What do you think is the best way to choose an experienced and quality surgeon? Some researchers think it's by reputation. That's how I got mine. A friend told me who he'd use if his wife or mother developed breast cancer and then more and more people began recommending the same surgeon. It seemed logical I'd use him too. And I'm glad I did.

A study published in the January 20 Journal of Clinical Oncology reveals that women who actively choose their surgeons by reputation are more likely to be treated by experienced surgeons in hospitals with comprehensive cancer programs. Reputation even beat out accepting referrals from other doctors or health plans.

We all want an experienced surgeon, of course, but are you sure your surgeon is experienced enough?

In a recent article published in the Journal of the National Cancer Institute, patients with prostate cancer who have a prostatectomy performed by a more experienced surgeon tend to have better outcomes.

A prostatectomy involves removal of the prostate gland and surrounding tissue. A study was done to evaluate the total number of prostatectomies a surgeon has performed and if this indeed had influence on recurrence rates.

It seems so, patients who had a surgeon that performed less than 10 prior prostatectomies had a recurrence rate of 18 percent. Patients who had a surgeon that performed over 250 prostatectomies had recurrence rates of only 10 percent.

I think the take home message here is, no matter what kind of surgery you are getting -- ask your surgeon how many times they have done this specific procedure. If it seems very low you might want to consult another surgeon who has more experience.

Zigman Creative Projects Foundation has created its first album of original songs for people living with cancer and their families and friends. The non-profit foundation aims to support cancer prevention, research, treatment, and wellness through the sale of their album.

The album is titled The Colour's Coming Back. Each of the songs on the album deals with a different aspect of the cancer experience. Its great that you can listen to the songs on the website.

You can even click here to read more about the songs on the album. Each title is listed and they explain in detail each song's meaning.

Here is one example: A Taste for Life

Often people's initial reaction to hearing they have cancer is one of fear and shock. Sometimes they wonder if there will ever be a light at the end of the tunnel. This is especially true if the treatment process is difficult. A Taste for Life touches on these feelings, but also offers the possibility that deep within one's psyche there is a life force that gives people courage and motivates them to go on.

very cool!

Someone asked me the other day how I continue to come up with topics for my posts. I wish I could say it was a chore to find material on cancer, but it isn't. There is always something to write about -- so much to write about, in fact, that if I had the time and energy, I could write volumes each day.

I find my topics in newspapers, in magazines, and in books. I spot them on television, on the radio, on the internet. I draw from personal experience and from others' experiences. I write and write and write because cancer just keeps on appearing in my life. I wish it didn't.

Cancer is everywhere. And it offers me an endless reserve of material that just keeps stacking up. So how do I come up with topics for my posts? I don't. The topics come to me.

Radioactive cancer patients attending this weekend's Super Bowl in Miami could be in for an alarming experience when they pass through radiation detectors designed to signal the presence of dirty bombs. Such cancer patients -- who have received treatment using radioisotopes and still may have tiny amounts of radioactive material in their bodies -- may want to come armed with letters from their doctors explaining their precarious set of circumstances.

The use of radioisotopes in medicine is growing -- and so is the use of radiation detectors in our security-conscious nation, which means patients are triggering alarms when they are not even aware they are being scanned, doctors and security officials say.

Nearly 60,000 people a day in the United States undergo treatment or tests that leave traces of radioactive material in their bodies, according to the Society of Nuclear Medicine. These traces are not enough to hurt anyone, but they are enough to trigger radiation alarms for up to three months.

Radioisotopes are commonly used to diagnose and treat certain cancers and thyroid disorders, to analyze heart function, and to scan bones and lungs. And many doctors already know to equip their patients with travel cards because of the problems they can encounter in public places.

Nearly 20 million nuclear medical procedures were performed in the United States in 2005 -- up 15 percent from 2001. Clearly, the number of people who could be mistaken for terrorists is quite large. So if you are one of these people -- with the power to create a buzz in a public setting -- get your papers in order so you can quickly confirm your identity as nothing more than a cancer patient.

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.

Photographer Sharon Seligman's images are inspired by her personal journeys. She photographs people and birds and residential communities. She also captures the journeys of women enduring breast cancer. Her work speaks of the human experience. It speaks of her own experience. It speaks volumes.

Bearing Witness: Beyond the Surface of Breast Cancer is one of Seligman's portfolios. It's a photographic trip down memory lane, depicting self-portraits of courageous breast cancer survivors. Seligman tells her own story in words that border the left side of each portrait. Captions to the right of each black and white photograph offer a glimpse into the life of each woman whose being is displayed in raw form, for all to see, for all to contemplate, for all to appreciate.

And then in another portfolio, Seligman offers more photographs, more visions of the breast cancer experience.

Seligman aims to share the physical changes that come from breast cancer, to project the inner truths. Clearly, she is right on target.

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.

Just two months after her mother lost her battle with gall bladder cancer, Liane was diagnosed with breast cancer. It all happened earlier this year -- and while Liane is still mourning the loss of her mother, she is also still managing the madness of her own disease. Liane is surviving with courage, with determination, with the same powerful spirit that powered her mother's fight.

