Cancer stopped me from having a third child -- not physically, but mentally. Still, it hasn't taken away my ability to witness first-hand the miracle of childbirth, to hold a brand new baby in my arms, to lose myself in the wonder of an innocent and unburdened life.

Yesterday, my sister had her second baby girl. I was there -- from morning until evening, while she labored for 12 hours and then delivered a perfect, pink, precious bundle of hope. The whole journey made me cry. I cried for the sheer pleasure of being in the room for such a special occasion, for holding my sister's numb and heavy leg in the correct position, for watching a baby plunge into the world, for cutting the umbilical cord. I cried for the pain my sister endured, for the joy of new beginnings, for all that comes next.

For a moment while I held my new niece, I longed for my own baby. Then thoughts of cancer flooded my mind -- combined with thoughts of sleepless nights and endless shrieks and temper tantrums -- and I realized I am happy just as I am, with my own two little boys and a sweet baby girl I plan to borrow as much as possible.

Welcome to the world, Tori!

I have heard the term chemobrain many times -- even here at The Cancer Blog when Dalene wrote about it. And I've started using the terminology myself -- to explain my new-found odd behavior. Like when I put a carton of ice cream in the refrigerator with no recollection of it. And when I took a cap off a pen, couldn't find it, and discovered it on top of an egg carton in the refrigerator. I don't think this is a refrigerator theme -- just a coincidence -- because I've also lost a clipboard at work, forgotten to hand a guest her glass of water immediately after I prepared it, lost library books and movies, and failed to remember responsibilities time and time again. This may seem like minor forgetfulness -- this is what my oncologist believes may be at work -- but for me, this is odd. I have always had a good memory, have always delivered on my promises, and have never felt as scattered as I do now. So I call it chemobrain -- a good excuse, I figure -- and am now trying to determine what exactly this word means.

My oncologist tells me he doesn't really like this term. He thinks it puts a negative spin on regular functioning. He believes those of us who have experienced chemotherapy look more closely at our post-chemo behavior and may interpret quirky stuff as more serious than it is. It probably existed before chemotherapy, he says. But now, we are more sensitive to it and find chemotherapy a good explanation. He may be right. But for me, something in my head has definitely been altered.

One patient advocate for Hurricane Voices: A Breast Cancer Foundation believes that something doesn't have to be scientifically proven to exist. And while chemobrain may not be completely proven, there are still studies that support its existence -- which manifests itself through aging-type memory problems, forgetfulness, distraction, and loss of the ability to calculate quickly. Some studies show that 20 to 30 percent of women who undergo chemotherapy for breast cancer, and some who receive similar treatment for lymphoma, score lower than average on mental function tests for as long as 10 years after chemotherapy. ''There's enough data now to at least know it's a real effect,'' said Dr. Ian F. Tannock, a psychiatrist who has studied this issue at Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto. Some suggest that typical aging may be at fault -- and for premenopausal women who may be rushed into menopause, this effect may be due to hormonal issues. Regardless, it seems to stem from chemotherapy -- somehow. And somehow, this topic needs more attention, more research, and maybe a more positive name.

Apple CEO Steve Jobs delivered a commencement speech at Stanford University on June 12, 2005. It was about following curiosity and intuition, about looking back and connecting the dots in life, about beginnings and endings, about death. Jobs, a survivor of pancreatic cancer, knows a thing or two about facing death. And the words he chose to relate his life-threatening experience to a crowd full of hopeful graduates are powerful and inspiring. I could paraphrase his message -- but surely something would be lost in my translation. So here is a bit of what he said -- word for word.

I see and use my handmade quilt every day. It was created especially for me by more than 20 talented friends who crafted the lavender, pale green, and white patches into a flowered work of beauty and serenity and warmth. It sits at the end of my bed -- folded neatly and by coincidence matching the color scheme of my room -- until the time at which I turn in for the night and I spread it out and allow it to comfort me and warm me. It has covered me every night since the night it was delivered to my doorstep by a few of the friends who helped make it -- and the peace it brings me today is no less than the peace it brought me the first night I used it -- the night when I was weak and sick and struggling with breast cancer.