But it is still a dark room. A place where cancer does its dirtiest work.
Hope is dangled from a thin thread there, only to be followed by despair and sadness.

Ultimately, silence fills the dark room. But Christian was right yesterday, when he said there are lessons of life to be learned there, too.

As an oncologist, his knowledge could bring only so much to that room. But as a friend, he lightened the load. When a doctor can do that for a patient, cancer never wins.

We got lucky. We got real lucky.

-- Laurie

WE were a team when we entertained. So now I rely on the guests to step up when I can't refill a glass or replenish an appetizer. It's not a big deal, just another piece of missing Leroy.

Christian Meyer, Leroy's oncologist, and his wife Tracy joined us. I'm not sure Christian realized it, but I asked him to sit in Leroy's seat that night.

Christian writes the blog today. His message explains why he is one of the few who would be offered that chair.

-- Laurie

"How are you doing, Laurie?"

"Boy ... this grieving thing. You never know when it's going to hit you."

Laurie invited me to a dinner a week or so ago at her house. House is a pretty weak description of the place where she lives. It is truly a home. There are tchotchkes covering every nook and cranny of that dwelling. There are signs, awards, miniatures, chimes ... just stuff from seemingly every corner of the planet. Attached to each one is a story of some event in their lives. You really feel the essence of Laurie and Leroy every time you walk into that home.

Oh, and the pictures ... you can't turn around without seeing both of them smiling back at you from somewhere in the world. Leroy's smile in those pictures is always warm -- seeking to simultaneously welcome and comfort, and always reassure that, whatever the problem, it will be all right.

It was the first time I'd been back there since I last saw Leroy. That was the opening night of the Olympic ceremonies and the parade of athletes. He was lying in a bed in a room at the end of the hall. The night began with his simple request, "Let's not talk about cancer". So we didn't. We ate some nachos, Laurie's amazing fish tacos and key lime pie. He provided some interesting commentary regarding past Olympics he'd been to as well as some nice sarcastic one-liners about the current state of world fashion trends. I am sorry to say Turkmenistan did not fare too well in Leroy's view, despite my ardent defense of the color green.

So on the night of this dinner, I found myself in the hall across from that room. That area of the house was dark and silent. Light and laughter that emanated from the kitchen and dining area where friends recounted memories and retold stories did not penetrate down the hall.

It would have been easy for me to walk through the door, flick on the light, and see the room. However, I did not even want to look at the room. The last night I was there, for all the joking and life emanating from Leroy, he was dying. After we had talked and laughed at the Olympics, we shook hands and I walked through that door and never saw him again.

I often wonder what becomes of us when we die. Do the memories fade into yellowed pictures that end up on a shelf somewhere? Or do we live on through what we have taught others? Leroy clearly lives on loud and strong in his friends. You could really feel him there that night.

For me, part of him always will be in that dark room down the hall. It's one of the many pieces of him I carry with me that helps me understand living with cancer.

I grieve for Leroy not being here to teach me more about how to bring light to those dark rooms, and the fact that he had to go into those dark rooms at all.

I miss my friend.

-- Christian Meyer

A mid-November day in La Jolla, California. The sky is a clear, crystal blue to match the sparkles bouncing off the Pacific. The tide is out so the beach is wide with sand and the shore break is down so it's easy to walk out and test the water temperature.

It's cool. Around 64. A clear signal that summer is over, but Mother Nature has gifted
us with a day hovering around the 80's. A last gasp of warmth that invites a beach lover to sit one more day and soak up the sun.

My sister, ever the optimist, says, "Five more months and we'll be back here ready for summer."

What a wonderful way to look to the future. If you're living in cancer world, five months could mean a lifetime.

If you're the life-giver, five months means steeling yourself for more hard work ahead.

Cancer changes the way we look at the calendar. We go by days. We take them one at a time. Maybe, for just a second, we could all close our eyes and imagine we're warmed by the sand between our toes and the sky has turned that summer blue again.

We're all five months down the road.

-- Laurie

Sunshine!

What we all need to lift our spirits and make us better is good old-fashioned sunshine.

If you're lucky enough to have an ocean nearby, throw in a beach walk to start the day.

Filling our lungs with clean, healthy air does wonders for facing our obstacles. It's a recipe for clearing the head, healing the wounds of loss, or bearing up under the pressures of living with cancer.

If we're on this blog, we need all the ammunition we can get against this killer. So the scientists should stay in their labs and work. But the rest of us have our marching orders.

Sunshine and smiles ... the orders for the day.

-- Laurie

Walking into the Magic Kingdom was like turning back the hands of time. We'd finish riding the Matterhorn and get right back in line to go again. The Autopia was a great excuse to play bumper cars. I don't know how I always ended up being the "bumpee." Leroy's big laugh following every crash into my car.

There was only one ride we didn't go on. "It's a Small World." Leroy got stuck on it once and after listening to the theme song over and over, he swore he'd never go back!

When we left the park that night, almost 24 years ago, we both realized it hadn't been just a great time together. It had been the beginning of our time together.

So there I was, at the gates of "the happiest place on earth," remembering the double scoop ice cream cones, the Monte Cristo sandwiches, the mouse ears, the laughs, the healthy, happy parts of two people who had so much fun together for so many years.

Thanks, Mickey, it was great to be back!

-- Laurie

I'll have a birthday over the weekend. My first one in many years without Leroy.

I remember the first time he remembered it. We were working at the CBS News bureau in Los Angeles. Leroy went on a photographic safari to Africa, his first trip to the continent. He was so excited. But he surprised me with beautiful red roses. He'd arranged for them to be delivered before going to Kenya. A sweet sign we were becoming a "we."

