This might be the best, most concise explanation of what it's like to live with cancer that I've ever heard. For whatever reason, this commentary started my day off on the right foot. I guess it's nice to feel understood, and also to think of the fight against cancer in the terms of flying into the battle on a helicopter locked & loaded, with Wagner blaring in the background. I've been living with leukemia since 2004, and plan to for a long, long time to come. Thanks for the commentary.

Sent by Shawn Ryan | 7:25 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Awesome column this morning, Leroy!

Been peeking into my thoughts?

I told my husband last night that I'm just so darn tired of this fight. But here I am this morning and I'm thankful for another day!

Sent by Vicky (NY) | 7:28 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Oh BOY have I had my "I'm not going" moments since entering cancer world. But the worst one was right at the beginning when I went for pre-admission for the surgery that would remove the part of my tongue where I had cancer. The idea of losing part of my tongue, and possibly waking up from surgery and being unable to talk, absolutely terrified me (even though that surgery turned out to be really the easiest part of the cancer world journey and I was able to talk after surgery). I got home from the preadmission session and just broke down crying (somehting I have rarely done since). That was the moment I really got that no matter how scary or awful things sounded, I didn't get a choice about whether to go. Now I think I'm just out in the field hunkering down and hoping I've defeated the enemy.

Sent by N.R. | 7:33 AM ET | 07-23-2007

I have some different views on war movies and musical images than Mr. Sievers. No, there is not only one war movie. Acolaypse Now is far down on my list and at the top are Patton and The Longest Day. When I hear orchestral music for Ride of the Valkyries, I do not think of Apocalypse Now. I think of Wagner's great opera die Walkure, which I have seen several times over 40 years. Different strokes for different folks!

Sent by Arthur Perkins | 7:37 AM ET | 07-23-2007

What a great post and analogy!

We do want desperately to hold onto some sort of control over what is happening to us when in cancer world.. but no matter how hard we try.. our control of the situation and what we endure is limited.

I have never felt so out of my own control as when going through my surgeries and chemo... and so I forced myself back to work as quickly as humanly possible after surgery and treatments as a way of taking back some control and "normalcy" to life.. I got chemo of Friday's and was at work 7 AM Monday mornings!

As so like the troopers we are... we do jump out of that chopper and face the bullets whizzing past... and thanks to you Leroy we are able to enter that battlefield TOGETHER and hollering to each other as we advance on enemy lines!!

The battlefield is littered with landmines... but together we can hopefully navigate through it as best we can....

Sent by Ron Bye (NH) | 7:40 AM ET | 07-23-2007

thank you for this post today, Leroy,
really hit home for me.
I feel like i want to throw a tantrum every time i have to go to chemo or do some procedure or other, but i go.

Sent by Jenn | 7:44 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Good Monday Leroy and all,

Although, I am not the patient, I am the care giver I can appreciate your sentiments of today. While I would like to say," I am not going," I end up saying,"Been there done that." I have even tried to joke about it asking for frequent flier miles, or what are you going to give me for free. Last week a good example for the miles and free stuff. It was a rough one 2 shifts on 2 days in the ER back-to-back. So not fun, waiting, no answers, virtually ignored because we needed a GI guy to come down.

Yes, it is the world as we know it, they are the cards that have been dealt, crappy hand, but we play them, we go, we do that.

Good day to all....

Sent by Susan Chap | 8:21 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Your words on control really hit home. I've been thinking a lot about that lately since the declaration of "remission". As of that day, Thursday, I've been diving head first with "all engines go" back into my regular life at the best of my ability. However, in my exhaustion yesterday, as I'm not ready for so much activity, I realized I cannot make the same mistakes that I made before cancer. I cannot assume I have control over anything, except where to spend my precious energy. That is probably the most humbling and scary parts for me, the lack of control. I never realized until cancer what a control freak I really am. I cannot allow myself to be sucked in again by that. Haven't I learned my lesson? Thank you Leroy for reminding me.

One quick note about not wanting to get into the helicopter labeled "cancer". I actually was happy to get in. Yes, happy. I had symptoms for over 4 months that got so bad I would dream that I was dying and I was in such pain and distress I was thinking death would be nice. Nobody believed me even though I talked to my family and went to the doctors. Everyone thought I was stressed out and had "viruses" until the day I just couldn't breathe and the pain was so intense I was dripping in sweat. Cancer I thought was something I could do something about. Lucky for me it is. Now, however, if I was told it was back I think I would scream "I'm not going". It is a possiblility...

Thanks to those of you who gave words of congrats on my remission.

Blessings to all,

Lori

Sent by Lori Levin | 8:23 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Before cancer, I lived with an illusion that I had some control over my life and what happened in it and to me. We can exercise good choices and do all of the right things that would largely and logically contribute to a long, healthy and happy life but control over what does actually happen is an illusion worthy of David Copperfield.

My cancer diagnosis clearly and starkly demonstrated for me that I really had no control. For me, it was very difficult to come to that realization. My view of my life clashed with the reality that I now faced.

In spite of my new reality, I chose to exercise the "little control" that I viewed that I had...the choices of doctors and treatments and I pursued each with vigor and determination. I may have lost what I really never had to begin with but I still had choices and options to consider. Some control is better than nothing or is it just another illusion? Perhaps it is a part of a bigger picture that is not yet fully focused for me to see.

How this all plays out is yet to be determined but I choose to believe that God has a plan and a purpose for my life. This is not an illusion for me.

Blessings and prayers as always.

Sent by Al Cato | 8:25 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Hi, Leroy-
I've only posted once before, partly because your blog tends to leave me speechless, partly because I have so much admiration for how well other blog-followers articulate their feelings and experiences. But as I head for treatment for yet another side effect of breast cancer treatment, I find myself in 'I'm not going!' mode. And I wonder if there's isn't some sensitizing effect, such that the more you put up with, the harder it gets. I remember my grandmother, dying of lymphoma, who got to the point where she refused to put up with phlebotomists who weren't skilled enough to draw blood from her overworked veins. And I know that I used to be far more blase about surgeries and procedures than I used to be. But still, like all of us, when it comes time to jump, I hold my breath and jump.

Thanks so much for your blog. It makes my day, every day.

Sent by Leslie | 8:29 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Nice piece. I heard this a.m., until six weeks ago I wouldn't have paid attention. Now I know just what you're talking about.

