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.

If you've ever visited the website My Breast Cancer Network, part of the Health Central conglomerate of health and medical information, you know the appeal of this site is its insightful navigation menu, comprised of three helpful locators -- Find, Manage, and Connect.

With a click on the Find button, you can search answers to questions, check symptoms, and locate resources. Choose Manage and you can take action, achieve goals, and resolve problems. If you wish to get advice, find support, and share your experiences, take a simple tour through the Connect community.

My Breast Cancer Network currently invites all viewers to connect with one another through a new feature: Show Us Your Chemo Style. You can simply visit this portion of the site and view photos submitted by others. Or you can submit a photo and caption of yourself, a friend, a family member. My Breast Cancer Network says it like this:

What does it mean to be confident during and after chemotherapy? Are you proud to be bald and beautiful? Does a wig, scarf or hat make sense for you and your style? We'd also love to see your new hair, as it grows back in. Share your favorite photos!

I did it -- go take a look -- and you can too.

Britney Spears, fresh out of rehab and back in the spotlight, is explaining why she publicly shaved her head back in February, following a rampage of bizarre behavior.

Think about this:

A friend of Spears says the pop star shaved her head as a tribute to her aunt who died from cancer. The pal states Spears was definitely suffering from postpartum depression at the time and the bold hair maneuver was an act of solidarity.

"Britney's aunt had just died of cancer," says this friend. "She was feeling very guilty because she hadn't been there with her, she was overwhelmingly depressed and she shaved her head in solidarity."

My hair is not so short, not so dark, not so curly anymore. And the shock of what sprouted from my head following chemotherapy is not so startling anymore. I guess it's a combination of my getting accustomed to my new look and the fact that lately, my hair is a changin' -- once again -- and this has me somewhat numbed to all things hair-raising in my life.

I was born with straight, blond hair. And I wore these locks on my head for 34 years. Until cancer came a knockin', chemotherapy came a drippin', and my hair went a tumblin'. Bald brought quite an adjustment. And so did the stuff that replaced my pre-chemo hair.

For almost two years now, I have been peering in the mirror at short, brown, curly hair. It took some time, but I grew to like my new look. And now, just as I am feeling OK about my changed appearance, my hair is taking another turn.

Naturally, my hair is longer. That's what happens when chemotherapy becomes a thing of the past. So this is not so surprising. But as my hair grows and gets heavier, my curls are transforming into waves. And I wonder if my curls will continue to disappear as my hair continues to grow. Will my hair be straight again one of these days?

With each passing day, my hair also gets lighter as it slowly fades from dark brown to light brown with a tint of red and a hint of blond. Will my hair be blond again one of the days?

Someone once told me that cancer is temporary. Someone else told me this is not true -- there's nothing temporary about the way cancer changes a life forever. I think I agree. Because as I study my hair, I realize that all of its temporary phases are really just a sign of the permanence cancer has left branded on my body and soul.

I'm trying to keep breast cancer away. I've had it once, and I really don't want it again. So I am committing myself to all strategies for keeping the disease out of my life -- like eating right, maintaining a normal weight, not drinking, not smoking, and as of yesterday, exercising strenuously.

New research shows strenuous exercise is what it takes to minimize the risk of breast cancer. Not moderate. Strenuous.

OK, I'm on board.

Now I've been a student of moderate fitness for most of my life. But now I'm embracing this new approach, this new way of pushing my body to its near limits. I figure if my choice is cancer or strenuous exercise, I better take the route that will leave me sweating and huffing and puffing, not sick and weak and bald. And so yesterday I took my first stab at what I will try to do at least five hours per week -- what experts say it takes to make a difference.

It all started with a warm-up lap on my treadmill -- just one lap at 4.5 miles per hour. Then I upped my speed to 5.3 and ran for a mile and a half. I continued running for another half mile at 6 miles per hour and then began walking again. I started at incline 1 for one minute, then moved to incline 2 for one minute, then incline 3 for one minute, and so on until I reached incline 10. My goal was to then continue walking while decreasing the incline each minute for ten minutes -- but I was so out of breath and fatigued, I jumped the incline down to 4 for one minute, then did 3 for one minute, 2 for one minute, 1 for one minute, and then I stopped. The whole process took about 40 minutes and left me soaked with sweat and gasping for air. Then, just in case my workout wasn't strenuous enough, I did 20 push-ups, a handful of sit-ups, and a few other floor exercises before heading to the shower.