They say the first year after losing your heart-mate, the Holidays come with heaps of emptiness. Thanksgiving was always at our house, Leroy, always sitting at the head of the table. His place.

Even when cancer's bite brought pain, he would sit there for as long as he could stand it, moving to his soft leather chair to finally get relief.

November... a mine field.

December? It's a checker board full of trip wires, too.

Let's not go there, right now.

-- Laurie

Just imagine the scientist working in the lab, eyes glued to the microscope. Or maybe something happens in a Petri dish that explains it all and leads to vaccines and treatments that don't just buy time but buy life.

I remember once, Elizabeth Edwards said to Leroy, "Just hold on; we're so close to a breakthrough."

It wasn't to be for Leroy. I hope it happens for Elizabeth and millions of others. What I'd really like is for all the biologists and chemists to go into their labs this morning, lock the door and throw away the key.

It's time to kill some cancer.

-- Laurie

On the Today Show yesterday, there was a heartfelt story about a group of moms who meet at Arlington National Cemetery. They sit among the headstones of their children. With broken hearts, they try to support each other and heal.

We who have lost loved ones to a different enemy have broken hearts, too. I hope we can come here sometimes and find some help for those hearts.

Cancer takes away more than just a life. It takes with it love and hope and futures. And leaves a broken heart.

There's no question, it beats differently now.

-- Laurie

Look around -- there's our flag, dancing on a breeze at a veteran's headstone, or on porches across America, in a soft salute to those brave men and women.

This blog brings together different veterans. Still fighters. Soldiers of sorts. Waging a battle in a very personal war against cancer.

This may not be your day on the calendar, but I salute you, too. Today and every other day, because I know your battlefield, and how destructive your enemy can be.

All veterans of wars have something in common.

-- Laurie

Before cancer, we strive to be happy. Most of us live a fairly normal life. Not too many extremes. We have family and friends. Celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, and other special occasions. Make memories.

Those are "living" words.

Step into cancer world and it all changes. Patient, caregiver, or survivor ... it doesn't matter.

Happy? Not a word that gets much use. Normal? Forget it. Family and friends? The strain on both is undeniable. Celebrate? Sure, always wondering if it will be the last time. Memories? Make them while you can.

Before all you can do is just remember.

-- Laurie

Some one asked me that today and it stopped me in my tracks.

I guess I don't look at this grieving thing that way. Facing each day since Aug. 15th has presented new challenges. I've tried to adjust to my brave new world the best way I know how. I've bumped into walls and stumbled because I'm off my game. Life with out Leroy is empty. I miss his guidance, his presence, his laugh. I miss my pal. I find I remember the healthy Leroy more than the Leroy with cancer. I like that I can do that.

But when I think about strength, I don't think about me. I think of a man who had the guts to stare down a killer he knew would eventually take his life. But, yet, life was still worth living to it's fullest. And he did that until he just couldn't any more.

Where did that strength come from? Where does your strength come from? All of you, who face each day in cancer's shadow, where do you find the strength to stay in the game?

-- Laurie

But it was runner number 17384 that I was most interested in last Sunday, when the starter's gun went off at the New York City Marathon.

Courtney King, aka "Team Leroy", was running with her good friend in mind and wearing a T-shirt that said it all: "Imagine a World without Cancer."

Cancer patients at the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center will benefit from Courtney's 26.2 mile run. She finished in 3 hours, 40 minutes and 14 seconds. Her best time ever!

But I'm not surprised. She had a strong force pushing her across the finish line. If it were measured in feet and inches, my guess is it was about 6-foot 5 and would have fit perfectly into size 13 running shoes.

Yup, "the force" was with her.

-- Laurie

And then I found a small gold disc. Engraved on the disc were the words "Come home soon."

The fortune he kept, I'm sure, because the cookie was probably stale -- they usually are -- but the sentiment was something we all hope for.

The disc was something special. I'd had it engraved and given it to him the day he left to join the 3rd I-D, the "Tip of the Spear" as they called themselves, when the war with Iraq was about to begin in 2003.

I guess I was hoping it would be his good luck charm. Something to protect him from bad things. And it did its job for 48 days.

Back then, it seemed the war would be the biggest threat to his life. But his real battle was still a couple of years away.

-- Laurie

But will that candidate be able to deliver double XX gowns to the "full size" patients at Johns Hopkins?

I'm not making light of today's presidential election. But I am serious about the gowns.

When Leroy died, the fund set up in his memory at Hopkins was directed to the patients and their caregivers. Leroy's people. He and I belonged to that group.

One of his biggest gripes? There were never gowns to fit the big guys on the floor. He was one of those big guys.

So now it's time to spread the wealth, so to speak. I'm told the gowns are on order. No longer will the bigger patients have to squeeze into two gowns to cover up. The bigger size will cover all the parts!

The fund that so many of you generously contributed to begins its work. In keeping with today's theme, think of it as a campaign promise fulfilled!

And don't forget to vote.

What bigger "tomorrow" is there than tomorrow? If you live in Cancer World, is there ever going to be a better day for you to declare, "I am planning for my future?"

Cancer demands so much of our lives. Doctor's appointments, chemo treatments, radiation, rest. The days evaporate so quickly.

But tomorrow, scheduling a portion of your day around your polling place says to cancer, "WAIT, I'm deciding on my future."

So, vote.

Do it because it's the right thing to do. And because your future is just as important as the next guy's.

-- Laurie