Sent by wg | 8:29 AM ET | 07-23-2007

You make a very good point, as ever. I don't think, though, that everyone in the audience will see hueys swooping in over the surf. I myself usually see Elmer Fudd with Spear and Magic Helmet, and hear him singing "Kill the Wabbit, Kill the Wabbit!"
Since I lost Cynthia to colon cancer, I've tried to not associate the things we enjoyed with pain. Some things are easier than others....Laughing is important. It can literally be vital.

Sent by William Hensel | 8:33 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Dear Leroy, "I don't want to go". I'm not going to live this cancer life of treatments with it's varies discomforts and routine of life so different. Yes, that's how I feel today as I try to adjust again to being a "patient" rather than a caregiver. As I struggle through different side effects and tell myself I'll feel better soon. As I struggle to make sense of my days and develope a meaningful routine. I am so thankful for your blog to express feelings that become so different and difficult.

Sent by Vicki (FL) | 8:36 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Great, great movie, Leroy, and an equally outstanding soundtrack! (My family and friends are forever annoyed with me when I start singing the Doors' The End in the midst of any cancer-related conversations :)).

You provide a very strong image for our longing to retain control, to pretend control There does come a time, alas, when we do, perhaps, get that one final say in matters.

In my discussions with other survivors and with caregivers, I find this to be one of the most troubling and sensitive topics: when the survivor regains that last bit of control, enough to say, "Enough!"

Tough to think about, but there, always.

Hope and humor, my friend!

Sent by Joe Alvey | 8:39 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Thank you Leroy. I have my first meeting with my oncologist today, and I woke up this morning and told my husband that I had decided I didn't want to do this. I don't want to have chemo, I don't want to see the oncologist, and I don't want to have cancer. I'm not going. At all.

Of course, I am going. Thanks so much for your timely message and for the reminder that we're not alone in this battle.

Sent by Julie | 9:16 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Even when the news is good, I find myself cringing and thinking that I just want to know what is going to happen.

I find myself a bit confused. I had a CT scan on Thursday. The idea was to have a new baseline after my latest surgery. Okay, I didn't have an appointment after the scan until October, so I figured that there really was not much information in the scan. I mean, after all it is just a base line. So after the scan, I went about my day. Fine.

The next day I realized that I really did want to hear something. . . anything, from my doctor. I didn't want to be ignored by my doctor. Been there, done that, didn't even like the T-shirt! That was the main reason for switching oncologists. So, late in the afternoon, I called. He called back. Not his nurse, not his secretary; he called back.

Let me try to reconstruct the conversation. I don't have it word for word, but I hope to capture the gist.

I asked if he could tell me anything from the report from the scan. He said it looked surprisingly good. I asked just what that meant. He said it showed some fluid build up in the pelvic region. I thought to myself, yes, I can feel that. It is just pressure, not pain. He asked me how I felt. I told him I felt fine. (and I do most of the time. I have occasional days when my tummy bothers me some.) Then I asked if there was anything else. He said, Not much. So I asked (Incredulously!), Are you saying we are sort of back to no evidence of disease? His response was on the order of, sort of. Then he went on to say, 'look, your disease is not acting like pancreatic cancer. We really haven't seen anyone this far after surgery with no further treatment before. It's uncharted territory' So I guess I am back to square 3.14, or wherever. The next step is to have another scan and appointment in October. It seems a long way off, doesn't it? I hope to sort of forget that I have cancer for that time.

So, I have finally come to the conclusion (again!) that I am not in control of my life. Or my dying. I just have to wait, watch and see how it all unfolds. After all, death is an inevitable part of life.

If anyone does have any ideas about what is going on, please, please comment and give your slant on things. In the meantime, I feel really good and am back to work and going about my business, making plans.

Sent by Stephanie Dornbrook | 9:18 AM ET | 07-23-2007

I cannot thank you enough for today's post in the blog, Leroy.

I have never been able to verbalize what it is like to be told we are taking our son into Cancer World. When he relapsed, and I found we were going back there, I cried and inside kept struggling with feelings I thought were immature - "WE ARE NOT GOING BACK! WE ARE DONE!"

I really wanted to share them with others, but felt embarassed. It did not matter - nor help - when others reminded me that we had done this before, we could do it, it would be over before we knew it. And they kept saying those things so I could not share this internal stomping that I was experiencing.

Nope.

"I'm not going!"

Thanks for putting words to my experience, and the experience of so many others.

Sent by Melissa Thompson | 9:27 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Well, I've never been much of a fan of the war analogies used in discussing cancer for reasons that I've previously stated, but yours today seems really apt. I can relate with not wanting to go there. Part of the distress with illness is the loss of control that it brings. I suppose that we do have the ability to control some aspects. I have some say in how often I get scanned, but not in the big picture. Finding some balance with that is part of the healing process, in being accepting of the fact that control is an illusion, and that we need to do the best that we can with the events as they play out.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 9:41 AM ET | 07-23-2007

I've enjoyed your continuing story for many months, never realizing that it would soon be mine, too. I had my "I don't want to go" moment just a month ago. I had just been told the lump in my breast was cancerous, and immediately felt as if I were having an out-of-body experience. It lasted for 2 days. Then I received in the mail a thick packet of information, including a cute pink lapel pin with the word "Survivor" and a pink bow, a pink ink pen, and a large pink book, basically "Everthing you DON'T want to know about breast cancer". I never did like pink. My immediate reaction was more like what my 2-yr old granddaughter says when you give her broccoli: "I don't want it!" I then, finally, landed with a thump: no more out-of-body sensation, but the hard realization that now it's my body that all those doctors were talking about. I will continue to listen for you as you tell our story.

Sent by Helen | 9:49 AM ET | 07-23-2007

I am saddened to have to deal with the war metaphors everywhere in our culture, even when healing is happening. To me, it is like a ???cancer??? in our communities and helps to maintain a war economy that I feel destroys lives just like any cancer does.

War is not inevitable and so I have a problem with making war and cancer similar "battlefields". A big difference between war and cancer is that going to war is a choice that people make. Cancer is not something that anyone I know chose. I want to give voice to a view of how to remove our cancers that we don't often hear.

