Leroy, You know that you have the hopes and good wishes of everyone who participates in your blog. We're all rooting for good news today. Consider yourself hugged.
I've seen the promos for your show on Discovery, and I'm looking forward to it. I echo the sentiments of one of the recent entries about how important this work that you're doing is for so many people. I pray that you're here to do it for a long time to come.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 7:18 AM ET | 04-27-2007

Good morning Leroy.
I wish you luck on your scan results...I hope you get good results. We go in on Monday for my sons scans to see if the drugs have done anything for his lungs this time. Funny (or not!), but I still have that small glimmer of HOPE that this time, these drugs did something. If not, we will search for another.
But for the weekend, we put scans on the back burner. My son got to go on his first band trip this morning, and tonight, I am going to walk in his honor at our local Relay for Life. I know what I'm in for. Lots of emotion. I always think I'm prepared, but this one is different. I've gotten a luminaria for my father that passed away in February, and one for my son who is living with cancer right now. The emotion of walking the track and paying tribute to both...words are hard to come by, but I know at some point the tears will fall and in a sense speak my words for me. As I'm walking tonight, I will remember you and everyone that reads and posts on here. I will walk in your honor, whether you are a survivor, whether you have lost someone close to you, or whether you or someone close to you is living with cancer...tonight as I'm walking I will say a special prayer for you all. I hope you all feel it in some way.
Below, I have copied what is written on the front of the Relay for Life program, this has always been a significant thing for me, (especially between 1:00 and 5:00 in the morning!!) and I wanted to share it with you. If you ever get a chance to participate in one of these...it's amazing.

"The RELAY begins when the sun is setting. This symbolizes the time that the person has been diagnosed as having cancer. The day is getting darker and this represents the cancer patient???s state of mind as they feel that their life is coming to an end.

As the evening goes on it gets colder and darker, just as the emotions of the cancer patient dies. Around 1:00 a.m. to 2:00 a.m. represents the time when the cancer patient starts treatment. They become exhausted, some sick, not wanting to go on, possibly wanting to give up. As a participant, you have been walking and feel much the same way. You are tired, want to sleep, and maybe even want to go home, but you cannot stop or give up.

Around 4:00 a.m. to 5:00 a.m. symbolized the coming of the end of treatment for the cancer patient. Once again they are tired, but they know they will make it.

The sun rising represents the end of treatment for the cancer patient. They see the light at the end of the tunnel and know that life will go on. The morning light brings on a new day full of life and excitement for the new beginnings for the cancer patient. As a participant, you will fell the brightness of the morning and know that the end of the RELAY is close at hand.

When you leave the RELAY, think of the cancer patient leaving their last treatment. Just as you are exhausted and weak, so is that person after treatment."

Sent by Rhonda | 7:39 AM ET | 04-27-2007

Dear Leroy:
Spiritually, I am there by your side waiting too.
On Tuesday I had a regular appt. with my oncologist. Like you, I walked in to the chemotherapy room. I was surprised that there were so many empty chairs, but realized that most people probably schedule later in the week, as I did, to have the weekend to recover. Sadly, I saw a young couple; he was getting treatment and she was sitting next to him. You know the look I saw on each of their faces. I was sure they were very new to all this. I'm tearing up now just thinking about them. I went back to the waiting room but they remained on my mind. I wrote down this blog's address and when the wife got up to get something out of the refrigerator, I spoke to her briefly and handed her the information. I felt it was the most supportive thing I could do for them.
I believe that once someone has experienced cancer, that meeting someone who has also had it is liking running into an another American while travelling in a remote town in a foreign country. The sense of connection is immediate.
I'm sorry we will all have to wait out the weekend to learn the results of your latest scan. Our loving and positive thoughts surround you dear friend.

Sent by Harriet | 7:42 AM ET | 04-27-2007

My husband and I are going to the Doctor this a.m. to hear the results of his scan of his chest area that was done on Monday. He has lung cancer and just completed his first cycle of radiation/chemo treatment a month ago.
I know how you feel.

