Leroy/All,
You are so right about the strength that it takes. My heart breaks everyday when I look at my husband. He is so strong. If only we could say it will be ok we will won this fight and truly believe it. You know there is always that doubt that we try and push back. I too see it in everyone's eyes when we go to our doctor's appointments and treatments. That sometimes makes it even harder to see how many people are in the same boat. It is so hard for us, Bill is only 46. We are used to going and running with the kids and our friends. Bill tries to keep going. I'm so proud of him, but it is hard for him and for me to watch him. There just doesn't seem to be anything we can do but pray and hope we can get through this. I pray for a cure for this monster everyday & every night and even in between. That's all I can think about. Cure, Cure for everyone in this world.

Sent by Aurella Rocchi | 8:04 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Good posting today Leroy. Made me really think.

I've gone through two episodes like this; once when my young Marine son had a brain tumor followed by spinal meningitus and was hospitalized for 7 months....now that my daughter has late stage lung cancer. People always comment "I don't know how you do it" when talking about our coping. I always think....What's the alternative? You can go around bitter and moaning and resentful that it's "you" and not "them" and where does that get you, but make you more miserable? Or you can do what you need to do, one day at a time, always hoping for the best.

While I would not willingly relive either of these events in my life, I can honestly say that there were many positive moments that came as a result of these events....we grew together as a much stronger, more loving family and we discovered strengths we never realized that we possessed.

That's not to say that there weren't, and still are, times when things got through our defenses, but they never kept us down.

That was 29 years ago for my son, and he is well today; hopefully I will be able to look back one day and say the same for my daughter. If not, I'll know that we gave it our best and lived every day the best that we could.

God bless Leroy!!

Sent by betty obst | 8:15 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Leroy, Today made me think of the "cowardly lion" in my favorite movie "THE WIZARD OF OZ". People are always saying to me I am courageous but what does that mean? I just do what I have to. Love and prayers surround me and all of us on this blog and I believe that is what helps us carry on.

Sent by Vicki (FL) | 8:22 AM ET | 09-12-2007

This one brought instant hot burning tears to my eyes. I don't think I have to explain to this group why that was my reaction.

I can't even type now.

Sent by Lori Levin | 8:27 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Dear Leroy,

I was one of those family members back when my mom was battling ovarian cancer. And it really is for us like you explained. I would paint a smile on my face in my mother's presence and then loose it when I left her sight. My dad would wish on every star that it was him and not her. My sister took care of hospital and later funeral arrangements, but stayed away from the hospital and chemo treatments. None of that comes near to what my mom and so many other have endured and are enduring.

Thank you so much for writing this blog. You have no idea how your words open my eyes to so many blessings.

Sent by Misty Nelson | 8:39 AM ET | 09-12-2007

I confess that I am disappointed/disheartened a bit here today as I've just read all of the replies to Leroy's post on clinical trials from yesterday.

Many of you came across as pretty insistent that he or others should do this or that people are "obligated" to do so and that is what I found dismaying.

For those of us who are dealing with this disease in our our lives personally, we, more than anyone should know that we just need to support one another in what ever choice each one makes - even if we don't agree with it. Where's the room for the guilt here?

And don't forget with any new drugs,procedures - nothing has been proven - if someone chooses not to be a guinea pig, why is that not "ok"? We're not always very realistic about the current treatments either are we? Why is it always the right or proper thing to do everything that is available even if a Dr tells us the percentages are low of something helping?

You can say that you had an extra 6 months or an extra year or two BECAUSE you took that horrible round of chemo, but you don't know for a fact that is what gave you that time. You don't know that you might not have had more time without these nasty treatments.

I don't mean to sound harsh here, but I found many of yesterdays responses to be a bit judgemental and critical.

To repeat what Leroy says today...
"Courage comes in many forms."

Sent by Vicky (NY) | 8:49 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Leory-
What you were saying really hit home for me. My dad recently passed away and he was the family rock. No matter what he stood tall and took whatever life had to throw at him and trust me he had his fair share. I once had asked him how in the world I would make it through this or ever smile or laugh again after he passed. It just seemed so far from reality to be able to do that. For the life of me I can't figure it out, but after my dad passed I kept breathing, I kept strong, and I even kept smiling. Of course my heart was broken, but to think of all my dad went through - I almost just felt lucky and blessed that I had the time with him that I did. I almost felt as though I had his strength now. I have been known to be a basket case in the past so for me to be so strong is kind of mind boggling. It is just a strange thing. I am trying not to spend too much time figuring it out, but I am okay. I really am. I miss my dad like crazy - but he is with me in my heart.

Towards the end I knew that my dad must have had just an overwhelming swirl of emotions going on inside. I went on your web-site and printing off a lot of your blogs and made a binder for my dad. He began to read it and I think found that so many of his feelings that he could not put into words were so clearly written from you. He could sit in the privacy of his own home and feel completely validated for his fear, his stress, his lonliness and all the things he kept inside.