I also liked the movie ???Apocalypse Now???. For me, however, I appreciated that it showed the futility and the horror of going to war and this is not the way to solve problems between peoples. Bringing my children to see it and other war movies helped them to learn to avoid being the guy in the helicopter who realized he had made a mistake when he signed up or allowed himself to be drafted into the military. I saw the young soldier as realizing that he had made a serious mistake. What a hard way to learn that violence is a mistake.

Yes, I am a pacifist. I did not "fight" with my cancers. I did not try to imagine "killing" them or blowing them up. What I did was to ask them to go somewhere else, where they would not do any damage. I told the cancer cells that they were just in the wrong place and needed to leave and go someplace where they could prosper and not harm anything. I held them in the Light and blessed them, as my Friends were holding me in the Healing Light. My lymphoma (stage 4) went away after 5 months of treatment, 6 years ago.

My chemo treatments also helped to convince the cancer cells to move on. The important point is that there was NOT a sense of combat at the oncology center. There was a lot of love and peacefulness. Even when alone, I could feel love for all.

Peace and love is what helped me to deal with my cancer.

Sent by Free Polazzo | 9:57 AM ET | 07-23-2007

The only control I have today is removing my wig. This is my first day at work without it and I am thrilled. Another one bits the dust!

Sent by Lisa | 10:09 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Hey Leroy,

Perfect assessment of how we feel. I always saw it as "We dont' have to go". We do it anyway, but we need that little bit of control to fool ourselves into believing that we had the choice.

Funny how cancer and other life altering things change one's perspective. It has to...you have been shifted from your comfort zone, good or bad, to a new world. The view has to be different, it is no longer from that same place.

There are times I do miss the old place, but I look at it from a positive note. I am here, now, to see out on the horizon, what I could not see before.

You have helped all of us create a strong kinship and bond in Cancer World. I thank you whole-heartedly for that.

Stay safe, stay strong,
Lance

Sent by Lance Carlson | 10:14 AM ET | 07-23-2007

It's been twenty months since I was declared cancer free and every time I have a check-up or another test scheduled, I'm screaming in my mind, I DON'T WANT TO GO! I want to run out of the office and never go back. But, I pick up my crossword puzzle and work on it diligently until they call my name. I smile at the nurse and go back, with this incredible dark fear in the pit of my stomach.

I think this feeling will be with me the rest of my life.

Sent by Chris | 10:15 AM ET | 07-23-2007

As a caregiver my "I'm not going" moment really hit me when our children (ages 7, 9 and 11) asked "will Daddy be alright" as we left for a 14 1/2 hour surgery 3 hours away from home and would be gone for up to two weeks. That was 7 years ago and our children didn't really understand what cancer was, except that Daddy had to go to the hospital. We made the decision early on to be honest and upfront with them and make sure that they heard any news from us and not by overhearing us talking to others first. My husband has now had 6 recurrences and the "I'm not going" moments for me have hurt the most when seeing the reactions of our children and watching my husband trying to reassure them. I don't want anymore "I'm not going" moments but also know this is something I have no control over. What I fear more though is if my husband gets to the point of saying "no more" and means it.

Sent by Sharlene B. | 10:29 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Stephanie

That sounds like such GREAT NEWS!!!

Temporary though it may be.. it is just such good news!! Now go out and BUY THOSE SHOES!! :-)

I am so happy you have found a doctor that truly cares about his patients.. not just another "case"!!!

Now that is the kind of news I like to hear on a Monday... or any day for that matter!!

Sent by Ron Bye (NH) | 10:44 AM ET | 07-23-2007

Greeting Leroy, How right your are, on the I'm not going. I just came from the cardiologist-I went because of the cardiac enlargement side effect possibilty with my chemotherapy agent, and I want and Cardiac echo done. They never asked why I was there and as I was being told to come back in 6 months, I said, I don't care if I have a heart attack. If I have a 3rd recurrance I may stop my cholesterol lowering drug and hope for the big one, rather than let the cancer get me. I was heard, I have my ECHO tomorrow. It is amazing what one has to say to get heard, wether we are going or not. Peace

Sent by Rita | 11:44 AM ET | 07-23-2007

I'm new to the blog, Leroy. two different friends copied Discovery's "Living with Cancer" for us & my wife & I watched it together while at the beach & during a 'Dead Zone' period between having a new symptom & getting testing & deciding on restarting chemo, having radiation or perhaps something else. We're still in that sort of 'suspended inanimation' state after a PET scan Friday & contact from the oncologist about what we can do. Your comments in the TV show & on NPR persuade me that you ARE making a difference in articulating what it's like to go through having cancer & treatment with its manifold human & personal dynamics. You WILL be remebered by many, many people for it & you WILL have helped heal many, many people as well. Thank you for all that & good luck in the course of your treatment/recovery, Leroy. Keep reflecting & saying things for all of us. Peace & love.

Sent by Jerry Lane | 12:07 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Hi Leroy,

I heard this post on the radio this morning. I thought I'd offer a brief post of CONGRATS on pronouncing "verterbroplasty" flawlessly, and never missing a beat in the listing of procedures. I always read the previoous comments posts before I write. I'm grateful for the comments of Stephanie, Rita, and others who are sharing how to self-advocate more effectively with our medical providers. And mostly, I must add that my heart is singing with the good news from Stephanie D. Maybe, we won't all beat this monster; but, we're not giving an inch to it either!

Sent by Sheara | 12:11 PM ET | 07-23-2007

LISA...CONGRATS ON YOUR WIGLESS DAY! Oh what a big step. I'm cheering for you.

Hugs,

Lori

Sent by Lori Levin | 12:37 PM ET | 07-23-2007

We brought my husband Burge home from the hospital Friday afternoon. It will be his last time there. He had asked Thursday night to come home and the doctor said it was OK. Home health will be here today, but I think Hospice will be our final choice.

He sleeps most of the time, but today woke up and "talked" to us...although it's hard to understand what he is saying. I was telling his sister how much I dreaded having to give his pills though his ostomy since he had not be able to drink, when he opened his eyes and asked for water. I know he heard me and did this just for me as he smiled afterwards. It's hard to see him lay there and I hope that he is in a happy place while here and that he goes on as quickly as possible. It's time for him to have some peace.

Sunday Burge was awake most of the day but clearly the morphine was doing it's thing. He talked to people who weren't there and even once told me to "get off his A..!" when I was trying to tell him the water wasn't hot, but very cold. I had to smile because he then gave me this big wink and laughed.

