After the initial shock of the "six months" speech I adjusted and probably would have done pretty much if things had gone on as predicted. There have been times when that knowledge gave me a sense of freedom. Sometimes at a meeting we would be talking long-term and I'd think, at least I won't have to deal with that. I was also very secretive, only a few close friends knew. Almost two years later I feel very greedy. I am reluctant to make plans more than six months out but I want even more time. Lately, without any specific reason I have been thinking more about death and perhaps feeling more comfortable with those thoughts. I've mentioned before I'm very worried it will be boring. I also feel more comfortable talking with others about the prognosis. We will all die, we just think we know the cause and approximate timing. As mentioned before that can be a gift. We all appreciate things more and I try to savor every minute.

I'm looking forward to Sunday night's special. And from Louisville, KY I must say, "Happy Derby" to all! I will be enjoying the festivities, maybe for the last time but maybe not.

Sent by Dona | 8:20 AM ET | 05-03-2007

As usual, you're right on the money. I am in remission from stage 4 breast cancer, but barring something unexpected that my oncologist and I aren't aware of yet, I'm pretty sure that one day, it'll be back, and eventually, it'll kill me.
I've been a student of spiritual study for many years. I studied "A Course in Miracles" and other books, was in spiritual study groups, and came to the belief that our solid bodies are illusion...that we're all made of energy vibrating at a certain frequency and that when our bodies can no longer sustain us, we leave them behind, and we continue to exist, just vibrating at a much higher frequency...one that the "living" mostly can't percieve. We don't die, we transition to the next level. If you've never heard this before, it could sound really wacky, but science has told us that all matter is really energy, so it's not so far out an idea.
That being said, even though I believe that at my "death", I'll really continue, I've found that my body doesn't know that. When things have been really dire for me with the cancer, my body reacts as though my beliefs don't exist. It kicks into "fight or flight" and it's not fun. In this halcion time when I'm in remission, I have some thoughts about how I'll be able to better cope when things become dire again. That's a work in progress, and I suppose that I'm fortunate that I have some time to work on that. I hope that we all do. To come to the place where death is not something to fear, but a journey that we all take is a gift.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 8:49 AM ET | 05-03-2007

Whoa! As a brand new reader and 2 month old resident of the the hairy jungle you call Cancer World, your journal gives me something important to chew on almost daily. Sometimes it's your commentary, Leroy; other times, it's the wisdom and generosity of spirit I hear in the chorus of voices that respond to you. The intimacy is astonishing--no more so than today's piece. Thank you for giving such meaning to my thoughts and feelings.

Sent by Anita Solomon | 9:10 AM ET | 05-03-2007

Leroy,

Before I became a member of the cancer club, I too, would not have been comfortable discussing death or dying. I'd always thought that the topic would be too upsetting for the "patient." Now that the tables are turned, I think it's the opposite. For both family and friends want to talk about my progress/recovery and how well I look (you've covered that topic before). None wants to think about the possibility of a recurrence or the eventual death. The irony is that these folks are all highly educated and internet savvy; so, I know that they've all looked up my survival statistics. - Stage 4 ovarian cancer - not good in the aggregate.

In fairness, I wouldn't want to force the topic with my parents, ages 79 and 84, as I know that there is no greater sorrow than losing a child, no matter what the age. And I can sense that fear in my mom's voice during our nearly daily phone calls. And, most days, death and dying isn't something that I think about deeply. But, the fact of and timing of death, doesn't upset me anymore. I can still become wistful thinking about future missed graduations, weddings, grandchildren, and anniversaries. Maybe I cried all of these out with my husband in the weeks between my initial diagnosis and my surgery. Maybe, I'll get to be one of the women that improves the 5 year survival statistics. At this point, I'm planning to attend a nephew's Bat Mitzvah next month, my parent's 50th anniversary and son's college graduation in December, and my sister's law school graduation next June. Oh, and walking in a multi-day fund raiser for breast cancer research with one of my dearest friends, who is "standing up" to her disease. And somewhere in between, maybe a Hawaii vacation?

Sent by Sheara | 9:39 AM ET | 05-03-2007

yes, death is the elephant in the room. And we need to feel free to talk about it- not with everyone of course, but with those closest to us. I've had a couple of friends die from breast cancer. Neither of them spoke about their death to me or to their spouses and children. The death of both these women came as surprises to their children. That's just not fair. First, I think doctors need to be very clear (and make sure the person understands)that the end of life is near so people can have those important conversations. And second, I think friends and family need to allow the cancer person to just talk about death and cancer and process out loud.
Sometmes I feel like the village idiot. I know what my metastatic diagnosis means, but I continue to work and play and downplay my diagnosis. Really, what is the alternative?

