The Families This Journey Created

This cancer journey created "mini-families" for Leroy and me. We have all of you, who came to us by way of the "My Cancer" blog. Our real families, who provide great support. Our long-time friends, who have woven a safety net under me for my eventual "soft landing."

And, as you've read this past week, we were lucky to have our team at Johns Hopkins. I say that in the past tense, because I'm afraid that now I will lose that family, because I've lost Leroy.

Reading their messages brought back the days of struggle, the serious discussions, the laughs, and the times when talking about basketball pools and eating nachos filled out the days.

These professional people, at the top of their game in medicine, became friends. Real friends. A special family. Along the way, they gave Leroy life. More life than he was ever expected to get.

When a person has friends like that, what more can you ask for?

I think you just say THANK YOU.

-- Laurie

7:00 AM ET | 08-29-2008 | permalink

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Another Wizard

Christos Georgiades holds many distinguished titles at Johns Hopkins. I remember after meeting him for the first time, I looked at Leroy and said, "Another wizard."

That word is not on his business card, but it could be. Dr. Georgiades introduced us to the world of RFA and Cryoablation. As an intervention radiologist, he came from a different place in the treatment world, and Leroy welcomed his ideas.

As it turned out, the two men connected on many levels.

I met Leroy and Laurie in early 2006. They visited me at Johns Hopkins in search of treatment options for what was termed an untreatable disease: Leroy's already metastatic colon cancer. I did not pay much attention to it, but I did notice that the interaction between Leroy and Laurie was that of a couple who had just met, even though they had been together for some time. They treated each other with friendly care, talked to each other with honest concern, and listened to each other -- really listened.

Being forced to confront one's mortality brings into focus what is really important ... friends, family, honesty. I never told Leroy this, but I have not read his blog. Even as I write this knowing it will be posted on his blog, I probably will not read it. I can't articulate why. Perhaps I feel I failed him, perhaps I want to remember him based on my interactions with him, and perhaps I am afraid of what I will read on his blog ... or perhaps all of these.

People keep telling me that those who treated Leroy gave him a lot of extra time -- good, quality time with his friends and family. Of course I know this is true. In 2006 his prognosis would not have had him see 2007; in 2007 he was told he would not see 2008.

Yet now that Leroy has passed, the knowledge that "I helped him" provides no comfort. If I say it out loud, it even sounds pretentious.

Everyone has a different philosophy about cancer and death. Those who are still healthy, delusional in their temporary immortality, can formulate this philosophy as an academic exercise. The Leroy I knew did not have that luxury, but he saw his incurable cancer as a juncture in his life, not a consuming feature.

And because of that, what defined Leroy was not his cancer, but the way he fought the battle against it. He used it as a springboard to fill a void in countless others who shared his burden, and by doing so he ignited a chain reaction of selfless service and open discussion.

Every interaction with Leroy was a learning experience ... for both of us, I think. Leroy taught me that the effect cancer has on a patient's life depends on the patient himself and his support network. Even when the outcome is predetermined, what matters is the trip, and not the destination.

What Leroy learned from me was much more mundane. A new way to stave off his cancer, some new technology, a new procedure. We even joked once, when I gave him my business card with a few holes punched in and told him, "The tenth procedure is free."

Good times or bad, Leroy never thought of himself first. "These new procedures -- how come they are not available to all? There are thousands who can benefit from this."

I can't remember how many cancer patients, reading Leroy's blog, found out about this, called, and received treatment they would likely not have had otherwise. "I have cancer and I saw Leroy on the Discovery channel ..." is how the conversation usually started.

I wonder if, before he passed, Leroy realized the impact he had on the lives of so many others. Leroy will surely be missed; but his spirit will survive in the memory of those whose burden was lightened by his courage.

-- Laurie

8:47 AM ET | 08-28-2008 | permalink

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Leroy's War

Every question Leroy asked was important. When he sat with his doctors and discussed treatment, rarely did he accept their suggestions at face value. He had questions, and ultimately he'd say, "What else have you got?"

For some doctors, this didn't sit well. But as you'll see in today's blog from Hopkins radiologist Dr. Joe Herman, Leroy's questions will provide better answers for future patients.