We had a preBirthday Sunday for our youngest, Scott, who turns 15 Tuesday just in case Burge can't be awake on Tuesday. It was good for Scott to have his Dad talking to him, like normal.

It is also good for our oldest, Mark 22, but very hard on him. He has stepped up and helps turn his father although I know he is thinking "I don't want to go!" He says he's so confused as he wants his Dad here, but also wants him to be free of the pain.

It's obvious that the cancer is simply every where and taking all the nurishment we give for it's self. The movie which comes to my mind is "Alien."

I always dreaded the day the funeral would come...with all our well meaning friends in our home...but now there will be people coming and going for days. In some ways I miss the trips to the doctor, the feeling we still had control and were "doing something" as a team to fight the beast. But, now, after a three year battle with colon cancer, the beast is winning and all I can really say is "Oh death, were is your victory" in the end, Burge will win and leave you behind in this broken body. Oh how I miss his spirit already!

Sent by Nikki | 12:39 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Stephanie,

Welcome news indeed. Just when we think we know how things are going to go, we get a suprise. Glad it was a good one.

Sent by Gene Koeneman | 1:01 PM ET | 07-23-2007

I love the smell of napalm in the morning!

Sent by Kevin | 1:14 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Dear Leroy,

Thank you for this mornings podcast. You summed it up in your last two comments. "Sometimes you have no choice" We have to hope for the best.

Last week was an emotional set back for us. My husband's CT scan did not give us the results we were expecting to hear. However, after listening to the podcast and trying to do some positive thinking, I now realize that to some extent I do have a choice. I can continue on the path to fight this battle and remain strong for my husband or do an about face and return to the insanity. I don't like the latter.

Thank's again for this wonderful blog and to all the wonderful people who share their thoughts. It's make me a stronger person. Prayers to all.

Sent by sasha | 1:19 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Thanks for letting your listeners know how it feels to get the cancer diagnosis.You could have been in my shoes as I got the diagnosis.We can take the option for therapy and remain positive as we go thru it.As th mother porcupine said as she was giving birth-this too will pass.
Life is good.

Sent by LeRoy Erickson | 1:35 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Stephanie: Don't try to figure out what's happening: just enjoy it!!! YIPPEE!!!!!!

And I'm with Ron: GET THE SHOES! Only not the black, practical ones. Get some really fun, comfortable ones.

And by yarn! Lots and lots of yarn!

Yipeeeeee!!!!

Sent by Sandra Shuler | 1:41 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Dear Leroy,
From the time I was little, if there was ever anything I didn't want to do, or if I was tired of doing math problems, finishing my milk, my daddy would say, "Just one mo' Mo." Daddy has been gone for about 8 years now, but I still find myself thinking, "Just one mo', Mo." Just one more chemo, just one more surgery, just one more scan, just one more. Even though I know there will be more than one more, it helps me through. Find your just one mo', Mo. It will keep you strong.

All my best,
Mo Spikes

Sent by Mo Spikes | 1:47 PM ET | 07-23-2007

When I had my two encounters with colon cancer I had surgery and went back to a "normal" life; no chemo or radiation. When I had ovarian cancer the first time I expected the same thing to happen. Imagine my shock when I saw my gyn/onc two weeks after surgery and he said I needed chemo. I flippantly said "what if I don't have chemo?". The answer was "you have a 100% chance of recurrence". It was really a "I won't go" moment that changed into a "where do I sign up?" moment very quickly. I was terrified because every one I ever knew who had chemotherapy was dead...not an encouraging thought. I was sitting at home having a real pity party. My neighbor just happened to phone. I told her how I felt. She said "don't be silly". Her mom had chemo seventeen years ago was doing great and she had her mom call me. That changed my perspective and I did make it through chemo. I was NED for about six years before it came back. I had radiation and chemo and made it another ten years before I got small bowel cancer. I am now one year post surgery for that cancer and am four months out from the end of chemo, still just putting one foot in front of the other and being thankful for every day I have.
I am having a "I won't go" moment this week. I am scheduled for my third (and last) thyroid biopsy on Thursday. If they don't get any good cells this time the surgeon is going to have to come up with another option. This is really a "I won't go" time; it is their last chance!!

Sent by Charlotte Kewish | 1:48 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Leroy,

I don't know how you keep this up and have something every day that digs deep into all who read it. I wanted to say that I was in Hawaii last week. I was in one of those restaurants in Waikiki facing the beach and happened to notice the sunset. I then thought of you and your blog, enjoying your maitais last month. And I did see that sunset a bit differently (through your eyes maybe) - it turned out to be one of the most glorious sunsets I've seen for a while. thanks leroy for letting us all appreciate these snatches of glory in our here and now.

Sent by Claire | 1:50 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Leroy. I always thought Big Red One with Lee Marvin was pretty good, but I agree your choice has been seen by more faces.
Our battle gets seen by many faces also. I wonder how we look to them? Are we soldiers in a different war? Whatever we are, we must continue to fight the Beast. Who knows what sorcery awaits that will buy us even more time. Stan

Sent by Stan Wozniak | 2:09 PM ET | 07-23-2007

As a 15 year cancer survivor, this is some of the best writning about cancer I can recall.

Sent by T. Murphey | 2:12 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Everytime we leave the house for surgery, for each radiation and chemotherapy treatment, I say to my husband, "Let's not go to chemo (etc), let's go to the beach!" And each time my husband replies, "Ummm. No." Like he really has to think about it. And then we laugh. It's the game we play to reduce the tension and to pretend we have choices we could make. And when I sit in the chair or lie on the table I daydream about how nice it would have been if we could have gone to the beach instead. I may not be able to control much, but sometimes I can control my mind and my attitude.

Sent by Martha Anderson | 2:20 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Dear Nikki,
You and Burge and your children are in my prayers. Thank you for sharing so that we could lift you up.

Leroy,
I'm not familiar with any war movie that's been mentioned on this blog. But, I listened to the podcast and the sound of the music was exhilarating. I believe our fight against the cancer that has invaded our bodies is just and we need to battle it with every weapon we can find. Thank you for another inspiring blog today!

Sent by Kim Barbato | 2:22 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Nikki

My thoughts and prayers are with you, Burge and your boys.................

A deeply moving comment to which I have no words...

simply peace be with you and Burge...........