So that's my version of strenuous. Now, I don't plan to do this same exact routine for all five hours I must complete each week, but I do intend to sweat and huff and puff just as much as I did yesterday. Because if strenuous is what it takes to ward off evil cancer cells, then I'm game.

I just heard someone say that time doesn't heal all wounds -- it just makes them worse. I guess it depends on the wound. I imagine losing a child is one wound that never really heals. But I've found that my cancer wounds -- both physical and emotional -- have healed with time. And a trip down memory lane proves it.

Two years ago I wrote about my wounds, fresh and raw and painful, on my Breast Cancer blog.

Confession
Wednesday, February 23rd, 2005

Recent news reports reveal Britney Spears recently checked in and then checked right out of Eric Clapton's Crossroads Centre rehab facility in Antigua. And now that Spears has returned to Los Angeles, something else is being revealed -- her bald head.

Apparently Spears chose to shave her head and add a few new tattoos to her body in honor of her speedy return back home. Why, I am not sure. But the image of her shiny scalp brings back bitter memories of my own bald head that had nothing to do with free will and choice and had everything to do with cancer.

I hated my bald head, took great pains to cover it at all times, and found nothing beautiful about the prominent display of flesh that surrounded my face. I can see beauty in other bald heads -- and I think Britney looks just fine with her new look -- but I was blind to it when looking at myself in the mirror. I hated my bald head.

"What are you going to do with your hair?" one of my co-workers asked me the other day.

"I'm letting it grow," I told her. "And grow and grow and grow," I thought to myself.

This co-worker seemed sad I was growing my hair. She said she really liked it short, with its tight curls and flat-to-my-head style. Many people have told me this same thing, that I look good with short hair. And maybe I do. Maybe I look good bald too. But I never wished for short hair. I never wished for no hair. And so I am getting back at cancer by letting my hair grow and grow and grow. It's my revenge of sorts.

Bald is just not for me. So I'm relinquishing all rights I have to this extreme hair fashion to those who choose it. To those who wear it well. To Britney.

I told my six-year-old son today that on Friday, we will attend a University of Florida gymnastics meet. Not such a big deal in and of itself but the fact that the entire meet is dedicated to the battle against breast cancer is what makes my announcement to Joey so important. You see, Joey has been my faithful companion ever since I was diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago. He has been my link to all things simple. He has been my rock, my inspiration, my motivation to fight for my life.

I told Joey this sports event is a celebration of people with breast cancer, like me. And I told him everyone must wear pink, a color he knows well when it's twisted in ribbon formation. I eagerly awaited Joey's reaction to the whole pink thing, not because he has an aversion to pink but because his absolute favorite color is orange and he tends to choose this fabric selection whenever possible. But without hesitation, Joey was completely accepting of making a pink fashion statement.

I told Joey we would make shirts so we could be as pink as possible on Friday. So we bought white t-shirts and two shades of pink dye, and we will soon tie-dye our shirts for the festive occasion where both University of Florida and University of Kentucky gymnasts will wear pink leotards -- in different shades -- and where the fans will make donations to the local American Cancer Society.

Joey asked me while we shopped for our t-shirt supplies if lots of people have cancer.

"Yes," I told him, recalling a fact I had just learned -- 8.9 million Americans alive today have a history of cancer. "Lots of people have cancer."

I am not sure what this means to Joey. But I suspect his comprehension of the disease is limited to pink ribbons, bald heads, and periodic celebrations. If only cancer were that simple.

Cancer is not simple. But Joey helps me face each day with simplicity. And I can't wait to simply make a few t-shirts with him and then pack the place pink in honor of all the women who every day face the complexities of a fierce opponent.

I was driving down the highway today when I looked to my right and saw out of the corner of my eye a blue pick-up truck. The driver -- a man -- wore a cowboy hat and his passenger -- a woman -- wore a turban and a mask that covered her nose and mouth. It was similar to the yellow paper-like mask I wore during chemotherapy when low blood counts and fevers knocked my body all out of whack. So when I briefly glanced at this woman, I diagnosed her -- with cancer.

I guess my medical radar could be off, my diagnosis could be wrong -- but I suspect not. It was an all-too-familiar sight -- the bald head obviously disguised, the mask warding off germs and infection, the eyes the only visible marking of a face. Yet it was still a startling sight, a sad sight, a sight that never loses its power over me as I travel the highway of life.

I am thankful to still be on the highway -- to not have been tragically run off the road -- and the woman whose path I crossed today may be just fine after her journey with cancer runs its course. But it's such a dismal sight -- the ravages of cancer visibly displayed on the undeserving victims of a harsh disease.

