Here's what might be a typical train of thought for someone surviving cancer. That someone, in this case, is me.

I have been getting sicker and sicker for the past three days. Sore throat, sore ears, and a heavy head made me think at first it was some sort of sinus issue. Add a cough, a rumbling and painful chest, sore gums, chills and sweats, and a fever roaring past 102.8 and the worries start rolling in. I feel like I did twice before, just before I was admitted to the hospital with dipping white blood counts.

The worst of it hit Friday night and since I just couldn't make myself sit in the ER for hours on end, I overstepped my boundaries, tracked down my hospital's on-call oncologist, and listed off my symptoms. Since my treatment for breast cancer concluded one year ago, the doctor wasn't worried. He called it an infection and called me in a prescription. In a few days, when my course of antibiotics run out, I should be fine.

More than 47 percent of people view their pets as family members, according to a 2002 American Veterinary Medical Association survey. It makes sense then that people are routinely treating their pets for ailments that might strike a family member -- like arthritis, heart disease, diabetes, allergies, dementia, obesity, and yes, cancer.

New studies show that Americans are stuffing their pets with more drugs than ever before. They are medicating their dogs, cats, and sometimes other pets as much as they medicate themselves -- and they are doing it with many of the same human drugs they use for themselves, like steroids for inflammation, antibiotics for infection, anti-depressants for anxiety, and even new slendering drugs for obesity.

It's a big market -- pharmaceuticals for pets -- and for those who love their pets so much they can't let go, going to extremes is worth every penny.

Think about this:

• For dogs and cats alone, Americans spent $2.9 billion on pet drugs in 2005. While this is equal to only one percent of human drug sales, the market has grown by half since 2000.

• The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) has approved more than 40 new pet drugs in the past five years.

• A single three-month course of pet chemotherapy can cost $3,000 -- and chemotherapy doesn't typically extend the life of an animal as much as it soothes symptoms of the disease.

• Health insurance for pets was nearly invisible in 2002 but has gained popularity over the past few years. Premiums can cost $30 per month, and the total market is expected to climb to $500 million in the next five years.

• Some human drugs leave pets with unexpected, sometimes deadly, side effects. The drug Rimadyl, made by Pfizer and used as a treatment for dogs with arthritis, has been shown to cause kidney and liver damage in some animals. More than 3,000 pet deaths have been attributed to this drug.

• Some question the priorities of a society that allows for medically treating pets like they are humans. Dianne Dunning, an ethicist at N.C. State's vet school is concerned that millions of animals are lost, unwanted, and euthanized while millions are spent on pet medicines. David Rothman, an expert in medicine's role in society from Columbia University, says, "If you can't get malaria drugs in some Third World countries, what are we doing with chemotherapy for cats?"

• Others don't flinch at the expense it requires to keep their pets alive. One man, whose dog was expected to die of lymphoma within weeks, still enjoys the company of his pet some two years later. Chemotherapy saved the dog's life and when asked if he thinks the drugs are too expensive, this man says NO -- because his dog is still here.
  

North Carolina State women's basketball coach Kay Yow is still in the game, despite her difficult match-up with a fierce opponent -- breast cancer.

Yow is fighting for the third time a disease that has been spreading throughout her body since last fall. She has sores in her mouth, hasn't been able to eat, and receives regular doses of pain medication, antibiotics, and nutrients to combat the effects of three chemotherapy drugs that are cycling through her tired body.

Still, Yow is never far from the sidelines.

She was right there in the mix the day NC State named its women's basketball court in her honor. Shortly after, she was wheeled off the court on a stretcher, headed for the hospital so she could be pumped full of drugs. She was at work the next day. And at the unveiling of the Kay Yow Court. And at her game that same night. And at the end of the night, with an oncologist and nurse, she was accompanied to her office where she was once again hooked up to an IV so drugs could once again drip into Yow's exhausted body.

Yow, 65, is tough and determined.

"I know people are saying I'm doing too much," Yow says. "I know I have to take care of myself. But it's not like I have a cold or pneumonia and if I rest it will get better. Rest is not going to cure cancer. If rest were just the answer, that's what I would do."

