Tomorrow I report for one of my six-month radiation follow-ups. My radiation oncologist will review how I've fared for the past two years since my left breast was zapped, day after day, week after week, in an aggressive attempt to keep cancer from returning to the same local area where it first reared its ugly head. How horrified I would be if I learned the machines used to treat my cancer were faulty, that they did not in fact do anything aggressive, that they were essentially ineffective.

Hundreds of brain cancer patients may be hearing this horrific news, now that malfunctioning machines have been ordered shut down following a manufacturer's warning.

Brainlab of Munich, Germany claims a small targeting error occurred with their machines but that it is unlikely to cause problems for patients. If I were one of these patients, I would still be worried. Targeting the tumor bed area is crucial in any cancer treatment. I don't like the sound of "targeting error," regardless of how minor it may be.

University of North Carolina football coach Butch Davis recently received a shocking cancer diagnosis after a routine dental visit turned up a suspicious growth in his mouth. Pathology reports identify the cancer as non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.

Davis, 55, has had the growth removed from his gum and while he received his first chemotherapy treatment last week, he's been told there is no indication the cancer has spread to other parts of his body.

Chemotherapy for Davis began at the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio -- Davis coached the National Football League's Cleveland Browns from 2001-2004 -- but will continue at the University of North Carolina Hospital in Chapel Hill.

Davis says he is doing well, that his general health has never been better. And while fighting off cancer, he will work hard at preparing for the 2007 season.

"My family, my health and coaching this football team are my top priorities,'' Davis said. "I would appreciate and expect the focus to remain on the North Carolina football team."

The team opens the season on September 1 against James Madison University.

Chemo is tough stuff. That's what my oncologist told me the day I tracked her down on the phone and told her how awful I felt. I was weak, dizzy, pale, and as close to incoherent as I'd ever been. I was so out of sorts I was convinced I would jump out of my skin at the very moment this doctor implied all I needed was a firm grip on reality.

"Do you have enough support?" she asked. "Yep," I replied. I told her my mom lives right around the corner, my sister just a few miles away. I told her friends were delivering meals and my husband was coming home from work whenever I called for him. Help was just a phone call away, and I had plenty of it. What I didn't have was medical guidance about how my body was tolerating chemotherapy. That's why I needed her.

I hung up the phone that day having accomplished nothing. And I woke up the next morning barely able to walk. I crawled into my kitchen, grabbed a banana, sprawled out on the floor, inhaled some nutrition, and called my mom. I told her I needed to have my blood examined.

My mom transported me to my oncology clinic -- we had a genetic counseling appointment there anyway so it was convenient timing -- and before long, I was hand-delivered a mask and was swiftly escorted to my very own hospital room where I stayed for five days.

The day I was admitted to the hospital, my white blood counts were 700. My body was not tolerating chemotherapy. And I'll never know why my oncologist didn't know this, didn't call me in for an evaluation when so many signs were presenting themselves, didn't offer me more than her steadfast declaration that "chemo is tough stuff."

Yes, chemo is tough. And there are all sorts of expected side effects of the dreaded treatment that patients must endure. But there are many effects patients should not have to suck up, effects that warrant immediate medical attention and can be alleviated with the right intervention.

It took days of antibiotic treatment and a blood transfusion for my body to recover from its chemotherapy attack. I often wonder what would have happened had I toughed it out at home. I suspect the outcome could have been tragic.

If I ever have the occasion to preach about the dangers of chemotherapy, which is what I am doing here, I offer a firm warning about how difficult the treatments can be, how anyone with any string of worrisome side effects should seek medical help immediately, how any oncologist who doesn't respond to an outright cry for help should be fired.

I learned many lessons from my chemo crusade. I learned how to better help myself, and I learned to report right to the emergency room the second time my blood counts plummeted. I learned to demand the care I deserve, and I found an oncologist who is a warm and caring partner in my pursuit of health. And I learned that chemo is tougher than I ever imagined, too tough for some -- like me -- to go it alone.