Sent by Ron Bye (NH) | 2:25 PM ET | 07-23-2007

I will say "I really don't want to do this." But I do it anyway. Right now the choice is to keep on keepin' on. How's that for 70's?

Once, after a bone marrow aspiration, done by technician who was gifted in the technique, during the follow up visit with the oncologist, I was extolling her virtues to the dr about her, as she had administered a pretty painful procedure with exemplarly skill. It told the Onc the BMA went "fabulously". How funny and crazy that as cancer patients we look at things this way. All I can hope is that the next one will be "fabulous" too. Yikes.

I hope you do well in the procedures that you're not going to do, but will do anyway. And that you do not have too much pain and heal quickly from them.

Sent by Pika | 2:29 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Nikki

You sound like you've done it, you love him the whole journey and then back up for yourself. Hang in there. My prayers are with you and your whole family.

Sent by Irene | 2:31 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Nikki,

Your post made me well with tears. I'm 26 and the docs have given me 5-6 more months. I've already made my Hospice plans because there's nothing else to do. Please know in the winks and the smiles is the husband and dad that will never leave you. He doesn't want to go, believe me. My greatest fear is not death, but leaving my family. Leaving my husband of only 2 years, my dear parents, my 4 adorable brothers and my favorite of all my cat boodie. Dying is very hard, but living can be even harder in the face of death. I wish you and your boys nothing but strength and peace and a knowledge that if Burge could do anything, anything at all, he would make this all less painful for you. With love and thoughts.

Sent by Laurie | 2:35 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Loss of control in life hasn't been nearly the problem that lack of acceptance has been. I didn't want to accept the fact of kindergarten, college, adult responsibility,etc. etc. etc. And, I've made myself pretty miserable through the years, fighting with the universe over everything I didn't wanna do. Cancer finally came as the knock out blow. My doctors didn't wanna hear it, but I accepted it: malignant biopsy, surgery, crappy follow up tests, radiation, etc.
Where has all this gotten me? Acceptance and finally peace. The "universe" is bigger than I am and apparently it doesn't wanna hear it either.

Sent by Tim | 2:40 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Somewhere in all of this the little child in us sits on the floor screaming "I don't wanna, I'm not gonna, and you can't make me, you can't make me, YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!" At least that's how I feel occasionally and the next two weeks are no different. I'm just not sure if I am "yelling" at the doctors who want me to consider yet one more treatment that I don't yet understand or the cancer that I want to go away and just leave me alone.

I had a chemo "nightmare" the a few days ago waking up to the picture of me strapped into a hospital bed; behind me were all sorts of colored vials with who knows what in them. I found myself yelling "You can't do this...we haven't discussed this....I don't know what this is supposed to do and why I am strapped down to this bed?!" Nowhere to be found were my Oncologist, surgeon, or anyone else familiar with my history; the only person I saw was the nurse getting ready to put the IV in my arm and start the IV drip. Talk about control issues and not wanting to go into the gauntlet yet one more time.

The adult in me seems to rise to the occasion and I go regardless of my fear, but the memory of the inital fear and loss of control doesn't go away so easily or quickly. So why do we continue to resist cancer's efforts to gain the upper hand? For me, I don't want to leave life-changing decisions in the control of cancer, in the hands of a surgeon who doesn't know me, or in random circumstance because I failed to take the initiative. It's back to things discussed on the blog previously. Ultimately, we make our own decisions; we are our own best advocate. I have to make a decision on going through with a procedure the doctors earlier said was too dangerous to attempt yet now they are advocating its possibilities. There has been no discussion as to why or the risks that go with it; I just get a "I am the hospital's expert in this procedure; just trust me." Do you think I am going to go without doing my research and understanding what's happening? Not on your life. That measure of control is mine and I am going to use it. I drive my Oncologist crazy because, as he puts it, "I am the most curious patient he has." I understand my condition far better than most because I try to read up on all the latest research including what is included in the medical journals. Strike to my side one more measure of control. "I don't wanna, I'm not gonna, and you can't make me, you can't make me, YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!" (at least not until I feel more in control of what's happening and why!)

Leroy, you like the scenario of helicopters rising up over the horizon; for me, give me a carrier battle group with a full squadron of battleships armed with 18.1" guns blasting at full salvoes. Somewhat indelicate, well I guess it is, but it gets the job done. My target: "Blow cancer right out of the water"! If I lose this battle, it will be because cancer came up with a more powerful battle group.

Sent by Randal Gray | 2:50 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Leroy - once again, you describe so well the emotions of cancer club members. During my treatment, I remember thinking, more than once, what if I just didn't show up for chemo one day? What would happen? Would someone call and fuss at me? Of course I don't know what would have happened, because like everyone else, I always went.

Stephanie - so nice to read of some good news for you. I'm with Ron - buy those shoes!

Nikki - I read your comment with tears in my eyes. From your other comments these past months, I know how strong you have been throughout your husband's cancer journey, and I am sure that strength is being pushed to the farthest limit now. I wish I had something useful, or helpful, to say to you - all I can really say is please know that we are all out here for you, thinking of and praying for you and Burge and your children.

Sent by Gretchen Hoag | 2:54 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Leroy:

Thanks for your blog-- I don't have cancer, but my mom does, and an online friend does (her blog is at http://www.spinningtumor.blogspot.com )

And her online name was Leroy... Anyway, thanks for writing, and keep fighting the good fight.

Sent by Not Leroy | 2:55 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Hello Leroy,

Mondays are now a day of anticipation for me: how's Leroy? And what's he thinking about today? (after 2 days of no news.)

I completely concur with the statement: "I'm Not Going!" My partner gets to hear that with increasing frequency everytime another surgery comes around. I actually have a surgery scheduled for August 1 at Johns Hopkins. So, even as we will be driving to the hospital, she will be hearing me say: "I AM NOT GOING! Stop this car and let me out right now!!" Well, thank heavens for her compassion, sense of humor, and most of all patience and understanding of me.

War analogies leave me empty and sad.
Enough with the killing, fighting, destroying already. (Can't everyone see/hear/feel that this destructive stuff is simply not working around the world and personally??)

I am ready to hear more about peaceful ways of handling every situation. Whether it is cancer pr something else. Free Palazzo's entry made a lot of sense to me. Felt healing and hopeful. For me it is time to quantum shift out of "war analogies" into
"peace analogies and solutions." I wish this for all living beings on this living being we call a planet.