I think you are great Leroy. I think all of you who share you stories are great. Thank you all.

Sent by April | 9:38 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Great post this morning, Leroy. Oh and so true...I see that look you speak of just about everyday when I look at my husband. While I'm struggling some days to cope with my cancer, I cannot imagine what he is going through...everyday is just such a blessing!!! May God Bless you all!!!

Sent by Tess from KY | 9:47 AM ET | 09-12-2007

I never thought in my wildest dreams that I would be tested like this--with dealing with cancer that is. My husband has cancer that was diagnosed almost a year ago and I can easily say that it has been the worst year of my whole life--knowing that I am going to loose him to cancer.
Every time I hear or read stories of those who are suffering from diseases, accidents, etc., it reminds me that there are people/families out there every day who are going through just as bad of things or worse. It gives me some comfort.
I hope that I will be a better person for this happening, but I still wish that cancer hadn't come our way.

Sent by Sherry | 9:53 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Leroy,
How timely your message is. Yesterday I went to my surgeons office and took along my grown son because I was instructed to "bring family". I heard my son quietly sigh so many times as we sat there awaiting our turn. I know he is still in denial and it was difficult to watch him as the doctor explained the situation.
Afterwards my son would have normally asked if I were hungry and we would have gone for a tasty meal, but this time he didn't. I could see he really didn't want to (or couldn't) talk.
Mothers try to protect their children from pain, but sometimes it's not possible.

Sent by Joan F | 9:59 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Leroy,

My husband (45 years) was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in late March. He was young, healthy, never smoked, etc. with absolutely no symptoms. One day he became jaundiced and from then on our world was upside down. On June 7th he passed away leaving me with two small girls and a heart that is still in denial.

Your last paragraph about courage is so true. Many people have come up to me and said "how strong you are...". Many days I just want to crawl into a ball and forget, but unfortunately that is not an option for me. I have two young girls (5 & 10)depending on me to bring them through this difficult time.

I also want you to know that my husband and I watched your documentary together and it gave us such a sense of hope. Our hope was short-lived.

Sent by Kristi | 10:00 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Leroy,
I found out yesterday that a woman I know that speak to 2-3 times a month has cancer. I talked to her last Thursday and she was fine. I called on Monday to learn that Friday she started coughing blood and had been rushed to the hospital. Last night I was told that she has cancer throughout her body and has been moved to hospice care. Her doctors can do nothing. What a bitter pill. God bless her and her family. Bless you too Leroy for sharing your life and experiences with us.

Sent by Jack | 10:21 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Leroy and All,

Yes, "if only courage were enough." From May 2006 through January 2007, I went through the most hellified nine months of my life so far. All in that relatively short time span, I was diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer with liver mets, underwent colon surgery, then five months of an aggressive chemo regimen, and then, finally, and successful liver resection.

Just when I was wishing that I were rich (or would win the lottery that I don't play or something) so that I could take a 6-month leave from work just to restore my mind and mental energy. Not working is not an option because I need to work to maintain the wonderful health insurance coverage I have through my employer. I really need to go out on medical leave again to recovery from all the mental energy I put forth to make it through my cancer diagnosis and treatment. Unfortunately, that is not a financially feasible option for me.

Dealing with cancer is a full-time job in and of itself. The day my GI doc told me that he found a tumor in my colon (through colonoscopy), I looked at my partner and said to her, "It's going to be alright." I said that to her as if the doctor had just given her that bad news. I don't know exactly where the presence of mind and strength came from for me to say that, but it just forcefully escaped from my mouth.

"It's going to be alright" was the attitude that I maintained throughout my nine-month ordeal with my cancer. Over the past several months, I found that I would get teary when I would read or hear of another cancer patient who was not doing well, who had died, or was having metastases or recurrence issues. I just didn't understand why I could be so seemingly "lucky" to have a short and not so sweet bout with cancer and then just resume a life of working full-time as if it were all a dream (with the exception of my scarred up abdomen and my short bowel syndrome).

Then, the answer to my question began to unfold about two weeks ago. My father had been treated with hormone therapy for prostate cancer for nearly a decade. At the end of last year, a bone scan discovered some bone mets.

Then a few weeks ago, his oncologist told him that it was time to commence chemotherapy to help manage his metastatic hormone-refractory prostate cancer. Two weeks ago from last night, he called to inform me of this. I immediately fell into taking the same steps I took when I found out about my own cancer: I immediately got online and "googled" the heck out of prostate cancer, metastatic hormone-refractory prostate cancer, and chemo treatment for metastatic prostate cancer.

The next day, I met him at the VA Medical Center where he receives his medical care and spent nearly two hours with him and the research study coordinator for a clinical trial that his oncologist suggested he think about.

