Leroy Sievers has many titles. He's a journalist and a commentator and even a blogger. He's a cancer patient too. And while he accepts cancer patient as one of his working titles, he never would have said this title dominates all others in his life. He is, after all, more than cancer.

On his December 4 NPR podcast and My Cancer blog entry, Sievers reports about a host on a radio call-in show who recently asked him if cancer overshadows everything else in his life.

"No," he answered, recalling the first time he had cancer. He was treated with surgery and moved on. Cancer didn't overshadow anything. But that cancer was different than the cancer now invading his lungs, spine, and brain. And after a bit of thought, Sievers thinks he may have been too quick with his radio response.

This cancer is not a drive-by-disease, he says. It's grabbed him -- and is holding on. It has changed his entire life. He can no longer do everything he once did. And not a day goes by without a reminder of cancer. The treatment, the nausea, the tingling in his hands. Cancer is with him all the time, lurking in the shadows.

Whether he gets the pleasure of remission or the disappointment of a set-back, Sievers realizes he will always be a cancer patient. He realizes that cancer does in fact overshadow everything else in his life.

Previous posts about the cancer journey of Leroy Sievers are as follows:

Journalist Leroy Sievers adjusts to newfound hope
War journalist now witnessing his own cancer death
NPR Leroy Sievers blogs My Cancer

As women facing the challenges of a breast cancer diagnosis and the triumphs of living beyond breast cancer, we share our stories and ourselves in the hope that it will help other women facing the same challenges in the fight to survive breast cancer and the special issues of breast cancer survivorship.

Beginning today, and lasting through October, AOL People Connection's Think Pink! will be featuring breast cancer prevention, diagnosis, treatment and survivorship resources within a dynamic interactive online community for women to learn about breast cancer, share their breast cancer story and make connections with other breast cancer survivors.

When you visit Think Pink! you will discover a blog featuring personal stories of breast cancer survivors told in their own words; a gallery of inspirational photos submitted by women going through breast cancer treatment and women who are living beyond breast cancer; articles and educational information about breast cancer; special profiles of breast cancer survivors; shop for a cause pink products; how to join a letter writing campaign to increase federal funding for breast cancer research and enhance the involvement and influence of trained breast cancer consumer advocates in all aspects of breast cancer policy and research; sign up for a breast check monthly reminder; learn about ongoing breast cancer events; and more.

While there, you are invited to share your story, submit a photo, start your own blog or create an AIM page.

And so the countdown begins -- 22 days until my port comes out. On September 15 at 9:00 AM I will report to the basement of Shands Hospital at the University of Florida where I will be doped into a semi-conscious state and wheeled into an operating room. Doctors and nurses will open the skin near my collarbone and while watching their own procedure on a monitor hanging overhead will remove my port and all connected tubing. They will close my skin, leaving an incision that will quickly become a scar -- and a physical reminder of the cancer than once settled into my breast and the drugs that ran through my veins in search of it. It will be my battle scar -- second in importance only to the marks that criss cross my stomach and mark the spot where two big baby boys stretched my skin to unimaginable proportions.

The state of my port has plagued me for some time now -- ever since I knew chemotherapy was fast approaching its end. I have wanted to keep it in place just in case I need it again. And I have wanted to get it out just in case I never need it again. And when it came down to making a decision, I decided taking it out was best. So I can move on. So I can move forward. So I can move away from cancer. I know I'll never move completely away from it -- and that's okay. I don't want to forget my journey. I just want to live beyond its reach. Beyond the port that pops out from under my skin. The port that if needed again, can simply be put back in place.

And so my soul searching -- chronicled in the following two posts -- is over. My port is coming out.

• Wrestling with cancer decisions turns up uncertainty
• A little hand holding eases departure from cancer treatment

The topic of my hair is often the subject of conversation -- and is a constant reminder that this brown curly hair I have covering my head is nothing like the straight blond hair I was born with, grew up with, was known for. Because my little boys have white blond hair, I am consistently asked by strangers, "Where did your boys get that blond hair?" "From me," is what I want to say because it's the truth -- but that would make no sense to anyone who does not know me, anyone who does not know that my hair -- that once looked much like my boys' hair -- was lost to chemotherapy and returned shockingly different. So sometimes I just chuckle in wonder with these strangers who may not expect an answer anyway. Or I tell them the story -- if they seem to really want in on the details of the mystery. Most people are surprised that my hair grew back like it did. I am not surprised -- I was warned that it might happen -- although it is still a startling discovery each time I look in the mirror, each time I look back at photos, each time I see gray hairs emerging through my dark hair -- gray that only slightly showed up in the midst of my blond locks.

The memory of my blond hair keeps popping up. My husband told me the other day that he had a dream about me -- I was in a restaurant, at a table, by myself. He was walking toward me. And I had blond hair. The rest of the dream is insignificant. The blond hair is significant. And the other day, I pulled my brush out of my purse. It hasn't been used in more than a year -- because I don't brush my curls at all -- and at the base of the brush, wound around the bristles, were long blond strands of hair. My blond hair. My old hair. The same hair I showed my friend who visited from Ohio last week -- the hair that was once on my head, was cut off in preparation of the great fallout, and is now kept in a ziplock bag.

I like my brown hair. I like my curls. But I miss my blond hair. I am sad that I no longer match my children, that I don't look like the bride in my wedding photo, that I will attend my 20-year high school reunion in two years and will wear a photo name tag that looks nothing like me. I like the familiar -- which is why I never wanted to show my bald head, why I covered my head with blond wigs and hats to keep my appearance as close to normal as possible. And then in a strange turn of events, my hair grew back in an unfamiliar fashion -- and somehow the question, "I see where your boys get that blond hair" flip-flopped into "Where did your boys get that blond hair?" It is all still new to me. I know one day it will become familiar and normal and not such a big deal. Some day. I hope.

I wrote earlier today about my mom -- about how she was headed for a mammogram this afternoon. She has since been for her exam, returned, and shared the news that we all wish for -- everything looks fine. Nothing suspicious. No cancer. And so that is my gift for today.

I have received many gifts as a result of cancer -- the news of a clean and clear mammogram is just one such gift. There are many emotional gifts I've received since my breast cancer diagnosis a year and a half ago -- extra love, overwhelming support, loads of kindness, an abundance of prayers, recent compliments about my new dark, curly hair. And I've received many tangible gifts too that comfort me every day. When I walk into my kitchen, I see an angel made from a paper clip, a bead, and a ribbon -- it was a gift from my Chemo Angel once I graduated from my eight-week course in chemotherapy. When I walk into my bedroom, I see the quilt on my bed that was made by the loving hands of my mom friends and then delivered to my doorstep when I was sick, tired, and bald. I see a pink stuffed breast cancer bear sitting on my dresser and yellow, fuzzy, comfy socks inside my dresser drawer. I see a box of cards and letters and books and relaxation tapes -- and so much more -- that sits in another room. I wear a breast cancer charm bracelet that dangles from one arm and another that jingles from my other arm and a backpack that hangs from my back. I am surrounded by gifts that were priceless when they were given to me and are just as priceless today.

These gifts that adorn my personal space lift my spirits, warm my soul, inspire me. They are constant reminders of where I've been and how far I've come. My gifts -- good news from a mammogram, emotional rewards, and actual tokens of the love and support that surround me -- have become a therapy I never looked for, never knew I'd discover, and never would trade for anything.