Heartlights to all,
(remembering Mattie Stepanek)

-Kim Blankenship

Sent by Kim Blankenship | 3:08 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Dear Stephanie,
I have been following your posts since I saw you on the "Living with Cancer" documentary. I read your post today and I just wanted you to know how happy I am for you. Enjoy your summer and hope for more good news in October. Sasha

Sent by sasha | 3:27 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Oh Nikki...

I am so there with you, reliving all the pain. We didn't have kids but we did have 20 years together, and seeing it all go away in a blur of pain and anger isn't easy...thank whatever gods there are for opiates. I remember once, as Terry was sedated and dying in hospice, those eyes opened and looked straight at me--and they were the most incredibly intense crystal blue I've ever seen. Maybe they saw me, maybe they didn't. I like to think they did.

Like I've said in other posts: Time will make things better. They may never feel good again, but it does get better. You--and Sasha, and all the rest of us--still have Life to look forward to, even though it may seem the world has stopped turning.

Namaste

Sent by Bruce | 3:36 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Dear Nikki,
I read your post today and can see myself in your position in the near future. I pray for you and your boys. Please know that Burge is going to a better place.

Sent by sasha | 3:56 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Leroy, Thank you, I too heard your broadcast this morning. I have survived cancer for 16 years with many rigorous treatments. This past year has been difficult and last week I got very bad news. I was so struck by your analogy of being in control and making choices. I am making sane choices and all the while my brain is screaming I am not going. It is all such a bigger then life ordeal for my family and friends, some days really too much to bear, but I do. All the while I am screaming I???m not going, but I will!

Sent by Cindy | 4:04 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Leroy, as usual a very special topic.

Nikki, my prayers are with you and Burge, and your family. There are so many people here that have your family in their thoughts and prayers. We all are praying for strength for you and your family.

Dorothy

Sent by dorothy | 4:06 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Nikki - Thank you so much for taking the time to share with this community what you, Burge and your family are experiencing during this most difficult time. As mentioned, I and others have followed your postings and worried and prayed for you all and will continue to do so.

Stephanie - Ditto in a different way for you. How great to hear positive news from you - go out and live!

Laurie - You, like Leroy, are gifted and express yourself so eloquently. My heart and prayers go out to you and your family as well. I'm so glad you will be cared for by Hospice. I remember the days before that wonderful organization existed when my dad died of cancer. God be with you.

Leroy - You do have a gift for telling a story - thanks for a wonderful way of expressing today what I and others feel.

Sent by Sara (MD) | 4:17 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Today I had to watch as my vet put down my beautiful 12 yr old Boxer . She had been a kind loving companion to me for many years. She too, like me and her brother who died earlier this year, had cancer. My wonderful vet came to my home this afternoon and put her to sleep. Shortly before he arrived, I picked up the phone, thinking that I would call him and cancel...while Tilly laid calmly on her bed, there was a voice in my head screaming...SHE"S NOT GOING!!!!"
I have often wondered animals are so fortunate to not know that they will someday die...or do they know and just have a better ubderstanding of it than we do? Tilly went peacefully, thanks to Dr West...never once did she say I'm not going. It was humbling to realize that my dog was braver than I.

Sent by Liz Zimmerman | 4:32 PM ET | 07-23-2007

This morning, just as my husband and I were leaving our home to go to his first radiation treatment, this piece aired on NPR (Kansas City KCUR). We both were struck by the coincidence in timing. Thank you for sharing your thoughts. Suddenly we didn't feel alone in our anxiety. Good luck to you in your fight.

Sent by Roe Griffith | 4:45 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Nikki--Love and prayers.
Leroy--Deep thanks for your gift to all of the blog and the sharing.

Sent by Connie Brown | 4:47 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Leroy, listening to you this Am I couldn't help but think of a new movie with an old title ...Band of Brothers. I am with you brother. George

Sent by george strait | 4:59 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Hello Leroy,

As everyone keeps saying "Thank you for bearing the battle standard" I hope that we help you to keep up your strength and morale through all the discussion that goes through this blog. We often talk about what we are going through so I hope we are giving back to you. You are never far from our thoughts and prayers.

A second post in one day...that's a rarity for me but I felt compelled to answer Kim Blankenship's war analogy statement.

For me, I don't have a problem using a war analogy for something as indiscriminately "bent on killing me" as cancer. Were we talking about a living thing, I would agree in a minute, but we're not; cancer is an aberration, a destructive mutation that kills. We all know the long list of emotions we experience when we hear the diagnosis. We also know the indecision, the numbing hesitation, the "I can't believe this is happening." I went through that as well. The toughest thing was "What do I do now?" I barely made it home from the hospital before completely losing it and for days was left feeling emotionally paralyzed. This monster, beast, etc (we all know the different names) had just delivered a death sentence and taken away any semblance of the future as I had planned it. I had, for the moment, lost all control over my life. My job, my sense of productivity and service to other people all were gone. My life became centered around Dr.'s visits, tests, etc. We've all been there too. When time came for action, I made the decision that I was not going to be the least bit merciful to something with a proven history of indiscriminate killing. So do peace, love, etc come into consideration for cancer? Only for the millions of us who suffer through the relentless attacks. I am military by birth and by training. I intend on using every bit of that to destroy my unfeeling, unyielding assailant. IT deserves no mercy.

Sent by Randal Gray | 5:00 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Nikki,Laurie,Stephanie,and All,
My prayers are with all of you.WE are not promised our journey will be easy,but God promised we will not be alone.With God, all things are possible.

Sent by David White | 5:11 PM ET | 07-23-2007

I've never really been a big fan of war movies, but that didn't take anything from your post and what analogies you made. It brought to mind other movies though, other analogies...

Good Morning Vietnam!, starring Robin Williams. How to bring humor and a touch of sanity in an insane war. And no, you never listen to Louis Armstrong the same way again.

Meet Joe Black, with Brad Pitt. Totally different context. Death, curious about what the life of the living is, becomes embodied and goes on to see what being alive is about. Love that one.

And, of course, there is one I look at every now and then and that I wish every doctor and hospital worker had to watch, as part of their professional training: The Doctor, starring William Hurt.