Early trials show a breath test for lung cancer detection may surface in the not-too-distant future. And it could be simple, inexpensive, non-invasive, and effective too.

The tests needs a good amount of work still, but if we keep our fingers crossed and medical researchers stay hot on the trail of this test, it just might be possible to one day spot lung cancer by simply breathing into a device for a few minutes.

The lung cancer breath test measures chemicals called volatile organic compounds (VOCs) in the breath. There's a certain pattern of VOCs associated with lung cancer, and they show up as colored dots across a quarter-sized panel.

The theory behind this test is great. The test itself is not perfect yet, however.

It's promising, though, says The Cleveland Clinic's Peter Mazzone, MD, MPH and colleagues who describe the test in the Online First edition of the journal Thorax and reveal the test correctly identified in studies three out of four people with lung cancer and detected lung cancer almost as frequently.

It's been so long I can barely remember the cause of the family rift that kept me separated from an aunt, an uncle, and cousins for many years. All that remains clear is that a once-close family split apart because of disagreement and hurt feelings and that my grandma -- the glue that held this family together for more than 50 years -- was heartbroken. She did everything she could to repair the damage of her splintered family. But despite begging, pleading, and continued prayers, reconciliation seemed impossible -- until it became evident this sweet woman was about to die.

The progress was slow and began with a rallying of family members at my grandma's bedside. She was somewhat incoherent at the time, and I'm not quite sure if she realized her broken family was on the mend. But I hope she knows, in some heavenly way, that she is the one who ultimately brought everyone together.

After her passing, we all gathered for her memorial service. We took turns spreading her ashes at a tree planted in her honor. We talked and visited and laughed and ate. We broke the ice and opened the door for further interaction. It was refreshing to mourn the loss of Gram without overriding tension and conflict.

I'm not sure if family relations would have continued without what happened next. I suspect we may have all returned to our lives and gone our separate ways, happy we had reconnected but still missing the closeness we once experienced. But then cancer entered our lives, shocked us all, and gave us all reason to stay in touch.

I was diagnosed with breast cancer not long after my grandma died. And the same people who came to her bedside came to my rescue in ways I never would have imagined in the heat of battle. The same people who for years were absent from my life were the ones offering me support and encouragement and love. They helped me get better.

Once I was better, life returned to a somewhat normal routine. And maybe we would have routinely slipped back into our selfish ways. But illness struck again, requiring we all step back up to the plate.

My uncle, who has lived with diabetes for many years, was faced this year with losing his foot. Thankfully, he found specialists who gave him hope and reason to travel every month for several months to a clinic in my city, where eight family members live and where options never before available to him became a reality -- both medically and personally.

My uncle is doing well, walking on his foot with the aid of a brace. And our family is doing well, as a result of frequent visits, lunches, and continued laughs.

It took death and disease to bridge the gap that existed for much too long between the members of my family. And just this weekend, after spending a glorious weekend with my long-lost cousins, I realized we have possibly arrived back where we once started -- before whatever led to our disagreement and hurt feelings drove us apart.

I believe Gram is smiling down upon us at this very moment, content at last that her three beautiful children -- and their children and their children -- are again a happy family.

The technique, known as radioembolization or intra-arterial brachytherapy, uses the vascular system to deliver targeted treatment to the tumor. The tiny glass bubbles filled with radioactive material deliver high doses of tumor-killing radiation directly to the liver tumors.

Liver tumors use a supply of blood that is largely separate from the blood that nourishes normal liver tissue, so very few of the bubbles end up in the healthy liver.

The bubbles are smaller than the diameter of a human hair. The outpatient procedure takes about an hour to complete. The bubbles release over 10-14 days.

Patients may be candidates for this procedure if they are not able to get a liver transplant. Mayo Clinic radiation oncologists are now using this procedure.