I explained the clinical trial to him, asked many questions of the study coordinator, and go copies of his recent labs and scans. His attitude that day was similar to the one I expressed May last year. He said to me and the study coordinator when I was giving him the possible side effects overview, "I'm going to be all right! I'm going to be alright!"

In a weird and cruel kind of way, I now understand that my experience with metastatic cancer and nasty chemo was "necessary" so that I could be there for my father for when he would reach his point of needing chemo treatment to address an aggressive, metastatic prostate cancer.

As his daughter, I have his genes (both good and bad). We're 30 years apart in age (I'm 42, he's 72). Yet, I reached a particular "milestone" before he did (metastatic cancer) and, thus, went through chemo first.

Now, it's his "turn." He starts his first chemo cycle on next Tuesday (9/18). I called him last night to give him a "pep" talk and to convey to him my lessons learned from my chemo experience. He told me that he was ready to get the process started so that he could get it behind him. I remarked to him, "Dad, isn't weird to be WANTING to start chemo?"

I had this same "let's get this show on the road attitude" about starting chemo. For the most part, I didn't "feel" like I had cancer. But, to be sure, I certainly had my moments. My Christian faith, my brain, and sheer determination go me through my cancer. Yet, although I sit here at my desk trembling with fear for my father's health and life (because of his ago or other chronic diseases he has--high blood pressure and diabetes), I have to move forward with strength and courage and faith. My father is counting on me, and because I love him so much, I am not going to let him down. I will be there for him on next Tuesday.

Peace be unto each of you during both moments of fear and courage!

Sent by Minora Sharpe | 10:32 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Dear Leroy,

I remember people telling me during my diagnosis and treatment, "You are so strong. I couldn't do it. I don't know how you do it." Mostly, I just responded, "I'm just doing what I have to do. This is my job, now." And mostly I meant it. I had always perceived myself as a very strong woman. I think the hardest part was realizing that it is very easy to be strong when the depths of your self-perceived strength have never been tested and clearly, mine never had been. So many times, inside, I was saying to myself, "Please, somebody, just make this go away. I don't want to do this anymore." I think my real lesson came when I finally discovered that it was o.k. to feel that way. And I think that is when I truly became a stronger person.

Keep your chin up,
Mo Spikes

Sent by Mo Spikes | 10:33 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Hi Leroy, I read your blog every morning to remind me how lucky I am and to start the day. I know that sounds strange but I am the editor at large for a new magazine called Heal: Living Well after Cancer, so my day is spent reading about, writing about, researching and responding to people with cancer. I am also a 21-year young adult survivor of breast cancer, so part of my response to your daily column is that I can start the day reading your comments and the responses and see how far we have come from the day I was diagnosed when there were no pink ribbons and no one talked about cancer.

I have never written before because I see myself as an observer in my position, someone who, like you, reports the information. But the comments about the courage of mothers and family members for those with cancer got me. Last weekend we had a Patient & Survivor Forum in Chicago that had a track for young adult survivors. We have never done this before but we aired the new movie Crazy, Sexy Cancer and had Kris Carr there to talk about being young with cancer. In the audience were a number of young adults who were accompanied by their parents.

It was so hard to watch these young adults, most of whom had been yanked back into childhood by cancer. We had a breakout for cosurvivors at one point in the conference. This is the title given the people who go through cancer with us. The facilitator talked about having the mothers of three young adult survivors in his group and how they grabbed one another emotionally and physically looking for hope or a piece of information on how to do this. How do you watch your child suffer and know that you may watch him or her die. This is not the natural order of things.

My daughter was only 1 when I was diagnosed and my mother died 5 years later of breast cancer, leaving me to wonder if I had given my daughter more than my quirky sense of humor. How would I live if she got cancer, I remember thinking.

I would. And I would do what any parent does whether their child has been wounded in a real war or the war on cancer. What I saw last weekend was courage, raw courage on the part of parents who wanted to help their children. I applaud them -- and you for keeping my day real.

Sent by Kathy LaTour | 10:50 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Many times I have tried to explain how the courage I've had to conjure up during this....crap.....for lack of a better word....is nothing compared to the strength and courage my husband and family have had to find within themselves. The worst thing about cancer is the pain it causes everyone that loves me. I can deal with it. I'll be alright, in one way or another, but sometimes I lie here and think about how my mom and my husband will always have to live with the pain of losing me. Cancer in itself is hard---don't get me wrong..it is horrible.. BUT the pain I've caused everyone else is what's killing me. It takes more courage for me to look into the sad eyes of my husband, than it does to walk in and accept the poison in my veins.