Leroy was a very successful war correspondent. He would leave his family and friends for long periods of time and travel great distances to cover wars throughout the globe. Often he would risk his own life to bring the reality of war and hardship to those at home in the U.S. and abroad. While other reporters would stay on the fringes where it was "safe", Leroy would travel into the war zone where even armed soldiers would fear for their lives... He was determined to tell the real story about war.

In 2001, he was diagnosed with early stage rectal cancer. He underwent surgery to remove the tumor, and he went back to work. Then, in 2005, he developed blurry vision. CT scans showed that his cancer had come back and had now spread to his brain and lungs. He had surgery to remove the tumor in his brain, and was sent to me in January of 2006 for whole brain radiation therapy.

I distinctly remember meeting Leroy. He was a cancer patient, but he was still a journalist. Only this time, he was reporting from the trenches of his own war ... his war on cancer. Although I did not know it at the time, I now realize that we (the doctors, nurses, and other health care personnel) who cared for him may have been similar to the soldiers and civilians he would interview in the war zone.

I explained that he needed whole brain radiation. Why? he asked. While most patients would take my explanation at face value and accept the radiation, he persisted. What are the side effects? What happens if new lesions appear? Can I get more radiation in the future? What are my other options? His inquisitive journalistic nature persisted.

Only this time, it was Leroy's war, and he wanted to make sure he would be able to continue reporting as long as possible. He was concerned that whole brain radiation might decrease his memory and cognition. We discussed the potential risks and benefits of whole brain radiation, and after we addressed his questions, we decided to delay the treatment and start chemotherapy.

This experience and many more over the years have taught me the importance of educating patients and listening (very carefully) before making final treatment decisions.

Over the next few years, Leroy received chemotherapy and radiation therapy to many body sites from another physician in our department. I saw him in passing one day when he was waiting for his radiation, and said hello. Soon after, I was flipping through the channels and saw his Ted Koppel special on TV. Leroy was again reporting about his war. He was presenting the bitter truths about the war, his war, on cancer. His comments about his struggles were poignant and, to some, maybe controversial, but they were honest.

Dr. Meyer (his medical oncologist) asked me to see Leroy again for some palliative radiation to his spine. By this time, his disease had progressed. He was clearly losing the war. Like a strong soldier, he had suffered through many hardships, including chemotherapy, radiation, and radiofrequency ablation of lung nodules. He had had brain and spine surgery. He was often in pain and required medicine that caused confusion and constipation.

Despite this, in his trenches for the final time, he reported on his war. Thousands logged on to his blog daily to hear about his war on cancer, and were amazed by his perseverance and determination to survive despite his suffering. He fought cancer with the same pride as the soldiers he had reported on over the years. He was determined to win, despite the cost and suffering that it might cause him. He was an inspiration to others fighting the war on cancer, including me.

Leroy and his wife Laurie invited me over to their home for dinner about two months ago. I have to admit, I don't usually have dinner at my patients' homes. I am not sure why I don't, but for some reason, the doctor/patient relationship often doesn't leave the hospital.

I had grown quite close to Leroy and Laurie, like many of my patients, and was very intrigued by both of their life experiences. He was a war correspondent, and Laurie was a sports reporter in an era when women were not very welcome in the clubhouse. Both of them survived very hostile environments.

As I ate nachos (great salsa) and sipped wine, I listened to their stories and memories from over the years. I was so impressed by their relationship. How strong their bond remained, despite being away from each other for long periods of time. Laurie explained that sometimes the only way she knew he was still alive was if she saw him on television on the evening news. Leroy shared stories about risking his life in Iraq and the death and suffering he saw in Rwanda.

It was then that I realized we shared a common bond. We both met people daily where the space between life and death may be very short. Leroy met soldiers and civilians in war zones where they knew that life might be cut short by an attack. As an oncologist, I meet patients daily who have terminal cancer, and whose deaths may be imminent.

Knowing that the people in front of you may not have long to live changes you. It makes you appreciate every minute you have on this earth, and inspires you to make a difference. Although Leroy was losing the war on cancer, he was still determined to make a difference by sharing his story.