Sent by em | 9:46 AM ET | 05-03-2007

I think some denial is actually healthy. My wife was in total denial that I might die from this cancer. But that was a good defense strategy for her. We had ja baby six months before and now here is her husband facing death from cancer. Not even being open to the possibility that I might die was the way she was able to push through that year. The year she spent as a single parent. Of course that created problems with other members of my family, who seemed to want to focus on the threat of death. It would have been nice if we all could have found the happy medium, recognizing the possibility of an early death, but strengthened by my resolve to keep that from happening. We would have all been happier and much less stressed, but since we are just human it didn't work out that way.

Sent by Brit | 9:55 AM ET | 05-03-2007

My metasticized inflammatory breast cancer will kill me: I know that. I am currently NED, but I know that I'm in a grace period. However, I also know that I could have 10, 20, 30, or more years of "bought time" left. Treatments will develop in that time--heck, even the Herceptin I now take wasn't widely available when I was diagnosed--and I might benefit from something not yet in common use. So I figure I'm not hiding from my death, and I don't feel hopeless. I feel mortal, and that mortality encourages me to enjoy what time I do have. Once that "make it all count" mentality took hold, I felt much, much better about my situation.

Sent by jj | 9:56 AM ET | 05-03-2007

Leroy-
I agree that the issue of dying from cancer is an under-discussed fear. I'm a support person and fly in care-giver for my beloved relative, now receiving hospice care at home (post treatment, esophageal cancer). Would you consider discussing on the blog (and getting comments) on transitioning from cancer treatment to hospice care? I'm particularly interested in the emotional issues, for both caregivers and the individual with cancer.
On the topic of helpful resources, I'd like to give a plug for the American Cancer Society's TLC catalogue (wigs, hats, and other stuff for women coping with cancer). Link is http://www.tlcdirect.org/. Another great resource is Look Good Feel Better, which assists women with cancer via make-up. Web link is http://www.lookgoodfeelbetter.org/
Thanks for your blog. It is a great resource and gives me real daily support- Barbara Goun

Sent by Barbara Goun | 10:09 AM ET | 05-03-2007

Leroy...your thoughts about how we see death differently post cancer are yet another reminder of how important this blog is to us. Ya just can't talk about this with everyone! I can see in my husband's eyes how sad it makes him, and my children look terrified, but I don't think a day has gone by in the two years since diagnosis that I don't think about a different future for myself.

I turn 60 next week, and wonder if I'll die in this next decade. As a lifetime endurance athlete, I had intended to do another marathon this year, but I'm still too de-conditioned from cancer treatment to make that happen. I'm training, so maybe when I'm 61?

I always saw myself in the future as an incredibly fit 85 year old woman, hiking up mtns, and it's been a shock to find myself thinking that I just hope to live to be 70. Being sick changed my whole concept of self and that's a big deal at age 60 I think!

I like what Hunter Thompson said about taking the ride...I've still got the ticket, and, who knows--maybe I'll still be a strong and healthy old lady. I realize that it's been easy to let go of dreams and hopes and wishes for the future, and just live in the "now" and appreciate the moment I have. In my yoga classes, I concentrate hard on being with each breath in and out. But, I also think it's important to have a few dreams...Rebecca

Sent by Rebecca Bauder | 10:26 AM ET | 05-03-2007

I had the privilege to work with Leroy for a brief time at CBS News. I was startled to find him again, after all these years, battling cancer. I am a cancer survivor too. I was diagnosed with testicular cancer in 1989, had surgery and chemo and radiation and have been cancer free ever since. But the anxiety never quite goes away, especially around the time of my yearly checkup. My thoughts are now focused on my old acquaintance Leroy and his story, and I want him to know that he has a friend and a supporter who will celebrate every victory along the way.

Sent by Bryan Bjerke | 10:35 AM ET | 05-03-2007

I just read today's blog and I don't get it. Maybe I'm missing something, but could you explain what you meant by "the ride is no fun if there is not risk". I don't get the comparison to fun and cancer. Please explain, I know there is a message there, but it went way over my head. Thanks.

