Sarita Zouvas knows what it's like to have a child in the hospital. Her daughter, Isabella -- who died while receiving treatment for cancer -- spent many days in the hospital, and Zouvas says it's hard to anticipate what items from home will make a child's stay more comfortable.

"We don't go prepared," she says. "You don't take clothes; you don't know what's going on. You get there and they put a gown on them. My first response is, 'I want to make them comfortable because they're scared.'"

Zouvas has found a way to bring comfort to the lives of children at her local Children's Hospital. And her goal is to make sure every child admitted to the hospital during the holiday season gets a complimentary pair of pajamas.

After the death of her daughter, Zouvas became involved with the Friends of Scott Foundation (FSF) -- a non-profit organization founded in memory of Scott Delgadillo who lost his life to childhood cancer. FSF strives to help children with cancer and their families with emotional and financial support in order to cope with this devastating disease. Zouvas became a part of the FSF support team and is thrilled she can help bring comfy jammies to sick children.

Zouvas says the response to her call for help has been overwhelming. Most pajamas are donated and have come from as far away as Boston. Employees of the San Diego Padres, Southwest Airlines, and the district attorney's office have also helped Zouvas in the endeavor she hopes will continue year-round.

For more information on the Friends of Scott Foundation and Zouvas' pajama drive, click here.

Numbness is wearing off, and I am beginning to feel twinges of pain surrounding the area where my port was once located. I can't see what was done to me today -- because the area is carefully bandaged -- but I know from what I feel that my skin has been cut and sewn back together. I feel the skin tightening, stretching, pulsing and while it's not terribly comfortable, it's pretty minor compared to the pain of so many other cancer procedures -- like my lumpectomy, my chemotherapy, my nausea, my neutropenia, my allergic reactions to various medications.

So I am fine, following my port removal that was predicted to last a few hours but somehow took most of the day. The actual procedure took just one hour, and the twilight drug that kept me in a peaceful funk allowed me to relax while the port that was tunneled into the tissue underneath my skin was precisely taken from my body. It was an uneventful experience -- except for a few tears that dripped from my eyes during the final moments before my surgery. I think it may have been the power of the moment -- the moment signaling the end of my active cancer journey. Or it may have been the power of support offered by my sister and my three-year-old son who accompanied me today. Or it may have been the power of the response I gave a nurse who had just seen my little guy and asked me if I planned to have more children. My response -- probably not, because of cancer -- seemed a little too final, a little too sad.

It may have been the combination of everything, all adding up over the past two years, that brought tears to my eyes today. But for now, the tears are gone. And the port is gone. For now, my cancer is gone.