Breast cancer made a mess of me -- a scarred, sick, bald, burned, depressed mess. The mess was short-lived, though, and I am happy to report that my scars are fading, I'm no longer sick, I have hair, radiation burns are a thing of the past, and most important: I'm not depressed.

I took my last anti-depressant pill on Saturday. For some time, I've been tapering my dosage and when I realized on Monday that I was taking my Zoloft only twice per week, I asked my oncologist to recommend an official quitting time. He told me: Now.

So that's it. I'm standing on my own two feet -- no treatment, no counseling, no pills to help me cope. The mess has cleared, and life is once again tidy.

Someone told me in the thick of my cancer madness: This too shall pass. For me, It did.

It's been one year since I began writing for The Cancer Blog. According to statistics generated by this site, I've written 27,381 words and 793 posts. If you've been reading for this entire time, you surely know a lot about me. Not only do my posts reflect current news and issues, but they feature all sorts of personal stuff too. When considered together, my work here reflects just about every piece of my cancer journey, my inner most thoughts, my morals and values, my take on the world. But for those of you who haven't been reading for long, for those who have forgotten how I fit into the cancer puzzle, for those who want a recap, here's a rundown on me: Jacki Donaldson.

I was born and raised in Ohio but have also lived in Nevada, Virginia, and Florida -- my current home. My life always went pretty much according to plan -- I lived happily with my parents and one sister, faithfully attended school, went to college, got married, had two baby boys and a series of good jobs, and had just begun commenting to my family members about how lucky our family was not to have been affected by cancer. It seems just as I spoke this aloud, cancer arrived.

I've never had a problem with crying. My tears of joy and sorrow have always flowed easily, and I have never regretted shedding any one of them. I once told a college student I mentored who was hesitant to cry over a work-related scenario that I cry all the time. She later told me my confession sticks in her mind -- my ability and willingness to cry freely, without reservation. I told her I consider crying a cleansing, therapeutic process. I told her that I always feel replenished after a good cry. And I still believe this, years and years after my encounter with this student.

I cried just a few days ago while talking to my doctor and then my mom about how cancer may prevent me from having another child, if not physically, then emotionally. I just don't know if I could peacefully experience a pregnancy with the fear of cancer recurrence. And this makes me cry. Because I want another child. But I don't think I will have one. I cried at my oncologist appointment the other day while talking about the death of a friend. I cry while reading certain books and while watching sad movies and television shows. Two nights ago, I cried while watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, about a breast cancer survivor. I cry when recalling the births of my babies and while marveling at my little growing boys. And I know I will cry when I read a journal a friend just shared with me, written by his uncle who lost a daughter to brain cancer.

Tears cleanse my soul. And sometimes, they complicate matters. They make me wonder how well I am, two years after my cancer diagnosis. I interpret my tears now more than ever, in an effort to determine how well I am coping with life in survival mode. I wonder if the tears that frequently well up in my eyes are normal or if they are indicative of the depression that prompted my oncologist to prescribe an anti-depressant. I consider that perhaps I should be better able to handle some topics, some situations, some tough experiences without becoming weepy. And I also realize that perhaps my tears are completely normal, that I could be ultra sensitive to my every emotion, that as long as I feel happy and function easily, I am just fine.

I plan to iron all this out at my next and final counseling session that I need to schedule. This closing session will allow me to wrap up two year's worth of cancer issues, to close one chapter of my life and begin another. I just need to make the appointment. Which I have yet to do. Because contemplating the end of something so healing seems so daunting. And for better or for worse, this makes me cry.

I feel fortunate to have received every cancer drug I needed to fight my breast cancer -- Adriamycin, Cytoxan, Herceptin, and every nausea pill, pain capsule, and anti-anxiety formula on the market. I got exactly what doctors thought I needed -- without worry about availability or funding or politics. I am lucky. Some in the UK are not so lucky.

Two targeted therapies for bowel cancer will not be used in Britain's state-run health system, according to NICE -- the National Institute for Health and Clinical Excellence. NICE, the country's financial watchdog, determined the high cost of the medicines meant their use was not compatible with the best use of resources. Patients are angry because these same two drugs -- Avastin and Erbitux -- are used widely in the United States and in much of Europe. And while neither drug offers a cure for bowel cancer, both treatments have been shown in clinical trials to extend life expectancy by four or five months in some patients.

Based on doses given during the trials, it is estimated that the average cost of treating one patient with Avastin would be around 16,800 pounds and with Erbitux -- about 11,700 pounds. Apparently, this is too much. But according to Hilary Whittaker of the charity Beating Bowel Cancer, the decision to deprive patients of this medication is a scandal. I agree. And for these patients, I am sad.

I can't decide what to do about my port now that my breast cancer treatment is over. It's been an on-going internal battle. I don't know whether I should leave it in place -- tunneled underneath the skin on my collarbone where it is available and accessible should I ever need further infusions of cancer-fighting drugs -- or whether I should have it removed since there is no real purpose for it right now. There is the issue of superstition and safety -- leaving it right where it is allows for easy use if cancer returns and prevents another surgery to implant a new one. But there is also the issue of moving on -- and removing it because I don't need it, because I may never need it. One doctor told me recently that it should come out because if it remains in my body, I risk infection. And anything foreign in my body for an extended period of time is not completely safe. But a cancer survivor told me that she had hers removed immediately after treatment and had to get a new one because her cancer recurred three months later.

I am accustomed to wrestling matches like this one -- like my stand-off between treatment with Taxol or without Taxol, between anti-depressant or no anti-depressant, between vegan diets and traditional diets. Sometimes I can make a good call. Sometimes I just can't decide. Like right now.

Two years ago, my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Shortly after he began radiation and hormone treatment for his cancer, I got an interesting call from him. He was suddenly experiencing symptoms normally associated with menopause -- in particular -- he was having hot flashes. He knew I had been suffering through hot flashes as a result of chemo-induced menopause. It's an interesting, if not unusual, father-daughter bonding when they both can share the trials and tribulations of menopause. Our telephone calls became conversations of possible solutions and relief during the sleeping and waking hours of a personal summer not in sync with the seasonal temperature outside. In the middle of winter, I joked my hot flashes were saving me money on my home heating bill.

Yesterday, Vicki posted tropical vacations and hot flashes, in which she shared a few natural herbal remedies for women suffering from hot flashes associated with menopause. For many women breast cancer survivors, chemo-induced menopause is a real problem. Today, I will share some of the natural remedies for men suffering from hot flashes associated with prostate cancer treatment and male menopause. Yes, it's a real condition. Jed Diamond, author of Male Menopause, offers these herbals as possible relief from male menopausal hot flashes:

• Wild Yam for hormone building assistance.
• Black cohosh for a relaxant and normalizer.
• Damiana as a prostate tonic, antidepressant and nutrient for sluggish sexual organs.
• St. John's Wort and Oat for nerve tonics to help deal with any depression and other stress due to the changes.
• Saw Palmetto for a reproductive system nutrient.
  

Of course, if you have been diagnosed with prostate cancer, you need to speak with your oncologist and primary care physician concerning the safety of combining herbs with any drug treatment you are currently prescribed. In addition, the Mayo Clinic did research that suggested antidepressants can alleviate the severity of hot flashes for men. My father has reported some relief from both herbs and antidepressants, but he still has a personal summer now and then.