Sent by Sherry | 7:53 AM ET | 04-27-2007

You've talked lately about the new "normal" and about "waiting". I do think waiting has become the new normal. This week I have been deeply engrossed in writing a grant that I will probably never see folks benefit from but that barely crosses my mind. I'm due for a CEA next week and that will determine if I go back on chemo. My hair is growing back but I'ved decided not to shed my wig until I know the CEA results as I would hate to take off the wig only to have to put it back on three weeks later. My office is going through a reorganization and many folks are worried about job loss and discussing what they might do if they are laid off. I know that if it happens to me I will not look for another job and will probably never work again but that is just part of the new normal. Everyday I am energized by the work I do and to stop that would in deed change things almost as much as cancer has but I will go on. Waiting on test results and making plans around them are just part of this new life but I do not intend to let the "wait" dominate my life. It is just a part of the new "normal".

Sent by Dona | 8:05 AM ET | 04-27-2007

I just realized that since today is Friday we will all have to wait till Monday to hear your results! Well, even though your readers will have to wait, I hope you won't, and that you'll get GREAT results today -- in fact, any minute now.

I also plan to never, ever go back to chemo again. I'm not sure what my plan is in case of recurrence, but I do know that I'm not returning to that chemo room.

Here's to both of us keeping off the poison forever.

Sent by jane | 8:38 AM ET | 04-27-2007

Leroy - first best wishes on the scan results.

I can fully relate on your comments about visiting the chemo room. It has been 4.5 years since my last chemo, a number that I hope will continute to increase and not get reset at zero at some point. Whenever I have a semi-annual (now to be annual) oncology check-up, I always visit the chemo room. I never know any of the patients, and now even many of the nurses I had have gone elsewhere and new nurses have taken their places. It still feels familiar, but I always feel a bit like an outsider looking in. It is a bit of a strange feeling.

Isn;t it great to so appreciate the simple pleasure of a fine cookie?

Sent by Art Ritter | 9:35 AM ET | 04-27-2007

Leroy, you will be in our hearts all week end as we wish you good news this time. Everytime I travel 1100 miles to the cancer center for my oncology check-ups, and wait for my appointment, I can see the garden just outside the glass walls of the chemotherapy infusion room. I can't see the line of chairs filled with patients, because of the garden and the roof overhang, and I always think that the architect's design was intentional. We can't see in the windows and be reminded of what we endured, but we know it's there, hidden in the shadows of the roof and the garden. As Rhonda said, from RELAY for Life, it is truly 1:00 a.m. in that place.

I wish you sunshine in the morning. Rebecca

Sent by Rebecca Bauder | 10:11 AM ET | 04-27-2007

Leroy,

If you care to share, what is your plan B should you need one (which I certainly hope you don't)? I've got everything I can cross crossed for a good result...I look a little funny. My very best wishes, friend.

Sent by Diana Kitch | 10:41 AM ET | 04-27-2007

Leroy,

I'm hoping that your phone rings soon with good news. My experience in the infusion clinic has also changed, with my changing treatment. I used to plan to spend an entire Tuesday from first check-in to final infusion. I would have a chair in a semi-private area, with patients who were having similarly lengthy infusions. It turns out that Tuesday is gyn clinic day at Dana Farber, so we ovarian/breast/uterine/et.al. cancer patients "standing up" (Thanks, John Reilly!) take over a good deal of the floor that day. I was amazed and grateful for the connection. Now, as a vet, it does seem incumbent upon me to do the same with the new faces that I'm starting to see in the waiting room. But, I find it harder to do. I think that's because my current infusion lasts only half an hour. I'm usually in and out for the day in less than three hours. I feel like I'd be an interloper in the longer days of the newer patients. I'd be interested to know if there are others on the blog who are in a similar situation...and what do you do?