Sent by Benoit | 5:12 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Wow, such powerful visceral stuff, so simple. I'm not going. The half of me that refused to go has not yet caught up with the other half. It refused to come along. And the tension has unscrewed my sanity. I realized today that I don't have to like the world, and when I am overwhelmed with that "I'm not going" feeling, it means that it is going to take a long time before I can accept it. I went, but half of me hasn't come along. I don't recommend it but then again, I can only be me. You're in my thoughts, Leroy

Sent by Alycia Keating | 5:13 PM ET | 07-23-2007

God Bless you Nikki and Burge...Your story is heart-breaking. I am a breast cancer survivor of two years and so is my sister...We all must stick together and hold on tight. I wish you, Burge and your children peace.

Sent by Getty Johnston | 6:21 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Nikki

Been there, done that. I can't know exactly how you feel, but I have lost someone whom I cherished. It is the hardest thing to do in a lifetime. Blessings on you and your family!

Sent by Diana Kitch | 6:56 PM ET | 07-23-2007

I read your blog first, and then I went back and decided to listen to the podcast too. While I found your blog moving, the podcast was even more so. I didn't expect them to include the actual music from the movie in the background, and then they played the clip of the kid yelling, "I'm not going! I'm not going!" Wow - it was chilling to actually hear it. The fear mixed with the determination in his voice - for those few seconds he really was NOT going. And it was heartbreaking because yes, we all knew he was going whether he wanted to or not.

As a few others have expressed, I'm not a fan of the war analogies either. It implies winning or losing, and in a way I feel we do a disservice to those who eventually die from their cancer by saying "they lost the fight". It seems to imply that if they had just tried harder they would have won, or that they were too weak to finish the fight, or even that they just gave up. I wouldn???t call a single person who dies from cancer a loser ??? yet inadvertently that???s what we are calling them. People who face cancer are the strongest, bravest people I know. Whether we die from the cancer or something else isn???t really up to us. We all die of something eventually, so in a way living is a losing battle!

That said, I don't mean to criticize your choice of analogy. Fighting and battles is the most common analogy used when talking about cancer. And as much as I don't really like it, I find myself using those terms too. They are just so ingrained in our cancer culture that it???s hard not to. I just feel like we are looking at it all wrong - cancer isn't about dying, it's about living life to the fullest for as long as you've got. At least that's how I feel it should be, and what I hope for everyone facing cancer.

Be well! I did enjoy your blog today. :)

Susan
http://lemonmargaritas.com

Sent by Susan Metters | 7:54 PM ET | 07-23-2007

This passage:

When I was first diagnosed with cancer, when the doctor looks at you and tells you that your old life is over, that you're about to enter a strange and terrifying new world, your brain is screaming, "I'm not going, I'm not going."

...is perhaps one of the most powerful I've read from you, Leroy. It's the end of life as we knew it, and the beginning of a new journey that honestly none of us wants to take, be it as patient or caregiver. It's life-changing regardless of the role.

I've mentioned it before--I'm selling our house and moving in to a condo that I've already signed the papers on. As soon as I'd signed, I called some friends and told them I was afraid I'd just made an awful, costly and horrible mistake.

They came over and went to the condo with me, and every one of them fell in love with the place (it's a new development built in an 1850-era church). I realize now that I was projecting my fear of this new experience onto the condo. It's the discomfort of change or a new routine. Just as cancer or any other disease forces changes we may be uncomfortable with, so does life in general. They say to stop growing is to die...maybe they're right. I just wish we all didn't have to "grow" so much so fast.

Namaste

Sent by Bruce | 8:05 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Oh--and Nikki--when Terry was dying, before any of the drugs were begun, dead relatives and friends visited all the time. Aunts, dad, uncles, friends. They all had the same message: "We're here, waiting. Join us in your own time."

I think Terry took a lot of peace from that. I know I took a great deal of pleasure from picturing Ron (Terry's dad, died of brain cancer in 2005) reading his paper with his coffee and saying to Terry "Pull up a chair."

So who can say that your Burge is talking to people that aren't there? Maybe they're there for those who need them to be.

Much love and concern.

Namaste

Sent by Bruce | 8:15 PM ET | 07-23-2007

This column touched my heart this morning and made me tear up. And you know what? This afternoon, on the five year anniversary since my diagnosis--my whole body scan was perfectly clean. I'm celebrating.

Sent by Kelley Paystrup | 10:31 PM ET | 07-23-2007

Nikki,
My heart hurts for you and your Burge. In your description of his winks and smiles, I can see the strength of his love for you. That is something that will always be with you.

Stephanie,
Your news is so stunning and thrilling! I hope you're able to put cancer out of your mind for awhile now and just live every moment to the fullest.

And Dear Leroy -- Yes, I know what you mean. My poor, scarred veins wanted to say,"No! We're not going!" when the chemo nurses or lab techs poked and poked and ground the needle in, painfully. But really, I knew there was no choice. Even if the odds don't look so good, I'll squinch my eyes up, grin and bear it as long as there is any chance at all of survival...

Sent by Doris | 12:04 AM ET | 07-24-2007

this is my first time. I love hearing your comments. My husband has cancer two brain tumours were discovered just before christmas. Surgery and radiation and chemo followed and the remaining is shrunk, but we dont know when it will pop back. Meanwhile he is working and taking a trip in wild western china. While he is away from home I can be in sweet denial..like its just another business trip...I don't usually watch war movies, but the "I'm not going, I'm not going " was so true, for all of us involved. Thank you for writing. Good luck to everyone Judy NJ

Sent by judy casey | 12:37 AM ET | 07-24-2007

Leroy..I think no matter how long we have cancer what kind it is. We all feel those words...I'm not going.
This some very deep stuff..but oh so true and simple right to the point.
Its really weird now for me. I have been reflecting on where life is taken me in remission..I want all of you here with me. Its odd. I have learned so with in the cancer community. My head is screaming I'm not going.Then the flip side how do I leave a world that has given me my life back. A world where everyone understands the road that i have walked. I know we never leave it but its so wierd now I don't feel I fit.
Reading this brought back a lot of things and some tears to.
Cause I know exactly how *I am not going * feels and *You can't make me!* And so much more.
My thoughts and PRayers go with you.
And all those struggling tonight as well

Sent by Kerry | 1:38 AM ET | 07-24-2007

Sending good thoughts your way Leroy--sorry for keeping this short... kinda sneaking in free internet at the Bangkok Airport....hope everyone else is doing well also--Krupali

http://thewanderingnomad.blogspot.com

Sent by Krupali Tejura MD | 5:27 AM ET | 07-24-2007

Nikki,
May God bless all of you and give you all the strength that will be needed. My prayers are with you all.
Aurella

Sent by Aurella Rocchi | 7:35 AM ET | 07-24-2007

I think a lot of life is just about putting one foot in front of the other because you often don't have control over whats happenning next or where its going. Sometimes I think that sounds defeatest, sometimes I think it takes a lot of strength to recognize your limitations and then get up anyway. I'm glad you are have the strength to go even if you don't want to.