Sent by Ruth White | 10:49 AM ET | 05-03-2007

Leroy,

I work at a hospice so I can relate to your words for today. Death used to be very much an accepted part of life. We were agrarian. Several generations of a family lived under one roof. Gramps and Gram died in their own beds,surrounded by family, as did many infants and small children. Now we are a mobile society and have "facilities" to care for Uncle John who lives three states away...something hospice has tried to reverse with relative success. Part of what makes death so scary is that it has ceased to be a natural part of our lives. Often we warehouse our dying and go on with our lives. That needs to change.

Sent by Diana Kitch | 11:48 AM ET | 05-03-2007

I am really glad you have this blog. It is a good sounding board for people.
For me, death is the hippo or maybe the rhinocerous in the room. The elephant is the burden of the difficulty of keeping a "normal" life going with cancer. I am trying to keep a full time job, maintain home life, keep from drowning in financial disaster, maneuver the medical system etc etc etc all the while my body is feeling just plain lousy. This is the elephant for me. Because I physically look "okay" I am expected to perform okay, and I am not okay. Often, folks do not want to acknowledge this. They want to see a person with cancer who feels fine. I guess they hope it will be that way for them if they get cancer. I am tired and worn out carrying this elephant. I am still trying to make friends with this elephant, so perhaps at some point, it carries me sometimes.

Sent by Pika | 11:49 AM ET | 05-03-2007

I was never sick before I got cancer so never really thought about death. I am not afraid although my family is and as yet since I don't have an immediate threat of dying they won't discuss it. I agree the "ride is no fun if there is no risk". We are all cheating death every day. We could go anytime, it's really up to GOD. Having cancer just means that you know for sure you will die and the game is to beat the Doctor's predictions because that feels good!

Sent by Vicki | 12:47 PM ET | 05-03-2007

having cancer ,i feel really lucky. when death comes knocking on my door; i will have had all this time to decide how and what i wish to do before death happens...every single day . if a fatal car accident happens before the cancer eventually gets me ...well i guess you could say "she ran out of luck"!..this isn't a "taboo" subject for me. i find death amazingly curious. now don't get me wrong i have a hell of alot of living to do..but the main point is...i still feel "in control" and that is really cool!!!

Sent by marianne dalton | 2:45 PM ET | 05-03-2007

I am the third member of my family to be diagnosed with cancer. It's funny, we went along for decades with no serious family illness. My brothers and my sister had beautiful children, spouses that were seemingly hand picked by God, the match was so perfect. My mom was 65 and still working every day, driving and mowing her acre of lawn. I remember (like it was yesterday) the day my brother told me his wife had lung cancer 1993). I can still feel the July heat, smell the aroma of sun-dried fields as I stood by the car and got the news. It hit me like a ton of bricks. This can't be happening. Karen lived exactly 4 years after her diagnosis. My brother never told her the initial prognosis...one year if she was lucky. They had a 12 year old son, Joseph, at the time and my brother just couldn't tell him. Joseph knew his mom was ill but he always thought she was getting better. When all the surgeries, radiation, chemo treatments had failed, my brother brought her home. We were sitting at the kitchen table. She looked up at him and asked him "when is my next chemo appointment?" He told her then that the doctors had decided to stop. She knew that he loved her so much that he wanted an end to her suffering. She lived the next 6 weeks of her life, loving us all, eating pizza, and making a quilt for her son. She finished it on a Wednesday afternoon and died that night.

We all have a choice when it comes to how we handle the disease. Some of us are lucky and we get the 85% cure rate diagnosis. I am humbled and feel somewhat guilty when I read posts from JJ and Rebecca. I doubt, if I would have been diagnosed with an incurable form of this insidious disease, that I could have been so insightful, so hopeful.

Yes, death is a fact of life. For some of us we get the "luxury" of knowing when it will come. Maybe that's a good thing???maybe it forces us to examine our lives and to try and make it better for as long as we have. We get the chance to tell our family, our friends how much we loved them. The chance to right wrongs, to read the book you always postponed. But I think most of all, it forces us to decide what we are made of. My Mother died less than a week after my diagnosis of invasive breast cancer. Thankfully she never knew. She lived her life giving to others, her faith never ending. She buried her daughter-in-law and then her son just 5 years later. She never had to face the prospect of her own death. She just slipped away. And the morning she died my sister and niece said she had the most beautiful look of peace and tranquility. She was ready. And now I know that death is not a scary place to go...just a wonderful next step in a journey. I wish you all peace. Thanks for listening.