Sent by Laurie | 11:19 AM ET | 09-12-2007

i cannot begin to imagine what it is like to be in the shoes of my mom, dad, brother, friends and family. as the patient, sometimes i thought i had it better; i had doctors telling me what was going to be happening, and a lot of the time, all i had to do was sit back, nap, eat, and smile. sure, i had myriad emotions rushing between my ears, but i didn't have to watch me go through it. i WAS going though it - chemo, surgery, radiation. i often say i had the "easy" job.

to say my parents and brother offered support doesn't do justice. they were holding me up, making me laugh, crying with me, amazing me with THEIR courage and senses of humor through it all. i am young - 27 - and this was unexpected - isn't it all? - but we do what we can with what we are given.

some of my "favorite" memories from during treatment and recovery are of laughing in waiting rooms, truly laughing, joking in the chemo room, and of being compared to snowmen at christmas time because we have the same haircut. sometimes the silent laughter was tinged with tears, but sometimes we really did LAUGH. what else can we do?

i go for my next scan on friday and last night i expressed my trepidations to my parents; they told me, of course, they're nervous, too. and scared. i have no reason to believe i have any cancer in there, but at least i have the strength in knowing they will be there, along with my brother, friends, and of course, dog, if the unexpected happens.

thank you, to all the caretakers out there. your job is difficult and it comes in addition to everyday life, which we all know can be a challenge. you mean the world to your loved ones. you give strength beyond comprehension.

Sent by ejd | 11:23 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Good morning Leroy,
It was so much harder on my family. They were flat-out terrified. I should have gone off somewhere across the country for treatment and never told them. Visiting me after surgery my mother and sister were almost unable to speak.

Sent by Alycia Keating | 11:24 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Good Morning Leroy and All,

Leroy, thank you for those words, "It will be all right." Those are the words Tom and I are holding on to this morning. I had my oncology appointment and repeat scans for a possible recurrence of uterine cancer almost a week ago. My doctor said that his office would call me and cancel my next appointment scheduled for Sept 26th, if the tests all come back ok and I could go back on the every 3 month schedule. I'm sure the test results are back by this time but there has been no call. I look at the phone and try to will it to ring but the silence continues. I hope this anxiety that I feel will turn into courage at some point. But as each day passes without that call I can see the gathering fear in Tom's eyes too. I know we will dig deeper and find the courage to face whatever lies in wait for us but it does take a lot of digging!

My brother, Jim and his wife, Tynia are coming to spend some time with us next week. Speaking as a cancer patient, I can say that the support of family and friends and to everyone who shares on this blog, is PRICELESS! God Bless!!

Eileen Pruyne
Charlotte

Sent by Eileen Pruyne | 11:52 AM ET | 09-12-2007

Don't you sometimes think that it's just as hard...or maybe even harder..on the ones who stand by and wait?

Sent by Marilyn Trujillo | 12:14 PM ET | 09-12-2007

Well said, Leroy. Courage and the love of those around us, is what gives us the strength to fight. Stan

Sent by Stan Wozniak | 12:31 PM ET | 09-12-2007

I provided care to my Dad in 2003 when he had lung cancer - a short 3 month ordeal prior to his passing. I learned a great deal about how others react, and my own personal strength. I've since gone thru a divorce primarily due to the lack of support during that time. I also went to counseling to get help. I had a tremendous amount of inner strength to help my Dad. I found out that I COULD do certian things that I thought were impossible. Now, 4 years later, I am caring for my brother, 48, pancreatic w/mets, who was given 6 months 'at best' by his doctors. This was 6 months ago. I've taken what I learned 4 years ago, and apply it every day. Do the little things: take out the trash, pick up groceries, wash the car, etc. Be a good listener. Try and take away his loneliness and bring a smile to his face. All of this takes energy - so I am sure to eat right and sleep well in order to regain the energy. One day, my brother will not be here. That is so sad, but at least I did what I could to spend time, take away some of his loneliness, and value the memories of being with him.

Sent by Brian P | 12:49 PM ET | 09-12-2007

Leroy,

You're absolutely right! The trials and tests of cancer help us discover just how much courage and toughness we have that we never thought possible. For me, it has helped me deepen my faith to a degree I never knew, and I find great comfort and peace in knowing I'm in God's hands. Oh, I'll still keep up the fight and do everything humanly possible to live, but ultimately it's the call of someone bigger and more powerful than me or any team of oncologists.

I've also changed my thinking about who my heores and role models are in life. Instead of admiring Hollywood types or famous people, the people I admire most are the lady running the marathon with one leg, the guy in the wheelchair who's driving himself everywhere, the soldier whose body is battered and still living independently. These people who have faced horrific trials and are making the best of it, holding their own...the stage IV cancer patient who is still working hard, doing all they can...those are my heroes.

Sent by Norma | 1:20 PM ET | 09-12-2007

Dear Leroy/All,

When my husband was first diagnosed with stage IV esophageal cancer I remember saying " Why him........I wish it were me" He is the stronger one; I am very weak. He is a surviror; he will make it. And to this day, I still wish I were the one with the disease. Maybe I am being selfish, I don't know. In my heart, I always prayed that when the time came, I wanted to be the one to die first, because I could not bear the though of being without him. There is no way to put into words the feelings when you have to watch a loved one suffer. Only the people who have walked in your shoes can empathize with you. I have gone to every chemo appointment, every scan, MRI, consultation......I'm by his side every step of the way and although I many not have the physical effects he gets after his chemo treatment, my emotional pain becomes physical. My intellect tells me that I will make it through this.......I have no choice.......by my heart tells me otherwise.

