Holiday.

Happy Fourth of July. I'll be back Monday.

-- Leroy Sievers

7:00 AM ET | 07- 4-2008 | permalink | comments (0) | e-mail post

Normal Days

Another day in Cancer World. Actually, a pretty normal day.

A friend came over to visit. She brought cookies.

Another friend came over the day before. She brought cupcakes.

Clearly, my policy of "bring nothing" has failed miserably. I haven't
weighed myself recently, but I have to believe I have gained back some of the weight I lost. My doctors should be happy.

It's easy to think that there should be some kind of crisis every day in Cancer World. But that's not the case. Many days nothing much happens, at least nothing much related to the disease.

Today's been one of those days.

So I'm just going to end here, and enjoy a little quiet time.

-- Leroy Sievers

7:00 AM ET | 07- 3-2008 | permalink | comments (47) | e-mail post

Just Say Anything

I was on Minnesota Public Radio yesterday, a phone-in show about cancer. The listeners always come up with good questions. Questions that make me think. Yesterday was no exception.

One person asked what more she could say to her friend who has cancer without being insulting. I think she, like so many people, was afraid of saying something that might seem insensitive.

That has come up a lot. But I really think it's the last thing a friend or caregiver needs to worry about.

Cancer patients know how difficult it is to talk about our disease. It's hard for us. I have broken down into tears any number of times recently.

But what's more important, more important than the words you might say, is the effort to simply say anything. And if that "anything" isn't about cancer, that's even better.

The best conversations I have these days are about something, anything else. Politics, sports, books, whatever.

If cancer is not in the room for even an hour or two, that's a gift.

And as time goes on, as the cancer becomes more serious, those hours without cancer become ever more precious.

They become something to treasure.

-- Leroy Sievers

7:00 AM ET | 07- 2-2008 | permalink | comments (78) | e-mail post

Thoughts on Peace

Dr. Christian Meyer is my oncologist. He has been with me every step of the way on this journey.

Good days, bad days, we've shared them all.

But most importantly, I consider him my friend. When he had to give me the bad news recently about what my new scans showed, I asked him what he was thinking and whether he would share his thoughts with all of you.

Here's his answer:

PEACE?

Cancer. Worry. Hope. Anxiety. Cure? Weakness. Fear. Laughter. Sobs. Hugs. Anger. Healing? Naps. Sadness. Strength. Death? Insomnia. NED. Depression. Loneliness. Friends. Chocolate. Pain. Smiles. Tears. Life? Silence.

Some weeks ago, I asked, "What's peace, Leroy?"

"A moving target," he replied.

Peace is a word I use in many conversations I have with the people I care for. I'm looking for something concrete or constant I can offer them in the midst of all the uncertainty that swirls within this world of cancer.

Beyond the treatments and the trials and the waits and the wonderings, peace appears to be something positive that can ease the heightened emotions that accompany visits or therapies or scans.

I used to think I had some idea of what it meant. Maybe some kind of eureka moment in which "peace" could wash away the concerns that erode the confidence you need to maintain some semblance of control. If you achieved peace, worry would vanish and be replaced by contentment in everything related to the world of cancer.

That was pretty naive.

Sometimes I wonder how much I'm treating myself in my attempts to discuss "peace." Does it help me brace myself for the onslaught of emotions that accompany the lives and journeys of my patients and their families? And I wonder if it's truly fair to offer something so difficult to achieve in the middle of everything else that accompanies this diagnosis.

Part of the ritual I learned growing up in the Catholic faith is the "Sign of Peace." Toward the end of Mass, we'd offer a handshake or embrace to one another and say, "Peace be with you." It strikes me now that we did this weekly as if we were reinforcing the elusiveness of the answer to the question:

What is Peace?

-- Leroy Sievers

7:00 AM ET | 07- 1-2008 | permalink | comments (78) | e-mail post

'Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride'

So we're off into the uncharted territory of a third year of the My Cancer blog.

Once we cross over into Cancer World, we all become strangers in a strange land. What to expect, what to hope for, what to fear -- none of those are clear right now.

I have a confession to make.

I think sometimes that I am more positive in the blog, in writing to all of you, than I feel for myself. Maybe I'm just trying to convince myself that things are better than I think.

Over the last two years, we've clearly learned that it is possible to live with cancer. I've learned that I am stronger than I ever thought, physically and emotionally. There are times when I get frustrated or angry, but I know now that those times will pass.

So where will this road take us now? Where will my road take me?

It's too simple to say we'll just have to wait and see. But there is still mystery here. Early on in the blog, I used a quote from Hunter Thompson: "You buy the ticket, you take the ride."

That somehow seems like a good place to start year three.

The ride has lasted longer than I expected, but I have my ticket. I'm committed to ride.

-- Leroy Sievers

8:06 AM ET | 06-30-2008 | permalink | comments (83) | e-mail post

We're A Community ... A Family

I hope that you've had a chance to look at the photo gallery on the blog site. Beth Novey put that together, and I think it's a truly amazing piece of work.