Leroy also shared with me how we (the doctors at Johns Hopkins) had succeeded, and how we had failed. While he was very happy overall with the care we provided, he specifically stressed, "It's very important to listen to the patient and explain what to expect with each treatment. For example, the radiation table is very hard and the room is very cold. It seems like a basic thing, but to us patients it is a big deal."

Lance Armstrong often says that you can beat cancer if you fight hard enough. Unfortunately, for some patients, no matter how hard they fight, the cancer is destined to win the war. This was the case for Leroy.

Although he has left us, he has left a legacy. His final report on war -- his war -- is one that has touched all of us. I know I am a better doctor for knowing him, and will continue fighting this war for him.

-- Laurie

7:00 AM ET | 08-27-2008 | permalink

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The People Who Make It Worth It

I've worn a "Cancer Sucks" bracelet since Leroy was diagnosed and made his first trip to Hopkins. I've always thought those two words said it all.

I also think a bracelet that says "Chemo Sucks" would work, too. The only thing that made it OK to visit the Hopkins chemo treatment room was that Leroy and I would see Pierse Byrnes. She was Leroy's chemo nurse.

But that job description doesn't do her justice. She was so much more than that. Pierse would take the cancer out of the room for Leroy, and when you're in for chemo, that says a lot.

Secretly, I don't think she'll ever forgive him for winning that basketball pool ... read on, you'll understand what I'm talking about.

Every year, purely for entertainment purposes, of course, our clinic organizes a pool for the March Madness Men's Basketball tournament. Participants run the gamut from nurses, doctors, social workers, technicians, and an occasional patient.

Two years ago, after finding my own tournament entry form peaking out from behind a copy of his labwork, Leroy decided that he would like to participate. Which is funny, because Leroy, as far as I knew, really didn't like sports. Our discussions of sports (and Laurie and I had many) typically involved Leroy laughing at my fondness for certain Ravens and Orioles players.

I spent considerable time researching before completing my 3 brackets; Leroy completed his in 3 seconds. Naturally, Leroy won the entire pool that year. Naturally, I placed about 85th out of 110. Not bitter at all, I handed him his winnings in coins.

I tell this story, not to bring to light illegal gambling at Hopkins, but to bring to light my relationship with Leroy. As Laurie said a few days ago, throughout his treatment, we had some really good times.

People often ask me, how do I do my job? And my response is, I LOVE my job.
I love meeting and getting to know my patients. People such as Leroy make me want to come to work every day.

The inevitable question that often follows is whether I own stock in Kleenex. Not quite. (Although, ask anyone in my family and they will tell you, I am the family Crier.) My tears are often not for the patient so much as they are for the Lauries, the Kays, the Lizs, Mindys, Dan Jr.s, and the young Alexandras of this world - the family members left behind who have lost their best friend, their rock.

You see, I believe that Leroy is in a better place. He has joined my army of guardian angels and is currently laughing at my new-found interest in Olympic swimming, and puzzling over my yearly obsession with fantasy football.

And Laurie is here, understanding said obsession, but so sad that her best friend is not here for her to attempt (once again) to explain it.

-- Laurie

8:42 AM ET | 08-26-2008 | permalink

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'The Wizards Of Hopkins'

Leroy spoke many times about how lucky he was to have the best medical care
as he made his decisions fighting this beast.

So we thought it was time to hear from the men and women I call the "wizards of Hopkins." The talented doctors and oncology nurse who not only cared for him, but really "cared" for him.

Today's blog comes from Leroy's oncologist, Dr. Christian Meyer.

"Why did you get into the news business, Leroy?"

"Because I knew I could change things."

We were watching the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. In a pause during his running commentary on the fashion choices of many countries, I asked him a question I had always wondered about.

Thirty-two months prior to that night, I had met him in an exam room where he told me a story most people hope they never have to share. He had had a brush with cancer 4.5 years prior to the meeting. Cancer was discovered on a colonoscopy and surgically excised, and then Leroy moved on back to his life. Never gave it much thought after that instance. He had had early stage disease, and surgery was curative in almost all people. Unfortunately, he didn't fit into that category.