Prayers to you, Laurie and this wonderful blog family.

Sent by sasha | 1:31 PM ET | 09-12-2007

Thank you for today???s post. It hit home.

Sent by Maggie | 2:04 PM ET | 09-12-2007

Leroy,

I think courage IS enough.

Sent by Diana Kitch | 2:09 PM ET | 09-12-2007

I wish that I thought it was true that cancer is harder on the caregivers than the patients/survivors, but I honestly don't think so. Yes, I'm sure it is absolutely dreadful to watch someone you love going through the hell that is cancer, but truly, I do think it's worse to be the one with cancer. I HATE wondering if my cancer's going to recur, if I'll be around to see my children's weddings, grandchildren, etc. And while my family also has to live with the uncertainty of my cancer, they still don't have to live with the punch-to-the-gut feeling of actually not being here. It's quite magnanimous and generous to say, I wish it were me instead of my spouse/sibling/parent. I guess what I'm trying to say here is that if the tables were turned, if someone close to me had cancer, knowing now what it's like to have cancer, I don't think I could be so generous.

I do think I'd have to make an exception for my children. Like most all parents, I would take on anything - cancer, moving train, whatever - for them.

Sent by Gretchen Hoag | 2:27 PM ET | 09-12-2007

Todays message took me right back to a place I lived in for 5 years while my beloved lived and died with RCC. All the brave smiling thru tears faces in the endless waiting rooms, mine among them repeating the mantra "it will be alright" If only it had been so.
Kathy from San Diego

Sent by Kathy Peacock | 2:28 PM ET | 09-12-2007

There will probably never be enough time to "repay" everyone who has helped me through this. To accept Love and labor from friends and family when you feel "out of it" is a hard thing to do some times.

Sent by Scott Fertig | 2:32 PM ET | 09-12-2007

As someone who stands right along side fighting cancer I too never thought this would be happening to us & etc etc.
In the past I had often considered myself a strong person but truely knew deep inside there was a vast variety of fears & worries. Well cancer has taught me not to be fearful or worried about much any more. There's not much that now can scare me more than his cancer has. His is not a "good" cancer [RCC kidney] & yes he's young & strong & healthy but so is this type of cancer aggressive. We stand tall and laugh with each day that we are given one more to be together; strong and united with family & friends & our love to gather our resources & carry on. No one can decide who or what is best for anyone of us but we are sharing and forging bonds that seems to strenghten us. When people I talk to tell me that they are worried about us I ask to be hopeful but not worried. Do I think I'm couragous now I do knowing an extra dimension to that in cancer world. I find a most couragous person is the one who has quietly refused to let go & has been gathering their inner strenghs no matter what the fears that come. Thanks for being one of those people, Leroy & sharing with so many others.

Sent by CynS. | 3:13 PM ET | 09-12-2007

As my mom was getting sicker and having more set backs, I noticed that my dad never said to her, "Everything's going to be alright." Instead, he would tell her, "We'll get through this together, honey."

I realized they both wanted to spare each other the pain of death and seperation. They couldn't prevent what would come, but they could find strength in their love and support of each other.

I wondered how my dad would be after Mom died. He was so lonely without her. He seemed lost, literally. But I noticed about a year later, he seemed to have turned a corner. He was finding a way to live on until they could be together again.

At a good moment for such a question, I finally asked him what had changed. He smiled and admitted a little sheepishly that he had started talking to Mom again. "Well," he explained, "I was feeling pretty down one day and I could have sworn I heard your mom's voice saying to me, 'We'll get through this together, honey.' And since then, I just talk to her in my mind when I need to."

I've thought about that a lot since one of my best friends died of breast cancer. God, I miss that woman. But it's true, when I imagine her weighing in on something in my life, I smile as I hear what I know her commentary would be. She feels so close at times like that. Death is not the end of a relationship. I understand that now. Those souls we love are still with us. Man, I used to think that phrase was one tired cliche. But when you hear them in your mind and it soothes your aching heart, cliches don't matter. It is a comfort, even to an old cynic like me. We do get through it together.

Sent by Carol | 3:13 PM ET | 09-12-2007

Dear Leroy,

I must say, your posts are getting more and more on target lately, and I wanted to say how much I appreciate everyone on this board for sharing all of your strength and courage, because I draw from it every day, and hearing all of you keeps me going. I am so touched by what I have read so far and I find it AMAZING there are so many wonderful people out there who are battling this horribe disease and somehow finding the energy to post some of the most intelligent and insightful thgouhts I have ever experienced. I thank you all because without you the days would be much less bright and you inspire me to reach deeper inside and find whatever courage I have left to continue the battle. Without your encouragement, I would find the richness you have so generously brought to my existence fade in to a place I do not relish finding myself. With all humility, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Love and hugs to everyone!!!!