Sent by Patti | 3:00 PM ET | 05-03-2007

Barbara... re: hospice.

We used hospice in Terry's last five weeks of life, and they couldn't have been better. We had a nurse at the house three or four times a week, a social worker calling both of us almost daily, a home aide who would come out and help with bathing, a chaplain if we elected (neither of us did) and I've been contacted by their grief counseling clinicians to check in on me and see how I'm doing. They offer support groups and other help as well.

They were--every one of them--deeply and visibly concerned for the well-being of both of us, particularly Terry.

Terry died sedated on the hospice unit 8 days after admission (he had wanted to die at home) and the body I saw there that Saturday morning didn't look peaceful, just terribly tired after the years of fighting.

Knowing, as medical power of attorney, I could have had the sedation stopped and food and hydration begun made it a hard week, but I also knew this was Terry's decision to make, he was OK with it, had settled his affairs and said his goodbyes and was as ready as anyone can be, and if I'd had it reversed I'm sure we would have never spoken again.

They don't tell you ahead of time what sacrifices you'll have to make. They are, however, some of the best nurses I've ever met, both the home visit nurses and the inpatient unit nurses.

It's only been three months, so it's been a tough time for me moving on, but I also know that giving up isn't the answer for me. I'm selling our house and looking for an apartment right now, but clearing 20 years out of the house is going to be hard in many ways.

Sent by Bruce | 4:20 PM ET | 05-03-2007

When I was going through chemo, surgery and radiation for breast cancer two years ago, I was terribly afraid that I would die. At that time, I didn't want to think about death. It was the last thing I wanted to face during that terrible struggle. I am so amazed at the courage a lot of you with metastasized cancer are showing by looking at the question of death so clearly and fearlessly.

I am in remission now and I want to think about death and prepare for it, if I can. Sometimes I ask myself - would it be easier to die in a car accident, quickly and without preparation and worry? Would it be easier to die in one's sleep and not be aware of crossing that boundary? I don't know. All I know is that I was given a gift of having to face death at 47 and, whatever way I die, at least I will not do so without reflection.

My mother died three years ago and my sister and I sat with her, holding her hands for two weeks while she was going through the dying process. The first week was very frightening. We didn't want to let her go and she didn't want to leave us. We were all crying and holding on to each other. A hospice nurse came to sit with us at two in the morning. She told my sister and me that we must let our mother go. She said that we were holding on to her so tightly, she couldn't bear to leave us. So the two of us talked about it, and then told our mother to go on her journey. We said that we loved her but that it was her time to go and that we would be o.k. without her ... we would take care of each other and our families. Our mother quieted down and slipped into a coma that night. She was slowly, quietly dying for a week after that and when she was gone ... we were ready to part

Sent by Liliana | 4:21 PM ET | 05-03-2007

Boy! This will be hard to really communicate clearly but I don't dwell on death because I think it is boring. I came to terms very quickly after diagnosis that life is about the memories you leave behind.

We are all going to die at some point so that makes me no different than anyone else. My difference is that I will die much sooner than I normally would expect to. I know I'm going ahead of schedule. So, what do I do about that?

I know that life will go on without me. I know it won't be the same but it will happen. My job is to lessen the suffering I cause by my death. I want people's grief (especially my family's) to be interrupted every 30 seconds with a memory of "remember when she did this..that was so funny".

I feel I have to cram as many good times in as I can and I feel I have no time to dwell on death. I don't need to plan it out, it's already planned out for me. I just need to live as fully and lovingly as possible until my time comes.

Sent by Karen | 4:49 PM ET | 05-03-2007

Being lucky to have found the lung cancer early, Stage 1, I haven't had a doctor give me a 'best guess' about my death. But after removing two lobes in one lung, the cancer did come back, this time in the other lung and again, Stage One, and another piece of that lung gone. Cancer is all over my family and they thought it had spread to my spine for awhile (false alarm). Then one day just before the last surgery as I worked to spread mulch on a beautiful Spring day, a perfect peace came over me. I thought of a quote from Dame Julian of Norwich. She was born about 1342, and became gravely ill at age 30 and was expected to die. Her religious visions came after she recovered. She is best known for the quote "all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well." I was so glad to be outside on that gorgeous day wielding that shovel and pitchfork. I was frightened of dying of lung cancer but that peace has stayed with me through my 65th birthday. I had a certainty that my husband and son (a cancer survivor) would be ok, no matter what happened to me. To everything there is a season and I've had mine and loved it. I hope it lasts much longer but if and when that terminal prognosis from cancer comes, as I think it will, I hope that peace stays with me. I send that quote out hoping it will be of comfort to some of you.