During that first meeting and through many others, there were many questions with few real answers. There was always a plan reached through careful discussion, but no real answers ... just more questions. With Leroy, it wasn't the questions or the lack of answers, but the honest discussion that was important.

Along the way, he decided to do what he always did ... tell stories. And in the process, I believe, changed many things. He and Laurie gave a voice to a disease that can be shrouded in the mystery and fear that are perpetuated by silence. They shared their journey, their battles, their humor, and their anger. They shared the reality of living with cancer.

He is finally at peace, but I hope his spirit never rests. The world is a much better place with Leroy Sievers in it. Many people came to know him, respect him, love him, and most importantly, learn from him. In the aftermath of his life, his lessons remain in those of us who knew him. If we continue to propagate them, he remains alive in this world.

Mary E. Martin, in a poem entitled "Loss" wrote: "It's hard to make room for what is no longer there."

I don't think I'll ever be ready to make room for the absence of Leroy. I hope the dialogue he engaged us all in continues from chat rooms to living rooms to exam rooms.

Keep finding your voices; keep telling your stories; I know he'd like to hear them.

-- Laurie

7:00 AM ET | 08-25-2008 | permalink

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The Leroy Of My Dreams

Today was picture day. I went through hundreds of old photos.

A long and winding road of snapshots that made up some of Leroy's life. Great times with friends. Birthdays he shared with my sister. Images of him hunkered down in the jungles of Central America or in the sand of Operation Desert Storm, dressed in camouflage and looking beat.

There was the shot of him at the door leaving for work. It wasn't just any old day. It was his first day back to ABC and" Nightline" following his colon cancer surgery. The first day of the rest of his life.

But the best pictures were from our Halloween parties. His costumes were legend.

Gumby. The six-foot five version. He spent the day in the garage cutting out the Styrofoam shape and painting it green.

There were the Linda Tripp and Janet Reno years. Those meant trips to Bloomingdales, to the "full-figured woman's department" to buy two 22 wide navy blue suits. Something "slimming."

I remember he really didn't want to wear the pearls, but I convinced him it completed the outfits and softened those size 13 sneakers he had on.

He worked for days on the Dolly the Sheep costume. We still have Dolly's mask.

The pictures from Maui are my favorites. He looks strong and tan and rested.

That's the Leroy of my dreams.

-- Laurie

7:00 AM ET | 08-22-2008 | permalink

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Stopped In My Tracks, It's A New World

I live and breathe sports. My television career started in the sports department. I've covered five different Olympics.

Leroy and I were hooked on watching the Beijing Games. In fact, his oncologist was over for the Opening Ceremonies and we had fish tacos and key lime pie and had a great time. Leroy's appetite was still good and he really enjoyed himself.

We watched a lot of the events day and night and then he died.

And it's all changed. I haven't even turned on the TV. In fact, most of the things I'd squeeze into the day while Leroy was alive, I haven't done. The desire just isn't there.

33 months and 7 days of cramming as much life into each day as possible and now I'm stopped in my tracks.

It's a whole new world.

--Laurie

7:00 AM ET | 08-21-2008 | permalink

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The Scars Of Cancer

I call them the scars of cancer. When you're in the fight, they serve a purpose. Bed pads, commodes, walkers, all the things that are supposed to make life a little easier for the cancer patient.

But when they are no longer needed, they are ugly scars, unwanted reminders of the battle you've fought and lost.

I look around the house now and can match up the equipment to the timeline of Leroy's struggle ... a painful calendar of objects.

I think tomorrow, it's time to clean house.

-- Laurie Singer

7:00 AM ET | 08-20-2008 | permalink

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Keep Lifting... Just A Little Longer

To you all....

Many months ago, when Leroy was spending time in the hospital, I had written in the blog how we should all count to three and LIFT. Leroy needed that help then, and who better to "lift" than all of you.

Now, it's my turn to ask that you count to three again and LIFT ... but this time, it's me who needs the support.

I've read your messages filled with so much compassion and love, and I can tell you they help so much. Could you keep "lifting" me just a little longer ... please?