Briana

Sent by briana | 3:34 PM ET | 09-12-2007

I so wish I had the words today.
I am digging really deep on some issues.
Just when I sorta got it figured out something else hits me that comes with remnants of stage4. Then I feel I once again have to dig so deep to gather the courage thats left.
Sometimes its the hardest thing to hang on quietly and not say a word. This long time survivor thing is so much harder then I ever knew it would be.
Sighs

Sent by Kerry | 4:13 PM ET | 09-12-2007

Courage. How do I define it? Is it loud and lively; is it quiet, peaceful and comtemplative; is it doing what you could never imagine having to do; is it facing tremendous adversity with grace and humor; is it knowing that the worst is yet to come but never bowing to the cancer; is it acceptance when choosing to "fight no more"... the faces of courage are as varied as all of us on this blog. The corny joke comes to mind.."I don't know how to define pornography but I know when I see it". The same may be said for courage and we see it each and every day in all of its forms.

I have had a great teacher..my mother. She died from Alzheimers. She knew before any of us knew that this disease was coming and would eventually take her. Her quiet acceptance of her fate; her grace and dignity in the face of such adversity; and the essence of her soul and being was evident even when her mind functioned no more. In the tough times, I reflect upon her example and it allows me to cope.

Thank you Leroy for today's blog. It touched my heart.

Blessings and prayers to us all.

Sent by Al Cato | 4:18 PM ET | 09-12-2007

Dear Gretchen,

With all due respect, I am not being
"Generous" when I say I wish it were me instead of my husband. I am being
"Honest"

Prayers and blessings to you and your loved ones.

Sent by sasha | 4:33 PM ET | 09-12-2007

I was happy to read Kathy LaTours' comment. I went to one of the first Cure Patient Forums, which was held in the Washington DC area. It was a wonderful weekend, filled to the brim with really vital information on treatment, research directions, coping, and clinical trials. I met Kathy. She's a very vibrant, friendly person, and I reccomend their two magazines "Heal" and "Cure" to anyone either dealing with a cancer diagnosis, or in the post-treatment phase, grabbing onto a more normal quality of life.

Sent by Nancy K. Clark | 4:39 PM ET | 09-12-2007

Try #3.... Hi Leroy, et al,

It isn't easy waiting, it is boring, tiring, and stressful. Can't read, watch TV, focus, work on anything, believe me I have tried. You don't eat, certainly napping isn't an option.

I assume different personae depending on the situation I am in. There are times, I chose to ignore what is going on, my sister's coughing, dealing with secretions. There are times, I am embarrassed by the whole thing. There are times I hover.

The problem is, I have always been the caretaker, the person who is there in a crunch, then when the sxxx hits the fan, yes, I am still there, holding the fort down, taking care of absolutely everyone, except me. Only after everyone has left, no one is around to see, am I allowed to show my emotion.

Who takes care of the caretaker?

Sent by Susan Chap | 5:04 PM ET | 09-12-2007

To April,

I read your post and through the tears in my eyes I am writing to say I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU ARE SAYING!!!! I lost my father two years after I brought him back home and had to place him in an Assisted Living facility, but I made certain he was as comfortable as possible with his surroundings, but the one thing I could not do for him was take the PAIN from his heart that he had felt for so long, and valiantly kept to himself. I wish, at that time, I had been privvy to this blog, but it was before that fateful day when I heard those awful words "YOU HAVE CANCER", and for that I can be eternally grateful that he is not here to see me go through this experience. He was the strongest man I ever knew, and at the end I was beginning to get more and more ill and didn't know why, but of course now we all know. I was in the hospital the day he died, and not even able to go to his funeral, the man I loved so dearly, and my heart was truly broken into pieces. There were four girls at the hospital who set up an "altar" and had a private service for him (me?) and it is something I will never forget until the day I pass away. I wish I had been able to give him more comfort, epecially at HIS end, but I did do the best I could in the two years I was able to spend with him, and I will have to take all of my solace from that. We are very fortunate, we have each other, but I must live every day wondering if his heart was broken because I was not there, if he knew why, and if he had any idea how much I loved and admired him. How will I ever be able to rid myself of the guilt of knowing I was not there, and he may have thought he was alone at the end, thinking I did not love him enough to be there?

Your post is helping me purge some tears that should have been shed a long time ago, but I have not been able to grieve, and now I know I will have the opportunity to try to let go, and we can both be at peace. Thank you.

Love, Briana

Sent by briana | 6:16 PM ET | 09-12-2007

Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway. - John Wayne

Sent by beth | 6:27 PM ET | 09-12-2007

What a beautiful post, Leroy. Thanks for your courage, and the courage of everyone who posts on this board.

