when she was horribly upset. Then, when I got off the phone, I would feel extremely worried and upset to the point that it colored my life for weeks or months. I still sometimes think of her good periods, like now, as respites (of course I would never tell her that). So even though it's not my own illness, I believe I understand the loneliness and uncertainty you describe.

Anyway, all the best to you.

Sent by Jane | 10:13 AM ET | 03-06-2007

Leroy, what an awesome, inspiring article today. You certainly get to the core of people's feelings. I have recommended you blog to some friends who are ill. I read it everyday including the comments. It helps me with my life issues. I hope my sick friends are reading. I'm very happy for your recent good news. Have you planned that trip to Hawaii yet? Stay healthy.

Sent by Carol | 10:16 AM ET | 03-06-2007

Leroy,

That was so well put. My husband has a glioblastoma stage 4 and we are waiting for a Pet Scan and MRI report. The anxiety for us is sometimes overwhelming. He roams the house each evening. He cannot sleep. I'm there for him and want to take away the pain, the loneliness, and give him comfort. The only way I know how is to be there for him and with him. Thank you for sharing your journey to give me the courage to acknowledge my fears and concerns so freely. I want to thank all of the comments you receive each day. That, too, makes me feel I'm not alone.

Sent by Gail Hunsberger | 10:18 AM ET | 03-06-2007

I've spoken before of the functions of illness. The realization that control of our lives is an illusion is one of them, in my opinion. We breeze through our pre-illness lives in many cases, believing that were master of our ships, that we choose the direction and sail to it. We go to school, get the jobs, marry or don't, have children or don't... then we get ill. We realize that were more interconnected with the world than we could have previously guessed. Suddenly, were dependent on strangers for our lives. We have to put our trust in nurses, surgeons, oncologists, and other caregivers whom we've never met before. We may be dependent on others for transportation, food, housekeeping help. It is a huge adjustment and strain for those used to being "independent" and often priding themselves on never asking for help. It's that breaking down of illusion that can help us to realize that were more loved than we knew, that life, because its more fragile than wed guessed is more precious, that we can only do the best that we can do, as all of those caring for us can, and that the outcome is in the lap of the Gods. That can be terrifying, but it can also bring peace. If we are consciously going through our treatment, engaging with our caregivers, and when we can, helping others through the maze... we've won, no matter the outcome of our illness.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 10:26 AM ET | 03-06-2007

Dear Leroy, You provide a rare, honest glimpse into the world and thoughts of people living with cancer.

As a caregiver, I can also tell you that my sense of security and normalcy was shattered by the unexpected diagnosis of my husband's cancer 2 yrs. ago at the age of 58. But, selfishly, the loneliness since his death, is far more difficult for me to deal with than any of the trials of his illness and treatment.

As long as there is life, there is hope. That's why we caregivers push so hard.

Live on, Leroy. Live on.

Sent by Marilyn | 10:28 AM ET | 03-06-2007

Your comment that we are "following in the footsteps of those who went before us", that thought overwhelmed me at times during my treatment. I was receiving the benefits of massive research and trials and errors. I pause often with thoughts of gratitude for the care that I received. I am so very grateful for the life I have. And yes the anxiety comes back again before an appointment. In the waiting room I am reminded that I am surrounded by many who are fighting this same battle. I choose life and this grateful heart. Thank you God for this wonderful place I am in today and thank you for those who went before me.

Sent by M. Weber | 12:00 PM ET | 03-06-2007

Leroy, you're getting to the fundamental issues of being human. Can I tell you what my cancer taught me? My cancer, in all its painful and awkward glory, showed me I am only human, after all. The control I thought I had lost with my diagnosis was merely a mirage there was never any control, only trading one moment for the next. My cancer leveled the playing field for me advantages I thought I possessed were pipedreams. My cancer brought me down to earth by opening me in ways other than surgical. At my hospital clinicals (I am a Rad Tech student), the patients I see are at varying stages of the disease process. During our conversations between x-rays, I listen to their experiences and share mine with them. My cancer has taught me to be gentle physically with them, to be gentle emotionally with them. I know the fear, the pain, the uncertainty they feel first hand.