-- Laurie Singer

7:00 AM ET | 08-19-2008 | permalink

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Memorial Fund

Hi All,

Laurie sent us this information regarding Leroy's memorial fund:

Leroy Sievers Memorial Fund
Johns Hopkins Kimmel Cancer Center
Patient and Family Services
100 N. Charles Street
Suite 234
Baltimore, Maryland 21201

12:52 PM ET | 08-18-2008 | permalink

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An Update

Laurie asked us to tell you how touched she was by the incredible comments and messages of sympathy this weekend, and how grateful she is. She was overwhelmed by them. She will write a post herself soon, but is not ready to do it yet.

-- Maeve McGoran

7:10 AM ET | 08-18-2008 | permalink

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Leroy

On the eve of the Iraq war in 2003, Leroy prepares to leave for his embed joined by Alex and Francie Bruckner.

photo credit: NPR

Dear friends:

I'm so sorry to bring you this news. Leroy passed away last night. It happened very quickly.

You will hear from Laurie later. In the meantime, please let me tell you something all of you already know, how much this blog and all your comments have meant to Leroy. He felt all the affection and good wishes and strength you sent him every day. He told us that of the many things he had accomplished, he was proudest of My Cancer. The connection he felt with all of you made such a difference in his life.

I feel so privileged to have had a chance to work with Leroy and call him a friend. All of us here do. We will miss him so much, just as you will.

If you'd like to, please leave your thoughts, remembrances, anything you want to write here. I know Laurie will read them. I know you will keep her and Leroy in your thoughts and prayers today.

--Maeve McGoran

7:59 AM ET | 08-16-2008 | permalink

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The Growl Of A Predator

Laurie Singer sent us this post. Leroy is planning to be back next week.

On any normal day, this would just be a really bad thunderstorm rumbling its way across the summer sky.

But it's not a normal day and the rumbling is more like the growl of a predator stalking its prey.

Leroy's cancer is making its move.

I guess we all knew this day would come. The day when his doctor would say the medicine needs to be stronger.

The day when I would need to be stronger still.

The thunderstorm has passed, but I can still hear the growl.

-- Laurie

7:00 AM ET | 08-15-2008 | permalink

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The Dog We Never Had

He is the dog we never had.

He's a Bernese Mountain dog. A big one. We always knew what his name was going to be ..."Spanky" ... no matter what.

The fact that he would be a toy didn't really bother us. We couldn't have a real one because we both traveled too much.

So here he is, sitting with me on the bed. My comrade in cancer.

A boy and his dog.

7:00 AM ET | 08-14-2008 | permalink

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The Hope Of The Games

We watch, we hope, we wait, along with everyone else, glued to the games in Beijing.

It's these games that give us hope, too. It's these little bits of normalcy that let us think that there's hope for all of us.

For a few minutes, here and there, we're not cancer patients. We're spectators, rooting for our athletes.

I almost forgot how much fun that can be.

7:15 AM ET | 08-13-2008 | permalink

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A Decision Made

Well, we finally made a decision.

We went back and forth for a while, but in the end, we signed up with Hospice.

This wasn't easy for either one of us.

For me, it means they manage what remains of my life.

For Laurie, it means allowing others to manage what remains of my life. Something she is very uncomfortable with.

We can always change our minds, but once this decision is made, that becomes harder.

Like it or not, we're in this together now.

7:00 AM ET | 08-12-2008 | permalink

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Another Change Brought On By Cancer

It pretty much fills the room. It took four of us, actually five of us, to get me into it.

It's my new bed.

The only really scary part was when I slipped and almost fell on the floor.

The bed's electric. It lets me do things I couldn't do before.

But let's be honest, too. It's a hospital bed. It was not an easy decision to bring it into the house.

But here I am, in it.

Cancer World brings another change.

7:00 AM ET | 08-11-2008 | permalink

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Looking For Answers And Rest

A day off. I don't remember the last time I took one. But it is hard for me to write about the cancer every day.

I know it's in there. I know it's eating away at me every day. But there are some days when I want it to just go away. Some days when I want it to just be quiet.

Wishful thinking, though.

I don't think that the cancer is ever quiet. It always seems to be probing or looking, trying to find a place it can cause trouble.

Laurie and I have been facing a difficult decision for the last couple of weeks.