Sent by Amy | 6:56 PM ET | 09-12-2007

Leroy, I agree that Alive Day was an incredibly well done documentary of the bravery of these vets and their families throughout such extreme hardship. In my own cancer battle, I have been proud to learn of my own strength/courage and so appreciative of my husband and family in their emotional support and the strength that takes!

Sent by Karen | 9:12 PM ET | 09-12-2007

I am a family member of a loved one (sister) fighting stage IV colon cancer. I believe that courage, tenacity and the will to live play a huge part in the battle against the disease. It's so hard to watch, impotently, when you hurt for those who hurt. Thank you Leroy for acknowledging the caregivers and those on the "sidelines."

Sent by Donna | 9:26 PM ET | 09-12-2007

That was a wonderful entry. Courage isn't enough to save us from all the painful and difficult hurdles of life with cancer... but it's alot. When I feel courageous I am deeply grateful, when I feel only fear I pray for courage. It seems that courage is a gift, and not a given. Not something that we can choose for ourselves.

Thanks for a thought provoking column.

Sent by Nancy O | 9:46 PM ET | 09-12-2007

My mom, my best buddies, my sister they are what keep me. They remind me that I can keep going. They encourage me to fight. They truly are the heroes in my world. My mom was once the one I was taking care of with cancer and I remember being afraid of what was going on.. the nervous laughter, the pain that I wanted to take away from her. Now though it's reversed and I wish nothing of that for her or anyone that I love as I journey my way through this cancer world with treatments, appointments, and hurdles. Sometimes, I think that this journey hurts them more than it does me.. maybe not physically, but mentally and emotionally. I can only hope that they believe how much I truly appreciate and love them for being there for me. It's one of the greatest gifts in the world and one that if I did not have would make this battle even harder. They are heroes and I have and will always love them for what they are able to withstand. Thank you Leroy for reminding me of this.

Sent by Chanda | 10:42 PM ET | 09-12-2007

I know I worry about my husband often more than myself. I am outgoing and have tons of support. He is very much a loner and wonderfully supportive of me but I worry about who he can share things with. After I had a scarry reaction to a drug I could tell he really needed to talk about it probably more than I did. It is hard for us but I know the caretakers have a really hard time. Supporting me is hard enough but constantly living with the prognosis must be really hard. I can be very casual about it at times, part of my coping mechanism, and I can see the pain in his eyes.

Just another part of the unfairness of this disease.

I've had a hell of a couple of days. Had an MRI on Monday because of severe sciatica. It turns out not to be a cancer issue but a disc issue. Oh we can still have natural aging issues--are we spared nothing. I'm still heading off to Spain in the morning whether I can walk and see it is questionable but I will sit on my balcony and enjoy the sea view if nothing else. Peace and Courage to all.

Sent by Dona | 11:35 PM ET | 09-12-2007

leroy,
Expounding on this thought, I'm still amazed at who, during my battle with stage IV colon appeared with this kind of courage. People surprised me in both ways. Some virtually fled while others I hardly expected anything from came forward with real strength and courage. It really is a test in some ways.

Sent by Reuben | 12:17 AM ET | 09-13-2007

Dear Leroy,
I just watched the Discovery program with you, Mrs. Edwards and Lance. I am the husband of a 7 year breast cancer survivor and lost my brother and father to cancer. I feel that you have a very realistic outlook regarding cancer. None of us will know how our lives will end, but we do know that one day they will. Rather than immerse ourselves in constant worry about the unknown, we all need to cherish everyday that we have with our spouses, friends and colleagues and be less concerned with ambition and money and more thankful for what we know is important - family, friends, faith, hope and the comfort they bring to our lives. Thank you for reminding all of us how important those sources of strength and encouragement are to all of us. I'm confident that you have many reasons to be hopeful for the future.

Sent by Curt | 12:42 AM ET | 09-13-2007

When my husband and I walked off that cliff that a sudden cancer diagnosis brings on, the enormity of our pain was an almost daily shock to me. There was no use in trying to describe it to anyone who hadn't been through it. My best attempt is to say it was like seeing the mountains in Alaska. I thought I had seen big mountains until I went to Alaska and saw the mountain tops rising above the highest clouds in the sky. Words and photographs can't explain them. I had never understood how crushing emotional pain could be or how powerful love could be. There were so many days when I thought, "Well, this must be it. This must be as hard as life can get." Many of those days were frightening hospital days. But I also remember trying to find the strength that February to walk into a store to buy a valentine, having suddenly realized that it was the last valentine I'd every buy. You just keep going, one step in front of another. The love that causes the pain is the love that keeps you doing everything possible to spare your loved one's pain. People are amazed as they watch it, but you know that you are just reacting to a situation in which there are no other choices. Another tough time was when John asked me not to cry in front of him. He said it was the one thing he couldn't bear. My best friend, the shoulder that I had always cried on, was not going to be a refuge for my fear. The strength that it took to face my worst days without showing pain was a challenge I never could have imagined. To those of you who are walking in my shoes - I know you understand. It's amazing, isn't it? There's a dear price to pay for loving this much. I wouldn't have missed it for the world though. The beauty of love and the beast of cancer coincided. The love was so much bigger.