There is always something to learn in everything that happens to us. Often, the lessons are too subtle to grasp, but the lessons my cancer teaches me everyday are as subtle as a 2 x 4.

The unbearably splendid knowledge of being human was the hardest lesson to learn, but, ultimately, the easiest to embrace.

Sent by Teri Thomas | 12:11 PM ET | 03-06-2007

Leroy,

Although I have not had cancer, those close to me have. As I see it, not being alone is an illusion because each of us has stuff under our skin... fears, feelings, secrets... that nobody else knows. Even if we articulate them, another person cannot have my experience.

Most of us are happiest when we are in a situation where we feel a part of things, a sense of belonging, loved, cared for, needed. But the reality is we are always alone at some level.

I was talking with an 88-year-old lady yesterday. She is blind, hard of hearing and in an assisted living situation. She is far from home because she came here to take care of her daughter who recently died of cancer. She is lonely, feels useless, can't do anything much. Yet — get this — she laughed with me on the phone! While acknowledging her situation, her spirit has overcome it.

I was left humbled and awed. I also think that some people (may I be one of them) are blessed with a levity of spirit that enables them to rise above their situations and go on down the road. Others find this excruciatingly difficult to accomplish.

None of us is in control of anything but our choices. What happens to us becomes something we have to do our best to deal with. By the way, I am humbled and awed by how you are dealing with your cancer.

Sent by Diana Kitch | 2:35 PM ET | 03-06-2007

Leroy,

You ask, "How do we live with it?" My experience has been that I think of it every day. I am a victim of both Bladder cancer and Prostate cancer. There is never a day that I don't think about both. It is even worse those two or three weeks before my quarterly visit to the urologist. Waiting for the test results from those visits is horrific. I think you were right on it when you said, "That uncertainty just becomes a part of our new lives, of the way we have to live in the cancer world."

Sent by Jim Foley | 2:37 PM ET | 03-06-2007

The smile I receive from someone who has just shared with me that she is a cancer survivor and I will be one too is enough to make my heart melt for the entire day! Nothing more needs to be said because we already know!

Sent by Marianne Dalton | 2:40 PM ET | 03-06-2007

Last Thursday, our eldest cat suffered a massive stroke while we were at work. We found him on the floor in the bedroom partially under our bed. Even though he was still coherent and alert, he was paralyzed permanently. He was 18-yrs-old and living out his "nine lives" quite comfortably until then. That ended abruptly.

Today, we had to have the cat euthanized. He was still looking at us with that look of trust and innocence in his eyes even while we held his lifeless body. What a spear through the heart! We don't know day-to-day what is going to happen to us. Cancer or no cancer, we just have to tough it out in life and hope for the best. Life can come to an end in just an instant. A fatal car accident. A injection shot... five seconds later... death.

Sent by Larry Hamm | 2:53 PM ET | 03-06-2007

Your latest blog speaks about dealing with fear, anger, loneliness and other emotions. And worse, you speak about the loss of certainty. Disease that doesn't heal as you somehow expect it should has a way of undoing any sense of confidence in world order. I have been dealing with debilitating back pain for years. First, you don't die from back pain. So, it is not the same as cancer. But pain that is chronic, day in and day out with the occasional acute spell changes your life in a very dramatic way. Am I going to be able to work? Can I go to the bathroom without pain? Will I be able to be sexual with someone else again? Will I be able to manage my responsibilities or would my loved ones be better off without me?

In some ways, the old you dies, and a new one emerges. I wouldn't call it survival. Maybe it is? About three years ago, I had a major setback and I was told surgery wouldn't help. The drugs make you feel like you have a plastic bag over your head. So I didn't take them for too long. But I couldn't stand up, couldn't sit, couldn't sleep. I had to eat laying flat on the floor for about six months. I have gotten past most of that stage, but I am not the same person. And I imagine many people with cancer and other diseases feel the same way. My heart goes out to all of them. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. And I am not sure there is any profound lesson to be learned either. Except may be one: keep trying, keep moving, keep living.