Liane lives in a small city -- population 43,000 -- in northern Alberta Canada. She has been happily married for 18 years and has two daughters, ages 13 and 15, and a golden retriever named Sunny. Liane loves to garden, cook, read, and spend time with family. She normally works full-time in a real estate and property management office but has been blessed with six months off for treatment. Liane is already -- without a doubt -- a survivor.

Jennifer is a breast cancer survivor that blogs Jennlovey. Jennifer is thirty seven years old and she has three sisters. She is also an identical twin. She works at an insurance agency and is very active in her church. Jennifer is married to the man of her dreams, Scott and they have three great children, Sara, Chloe and Delaney. Jennifer is very active in anything that promotes breast cancer awareness.

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.

We all contemplate death from time to time. I've watched two parents take their final breaths.

But until we feel for the first time a hint of the breeze that will one day transport our souls to a different place, death seems distant and elusive.

Now, I've felt the touch on my shoulder. Because of it I'll enjoy my remaining time that much more.

I raise my glass. To life! -- Robert Kelly

Cape Cod Today Robert Kelly is publishing The Cancer Diary columns in a blog to share -- from the moment of prostate cancer diagnosis -- in a crisp and engaging writing style the details from diagnosis, through treatment to survivorship -- so that other men, when faced with the same cancer challenge will know what to expect because Kelly has shared his prostate cancer journey. Importantly, he blogs as much the technical as the personal experience and he does so to both enlighten and educate other men about prostate cancer.

The Cancer Diary is a blog I would recommend to all the men in my life. I would recommend the blog to all cancer patients and survivors because the personal is compelling and universal. In reverse chronological order, The Cancer Diary begins here.

I've been keeping a journal ever since I was first diagnosed with breast cancer. I first wrote by hand in a pink fabric-covered book, sprinkled with multi-colored polka dots. It looked feminine -- which is why I bought it -- and it's vibrance made me feel inspired, motivated, eager to write down the dreaded details of the beginning of my journey. Then I stopped writing in this book and began typing my words in an on-line journal -- a blog. My husband designed the presentation of it, with a pink banner that serves as the backdrop for the title -- my Breast Cancer blog. My first entry was completed on December 21, 2004 and I am still chronicling my journey here. I am also writing for this site -- the Cancer Blog -- and I write whenever and wherever else I can record my words. I do it because it helps me process information in a quiet, calming, introspective way. It soothes me, helps me work through panic and anxiety, helps me heal, and helps me chart my progress. When I look back at what I've written, I realize how far I've come -- or haven't come -- and it helps me move forward. I recommend journaling for everyone, and I recommend these seven simple suggestions for getting started.

I will share anything and everything about my own experience with breast cancer -- how I found it, how it was removed, how it was treated, how I fared through the whole ordeal, how I'm surviving now. I figure that if I spread the word about what happened to me, that others will become more aware and some -- especially those with a new diagnosis -- will benefit from whatever wisdom I have to impart. So I am an open book. I talk about breast cancer, answer questions about breast cancer, and probably insert my opinion about the topic to some who don't really care. But I will continue talking and sharing -- and writing -- because the alternative would be a disservice to the few I may be able to help.

So a card stuck in the middle of a magazine caught my eye the other day. The slogan on it reads, Tell Someone and the illustrations on this card -- that functions as a postcard -- show women reaching out to other women. There are women talking on the phone and a woman tapping another on the shoulder. The message they appear to be spreading is highlighted in the text below the graphic representation of this campaign to raise awareness of cervical cancer. The message is about HPV -- human papillomavirus -- and about how millions of women already have it and how some don't even know they have it. I learned from reading this card that for some, HPV will clear on its own. But for some, cervical cancer may develop. This is why Pap tests are critical. And so what all women should be telling other women is this -- ask your doctor about the importance of Pap tests. And be active in your own health. And follow all recommendations for detecting health concerns early. I learned from reading this card that I should tell someone about this. And so now I have.

My mom goes for a mammogram today -- which reminds me of a time when this test meant nothing to me, a time when all I needed to know was that women my mom's age went for this procedure that squashes and squeezes and manipulates breasts so that pictures can be taken and tissue can be studied. I thought that I would be 40 years old when I went for my own mammogram and that I would casually learn that everything looked normal -- that breast cancer was of no concern. But it didn't happen this way -- instead I went for my first mammogram at age 34, six years earlier than recommended, because I felt an odd lump. And I learned that cancer was of concern. I learned that I had breast cancer. And so now, as I am about to turn 36, I have had three mammograms and will return every six months for the rest of my life for this test. By age 40, I'll be a pro.

I once thought a family history of breast cancer trickled down from the older women in a family -- that a grandmother might have it first, then her daughter, then her daughter. Like a chain reaction. But now I know that family history can start with anyone, at any age. I started this chain in my family.  And there is no telling whether or not the chain will break or will hold strong. So the women in my family are now followed almost as closely as I am. And mammograms occur frequently for us all.

I was once unaffected by my mom's mammograms.  Now I am more aware, more prepared for the seriousness of this exam, more humbled because of my own experience. And today I hope that my mom learns casually that everything looks normal -- that breast cancer is of no concern.