Do we sign up for hospice, or not?

That's a big step and one that will change both our lives in fundamental ways.

We have some long and sleepless nights ahead of us.

7:00 AM ET | 08- 8-2008 | permalink

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The Sadness That Comes With Cancer

The cancer has changed Laurie.

She wants to talk about it in a way she never has before.

Where do all these tears come from? They just fall from my eyes, spilling over without warning.

Through this entire cancer struggle, I've never really had crying jags. I guess there wasn't time ... I was too focused on helping Leroy push back against this killer.

I tried so hard to keep him engaged in life that I never really gave in to the sadness that comes with living with cancer.

Oh, I've had my moments ... when the first doctors looked at us after the diagnosis and said, "Three to six months to live." The news so long ago that the cancer had jumped the chemo. And there have been other times, too.

But not like this.

It's like I've tapped into a well, deep down inside my heart, where it's breaking.

As Leroy's cancer progresses and changes him, it changes me too.

I have found tears I never knew I had.

--Laurie

7:00 AM ET | 08- 7-2008 | permalink

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With A Little Help From My Friends

When I stop and think about it, I'm a lucky guy. My friends have stood next to me whenever I have needed them.

We've been through good times and bad times, but this has been the toughest time. And they've been there, every second.

Like my friend, Sara Just:

I wish I could find a way to make him laugh.

To those of you who only know Leroy's wit from his writing in this blog, you are missing out on one of the best parts: the great big belly laugh. When we worked together for more than a decade, his laughter filled the newsroom often -- breaking up a somber discussion with gallows humor, or just losing it over something silly as sleep deprivation set in. Leroy appreciates a good laugh like no one else I know.

But how do you cheer somebody up who is facing what Leroy is facing? Pain. Limitation. There is little to laugh about here. Whether or not to bring in hospice care is not exactly a knee slapper.

I brought him a set of DVDs recently - a really funny TV series I thought he'd enjoy and knew he had not seen. Last I checked, they remained in their wrapping.

He has asked many times that his friends not dwell on the cancer, and instead distract him from it with anything we can. From the beginning he has said, "Act normal." So I try.

I cover the usual ground of our shared interests. But it often feels wrong or insensitive to talk about things he cannot participate in. The new movie he cannot go to the theater to see. The vacation I'm taking that he cannot -- there is no vacation for him now.

I find myself talking about the news, but I hesitate, thinking that these are the very stories that, if things were different, he would be covering. He should be covering. I try to tell him amusing anecdotes about my kids, who adore him, and my work, and our mutual friends. I want him to share the humor in these stories, to offer his advice and complain like he used to if I do not take it.

I offer him my friendship and I listen. And I talk and I try to distract him and I try to "act normal."

But I'd really like to make him laugh. It used to be easy.

--Sara Just

7:00 AM ET | 08- 6-2008 | permalink

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A Day Off

Leroy is taking the day off.

7:00 AM ET | 08- 5-2008 | permalink

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Riding The Bucking Cancer Bull

We keep track of time in a number of ways.

I was watching bull-riding this afternoon. Yes, I admit it, bull-riding.

You have to stay on the bull for 8 seconds. Not very easy. Most of the riders last half that time. And they pay a big price -- broken ribs, broken legs, arms, you name it.

Now, I've managed to stay on the bucking cancer bull for almost 33 months. Long beyond what anyone expected. Long beyond what I expected.

No broken bones, so far, but it hasn't been easy. In fact, it seems to get more difficult with each passing day.

So what does that mean for the future? Do I fight for another 8 seconds, or another day, or another month?

YIPPEE-YO-KI-YAA!!!!

7:00 AM ET | 08- 4-2008 | permalink

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One Last Secret Wave

There's one other thing I'm going to miss about getting rid of the Jeep.

The subtle, secret Jeep owner's wave.

Here's how it works. If you're driving your Jeep Wrangler, and you pass another Wrangler going the opposite way, you raise your fingers off the steering wheel in a subtle wave.

That's all. Just a way of acknowledging that we all have cars that we think are cool.

So from me to all of you, here's one last secret wave.

7:00 AM ET | 08- 1-2008 | permalink

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