Sent by Tim | 3:25 PM ET | 03-06-2007

It's been 4 years since my treatment ended so I can give you some insight into what happens when the cancer is gone & active treatment ends. #1 Your body slowly, steadily recovers & blossoms like a flower #2 You don't get your old life back, you get a better, more aware life with smarter priorities #3 You feel like its a big accomplishment to make it through another day/week/month/year #4 You never forget where you've been & you look for others to assist on their journey.

So good things happen after cancer but I'd never volunteer for this experience. I still miss my old, blissful ignorance (when I thought strength & health were forever).

Sent by L.J. | 3:27 PM ET | 03-06-2007

Leroy,

I understand what you mean about being lonely and being in chaos. My son has been off chemo for almost four years now. He still has quarterly check ups. Just when we thought we are in control and almost forgot about his cancer nightmare, it is time for his check up again. There is always that little bit of fear at the back of my head when he goes in for that x-ray and blood test. The nurses have finally understood that telling me his blood test is "normal" is not enough, they have to tell me the specific counts/number of each category. Although it is a blessing he is ok now, sometimes I feel lonely when people around us don't understand the anxiety and fear around check up time and living with the aftermath of chemo. The nightmare never really goes away completely. Because the chemo damaged his hearing (he was 18 months), he is struggling in school now. I often thought that is not fair, all I want is a normal healthy child.

So although I am really happy that my son is living and happy, I wished the cancer never happened. Just like one of the writer said, I miss the ignorance.

Sent by Grace | 5:28 PM ET | 03-06-2007

Dear Leroy,

I want to share a poem entitled "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley, which I think is relevant to today's topic:

"Out of the night that covers me,

Black as a Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods maybe

for my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced or cried aloud

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this Place of wrath and tears,

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul."

You, me and everyone who share this experience with cancer, have shown bravery & strength in this battle against this disease. We are in control because we choose to fight.

I want to commend Erika Hanson Brown for her victory and her endeavor to empower others. Hers is an example of an enduring spirit!

More power to you all!

Sent by Myrna | 5:30 PM ET | 03-06-2007

Today's blog about loneliness really touched home. But please don't forget that there is a difference between being alone and loneliness. I do know that I am not really alone - there are thousands of cancer survivors like myself going through treatments and there are many friends and family who care about me and I always remember that yet the loneliness exists despite the knowing I am not alone.

Sent by Lori | 10:05 PM ET | 03-06-2007

I identify with much of what you have said.

1. It is impossible to live at DEFCON 1 forever. You put it differently, but that's what it means to me. It's about however bad it is, somehow it is impossible to maintain that level of intense feeling, somehow it eases a bit.

2. Isolation even in a room full of others — I feel different. Irreversibly changed beyond the physical. Isolated in my perspectives.

3. We probably had as much control as now over some aspects of our lives -its just that now we know this better, and some fears are realised. Before, people talked of the possibility of being knocked down by a bus and now I feel caught in an extended period of time as the bus is in front of me and I am waiting to know if I am hit or escape it... this time. I refer to this as having lost my rose-coloured spectacles.

I enjoy reading the books of Irvin Yalom and his comments on existential psychotherapy. He says there are 4 givens of human existence:

1. meaning - that we have to find a meaning big enough to support our life.

2. freedom - that we are responsible for ourselves and our choices and our emotions

3. isolation - we come into the world alone and leave alone, and our ultimate separateness from each other

4. death anxiety

Tough stuff, but I have found these issues at the bottom of my emotions. No easy answers either, I am using it to work through my intangible feelings to try to see how it all fits for me.

Sent by JJ | 10:19 AM ET | 03-07-2007

To be quite blunt, having cancer sucks. It took away from me what could easily have been the best summer of my life, not to mention the months that came before and after that summer. My marriage disintegrated, although at a remove of a bit more than two years, it's hard to say whether the cancer was cause or effect. When I look back, though, I have to say that my life will never be the same again. And I will grieve for the foreseeable future for the me that was and who I could have become.

In the mean time, I am building my life anew. But what about stem cell research? Cloning? Why can't I have a new breast one day soon? What's really holding up the process? I have a "boob", but I'd rather have a breast.