Sent by Sara | 5:36 PM ET | 05-03-2007

Hi Leroy and all:

It???s clear that our responses to death are different ??? and very different than what we see in normal society. They are one of the many aspects of our situation that isolate us from others. Among the paradoxes I constantly encounter is that my cancer can isolate me, but that I am not alone ??? and not only because of the company of other survivors. The folks in my church and others who think of me and pray for me daily here and around the world are a tremendous support and reminder that I am living with and for others as well as myself, my wife and my family. They also remind me that millions of others -not only cancer survivors - have it a great deal worse.

Within hours of received my diagnosis of a usually rapidly fatal glioblastoma six months ago, I knew that my cerebral edema and tumor were likely to kill me within days. Decodron and surgery saved my life that time. In the interim, I made the decision ??? possibly within divine assistance ??? that I would live whatever life I had left as fully as possible and do what I could to share the experience in ways that could be of help to others who are suffering. Doing this has been very helpful to me in my own journey.

I think a state of mental and perhaps spiritual acceptance combined with emotional denial of my own death has helped me with this. So has the sense of mission I shared with you the other day about bringing survivor/patient perspectives ??? both on our diseases and larger issues to a wider audience.

Despite all this, the very good MRI report I got on Monday felt like a reprieve may for a death row prisoner. I will have more time than I expected to both live as fully as I can and carry on with the work we are doing together. Today I got the chance to share this with an Emory symposium where Doctors were giving an audience largely composed of survivors some very good information about brain tumors and advances in treatment. We were also introduced to BT organizations. I pointed out that no survivor was on the panel and that we should have more opportunities to share our perspective with the medical cancer community. This was well received.

One thing that encourages me is that no matter what happens to our bodies, we will continue to live in the hearts and minds of our communities. I am only saddened for those whose communities and networks are limited or nonexistent.

Onwards,

John Shippee, Atlanta

Sent by John Shippee | 5:40 PM ET | 05-03-2007

When my mother was dying of cancer I asked her to hold on until my anniversary. She died the exact moment my husband I had exchanged our vows. February 15, 1999, 6:22 pm. I hope no one asks anything of me when my cancer wins the fight.

Sent by Cheryl | 6:27 PM ET | 05-03-2007

We have faced the monster death and yet live to tell the tale, that is some of what bonds us together I think. Think of how much we plan - for pregnancy and parenting, for retirement for so many uncertain things. The one thing we all will do is die and yet we are so afraid of facing it. Once I planned my funeral, once I made sure to tell people what I needed to say, death became less scary. I hope to yet have many years, but know that death could come at any moment- and not just from the cancer. Knowing that and facing it has eliminated so much of my anxieties.

As a chaplain,I have stood at many hospital bedsides waiting and watching with families as people die. It can be a loving and peaceful, grace-filled time or a horrible ugly,time. Often what makes the difference is our willingness to acknowledge death. I have seen people struggle in agony to fight death as their families tell them to keep fighting long past the time when they are able to and they die a long and horrible death. I have also seen families lovingly tell someone it is ok to go, and in those families who help someone pass peacefully it can be a beautiful moment to share. Both types of families grieve and miss their loved ones, but the ones able to let go, seem more able to hang onto the love and relationship with the loved one and gain comfort from it. It is not necessarily a differnece of faithfulness, but certainly of accepting that death will be a part of our lives.

Most of what I know about having a good death was not learned or taught in seminary amazingly enough, it was taught me by my beloved husband as he lay dying with great dignity in a wonderful hospice, whose staff nurtured my 4 young sons and I along the journey. Hospice staff are awesome.

And so as I wait for the inevitable death, I am going on with life, making memories and trying to do some good along the way. Knowing I will die, and probably from the cancer has added great quality to the life I now live.

Sent by Elizabeth Hendrix | 6:43 PM ET | 05-03-2007

I am humbled, once again, by your blog today, Leroy. My Dad is here with me under Hospice care, but without an expiration date. Every day is a challenge....but we do not discuss his impending death with him...his choice. As a family, we talk.... I thank you for your message today and have shared it with Mom and with one of the support groups I work with. I breathe in and out as we all do.....