This past summer, a man in the business of helping smokers quit, was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. Just months later, anti-smoking guru Allen Carr lost his battle with cancer. On November 29th, Carr died at his home in Malaga, Spain.

A heavy smoker for 33 years before quitting 23 years ago, Carr claimed to have found an easy way to quit smoking. From that discovery, he founded The Easy Way to Stop Smoking Program, which would eventually grow into 70 clinics in 30 countries. In addition, his company publishes how-to quit smoking books, CDs, tapes and DVDs.

Using cognitive therapy, Carr told smokers interested in quitting that they could do it without willpower, without suffering withdrawal and without gaining weight. The celebrity endorsements for his program include Sir Anthony Hopkins, Sean Bean, Marie Helvin, Johnny Cash, George Harrison, Lisa Stansfield, Sir Richard Branson, Britney Spears, Susannah York, Bruce Oldfield, Stefano Gabbana and Julie Christie.

Carr is credited with helping over 25 million people to quit smoking.

An Easy Way to Stop Smoking Program clinic spokesperson was quoted as saying, "Allen spent many years in smoke-filled rooms after he quit, while treating smokers for addiction. He is certain that had he not quit, he would have died 20 years ago." Near the time of his death, Carr wrote a letter to Tony Blair urging his government and NHS to accept the easy method program. Carr was 72.

Testicular cancer, cancer in one or both of the testicles, usually occurs in young men and will strike about 8,250 of these men this year. About 370 men will die.

A man's lifetime risk of developing this cancer -- that typically shows up in only one testicle -- is 1 in 300, securing it as one of the less common cancers in the United States. The chances of dying from testicular cancer are 1 in 5,000, making it one of the most curable forms of cancer. Yet it is still the most common form of cancer in men ages 15-34. It is also a cancer commonly characterized by denial and embarrassment. As a result, it is one of the least mentioned cancers.

My sister recently ran into the surgeon who removed my breast cancer tumor almost two years ago -- on December 3, 2004. He asked my sister how I was doing, recalled the unprecedented rash I developed from the latex and Tegaderm tape used during my lumpectomy, and then talked about how terribly busy he has been.

This surgeon -- who spends countless clinic hours with women whose breasts are somehow diseased and then spends day after day in operating rooms trying to remedy these diseases -- said he is amazed and at how many breast cancer cases are consuming his time. It's sad -- the amount of women showing up with breast cancer -- but there is a silver lining to this cancer cloud, because according to this surgeon, the vast majority of these breast cancer cases are early stage. This means they were caught swiftly and quickly. And for the women behind these cases, there is a good chance of long-term survival.

And so maybe all the pink and all the press surrounding breast cancer is working. Maybe it's inspiring women to pursue self-breast exams, clinical exams, mammography, and other screening options. Maybe all the persistence and passion about breast cancer is the reason for this early detection -- the key to a good prognosis.

My surgeon closed his chat with my sister by telling her to call him if anyone in our family ever needs anything. But he told her he hopes he never has to hear from us. My sentiments exactly.

I didn't know what was coming when I plopped myself down in the waiting room of an Ear, Nose, and Throat clinic yesterday -- which is a good thing. Had I known what doctors would do to me, I may have run the other way. I may have learned to live with the pain I was experiencing each time I swallowed food. But I waited patiently, aware that doctors would "scope" my esophagus, mildly certain the procedure could be uncomfortable, completely unprepared for the full "scope" experience.

I swallowed a pill on Friday night -- not even a whole pill, just a half of one pill -- and it hurt when it went down my throat. I've had the feeling before, a sensation like the pill got stuck, but the discomfort has always gone away within a few hours. This time, it lasted. It hurt to swallow saliva. It hurt to swallow food. It just hurt. So after three days, I took myself to the clinic -- with the subtle worry that cancer was settling in my esophagus.

I know rationally that every ache and pain I experience is not cancer. But I've had cancer. And so I constantly battle a nagging fear lodged deep in my head that reminds me cancer is always a possibility, that cancer is often a shocking outcome of a routine little test for a simple little health concern.

