I'm sad, worried, and frustrated because of what happened to me at the beach this past weekend. I got burned. Really burned.

I thought I did everything right. I applied sunscreen, even had my husband coat my back, shoulders, and hard-to-reach spots with the powerful lotion intended to block the sun's most damaging rays. I sat underneath an umbrella while watching my boys, their own pale bodies slathered in a baby sunblock potion, as they jumped, ran, and bounced in the waves. I reapplied my sunscreen after a short stint in the pool and a stroll on the sand left my skin feeling tender. Still, I sizzled. My back is red, the skin underneath my suit straps white as can be in contrast to the bright color it borders, My chest is red and sore and itchy with bumps.

I feel sick, like I've exponentially upped my risk for skin cancer. As a cancer survivor, I feel particularly vulnerable. I not only fear a return of breast cancer, you see. I fear other cancers too. My ultra white skin already puts me at risk for sun damage. My past forays into sunbathing don't help. What happened this weekend, I'm afraid, makes things worse.

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.

Once upon a time there were two groups of mice, all genetically engineered to develop prostate cancer. Each group was fed the same amount of calories. One group of mice lived in cages warmed to 80.6 degrees. The other group lived in cages kept at 71.6 degrees. The mice in the cooler quarters burned more calories to keep warm. And after three weeks, they weighed less than the toasty warm mice. They were also less likely to develop prostate cancer.

Then there were two other groups of mice, also genetically engineered to develop prostate cancer. Both groups were kept in cages with temperatures 80.6 degrees and 71.6 degrees -- like above. But these mice got to eat whatever their little hearts desired. The mice in cooler cages ate 30 percent more than the mice in warmer cages. They got just as fat as the warm mice. And they all got prostate cancer at the same rate, despite the extra calories.

The moral of the story is this -- being lean rather than obese has a greater protective effect against cancer. Excess calorie retention, rather than consumption, raises cancer risk. This moral stands in contrast to what most researchers believe -- that a restricted diet cuts the risk of and slows the growth of cancer and this is directly related to calorie intake.

Tim Nagy, Ph.D. and professor of nutrition sciences at the University of Alabama, Birmingham and lead researcher on the mice story says when you eat more calories than you burn, you store the extra calories as fat. It's the fat cells -- not the extra calories themselves -- that affect cancer risk.

It's not a good idea for humans to chill themselves to avoid cancer, Nagy says. But perhaps people could get the same effect by exercising more since that, too, burns calories.

Nagy's study appears in the January 1 issue of the journal Cancer Research.

Just before my radiation therapy began, my oncologist ran through a long list of potential side effects I might experience from the treatment. The only two significant short-term possibilities were fatigue and burned, blistered skin -- I went on to encounter them both -- but there were other more long-term effects my doctor told me might one day creep up on me.

She told me the range of motion in my arm might be compromised -- it was -- and that lymphedema or swelling could occur -- not yet -- and that I could feel numbness and tingling in my arm -- I do -- and that I should forever take precautions on the left side of my body. No needle sticks, no blood pressure cuffs, no excessive lifting -- all because of radiation and the missing lymph nodes that further complicate matters.

My doctor also told me that while radiation would target one intended area -- my left breast, just where my cancer was found -- other areas would suffer some degree of exposure. My heart, my lung, and my ribs all bordered the location of my tumor and despite measures to protect these areas, they would be zapped, at least minimally.

This all seemed a bit overwhelming 18 months ago when it came barreling at me. But something fortunate happened with the passage of time -- I began to forget about most of this. And while this a blessing really -- to not be burdened by the what ifs -- I realized yesterday when my three-year-old son kicked me with all the force he could muster right in my ribcage that I really must remember the side effects of radiation -- because they could serve to haunt me at any moment.

I remember clearly now my oncologist telling me that my ribcage could be damaged by radiation in such a way that an injury to the area could easily result in broken ribs. But I don't think about this regularly. And I wasn't thinking of it when I snuggled up to my 35-pound baby boy, knowing full well he could strike at any time. But not until he struck did I recall one of the downsides of radiation.

I feel happy and healthy and strong. Like cancer never landed in my lap and threw me for a loop. But somewhere in the back of my chemo brain -- an entirely different side effect story -- I must remember the dangers of the treatments that are keeping me alive. Because the last thing I want is another complication from cancer. I just want smooth sailing -- and smooth snuggling.

I've been wearing a breast cancer bracelet that jingles with charms in the shapes of hearts, with inspiring little messages like Go with your heart. One of the heart charms is a watch. My friend sent me this shortly after my breast cancer diagnosis. I love this bracelet. So I was sad the other day when the glass piece covering the watch somehow cracked and shattered. I only realized this when I tried to check the time and learned that my watch was not actually telling time anymore. So I went for my back-up -- another watch, exactly the same and also given to me as a gift. I replaced my old watch with the new watch and then days later, my new watch was not working. I think water got inside the glass and damaged the battery or the mechanisms -- or something. I'm sure I could repair the watches -- and I considered this -- but then it entered my mind that maybe this is a message that I am okay now without all my breast cancer gear.

I confess. I was once a sun worshiper. I grew up in Ohio where a really sunny day was rare -- so on the occasion when the sun was bright and hot, I was in my back yard or at a swimming pool or at a lake soaking up the warmth and comfort of the rays that mostly burned my skin but gave me a glow that eventually turned the slightest shade of tan and made me feel healthy. It's ironic really -- that I felt healthy when the act of sunbathing is so completely damaging. And I knew this at the time and for the many years that followed -- and I still basked in the sun and vacationed in Florida and sometimes actually drove in the direction of the sun on a overcast day, in search of a tan that was never fully achieved because my skin is pale and fair and was never meant for any amount of sun exposure.

Before my radiation for breast cancer, I heard horror stories about the treatment. I heard that I might be extremely tired and severely burned and that I might feel generally unwell for the time it would take to completely zap any and all traces of cancer surrounding my breast. But my own radiation wasn't all that bad -- and really, the worst part of the whole therapy for me was the drive to and from the cancer center every day for seven weeks. It was a hassle, a nuisance, a bother. There were other small annoyances throughout the course of my radiation, but they were minimal -- thanks to some secrets that were shared with me along the scorching path of radiation and beyond. And here are seven of them.