I don't think about that a lot. I don't let myself. I spend more time thinking about living with cancer, having the best life I can under the circumstances. And don't get me wrong, I'm a realist. I'm honest with myself. I know what's happening to me, and what's likely to happen in the future.

But I still want to get better.

A tiny part of me still holds on to the very thin hope that somehow I can overcome this. I'm not looking for a cure. I know better than that. But I'd love to just have a normal life.

My old normal, not cancer normal. Just for a little while.

Am I kidding myself? Probably.

The chances of the cancer going away, for any length of time, are pretty much zero. But that doesn't mean I have to give up all my hope. You never know what might happen.

Actually, cancer patients pretty much do know what will happen. When we're given that first prognosis, we learn to ignore it. And the next one, too.

But the overall theme is pretty clear. The end result isn't really in doubt.

Still, I'm holding onto that hope.

Maybe this is just my way of being stubborn.

It will be a busy day. I have to admit that I have gotten used to time off from all that. It's been a while since anyone had to stab me with a needle.

Now, there are a couple of things that I'm not going to do. I'm not having another spinal tap any time soon. The risks just seem to outweigh the benefits. An MRI on my spine would be a waste of time, given all the metal that's there now. They wouldn't be able to see anything.

But let's say we do see something troubling. Then what? I don't have a lot of options.

We've pretty much used up radiation. Chemo really isn't an option for me. I joke with my doctors that I've already had just about every procedure there is, but that's not too far from the truth.

So I'm left with that troubling question. If we find something, and I think the chances are good that we will, then what? I hope my doctors may have some new ideas, cause I sure don't.

I've never had a problem eating my fill. I even came to sorta like the MRE's we ate in the desert in Iraq. The jalapeno cheese spread was a personal favorite. I've been put on steroids twice as part of my cancer treatment, and both times I ate everything in sight.

The only time I ever seriously dieted was when I was wrestling in high school. In order to make my weight class, I ate one meal a week. Literally. Thursday dinner. One night my parents found me sleepwalking in the kitchen, pulling cans out of the cupboards. After that I was terrified that I would eat but not know it.

I've always been a big eater. I'm a two double-double cheeseburger guy at In-N-Out. For those of you who don't know, that's the best burger around. So I was a little surprised the other day when a friend came to visit and he said he thought I still looked skinny.

Ordinarily, I'd take that as a compliment, but my doctors are concerned that I'm really not eating enough. The cancer can do that, take away your appetite. So what should I do? I've started to drink milkshakes and I try to eat a few more bites even when I'm full.

This really is something I need to take seriously, so, yes, I will have fries with that.

For a few brief moments every day, I think that I do forget. A good movie, a good book or meal -- those can make me forget. But it always comes back. The pain or discomfort is a nasty reminder that all is not well inside my body. That rarely goes away.

This doesn't mean the cancer has won. It hasn't, at least not yet. I remember that I have cancer in the same way I remember that I had back surgery not too long ago. But that's not all I remember. I remember that I am 52 and have lived a full life. I remember that I am still shocked that I am 52.

I remember the people who are walking this road with me. I remember the things they have taught me. I try to remember to still laugh at things, because the world is still a pretty funny place.

To get back to Katy's question, except for a few moments each day, I never really forget that I have cancer. It's part of my life now, part of who I am.

I can live with that. I have learned so much, been given so much. To forget that I have cancer would be to forget part of who I am.

Most likely we'll do what we always do when there's no obvious course of action. We take more scans. Of course, in my case, after all the surgeries and the radiation, new scans won't show much. My body may keep some of its secrets.

I've been pretty aggressive through all this, attacking the cancer whenever and wherever we can. It seems strange to think that we may slow down a little, that we may have to slow down until it becomes clear what is happening. I guess that means letting the cancer make the next move.

I'm not wild about that. I like keeping the disease off balance. I like to make those tumors worry about what's coming next.

But let's be serious. We talk a lot about living with cancer. I think that's the stage I'm going into right now. I'm going to have to live with my cancer. That may be a little nerve wracking, wondering what the cancer is doing, wondering what each random pain might mean. Waiting for new symptoms to appear.

But until that happens, until we see a new target, I guess that will be the plan. I'm going to have to learn to be patient.

I have asked many of them how they do it, and they all have different answers. But I still don't understand.

Over the last couple of years that I've been treated, I've become close friends with some of my doctors and nurses. We get together socially sometimes. We don't talk about cancer too much, but it's inevitable that it will come up. I wonder if, on those occasions, they ever forget that I am a stage 4 cancer patient, and that most likely the cancer will kill me.

At the same time, I wonder if any of my other friends ever forget it. Probably not. Still, it must be incredibly difficult for them emotionally. All I can say is, Thank God they are able to do it. Because if they couldn't, we wouldn't be able to fight this by ourselves.

I hope everyone in cancer world has a good weekend. We all deserve it.

A number of you talked about the difference between depression and sadness. I think I would add fatigue to that mix as well. I think it's not so much that I'm depressed, it's that I'm worn down.