I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer of the throat, voice box, esophagus, or stomach. That's the good news. The scope revealed -- via a tiny camera that traveled through my body -- nothing but healthy tissue. That makes me happy. The test did not make me happy.

I now know the scope is a long, thin tube that enters the body through one nostril. Ouch. It travels into the throat. Ouch. The patient swallows when it reaches the throat to assist in maneuvering it down further. Ouch. The scope then makes its way past the voice box, though the esophagus, and into the stomach. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. The travels are all displayed on a monitor, and I actually got a glimpse of these body parts -- during the split second when I was able to control my gagging, loosen my grip on the arms of the exam chair, and open my clinched eyes. So I saw for myself that everything looks healthy -- just before the tube was pulled right back through all these parts, leaving me with a very sore throat.

Now that I am home and have talked with a few people, I hear that some patients are unconscious for this procedure. They are completely unaware of the horrors of the scope. I got a few sprays to numb my nose and throat and drank a thick cocktail of lidocaine -- but I did not get the luxury of unconsciousness. And in the end that is okay. I got to see what was happening. I got to hear the doctor's revelation that nothing major is wrong. I got to witness the wonder of medical technology. I got to prove to myself that I can handle a little discomfort in exchange for a clean bill of health. And I got to learn that I have a bit of acid reflux. And now I have to squash that nagging fear that reminds me of the literature out there suggesting a link between acid reflux and cancer.

It does not surprise me that the Cleveland Clinic Cancer Center is among the best in the nation -- with internationally recognized physicians -- because I have always known this hospital to be the one stop where all medical difficulties and mysteries might be best managed -- in Ohio anyway. Growing up just an hour away from this facility, I thought maybe this was just the best Ohio hospital and that people headed here when other area hospitals could not deliver the best care. But now I know that the Cleveland Clinic is a destination for people from many states and countries. U.S. News & World Reports names the Cleveland Clinic one of the nation's top three hospitals, the clinic's heart program is ranked number one, it boasts a highly successful Children's Hospital, and cancer patients travel from all over the world for leading-edge cancer care at the Cleveland Clinic Taussig Cancer Center. There is even a Cleveland Clinic location in Florida. This hospital -- that I once believed was nothing more than a local healing place -- has quite a reach. And quite a reputation.

In what has become an annual family tradition, we are on our way to pick fresh blueberries at a local farm. In my search for ever more blueberry recipes I came across the Mayo Clinic's Healthy Recipes Center, which is currently featuring a recipe for Sweet-potato waffles with blueberry syrup. While there, I found an abundance of great information on preparing meals and hundreds of healthy recipes that fit the bill in cancer prevention. There is a cooking clinic that offers five ways to make recipes healthier and suggestions on ingredient substitutions that can boost the health of the dish served.

For example, you can often reduce the amount of fats and calories and increase the nutritional value of a recipe without compromising taste. By simply replacing whole-wheat pasta in place of enriched pasta to add fiber, magnesium, iron and B vitamins (niacin, thiamin and riboflavin) to your meal. Or, try preparing a dessert with fat-free milk instead of whole milk to save 63 calories and almost 8 grams of fat per cup. It's simple changes that can make a big difference in long-term good health.

If you are interested in finding recipes designed for health, visit the Mayo Clinic's Healthy Recipes Center for kitchen cooking tips and hundreds of recipes for each course and meal of the day. There is a special section on preparation methods.

For the almost two years I have been receiving treatment for breast cancer, I have traveled the same path -- over and over and over again -- from my house to the hospital and back again. And while I have seen different doctors and received different treatments and visited various departments and locations for all sorts of surgeries and tests and scans and X-rays, the path has remained the same. And after all the time that has passed, the power of the path has never diminished -- despite how familiar it has become.