In the mean time, I remain involved in outreach with high school girls, so that they can be aware of the warning signs.

I send my support to everyone who is bald (be shiny-headed with pride!). I'm angry that I'm numb in unexpected places and itchy in others. This wasn't part of the doctor's pep talk.

Sent by Helen-Anne Mertsching | 10:22 AM ET | 03-07-2007

Leroy,

You probably don't remember me, but I was going through radiation a couple of months ago with you. My wife has been telling me that I should read your blog and she was definitely correct.

I just wanted to let you know that your blog is very helpful to many of us going through the cancer experience. It is a shame that more people couldn't see the way that you handle yourself in person because even saying very little, the way that you carry yourself through this very trying stuff is truly inspirational to those of us fortunate enough to have observed you.

I'm not as articulate as many of these other writers but I did want to let you know that you are impacting those around you in many positive ways that most of us will never be able to adequately describe. Thank you.

Sent by Ken Francis | 10:36 AM ET | 03-07-2007

Question: How and where can one be treated with this new process? My son-in-law is awaiting diagnosis of a lung tumor.

Sent by Elisabeth Wertheim | 11:42 AM ET | 03-07-2007

I think you have pinpointed the biggest issue for me... the lack of control that you realize you have over your life once you are diagnosed with cancer. All of a sudden you are swept into "doctor time"...endless waiting rooms and appointments, treatments, diagnostics over which you have little or no control. You realize you have no control over what is happening to your own body. It was a very humbling experience for me to be diagnosed with ovarian cancer, and I have changed because of it. Things that would worry me before the cancer diagnosis now are not so urgent. Although I am now two years out from chemo and still no signs of cancer (thanks to the simple tumor marker test) I still get a clench of anxiety when I go see my oncologist.

If there is one thing I did learn, is that no cancer patient...probably no seriously ill person...should feel alone. I hated wearing a wig and when I would wear scarves on my bald head, strangers would come up to me and ask "Cancer? I was treated for [insert cancer here] several years ago, and I'm with you." So if I had only one thing to say to the community, please, reach out and let others reach out to you...it makes everything more bearable.

Thanks, Leroy, for creating a mainstream forum for us all.

Sent by Kitty Jungkind | 11:43 AM ET | 03-07-2007

Wow Leroy,

Your column really hit home today. Reading this today, I felt like I could have written it. You describe so many things that I believe we all go through, and the loss of control, etc. Thank you so much for a very powerful column today. You are making such a difference for so many of us.

Sent by Sher | 12:02 PM ET | 03-07-2007

Leroy,

Thank you for your post, it helps so much. I will forward it to my Sweetheart as I have some others to help her understand what I am going through and want to say but can not get it out. Thanks again.

Sent by Michael | 12:19 PM ET | 03-07-2007

Dear Mr. Sievers: Last night on NBC news, I saw a "Laugh Workshop." People laugh loudly, creating happiness for a certain time. More important, laughter creates endorphins that heal. Read Anatomy of an Illness, where the well-known author checked out hundreds of funny videos. Exaggerate the guffaw laughing. He healed himself of an incurable, excruciatingly painful disease. You never mention God or the Lord. Why not? Reciting Scripture outloud is healing also. "Be thankful under all conditions." God bless you.

Sent by Sandra | 1:02 PM ET | 03-07-2007

Dear Leroy, I just want to thank you for the daily inspiration that this blog provides. I'm 30 years old and was diagnosed with breast cancer recently. Reading this blog helps me realize that I'm not in this cancer world alone. I'm so glad my boyfriend introduced me to this blog!

Sent by W.M. | 7:31 PM ET | 03-07-2007

I was treated for colon cancer and had 12" of colon removed. I underwent chemo for 6 months. Yes there was pain, but I got over it in a short time. I appear to be cancer free at the moment, but periodic visits for scans and blood work are still in the works. At first, I was despondant. Why me! But after a while, I started to see things differently. When I heard about people who were dying by the thousands in far away lands and the suffering of others closer to home, I stopped feeling sorry for myself. When you consider the suffering of others is many times more terrible, your own problems don't seem all that bad. Talking about it in this blog, brings everyone together. My daughter became a widow at an early age due to cancer. Her present (de-facto husband) is undergoing chemo treatments for colon cancer. He still has a ways to go before he can be declared cancer free. I've printed out this "My cancer" story to give him to read. Maybe it will be a source of hope for him.