Being a cancer patient is hard work. And you're on the job 24/7. There are no breaks. You don't get weekends or holidays off. If you don't feel it physically, you live with it mentally. It can be unrelenting. I think that's what I've been feeling.

Boxers get that break between rounds. Football players can catch their breath in the huddle. Sometimes those few seconds can make all the difference in the world, can mean the difference between victory and defeat. I just need a time-out.

Except there are no time-outs in this game. Somewhere deep down in yourself, you have to try to find the strength to just keep going. Sometimes I find it, sometimes I don't. And if you don't find it one day, maybe it will be there the next. But it's hard. Probably the hardest thing I have ever had to do.

I don't really know how to break out of it. I'm not anxious to take any new medication. What would make me feel better would be feeling better. If just one of the side effects went away, even for a short time, that would help tremendously.

In the meantime, I think all I can do is keep fighting. But I'm open to suggestions. What do you all do when depression raises its head? How do you all fight it?

Sort of forgotten in all the craziness of the last few months are my lungs. Last time we looked, there were new small nodules that are most likely cancer. They were too tiny to do anything about. They were too tiny even to worry about. But that was a while ago. Have they gotten bigger? Have they multiplied? We'll have to take a look pretty soon.

I guess I've been living under the umbrella of "ignorance is bliss." I needed a break. So even though I know that the Beast is hiding somewhere inside me, I haven't had to confront it directly. That day will come soon enough.

But in the meantime, I'll try not to think about any new cancer. Who knows? If I ignore it, maybe it will just go away.

Well it's certainly back now. I've had it in my lower legs and feet since my last surgery. I guess the best way for me to describe the sensation is that it's like your feet are constantly falling asleep. It moves around too, from feet to ankle to calf. There's really not a lot you can do about it, other than grit your teeth and try to ignore it. That only works sometimes.

It may go away, or it may be permanent, we just don't know. The only way we'll find out, I guess, is if I wake up one day and it's gone. In the meantime, like I said, I just have to put up with it. It's not really painful, it's a different kind of sensation. It can make it a little difficult to walk. Did I say it was annoying? That's probably the best description.

For all of the high-tech miracles that make up modern medicine, there's still a lot left up to hope. We do what we can and hope for the best. So that's what I do each day. I hope that today's the day the tingling will stop.

My first response was that I didn't do it for me. I write about myself every day. My feelings, my pain, my thoughts, my cancer. Key word in that sentence is "my."

I wanted to break that up, if only for a day. I wanted to encourage all of you to talk about your feelings, your struggles, your pain, your cancer. Key word is "your." And you responded as you always do, with eloquence and wisdom and humility.

Your notes reminded me again of just how much knowledge we all have gained, although at a very high price. But now I think I know how to answer my therapist. What did I get out of it? I was reminded that no matter what happens, no matter how tough things may get, I am not alone. We are traveling this road together.

It's in those dark hours that you are truly left alone with your thoughts. There's no fooling around then, no kidding yourself. That's the time for honesty. I don't spend that time feeling sorry for myself. I'm way past that. I don't ask, "Why me?" That's been asked and answered. No, I listen to the house, the noises it makes. I listen to the world outside, wind or rain or calm. And I wonder what's going to happen.

I know what my doctors say. I know what they expect to happen. I know what could happen, the best and worst case scenarios. But as I try to look ahead into my future, I can't really see anything that will give me a clue. It's like the old eight balls always seemed to say: Answer hazy, ask again later.

Maybe that's why I'm sleeping better. I don't know what exactly I should be worrying about, so I might as well sleep. The future will reveal itself when it's time. I guess I can wait.

The things that changed for the worse are obvious. Did it change anything for the better? I think that it made me wiser. Taught me something that I needed to know.

I write every day about my cancer. About my life with the Beast. You all, in your comments, tell me about your cancer and how it has changed your lives. But I want to learn more. Have I missed something? A lesson that the disease was trying to pass on? Is there more that I need to know about how to live with this disease?

So I have a favor to ask of all of you. To finish one sentence. And I hope, by sharing our answers, we'll all learn from each other. So here goes:

My cancer...

Didn't that happen on the old Star Trek a lot? Aliens would need new bodies so they'd take or borrow the bodies of Capt. Kirk and his pals? Now, my body has been through a lot, and it's actually held up surprisingly well. But wouldn't it be great to start with a brand new one?

A new body wouldn't have as many metal parts as my current one does. A good part of my spine is metal, not to mention the metal plate in my skull from the brain surgery. The doctors totally rearranged the muscles in my back when they did the spinal surgeries. A new body would follow the original design.

Maybe most important, a new body would let me start all over with new therapies. I wouldn't have crossed the radiation tolerance level already. No scar tissue in my lungs from Radio Frequency Ablation. No glue injected into my vertebrae.

And a new body wouldn't suffer from all the aches and pains, big and small, that I have now. Of course, while I'm at it, my new body would have six-pack abs and a full head of hair.

Oh well, it's fun to think about. But this body is the one I have. It's gotten me this far. I don't think it would be right to change now.