It's not so much the words, although as usual, you all wrote truly moving and profound messages.

No, I'm talking about the pictures. It's great to finally be able to put faces to some of the names that have become so familiar. Others are new, but strangers no more.

There are lots of smiles, more than I might have expected. But more than anything else, when I look at all the pictures together, I realize that we are a community, a family.

And I am reminded again that my membership in this club, something I never would have wanted, is what has kept me alive.

-- Leroy Sievers

7:00 AM ET | 06-27-2008 | permalink | comments (79) | e-mail post

'My Cancer...'

Hi all,

I'm Beth -- I help produce Leroy's blog here at NPR.org.

Several weeks ago Leroy asked you to finish the sentence: "My cancer..." Hundreds of comments poured in. We were so impressed with the response we decided to make a sampling of your comments into a photo gallery:

 

We are so sorry that we couldn't include more of your thoughtful, sad, and witty responses in this gallery. You can read all 350+ "My Cancer..." comments here.

It's been a wonderful treat these last few weeks to finally be able to SEE you! Thank you so much for your poignant comments, your beautiful photos, and your undying support for Leroy and each other.

-- Beth Novey

7:11 AM ET | 06-26-2008 | permalink | comments (88) | e-mail post

My Cancer, 2 Years Later

Two years ago, it seemed like a pretty simple idea. Write something each day about cancer. So we started the My Cancer blog. I don't think any of us really knew what to expect.

After all, I wasn't even supposed to be around to work on it. Six months earlier, doctors had found a brain tumor. A doctor looked me in the eye and said three months, maybe six.

Well, two years later, I'm still here. That first tumor is gone. But it's been replaced by others.

And the blog has taken on a life of its own. It has become a place of refuge, a rest stop on the long, difficult road that is cancer.

We have made friends and lost friends on the blog. We have learned things from each other, things we never thought we'd need to know.

With My Cancer turning two years old, I had expected to write a commentary that would be a celebration. But life in cancer world doesn't always go the way we expect.

The cancer attacked my spine. Just like those old advertisements, I fell but couldn't get up.

That meant surgery, another surgery, an infection that almost killed me, and one more surgery after that.

We finally thought the battle over my spine was winding down. It was time for routine scans. Time to see what had happened while we were fixated on my spine.

For some reason, I felt optimistic.

I was wrong.

My last scans showed that my cancer has exploded. New tumors in my brain, liver, lungs, bones. Well, you get the idea.

So I've been going through the process of, quote, getting my affairs in order. Doing all the paperwork, all the legal things you need to do.

No one really knows what the next step will be ... how my disease will play out. But we know it's serious.

I had radiation on my brain and my pelvis for pain relief. That's about all I can do. From here on, we're gong to be worried about comfort, about relieving the worst side effects.

So this anniversary has been pretty stressful. But if I've learned anything over the last two years, it's that life with cancer is tough.

I've learned something far more important, too. No matter what happens, we're all in this together.

None of us walk this road alone.

-- Leroy Sievers

7:00 AM ET | 06-26-2008 | permalink | comments (126) | e-mail post

Losing Control Yet Not Giving Up

How will this go? How do things play out from here? What happens next?

I don't have the answers to any of those questions right now. I'm sure the answers will become apparent at some point, but we're not there yet.

I do see changes in my body. I'm not as strong as I was a few weeks ago, or a few weeks before that. I need more help doing some things.

Getting out of a certain chair, for instance. I used to get in and out of it without really thinking. Well, those days are over. I need to plan ahead if I can, make sure there's someone else around to help lift me up onto my feet.

It's just another little loss of control. A loss of freedom that the cancer has caused. And I hate it.

It scares me, too. How far will it go? How much of my strength will the cancer steal? Will I end up bed-ridden?

And always, in the back of my mind is the fear of falling again. I don't think I'll ever forget what that was like. Falling and not being able to get back up. Even though it happened months ago, the memory is still fresh.

On the other hand, I have to keep going. I have to move around, go from chair to chair. I'm not bed-ridden now, and I can't let myself give up.

So as it gets harder and harder to do the same things, I think all I can do is work a little harder to do them.

And make the cancer work harder to try and stop me.

-- Leroy Sievers

7:00 AM ET | 06-25-2008 | permalink | comments (96) | e-mail post

How Will People Remember You?

I had started to write about a whole different subject this afternoon. Quite honestly, I was struggling with finding a topic.

But a friend of mine came by to drop something off. We started talking, and somehow came back to a subject that we've talked about here before.

It's a question, actually. And I think it's one that is worth asking periodically. Or at least thinking about every now and then. So I put it to all of you:

How do you want to be remembered? What mark do you hope to leave on the world?

-- Leroy Sievers

7:00 AM ET | 06-24-2008 | permalink | comments (198) | e-mail post