Sent by Kami | 2:59 PM ET | 07-24-2007

Dear Nikki,

Nikki, My heart is with you and your words have brought back some bitterweeet memories of my own. My first experience with this phenomenon was with my Grandmother, whose memory I cherish and make me smile when I think of her. She is the person who taught me the meaning of the word LOVE, and what a beautiful lesson it is. I knew when she was near her end, on this plane of existence, when she started to talk TO my Grandfather, not ABOUT him. She had conversations with him and it all became so clear how she came upon the knowledge to pass along to me about LOVE. He passed away at the age of 33, leaving her with 4 small boys to raise, my father being he youngest, he was only 4 years old when my Grandfather passed away. Although she had many, many offers, she took her VOWS so seriously and when she passed away 52 years later, she never re-married, there was only one that she allowed herself to give her entire heart to, as she promised in her VOWS the day they married. I knew when she could not only see him in her memories, but FELT him beside her as she was about to join him, the PURE JOY she felt having him so closely beside her, and I could actually feel his outstretched hand, and she had no hesitation about joining him, I knew she was looking forward to the day she had told me would come all my life.

There were those who thought she was halucinating, but I knew differently, because she had described this event so vividly, and when it came to pass, my heart was so happy for BOTH OF THEM, and I never worried if she was going to be alright, I KNEW it with all my heart. Her definition of LOVE had come to pass, and I felt such a sense of peace for them. I was, obviously, never privileged to know him and the man he was in a physical sense, but, it all
became so clear to me, spiritually, she was one person who had truly shared the important TRUTHS, the most valuable lessons I will take with me when I go, as well.

So I have no doubt there is a re-joining
of hearts, a bond that NO MAN COULD EVER PUT ASUNDER, and your journey is not, and never will be, over with Burge. Your children are so fortunate to have witnessed the love you have shared together, and will never forget it or the lessons they convey. I hope you can find some of the peace I feel in knowing this, with all my heart, that LOVE never dies, Nikki, and you will always have him beside you, for better or for worse.

WHAT A BEAUTIFUL GIFT!

My heart is with you and Burge, and you children, and I am happy that you are able to share this time together more peacefully and unfrenzied by the doctors
appointments and painful treatments.
Even through the chemical relief he needs, his heart is with you now, and I firmly believe it always will be!

Love, Briana

Sent by briana | 4:11 PM ET | 07-24-2007

Dear Bruce,

Now, more than ever, I am certain you will continue to grow, and once again find a sense of peace from knowing you gave your best and Terry enjoyed the gift of comfort she needed at the time she needed it most. You have had such a difficult journey in your young life and, but frankly, I believe you KNOW the value of the joy you gave her in your time together. I firmly believe Terry knew you of your presence, and when you were describing her incredibly intense crystal blue eyes, I could not stop the tears from flowing down my cheek and thought to myself at the moment I read your words, she gave you such a beautiful memory, an indelible gift, one that no one could ever take from you.

Sometimes it is the sudden and so incredibly short moments that can say so much, and perhaps the intensity was her way of showing you with such beauty and clarity, the love she felt for you will never be gone, and the light you saw was her beacon for eternity.

Stay well, my friend, and know you are not travelling this journey alone. I hope when you are settled in your new home the heartache will lessen and and every time you see that clear blue intensity in a cloudless sky, you can rest assured Terry is with you now, and ALWAYS WILL BE!

Namaste, indeed!

Love, Briana

Sent by briana | 4:48 PM ET | 07-24-2007

I did go for surgery but I didn't go for radiation. I didn't go for aromatase inhibitors or tamoxifen. I did go for Chinese medicine and I am going for nutritional supplements and I exercise most days of the week. I knew nothing about cancer when I got it and the numbers of times I've said I'm not going have surprised the heck out of me. We are given limited choices when it comes to treating cancer in this country. The thought I have lately: "The treatment was a success but the patient died." I am in remission a little over two years. If the cancer comes back, will I wish I had gone? I pray I do not. I am willing to die. For all of us, with cancer or not, it is only a matter of time. I pray for freedom from pain.

Sent by Jane | 3:11 PM ET | 07-27-2007

I appreciate all of the comments and the essay has touched me. but... Wagners' Die Waulkrie? More people might associate it with Bugs Bunny and "Kill the Wabbit!" than Apocalypse Now. It just depends on the age and the relevance to the person.

Sent by Jessica | 1:30 AM ET | 07-28-2007

Leroy,

Your blog for this day reminded me a lot of how I felt the day of my dad's visitation (he past from cancer on Jan. 28th). I remember sitting around my parent's kitchen table (the table that we set around so many times together as a family) that day waiting for time to leave for the funerl home, and I looked at my mom and said "Let's not go today." I wanted to scream out "I'm not going! I'm not going to bury my dad!" Now, I knew we had to go because so many were waiting to say good-bye to dad, but at that minute I felt that if we didn't go, maybe, just maybe, we really didn't have to say good-bye. I knew my mom wasn't going say, "Okay, we dont' have to go." But, that is what I wanted her to say, just so I could have one more day.

Sarah Poe

Sent by Sarah Poe | 11:35 AM ET | 08-03-2007

In this country the Insurance companies will delay the treatment of the cancer patients in order to make them die faster and save money.
The doctors get rich, the insurance companies richer and people die.

Sent by Catharsis | 12:39 PM ET | 08-03-2007

Mr. Severs,

I don't have cancer, so it was sometimes difficult for me to identify with what you were saying in your NPR commmentary. Today, I finally got it. You are mentoring us. Its not just about living with cancer. Its about living. Thank you for your insight.

Sent by S.P.E. | 6:33 AM ET | 08-21-2007