"But if someone can be involved with something that is a passion for them, then I don't think there's anything wrong in trying to do that. Coaching lifts me up. Once the ball is tossed up, I forget pretty much about everything and just focus on the game. If I just do nothing, I feel like I'm giving in to the disease."

For anyone keeping score on the battle between Yow and cancer, it's clear Yow is a winner.

Previous posts about Kay Yow are as follows:
NC State coach takes leave to fight breast cancer
NC State basketball coach Kay Yow back in the game

Valerie Monroe, beauty director for The Oprah Magazine, writes a monthly column -- Ask Val -- that appears on the pages of Oprah's feel-good publication. She responds to questions about make-up, skin care, hair care, and overall body care too.

In her February 2007 column, Val writes, "Many of you have written to tell me that you began to be less critical of your body when you appreciated the things it could do." As I read this, I had what Oprah would call an Aha! moment, a moment when something just clicks and makes sudden sense. Aha!, I thought, as I considered all the things my body can do, completely independent of how I look on the outside. So while I was jogging today -- my body can now easily run three miles -- I ran through all of my body's accomplishments, and I stored them in the files of my mind so I could later write them down.

Here are seven things my body can do. As you read them, consider your own body -- its strength, its power, its capacity for greatness -- and remind yourself of your wondrous self the next time you start to criticize the way you look.

• My body can partner in the creation of human life. It can carry babies and deliver them and love them and care for them and raise them. Not all bodies have this power. I am lucky.

• My body can climb an attic staircase, crawl into cramped and dark corners, pull large boxes out of wedged spaces, drag them back to the staircase, and walk backwards down the stairs with goods balancing on my head so that I can fulfill the wish my five-year-old child who wanted so badly in early November to assemble our Christmas tree and decorate our house for the holidays. "Let's wait until Daddy gets home," I told Joey when I found myself crammed into a tiny space in the attic, wrestling with a heavy box full of artificial tree parts. "You can do it, Mommy," Joey said. "You are strong." And so I fought my way through the frustrating feat because I was afraid of the lessons I would teach this little boy if I didn't. In the end, it was Joey who taught me the lesson. I can do it. I am strong.
  

• My body can endure and conquer a 5K run when it once could barely run around the block. With a little extra effort and push, I think my body can accomplish even more.

• My body, once weak and without definition, can lift increasingly heavy weight and can generate muscle tone. It can even do push-ups -- real push-ups. It takes dedication and practice and persistence and mental toughness too. But I see progress. I feel progress. And I want more.

• My body can help others. I can use my fingers to type words on a keyboard that will reach friends and family and people I don't even know. My words can inform and support and encourage and heal. I can use my hands and my semi-creative talents to create hand-made gifts, to cook and deliver very mediocre meals for friends in need, to massage my husband's sore back, to braid my niece's beautiful hair and paint her tiny nails. I can use my arms to hug my little boys with all my might. I can use my voice to communicate, my ears to listen, my senses to feel.
  

• My body can tolerate surgery and chemotherapy and radiation and horrible allergic reactions to antibiotics. My body was badly beaten by a treatment protocol intended to cure me of a disastrous disease. And somehow, in some way, it survived.
  

• My body killed cancer. With the aid of medical intervention and a hopeful attitude, my body overcame the worst and best thing that has ever happened to me. And if it could do nothing else, I would be truly happy for this one thing my body can do.
  

Heavy head. Heavy body. Sore throat. Sore gums. Swollen lymph nodes. Fever blister. Hurts to chew. Hurts to swallow. Hurts to recall last time symptoms appeared. During chemotherapy.

Drugs attacking cells. Body weak. Blood counts plummeting. Body crashing. Headache. Fever. Sore throat. Sore gums. Trip to hospital. For five days. For antibiotics. For opinions. For constant monitoring. For daily shots to rebuild blood.

Phone call to dentist who knows my burden. Of worry. And fear. And anxiety. That never really goes away. Always reappears. A virus, he says. All of it. The throat. The gums. The lymph nodes. The fever blister. Nothing more. Should last five to seven days. Don't worry. Relax. Call if it gets worse.

Feeling better. Feeling emotional. Because people are so kind. Like my dentist. Who eased my mind. Soothed my soul.

Time to march forward. For myself. For today.