Sent by Sheara | 11:04 AM ET | 04-27-2007

I suppose it was simple curiosity why I first started reading this blog several months ago. Then whadda know, in March I was diagnosed with complex hyperplasia with atypia. I went for a second opinion and another biopsy and was told I have uterine cancer. It looks like I'll be having surgery next month. I keep telling people that maybe I should be feeling/acting more "freaked out" than I do right now. But here's a question, do I HAVE to be? I think some people around me are a bit more "freaked out" about it than I am. The doctor said my uterus neither looks swollen in my MRI scan nor feels swollen upon examination, so I'm very hopeful it is in the earliest of stages. I'm figuring they do the hysterectomy and that's that. Is this denial on my part? But as the doctors have told me, and as I read in these blogs, sometimes you don't know until you wake up from surgery. And yes, I don't like the idea of that uncertainty. I've never been "put under," so I'm anxious about that to start with, but then also the thought of waking up to find out what happened, well.... do they tell you right away? what's the protocol? It's kinda funny. What started out as a (albeit) odd interest with this blog has found me becoming a part of the "club." hmm.

Sent by ktocs | 11:48 AM ET | 04-27-2007

My father-in-law was told Tuesday that he has a tumor in his brain. The family is just now beginning the long journey you have made us more familiar with. I thank you for all you have offered. I feel that I may be able to help him and all of those who love him because of your courage and strength and the selfless act of sharing you experiences with us. My best wishes to you.

Sent by Kara | 12:00 PM ET | 04-27-2007

Dear Leroy,

I'm hoping with all my heart you've already gotten that phone call -- and that the news was good!

I can understand your determination to do everything possible to avoid a return to chemotherapy. After 17 months of nonstop treatment, I'll have my last chemo on May 4th -- whoopee! I find I'm a little superstitious about celebrating that milestone, however. Recurrence is a very real possibility. I don't think that's a negative or hopeless statement; it's just acknowledging reality. If it does happen, it will be a blow, but I imagine most of us would do whatever we had to do -- including more chemotherapy -- to "stand up" to cancer again. My heart sank recently when I had a conversation with a woman in the infusion chair next to mine. She was just starting chemo that day -- but it wasn't her first time to go through it. She was laughing, asking the nurses what had become of this one or that who had moved on to to other jobs since a few years back, when she had her first treatments. I admired her spirit so much -- but of course, I hope never to be in her shoes.

My fingers are crossed for you...

Sent by Doris | 2:21 PM ET | 04-27-2007

Good luck with your scan results today. I now am on maintenance chemo every three weeks. Today was a chemo day and even though I'm "used" to going, I'm still always amazed by how many sick people I see each time. But what really gets me is how many new faces I see each time. Take care. Looking forward to the show. I'm sure I recognize a good bit of the place!

Sent by Sandy Lathe | 3:51 PM ET | 04-27-2007

When I am waiting for a scan result I find my imagination soars to new heights... I can easily imagine that the news will be really frightening like that the cancer has spread right down to my toes. My vision makes me tremble. But then the next minute I imagine that they are going to find a miracle has happened and I am cancer free !!! I tend to go back and forth between those two extremes and it's dizzying. So many things about dealing with cancer get easier after seven years, but the waiting for test results is always, always exactly the same: torture !

I recall from high school days when I waited for a certain wonderful boy to call me back and tell me he was not really "breaking up" with me, that staring intently at the phone makes time slow down and flow like molasses.

Go outside and look at the clouds if it's sunny out. Watch some Seinfeld reruns. Read a really great book, anything but phone watch !

Good luck to you, Nancy

Sent by Nancy Oliveri | 5:36 PM ET | 04-27-2007

Leroy, When I first heard your commentary, I was amazed at how well you described 'The Cancer Deal.' For years I tried to describe The New Normal and all that goes with it--the waiting, the trying to return to the country of Before Cancer, etc., the admitting that this is a horrible disease. Thank you for sharing your heart and mind with us all and here is some more hope and love back at you. I really appreciate how others besides me feel so vehemently that we do NOT want more chemo. Ever.