Sent by Ronald Seto | 8:22 PM ET | 03-07-2007

What you describe is what my father and I referred to as "the new norm." And it's new every day. He was the cancer patient, and I'm what's left — and the "new norm" continues every day. The thing that strikes me is the resilience and the caring that I've encountered with every person I've met who's willing to discuss their exposure to cancer. Thank you again for your thoughtful insights, Leroy. You bring me closer to my father and what he must have gone through with every posting. That is a gift that I cant even express the value of -? you're a truly special person.

Sent by Tammy | 10:46 AM ET | 03-08-2007

Yes the isolation can be devastating.

My first cancer in 1977, I was 27 y.o.

I had to fight for the surgery I needed — I told the doctors I'm old enough to have the problem, I'm old enough to have it fixed... And their response was "Yes, but..."

No one else I knew had a similar situation. It was HARD!

Again, the American Cancer Society was quite helpful... especially the toll-free 24-hour hotline!

In recent years, I've found that participating in RELAY FOR LIFE fundraisers has expanded my knowledge and support system. For sure there are a ton of people out there who are willing to share their stories — their own or their loved one or neighbor/co-worker, etc. that has helped to expanded my sense of belonging to a wide community that helps to reduce the isolation factor!

Sent by Anna | 10:50 AM ET | 03-08-2007

Dear Leroy,

I was just sent the link to your blog, and have to thank the person who sent it to me.

Your column hits to the core of what is happening with me. I have just come from my 2nd opinion, and it was no better than the first. I am dying. There is nothing to cure the cancer that I have. Chemo and radiation will prolong my life, but less then 10% live 2 years, 0% live 3.

I can't sleep. I worry over my children. It seems no one can truly understand. I don't even understand. 2 months ago I thought I was healthy, now I am trying to cope with the fact I probably wont see my son graduate from high school.

Sometimes I am so lonely that I could scream.

Sent by Stephanie | 11:21 AM ET | 03-08-2007

As I sit and write these comments, I am thinking of my friend Meri whom just passed away yesterday from ovarian cancer. And I am a one-year survivor of breast cancer. I had a biopsy completed yesterday and I am awaiting the news of the results, benign or cancer? Of course, I am hoping for the best. Loneliness has never been a thought or word that I have thought about during this past year. Within a day of knowing my diagnosis last year, I had a gift from four women in my community. They wanted to know that I was not alone. And they along with numerous others provided support, encouragement, advice, prayers and meals during my treatment, surgery and chemo.

I had three calls since coming home from the biopsy yesterday, and one friend that dropped by flowers. And we are all banded together today to talk about Meri's passing, and planning for her service along with a party to celebrate her life. No, loneliness is not a word that I would ever utter throughout this part of my life's adventure. We live in a special community that supports our friends with our various medical issues, and celebrates their life if they don't survive it. Life is good!

Sent by Audrey Sausman | 11:28 AM ET | 03-08-2007

It was great to hear you the other morning on NPR. Your voice sounded very upbeat with your new treatment. I have metastatic thyroid cancer with bone tumors and you can bet that I popped right out of bed and googled RFA! I have an appointment on Thursday and that will be part of my arsenal now that I am considering the few alternatives left to me after four RI 131 therapies that were not very successful. Anyway thanks again for going all out and talking about "it". Everyone in my support group listens to you too. All the best.

Sent by Marianne Karges | 4:00 PM ET | 03-08-2007

I'm a 53 yr old male that has recently lost 2 very close friends to cancer. I can't conceive what it must be like to know you have cancer without not knowing what's coming next. Although I do know what it's like to miss these friend daily. I understand that some cancer patients realize and cope with the finality of not surviving. These losses have been very hard to take. I'm not sure if I will ever be able to overcome the pain for as long as I'm alive. God bless you all.

Sent by Tommy Burdett | 9:03 PM ET | 03-08-2007