Maybe my approach is all wrong. Perhaps it would be better if my vision today prompted thoughts of a spirited warrior bravely battling a fierce opponent with victory the likely outcome. But instead I saw sickness and sadness. Because this is how I felt -- sick and sad -- when my appearance was marked by a hat and a mask.

But now I am healthy and happy. And I am confident I will one day see my co-survivors in a more hopeful light. There is hope, after all, for each of us diagnosed with this life-threatening disease.

Perhaps after I've been on the road to recovery for a while longer, dismal will turn to dazzle. Perhaps then I will see as much shine in those wearing cancer on their sleeves as I saw today in the blue paint of the truck that passed me on the highway.

I went out to lunch with my husband and kids yesterday. Sitting right behind us in the restaurant was a woman wearing a white hat, worn to mask an obvious bald head. My two little boys kept watching this woman, my littlest turning in his seat to get the best possible view. These boys, ages five and three, were not looking at this woman because a bald head is an odd sight in a public venue. They were looking because, to them, a bald head is familiar. And I think they were sizing up this woman, recalling what I once cleverly hid -- my own bald head.

We all noticed the woman in her white hat. But we handled our observations differently. My husband chose to focus on the task at hand -- eating. My boys chose to stare. I chose to contemplate.

I contemplated talking to this woman. I always have this urge -- to talk with others I suspect are fighting cancer -- and I always wonder if it's appropriate to approach strangers to discuss such a personal topic. Do I have a free pass to enter another's cancer world because I myself have membership in the same world? Perhaps. Perhaps not. So when faced with a possible cancer survivor -- marked mostly by a bald head -- I usually hesitate, contemplate, and then do nothing other than quietly consider what life might be like for the person who faces me.

Maybe I lack courage and should find a way to connect with these strangers. It may do us all a bit of good. Maybe courage has nothing to do with it. Maybe I refrain from conversation out of respect for each person's privacy. I am not convinced either way.

For now, I think I'll stick with what works, what feels safe -- observation and contemplation. And maybe next time I'm in a restaurant and notice someone strikingly familiar, I'll take a stab at my husband's approach -- just simply eating.

For 20 years, commentator Debra Jarvis has been dealing with cancer as a hospital chaplain. Last year, she herself was diagnosed with breast cancer. And she quickly discovered whenever she brought up the topic of her diagnosis, all people wanted to talk about was her hair.

Cancer is not about the hair, she says, but it's the first thing people seem to talk about.

"There goes the hair," one friend said to Jarvis just after her diagnosis. She was trying to be light and funny. Jarvis didn't find any humor in the comment -- but she did start to think about the whole preoccupation with hair, and she was able to make some sense of it all.

Cancer is really about death. People die from cancer all the time. But it's impolite to ask, are you going to lose your life? So people ask about the hair.

When we go bald, we are marked. Our bald head shoves death in the face of those around us. People really hate to think about dying, Jarvis says. So they don't ask, what's your prognosis? That would be too nosy and could lead to uncomfortable discussions. It's safer to ask about the hair.

Jarvis concludes that people focus on the hair because it's so hard to talk about fear and pain and grief. But if we can stand to talk about these issues, she says, then when we talk about the hair, it will really be about the hair.

Photographs tell powerful stories. They depict people and objects and landscapes and emotions in deep, meaningful ways. They capture permanent visual representations of moments in life. They paint pictures that even the most well-crafted words could not reproduce.

When Mary Ann Nilan was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2004 at the age of 40, she knew her story must be told -- through pictures. So she asked a photographer to record it all, stating, "I hope the pictures make the road easier for other women." The rest is history.

She calls it a photo essay and titles it The Diary of Healing. For 17 frames -- with photographs dominating each space and text kept to a minimum -- Nilan shares her journey that began with the discovery of breast cancer in both breasts and several lymph nodes, the journey that took her through chemotherapy, a double mastectomy, and reconstruction with implants.

Her photographs document significant stops on her physical and emotional trek. They show her bald head, the wig she wore only once and then let hang on a hook, the scars that crossed her flat chest after surgery, an injection of saline that painfully pierced the skin of her new breasts, her children measuring her hair as it grows in after chemotherapy. The photographs are both hopeful and chilling. They are breast cancer. They are more than words could ever capture.

I've written twice before about a young woman named Diem Brown. I first wrote in August about her appearance as a contestant on MTV's Real World/Road Rules Challenge reality show. I wrote about how despite a recent diagnosis of ovarian cancer, she took herself to Australia to compete in physical and mental challenges with other spunky 20-something competitors. Brown, 25, fought for a cash prize of $250,000 -- while fighting cancer at the same time.