Sent by polly | 7:15 PM ET | 04-27-2007

To Sheara - Like you, I went from lengthy infusions to much shorter ones, and I did feel a little guilty that my Herceptin treatments were relatively quick and easy (i.e. no nasty side effects). I was always willing to talk and share my experience with anyone who wanted to chat, but I certainly didn't go out of my way to tell anyone how great it was to not have to spend the whole day there.

But - at my very last Herceptin infusion a week ago, I was (not surprisingly) really really happy, and struck up a conversation with with woman next to me. I asked, if she didn't mind sharing, what she was being treated for, and she answered "multiple myeloma." So she will never have a final treatment in the same sense as my final Herceptin infusion - she will probably be spending time in the chemo clinic, off and on, for the rest of her life. I suddenly wished that I had kept my jubilation a little more to myself, and been more sensitive to my fellow cancer club members.

Here's hoping the scans are clear, Leroy!

Sent by Gretchen Hoag | 7:45 PM ET | 04-27-2007

Leroy, thank you very much for this way of letting us communicate with you and each other. I was recently diagnosed with bone cancer, and won't know if my cancer has spread until I meet with my doctor next week.
Although I am very much determined to get beyond this point in my life, I am very scared and know that I may be dealing with cancer for a very long time.
I appreciate having a place to share my experiences and learn from those of other. Good luck with your scan. I truly with the best for you and your loved ones.

Christopher

Sent by Christopher A. Bruce | 1:04 AM ET | 04-28-2007

Leroy,

I truely hope that you got a good call yesterday. You have a positive attitude and that it good. I feel that positive energy feeds the body in a good way.

Sent by Betty in Germany | 2:46 AM ET | 04-28-2007

To ktcos: I really believe that doctors and nurses that treat cancer patients forget that the 'newbys' among us have no clue what to do when we are diagnosed. I think they should go back and take a class on how to educate the new cancer patient. One thing I found is that if you don't ask the question, they assume you already know the answer. Ask questions....this is new to you. No question is stupid. I did a lot of research and I also had the advantage of working in the medical field for years. I also had 'experience' with two family members that had pancreatic and lung cancer. Do not put yourself in a position of not knowing, waiting for your doctor to tell you, and then the frustration of not understanding. Ask them what the surgery involves, when will they know the results, what to expect when you wake up. A month is a long time to wait. If you have to, make an appointment and write down all your questions. You will be better if you know what you are facing going into this. God bless you and come back to the blog. You will find great support and comfort here. We all care about each other.

Leroy: God speed. I have you in my thoughts....I will plant some flowers for you today.

Sent by Patti | 9:30 AM ET | 04-28-2007

Leroy, I've just finished my waiting game and everything looks fine. Bone marrow is good, transplant is engrafted, but life is far from normal and may never be that again. Do you ever feel overwhelmingly depressed? I do. It is so hard to play the game of being better so the lives of those around you may be better. Truth is, I rarely feel better. The physical affects of cancer treatment, the anxiety of recurrance and just the sheer loneliness of it all, brings me down. Hope seems distant. Yet I remember being in my oncolgist's waiting room when a women walked through, stopped at the door, turned and announced, "It's been five years. This is my last appointment. I'm never coming back. Goodbye." We applauded. She was hope walking. When you visit your old chemo haunts, you are hope walking for the folks hooked to infusion lines. Give them a smile to let them know that hope is real. I need hope walking today. Just writing this helps. Thank you. I published a book of "cancer" poetry whiched helped me more than anyone else. Your writing helps me and I'm sure it is a healing touch for you.