Sent by karen | 7:04 PM ET | 05-03-2007

Patti...it is impossible to communicate the depth that you have touched me with your comment. Liliana,...the same for you...thank you for your posts...I can only hope to be as strong and as open as you have been...thank you

Sent by karen | 8:08 PM ET | 05-03-2007

Karen: I was incredibly moved by your post. You sound so much like my sister-in-law Karen. Life will go on without you, it is the nature of things. But no matter what you think there will be a void where you were. I remember "my" Karen every day...and it's been 14 years. Don't think that memories are painful, they get us through. There is no interrupution in my life when I think of her...only memories of how she loved flowers, what a beautiful spirit she had. I think you are so much like her. I wish you all good things.

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

I found out four months ago I have metastatic breast cancer. It is psychologically wrenching the emotions you go through. I feel so grateful to be feeling great and able to be cheering at my daughter's kindergarten celebration and then I am weeping the next because I may not be here for her graduation. I desperately need my friends and family but don't want them to really know how painful it is to go through this. It is good to hear the comments of others in similar situations. I want to enjoy every day but can't get rid of the feeling that I have been punched in the stomach.

Sent by cindy | 11:22 PM ET | 05-03-2007

I don't agree that the only thing that separates me from those without cancer is that I have a good idea of what will kill me and know roughly when my death may happen. Before I was diagnosed with cancer, I (like many, many others) never REALLY believed I would die at all. I felt immortal. Now I understand and feel in my bones just how short our time on this earth is.

Your last comment about taking risks puzzled Ruth and intrigues me. Maybe we don't all want/need to throw our arms up and scream on the roller coaster ride in order to experience life fully...? Calm and meditative types can lead rich lives too -- no? And wonder about death? It's on my mind a lot. Mostly, I'm curious. And afraid, too,(Let's be honest here!) But I hope for lots more years of life before that day comes.

Sent by Doris | 11:22 PM ET | 05-03-2007

Leroy,

Cancer has allowed me freedom to make choices. The most important choice was how I plan to spend the rest of my life. I remember lying in the hospital bed as the anesthesia wore off thinking to myself, "Self, we made it this far, so what are we going to do next?" Getting out of bed, stepping on the scale,and getting back in bed without my guts spilling out onto the floor was my first goal. Small steps add to miles walked and run since then. Each step deliberately leading me down the road that parallels my life.

I want so much and I want to give more. Can one possibly live a deliberate life? I want to try.

That's my choice.

Sent by Teri Thomas | 11:50 PM ET | 05-03-2007

Leroy,
I agree strongly with your last sentence, although I went through many steps to get there.

No joke about death being the elephant in the room and it's so hard to make light of it. I've said things to my friends like,"Hey. Death wouldn't be so bad if you could do it a couple of times.". At work my peers try to protect me from fumes or dust while they stay in it. "Are you guys all immune to cancer?" I'd say.I realize this is a little off color and scary to them. Meanwhile, I'm thinking I'm a regular comedian.

Sent by Reuben | 12:27 AM ET | 05-04-2007

I do not dwell on the thought of my death too much. I have a full life to live. I am blessed. This does not mean that I am in denial, maybe a little. I want to feel that I still have a good fighting chance to survive this cancer walk. I cannot with all honesty say that I feel that cancer will kill me. That is not for me to worry about. That is God's decision. For some reasone He has blessed me with lots of life now. I must do what He wants me to while on this earth. Yes, my death will eventually come. Then it will be my time to move on the the next level. Until then, it is not for me to worry about. I was diagnosed with stage 3b ovarian cancer May 2004. Undergone 3 surgeries and 3 rounds of chemo since. I am a fighter.

Sent by Betty in Germany | 4:06 AM ET | 05-04-2007

Yalom wrote that even tho the actuality of death kills us, the idea of death can save us...and by this I believe him to mean that we feel we have lived our lives, that we have lived when we were alive rather than dying before we are dead.(Hope that makes sense)

Death scares the heck out of me and i have this wish that i could live forever and protect my child forever. I used to think of death as something way off in the future and gosh, it might not even happen! My dx has made my death much more real to me, as well as my life being likely foreshortened.
We cannot change the outcome, we all will still die...but what else can we do? We can look at how we live and we can consider our own attitude towards death.
I am hugely fortunate in having a friend who will talk about death to me. I had had some thoughts on death in gerneral recently and wanted to just discuss them with my husband. He was horrified and said I should pick a more appropriate time than a sunny saturday afternoon in the pub! I asked why it wasnt appropriate and he said because we weren't dying!
Silently I thought, "But we ARE all dying right now".
Good health is just the slowest way to die.
A metaphor is that its like an escalator, and some of us are on faster (or shorter) ones than others but they are all going towards the same end.