Sent by Laura | 1:53 AM ET | 09-13-2007

Horribly, horribly true, Leroy. And completely agree with what Betty said. I hate it when people say "I don't know how you do it?" and similar. It's alienating, and reminds of how different my life is from theirs. I don't have any super powers. I don't have any particular faith in God that sees me through. We don't even have much of a "support system" of neighbors and relatives helping, in part because shortly after we moved, in 2003, this all descended. You just do the right thing, and you do it because your cancer-afflicted spouse and your kid need you to act strong, and calm, and reassuring. And somehow you're able to pull it off, and still laugh once in awhile.

Sent by Teri | 6:32 AM ET | 09-13-2007

At some point in our journey thru c-world, we have allbeen told how brave and strong we are. We have heard about how great our attitudes are....I always smile and thank the person for the compliment...but secretly I think...what is the alternative? What choice do I have...crying in the corner is not an option.

Sent by Liz Z | 9:29 AM ET | 09-13-2007

This comment is for Joan F who wrote about bringing her adult son to the doctor to help cushion the blow of what was going to bad news. Even when faced with bad news for herself Joan wanted to protect her son from the pain. I am the adult daughter who sat with my mom several times to help cushion the blow and watched every time the concern in her eyes for ME. I felt terrible for her and she felt terrible for me. It just sucked all around. She is gone now and even to the end she was concerned about the pain that her illness brought me. As a mother, myself I can understand. She was the epitome of selflessness and everyday I try to emulate her.
Joan, your comments reminded me so much of my mother. Peace to you and your family.

Sent by JoAnn from St. Paul | 9:54 AM ET | 09-13-2007

amen

Sent by Lori Monroe | 10:06 AM ET | 09-13-2007

Briana-

I would love to talk with you. My e-mail is Apes0621@hotmail.com.

Hang in there

Sent by April | 2:39 PM ET | 09-13-2007

When I told my father about my diagnosis, his first words were, "How can you do this to me?" I was shocked and hurt. When he came to visit in the middle of my chemo, he cried in my arms when he told me that the tumor on his pancreas was benign. For the last 5 years I have been repulsed and disgusted by his response to my illness. Today I wal able to think about his fear, rather than his heartlessness. Thank you.

Sent by Judith | 3:31 PM ET | 09-13-2007

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.
Lao-tzu

Sent by Pete Daggett | 4:18 PM ET | 09-13-2007

Your are inspirational. My 48 year old husband is battling colorectal cancer and has been for over 4 years...15 surgeries and 6 rounds of intensive chemo and still working every day...I have slept in the hospital and never missed a chemo. I have not shown him your blog because as you know you think about cancer all the time, so in between it is nice to get a moment when you are not. You insight helps me help him. I am always perky-positive and pick him up whenever he falls down. Thanks for the courage!

Sent by MM | 8:01 AM ET | 09-14-2007

Oh Sasha, it sounds like I offended you with my comment, which was the last thing I intended! I meant only that I admire the caretakers for their generous - and honest - spirit in wanting to take on all the pain (and everything else) of the cancer of their loved ones, because I don't think I have it in me anymore to make such a caring statement. Sometimes I think that one of the effects cancer has had on me is to make me cranky and selfish -and I do apologize if I gave the impression that I had anything less than respect for your willingness to switch places with your husband.

Sent by Gretchen Hoag | 10:45 AM ET | 09-14-2007

Leroy,
My courage comes from the support of my family and friends. Cancer took me right to the edge. If it wasn't for the love of family and friends and even strangers that read my blog and emailed me love, I'm not sure I'd still be here. I truly thought I couldn't go on.

I've always been a strong person, a person that doesn't take no for an answer. If you tell me it can't be done, I will find a way. So, cancer should have been easier, but I was wrong. Last year I lost 1/2 my tongue to cancer. I owned restaurants for 20, CEO of my own company. Food is such and integral part of life, yet I'm still unable to chew. Speaking, eating, drinking, everything social has been affected. I'm perceived differently, treated more like a child by strangers. Courage I don't think I have. Persistence is more what I would equate to my survival.

I sometimes get emails from strangers that read my blog thanking me for making them feel better. Here I am pouring my heart out about surgery, chemo, and radiation... and they feel better? People tell me I'm inspirational. I can't really figure out why. Maybe because as you said, many people are never tested. It just shows me that even through all this there is something positive coming out of it for someone. So I embrace that since it's now part of my new life. Is that courage???

Brian
http://beyondtheglassdoor.blogspot.com/

Sent by Brian Walin | 5:12 PM ET | 04-23-2008