Sent by Richard Verver | 2:20 PM ET | 04-28-2007

Dear Leroy,
First I am praying that your results are good and that you never have to go back to the chemo room again for treatment. I don't know if I could do it again and still have the fear because Dr. wouldn't let me take mediport out yet. Yesterday I saw a patient on Hospice to evaluate for Home Health Aide (I am an RN). I am embarrased to say that I cried but told him it was a privilege to meet him. I hope and pray that his passing is comfortable and told him so in so many words. Your writing is a comfort to me. Thank you.

Sent by Vicki | 3:28 PM ET | 04-28-2007

To ktoc, hang in there. Surgery is under anthesia of some kind and you will feel none of it. After surgery they will help you with the pain. Please take some "insurance" after the surgery. Chemotherapy and radiation are the insurances I refer to. Good luck, we are all with you. Just as we are with Leroy and all the many other wonderful people who read this blog. We need each other and I am so grateful for Leroy, the articulate genius who describes and empathsizes our intermost and yes, sometimes denied thoughts and feelings. In the last nine years I have "stood up" to two colon cancers and surgeries and two breast and node cancer (triple negative) surgeries. And yet, if it should happen that it shows up again on the Pet-Cat scan, I would go through the hell of chemotherapy again and radiation if it is recommended (I'd pass it by 3 different oncologists first!). I will be 81 in July) I send my heartfelt blessings to all. Keep on keeping on, Leroy

Sent by Lucy | 5:33 PM ET | 04-28-2007

Beaming good thoughts your way from the Shenandoah Valley... wishing you the magical distractions of springtime to ease the waiting to hear results

Sent by Sarah | 7:26 PM ET | 04-28-2007

Also hoping for good news through the old telephone line for you. I feel for you very much. Spring means it's time for my breast MRI and I just haven't made that appt. yet but I will, oh yes I will.

I also appreciate your comment about visiting but not sitting in the chair of that chemo room, just stopping by. When I contemplate a prophelactic breast removal, I think about the alternative. Heading back to the chemo room, going home to face the consequences without the smiling nurses faces giving me ice chips, asking if I want to watch Ellen or something else. "Ellen, please!" I think I will go for the surgery--and watch Ellen at home waiting for the scars to heal instead of waiting for my hair to fall out again.

Also, I am an artist and I made a "hope" mosaic for the bathroom at the oncologist office, a little way of giving back.

Peace out.

Sent by Sarah | 8:32 PM ET | 04-29-2007

I did 23 days of radiation for skin cancer and felt the same way you did when I went back for a check up and not a treatment. What a good feeling. For me the radiation seems to have worked. My last 6 month check up was ok. Kind of live your life in 6 month "chunks".

I heard you on NPR a couple of weeks ago and just wanted to write.

Take care and be well.

Sent by Jack........... | 9:02 PM ET | 04-29-2007

thank you very n??ce thank you very much...

Sent by evden eve nakliye | 8:04 AM ET | 04-30-2007

I am a cancer survivor who decided not to take chemo anymore. Consider the oncologist on your tv show who said that 80% of his chemo patients had died in the past year. Consider the signs over the sinks in the chemo clinic: "It is illegal to mix chemo drugs over this sink." It's a crime to get chemo drugs in the water system, but if they inject it in your arm, they've just made $3000.00, billable to your insurance company. Chemo slowly destroys your immune systems and makes your body sick with side effects. In the rare cases where a tumor shrinks, it usually grows back larger and chemo-resistant, as you mentioned on the tv show. You are blessed that you found radio frequency ablation (RFA) to kill your tumors. My stage IV liver tumors are no longer treatable by RFA, it's too delicate an operation in my case. However, I am happy with my decision to never go back for any more chemo, which would ruin whatever quality of life I have left for whatever time I have left.

Sent by Kevin | 12:42 PM ET | 05-08-2007

Lou, if you're coming to Poulsbo consider an appointment with Dr. Choo at the Seattle Cancer Treatment and Wellness Center. His work with pancreatic cancer is cutting edge and people are coming from all over to see him. Best of luck.

Sent by patricia | 4:55 PM ET | 05-10-2007