By the ticket , take the ride
For me this is a comment about life. By being born we have been given a ticket, after that we make what we can of it and the opportunities therein. "The ride" is about feeling you are living your life to what you consider to be "the full."

Sent by JJ | 7:26 AM ET | 05-04-2007

My best friend died of ovarian cancer, only 47, I did my best to take care of her. She suffered with pain and nausea, I respect all who take care of a friend or patient with an incurable disease.

Sent by bob | 1:26 AM ET | 05-05-2007

Wow, what a profound blog this is today! I understand what is meant when others write, "...this cancer has not made me a better person, I was FINE before being diagnosed..." and I agree that one does not have to be broken, or considered so, to somehow miraculously become better by having cancer. That line of thought doesn't really make a lot of sense when we break it down. But perhaps what is meant by better could be compared to having ice cream, which is pretty darned good by itself, then we add chocolate sauce and some whipped cream and maybe nuts and a cherry, or two, if that's what you like, thus we make that seemingly plain dish of ice cream a much better thing... Maybe that's more of what is meant by the term better when describing the quality of one's life, rather than using a stark comparison of better or worse, it is degrees or levels of contentment and appreciation that we learn. Some folks may just realize that the ice cream is wonderful all by itself and even better with all the goodies added and they may be the ones who accept things more easily, who can really know? We are all on different paths ( I like the escalator analogy) and some of our paths are shorter and some are longer. We can do things to lengthen our lives and they may actually work and we can do some things to shorten our lives and they may actually work as well! But my point here is that the feelings of being somehow less than okay before the cancer diagnosis and being a better person after the diagnosis are the only accurate words given to the enhanced appreciation for life that one has when faced with one's own mortality, being that we are human and often don't say things in the most easily heard or understood ways. Because, well, we're human after all... And Reuben, you ARE a regular comedian! Laughter is some excellent medicine, Norman Cousins was right. We should all laugh and enjoy the ride as much as possible, whether it be with our arms up in the air, screaming at the top of our lungs, or sitting quietly while gripping the safety bar, we all have different ways to enjoy the same ride or even the same flavor of ice cream...

Sent by M.L. Koger | 10:29 AM ET | 05-05-2007

I am watching the Discovery speicial on TV as I write this. Thank you for doing this.

Sent by Rick | 9:00 PM ET | 05-06-2007

Leroy,
"Life is a terminal condition" but in the documentary you made on the discovery channel it is clear that it's not how your going to die.. it's what you do with you life Leroy.. your strenght gives us strengh.
LIVESTRONG

Sent by Rachel | 10:59 PM ET | 05-06-2007

Mr. Sievers,
Thank you for your candor. I will agree with your good friend Mr. Koppel that a sense of humor goes along way in this battle...after all, if we can't laugh at ourselves...right?
I was diagnosed with Stage 3 squamous cell carcinoma of the vulva and anus in April 2004. SCC is a form of skin cancer. I was 45 years old.
When I told my Mom I had cancer, at first she was devastated, but later she joked that she had NEVER put me out for nude sunbathing as a child.
I attribute my cancer to a series of severe childhood sunburns and the fact that I have been a smoker since age 12.
But I think anyone with cancer can agree, when asked "How did you get cancer?" there is no easy answer in 99% of all cases.The truth is, we don't really know. All it takes is one unhealthy cell.
And that is what scares the hell out of me. One unhealthy cell.
I had surgery in April 2004 [a vulvectomy and anal surgery] and i had my right side groin lymph nodes removed in June 2004. My nodes were cancer free.
Then I was given a 2 year window.
IF my cancer didn't come back in 2 years, I would be cancer free.
Not FREE OF CANCER...but, in remission.
All it takes is one unhealthy cell.
The question for me really isn't IF MY CANCER COMES BACK, but WHEN MY CANCER WILL REAR IT'S UGLY LITTLE HEAD, AND WHERE.
I have resolved myself to the thought that cancer will probably kill me, then again, I could get hit by a bus crossing the street...who really knows.
So...I live, laugh, love. Enjoy my days, and my nights.
Never end a conversation with a loved one in anger, always tell those you love that you love them. Give your hugs away, they are free. And laugh, laugh, laugh...
The ladies/gents in the Oncology Clinic always smile when they see me, and have a tendency to gather in and around my exam room so they can hear my jokes.
[which makes it a little difficult for my oncologist to do a pelvic exam [ha ha ha].]
I want you to know I appreciate your courage. And your candor. I also appreciate that you have a lot of dedicated people around you who love you very much, like your good friend Ted. You better hold on to that one.
Good luck to you Mr. Sievers.
I wish you well.