Today I drove from my house to the hospital for a counseling appointment. I drove the same stretch of highway for a few miles, got off on my usual exit, drove for a few more miles past all the typical shopping centers and restaurants, and came to the light where I always turn left into the Cancer Center. I drove into the parking lot, found a parking space -- thankfully -- and displayed my yellow patient parking permit that allows to park without fear of a $20 ticket. I got out of my car and began my walk to the main hospital where the psychology clinic is located. I passed -- as usual -- the startling crowds of people smoking outside the Cancer Center, the groups of medical students who gather outside the medical facilities, the masses of people in white coats racing around and checking beepers and talking on cell phones. I entered the hospital, traveled to the ground floor, and turned a few corners until I reached my clinic. I checked in, paid my $25 co-pay, and waited for a just a few minutes until I was greeted by my counselor. We walked to a private room, talked for an hour, and then I followed my path in reverse.

The path is always the same. It is routine and predictable and rarely varies. But it has never become dull and I have never become numb to it -- because the power that is wrapped up in my drive and my subsequent steps that take me to and from my destinations still has a tight hold on me. I can travel the same path for other purposes -- to shop or have dinner -- and the power is lost. But when I travel for reasons all about cancer, the power overwhelms me. It happened today -- as I drove listening to the same CD I always play on these missions, as tears filled my eyes. I was not sad -- just overflowing with emotion. Emotion about all that I've encountered -- the encounters with fear and dread and total repulsion and the encounters with hope and joy and pure contentment. Today I felt powerful. Simply powerful. Because I have overcome what has faced me so far and because I am still traveling the same road, the same path to ensure my future health and well-being -- which is something I hope to become all too familiar with.

Should teenagers and their parents or legal guardians be able to decide on what treatments they would rather use to fight cancer? A judge in Richmond, VA is expected to issue a written decision by July 18 on a case involving a teenager who decided to use alternative treatments. A social worker asked a judge to require the teen to continue conventional treatment.

The teenager has Hodgkin's disease, a cancer of the lymph nodes. Last year he underwent traditional treatments with chemotherapy which really weakened his body. But now the cancer has returned and the teenager decided to go with a a sugar-free organic diet and herbs as therapy and made visits to a clinic in Mexico.

So when should the judicial system and case workers be in control of deciding what is right for our own bodies? Should teenagers be an exception on decision making because of their age and should the American family lose their choices because of the age of their child?

Abraham Starchild Cherrix was diagnosed with Hodgkin's lymphoma last summer and went through three months of chemotherapy. Early this year, tests showed the chemotherapy had not achieved the goal of cancer remission and his doctors recommended more chemotherapy and radiation. Since being diagnosed with cancer, Cherrix has done his research, and when the doctors told him they would like him to undergo additional chemotherapy and radiation, he said thanks but no thanks. He has lost faith in conventional medicine to help him, and he is concerned about the poisonous damage chemotherapy and radiation will do to his body. He is not alone.

Cherrix wants to try alternative therapies now to combat a cancer that chemotherapy has failed to defeat. He is interested in a bible-based diet, and the Hoxsey formula involving herbs and nutrition. He has contacted the Association for Research and Enlightenment, a center founded by Christian psychic Edgar Cayce and a clinic in Tijuana, Mexico. Like I said, he is not alone. The interest and use of alternative therapies is a choice some cancer patients make to treat their cancer. Ultimately it is up to the cancer patient how the cancer is treated. So what is the big deal that Cherrix has chosen this route? He is 15 years-old. So when he made his intentions clear, with the support of his parents, child services and the court stepped in and legally ordered him to begin chemotherapy and radiation. His parents have been threatened with losing custody of their son.

It's a tough call. There is a cancer patient who does not believe in a treatment he is being forced to undergo -- and having faith in your doctors and treatment can affect how well a treatment works -- and life and death decisions and courses of action that often do not come with a second chance. If Cherrix were an adult, none of this would be a legal issue. Do you think the courts have a right to intervene?