Brown did not win the grand prize, but she did win the admiration and respect of her castmates who on an MTV reunion show applauded her tireless and heroic efforts. In my second post, in September, I wrote about Brown's presence on the reunion show, about her strength, about the great mindset she acquired prior to returning home from Australia for treatment. I wrote about her foundation -- Live for the Challenge -- a wedding-type registry that allows patients to register for prescriptions, wigs, anything that helps them manage their illnesses. I did not write about the wig Brown wore on the show -- but it was apparent she had lost her long, blond hair and was masking the most visible side effect of chemotherapy.

Brown reluctantly yet powerfully unveiled her head on national television just a few nights ago during the beginning of another MTV Real World/Road Rules Challenge. During this installment -- The Duel -- Brown competes again, this time with the shortest of brown hair covering her scalp and with a fierceness that rivals anything she's offered on past shows.

Brown is back. She's in Brazil. And she is beating cancer.

I took my boys yesterday for a tour of the University of Florida's Department of Entomology and Nematology. Translation for these little boys -- ages five and three -- involves one simple word. Bugs. They love bugs, hunt for bugs, capture bugs, and reluctantly set them free because I coax them into allowing these itty bitty creatures to continue living with their "mommies and daddies." I have a soft spot for all living beings -- bugs included.

We learned some crazy facts about bugs yesterday -- insects is the proper term really. We learned there is one cockroach that can live for seven days without its head. We learned there are two types of Madagascar cockroaches living in a lab in the very same building we visited that if set free, would reproduce so quickly they would become a major pest problem in the state of Florida. And we learned that of all animals on this planet, most are insects. But not only did we learn some crazy facts, we -- well, Joey -- shared a crazy fact too.

Joey is five years old. He is the boy who remembers much of my breast cancer journey. He is the one who helped shave my head, the one who thought a banana would make my sick tummy feel better. He's the one who would blurt out to people we never knew very well, "My mommy is bald," the one who asked me just last night if the metal thing -- my port -- was still in my chest. When I told him it's gone, he jumped up and announced, "Yeah, it's gone!" Cancer is one of many vocabulary words housed in Joey's brain. And sometimes the word comes up unexpectedly, in strange contexts, in surprising ways. Like today.

Our bug tour guide told us that in Africa, mosquitoes transmit diseases that kill millions of people. But those with sickle cell anemia are immune to the deadly diseases due to their compromised red blood cells that somehow fend off disease. This fact prompted Joey to share with the guide, "Did you know when people have cancer, there are bugs that can kill the cancer?" Our guide listened to this crazy fact and said in a kid-friendly way, "No, I did not know that. Who told you that?" Joey told her, "I don't remember but someone told me."

I am not sure what prompted Joey to make this announcement. Perhaps he was trying to one-up the tour guide, to sound like an expert on one of his favorite subjects. Perhaps his imagination was in overdrive and he blurted out the best story he could offer. Perhaps he jumbled up a story he had heard on the topic of cancer. And perhaps he is just simply hopeful that one day, bugs will help cure cancer. And wouldn't that be nice -- a simple mosquito comes along, pierces the skin, and poof, cancer is gone.

My cancer journey would not be nearly as interesting, as enlightening, as tender if Joey was not along with me for the ride. He keeps me busy and keeps my spirits up. He keeps me grounded and keeps life simple. Best of all -- he keeps me laughing.

Prescription drugs purchased online from Canadian pharmacies were intercepted before they reached the US, and after preliminary laboratory tests were found to be counterfeit. The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) is warning consumers who may have obtained prescription drugs from Mediplan Prescription Plus Pharmacy or Mediplan Global Health in Manitoba, Canada not to take the medication as it may not be safe.

The drugs in question are Lipitor, Diovan, Actonel, Nexium, Hyzaar, Ezetrol or Zetia, Crestor, Celebrex, Arimidex, and Propecia. Most of the drugs are prescribed for cholesterol disorders and high blood pressure; Actonel for osteoporosis in postmenopausal women; Nexium for gastroesophageal reflux disease; Celebrex for arthritis-related pain; Propecia for male-pattern baldness and Arimidex is a breast cancer chemoprevention medication.

Interestingly, the FDA conducted an investigation last year and discovered that nearly half of the imported drugs they confiscated from four selected countries were shipped to fill orders that consumers believed they were placing with Canadian pharmacies. The drugs did not come from Canada. According to the FDA, 85 percent actually came from 27 other countries around the globe. Buyer beware.