Sent by Sharon LaCouture [SE North Carolina] | 12:29 AM ET | 05-07-2007

After getting diagnosed three years ago with multiple myeloma at age 44, the meaning of death took on a complete new meaning for me. Not so much my own death, but how others perceive death. My main considerations were my wife and our one year old baby boy, and other family, but what I truly found strange was the reaction of the friends I told. Most odd was that some friends I'd had for decades were so completely freaked out by mortality that I still, three years later, have not heard from them. So I started going to a support group, where many patients were much more advanced in the diease than myself, and was deemed by them to be lucky. I have to say these confusions were easily the hardest part of dealing with diagnosis during that first year. Now I have a much greater insight into what others are thinking on the other side of the glass, and consequently have come to a stronger, more peaceful place with this broader outlook on death, as strange as thta may sound.

Sent by Michael DuClos | 12:55 AM ET | 05-07-2007

Great program Leroy. I'm on my 3rd trip. 33,53 and 70 and no chemo.

I've had a good run. I never have thought about it after each bout until it reared it's ugly head. I have Lance's attitude.

Please ck. this out. Cancer Vaccine from Europe. Dig into the site. I'm almost ordering it. IMHO Chemo will do you in faster than the Cancer. 2 Docs admitted to me it's poison which I already knew. Would never take it.

http://www.anticancer.net/vaccine.html

Sent by loriglory | 4:03 AM ET | 05-07-2007

Your Discovery special was right on target and throughout the program I kept saying, YES and I KNOW WHAT HE MEANS. I am a TWO-TIME survivor, breast and ovarian, and I keep on fighting. Free now for 3 and 5 years.

Sent by zbear | 8:46 AM ET | 05-07-2007

I just want to thank you for agreeing to do the show Living with Cancer. I am sure it helped many people. In fact, we are interested in the procedure you had--radiofrequency ablation. We will be looking into it for my husband who has stage 4 kidney cancer. Again, thank you.

Sent by Carol Swartz | 10:59 AM ET | 05-08-2007

Leroy,
Thank you for writing. I had stage 1 breast cancer and even though it's stage 1 ... where dr's, friends and research say you will "probably" be ok and live a long life, Death is still something that is my room. Yes, he is in the corner and I no longer feel him trying to grab my arm but he is still there ... lurking.

Unless one has been thru cancer and either surviving it or co-surviving it, one cannot know how this effects us. One cannot know how scared we are that the beast will return. I am a single mom with a 5 year old daughter and it pains me to go thru the constant "I hope I am there to see her: learn to drive, graduate, pay for her college, see her get married and have babies" ... It's not fair that there is not a cure yet we can send men into space and we can spend billions on weapons of war. We need a weapon to wage war with cancer so we can win.

Sent by Kelly Adams | 11:34 AM ET | 05-09-2007

Two years ago this month, my younger brother was dying at age 54 from mucosal melanoma that had, during two years of unsuccessful attempts at treatment, invaded his whole body. It started in his nose, then he had very invasive surgeries, radiation treatments, and chemo including high dose IL2. For most of that time he didn't look like he was going to die - and he really didn't want to act like he was going to die either. His bravery and dignity and strength will always be a beacon for me because he just battled on. About three weeks before he died (in the hospital because of the hideous level of pain)I heard him say to a very fine and compassionate priest "They say you always have to have hope, but now they're telling me to get my ducks in a row." And this wise and gentle priest replied, "Sometimes Hope is about finding the best moments in each and every day you have." Those words meant as much to me as to my brother especially as his time grew small - but both his pain and his will stayed large. So I'll say them again - "Sometimes Hope is about finding the best moments in each and every day you have."

Sent by Kris | 5:18 PM ET | 05-11-2007

I would like to pass on a tip about a book. "Final Gifts" written by 2 hospice nurses. I'm a very new guy so perhaps you all know of this already. I've bought copies for everyone that I care. I'll never think of death in the same way, nor will I fear it.

Sent by James Wallman | 8:52 PM ET | 05-16-2007