Just before my chemotherapy for breast cancer started -- when I was fantastically frightened by the toxic drugs that were about to drip into my veins -- I was told by doctors, nurses, survivors, friends that I would be just fine. I was young and strong and tough. I would easily tolerate the beating my body was about to take. This is what I was told and actually came to believe myself. I had no other choice really than to approach chemotherapy with a fighter mentality. And so I did. And I did pretty well for my first three doses of Adriamycin and Cytoxan -- given every two weeks instead of three in a dose-dense fashion -- followed by one injection of Neulasta 24 hours later to maintain normal blood counts. And then something happened. And I did not end up tolerating the chemotherapy my gut told me was a scary endeavor.

On July 20 in Portland, Oregon, Pearl Jam held a benefit concert for the Northwest Chapter of the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America (CCFA) to raise awareness for a disease no one likes to discuss. Pearl Jam guitarist Mike McCready was diagnosed with Crohn's disease and ulcerative colitis twenty years ago and has gone public with what he personally felt for many years was an embarrassing disease.

McCready, a spokesperson for the NW Chapter of CCFA, said, "Having struggled with Crohn's disease for more than 20 years and experienced first hand difficulties in getting a diagnosis and treatment, I want to help others learn about the disease, how it is affecting them and how to find ways to cope."

UCB, a leading global biopharmaceutical company that recently launched Crohns and Me, an information and resource website for people with Crohn's disease, joined with CCFA, in sponsoring the Pearl Jam Portland benefit concert.

Manchester doctors at the Christie Hospital in Didsbury are importing manuka honey from New Zealand to treat mouth and throat cancer patients after surgery in the hope honey can reduce inflammation and prevent methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, MRSA. Most people have this common type of bacterium in their nose and on their skin, but if healthy, the bacterium won't cause problems.

For hospitalized patients, there is a risk MRSA will spread through cuts, wounds, surgical incisions or catheters. The main problem with MRSA is that it has become resistant to some, but not all, antibiotics.

For the last several months, Manchester Royal Infirmary doctors have been using special honey-coated dressings to treat wounds. Now -- privately funded by community members and cancer patients themselves -- cancer patients at Christie Hospital in Didsbury will participate in this new study to test the effectiveness of the imported honey in preventing infection.

To read more about manuka honey, the company has a website here. The National Honey Board has published information on the antibacterial properties of honey here. The Sydney University's School of Molecular and Microbial Biosciences has published From nature's pantry: The healing properties of honey regarding research done on the antibacterial activity of certain types of honey.

This is my port. It looks to me like a bottle cap sewn under the skin on my chest. My son Joey -- he is five years old --  calls it my stone and his brother Danny -- he just turned three -- at one time thought everyone must have this same boo-boo. He would look for it, feel for it, hunt for it. But mine is the only port he could actually locate and now that he's getting older, he is not so concerned with it anymore.

My concern about the port is that everyone who needs chemotherapy should have one. It's the alternative to receiving IV sticks in the arms and hands and except for one quick stick that can sting -- I use a 5% lidocaine numbing cream prior to my infusion and with this miracle lotion, I don't feel a thing -- it is quick and painless. My port is a one-stop shop. Once accessed, blood can be drawn, drugs and fluids can be infused, shots can be injected, and at the end of treatment, an injection of blood thinner keeps the line clear and clean. The line attached to the port underneath my skin travels into large veins in a direct and efficient manner. While hospitalized for chemo-induced fever and low blood counts, I received antibiotics and a blood transfusion through this method. There was one stick when I was admitted and for my five-day stay, I never had to be poked again.

My port, called Infuse-a-Port®, was implanted during a minor outpatient surgery with use of a local anesthesia and it was ready for use immediately after the procedure.

My port has been used for 16 months now and will no longer be necessary at the end of July -- this is when the last drops of Herceptin will sail through my veins. Then I get to decide whether to keep my port or have it removed. It can stay for many years as long as it is flushed once each month. The superstitious part of me thinks I should keep it for future use -- if necessary -- and the rational part of me thinks I need to get rid of this bottle cap because I may never need it again. Regardless, I love my port. It has eased the discomfort of chemotherapy and for that, I am grateful.