A friend of mine with breast cancer just sent out an update e-mail to friends and family. She began her message with an apology for her recent lack of communication. But she assured us all that she's been out of the loop not because she's felt sick or tired. It's because she's been too busy with normal life. And that's a good thing, she says.

This friend wasn't so sure how she would fare -- both physically and emotionally -- when she was first diagnosed with cancer. But she seems to have done a champion's job of rolling with the punches. Sure, she's had ups and downs. But she is overwhelmingly positive and hopeful. And jumping off my computer screen as I read her e-mail were at least seven bits of hope that tell me she is doing just fine despite all that is unbelievably hard about breast cancer.

My friend just had her first infusion of Taxol. A breeze, she calls it. One. So easy on her body -- two -- that she headed right out and took her daughter communion dress shopping. Her little love looked beautiful, she wrote. Like a mini-bride. The mother of the mini-bride then -- three -- turned a sad moment into a comforting one when her daughter asked, "Mommy, who do you think will bring me wedding dress shopping?"

My new breast cancer friend recently sat through her second infusion of Adriamycin and Cytoxan -- the long-time traditional chemotherapy combination for breast cancer -- and all the while, listened to another breast cancer survivor share her thoughts on these two drugs.

This woman told my friend she opted to stray from these chemotherapy agents because of their toxic side effects, because of their combined potential for causing other cancers, like leukemia. She instead took another drug route and was happy for her decision. My friend, however, was scared.

My friend returned home from her treatment and found herself reading a Cancer Blog post reporting that Adriamycin and Cytoxan may no longer be the gold standard treatment for breast cancer, that Taxotere and Cytoxan may become the preferred, safer option.

Fear and panic set in, and my friend e-mailed me, in search of perspective from a recipient of the drugs she was starting to believe are both ineffective and cancer-causing.

I am not a doctor. I am not an expert. I am not qualified in any way to represent the facts about medical research. But I am surviving breast cancer. And I did spend eight difficult weeks under the influence of Adriamycin and Cytoxan, given every two weeks in a dose-dense fashion. So I have an opinion about these drugs -- and about most things breast cancer related.

I shared my opinion with my friend, who has since decided to proceed with her prescribed treatment plan. I told her that in rare cases, chemotherapy can cause a second cancer, like leukemia. But this is not common, and the unlikely risk does not outweigh the benefit of receiving chemotherapy to address the cancer at hand.

I also shared with my friend that we can only benefit from therapies that are available and effective at the time of our treatment. Studies prove that Adriamycin and Cytoxan work -- that's why so many women are treated with this accepted method. Drugs in the research pipeline may one day definitively replace what is available today. But we must be OK with what we receive -- because we have no control over what lies ahead. We must live in the here and now -- with the knowledge that should our cancers return, bigger and better options may await us.

Consider Herceptin. Once not even an option for women with aggressive HER2 positive breast cancer, this targeted drug may be the magic bullet in an attack against this disease. I received Herceptin. My friend will receive Herceptin. Timing was on our side for this medical breakthrough.

Timing may not have been on our side should a new gold-standard drug treatment emerge and replace Adriamycin and Cytoxan. But we can still trust these two drugs will do their jobs, will prevent a recurrence of a disease that is so much more treatable today than it was years ago. Lucky for us.

Anthracyclines are a type of chemotherapy that treat several different types of cancer including (but not limited to) leukemia, lymphomas, breast, uterine, ovarian, and lung cancers. Anthracyclines are technically antibiotics, although their high toxicity precludes their use as such. A major side effect from this type of chemotherapy is that it can lead to heart problems in some patients. The risk for heart problems can remain elevated long after cancer treatment is finished.

Researchers are looking to find ways to lower the risk of patients developing heart problems after treatment without sacrificing the effectiveness of the drugs. They reviewed information from six previously published clinical trials and found that if the infusion of anthracyclines are given slower, over a period of six hour or longer, it appears to reduce the risk of heart problems.

Available anthracyclines include:

• Daunorubicin
• Doxorubicin
• Epirubicin
• Idarubicin
• Mitoxantrone

On January 14, 2005, my sister drove me to the hospital for my port placement -- a minor surgical procedure to implant an Infuse-a-Port® underneath the skin on my collarbone. My port -- used steadily ever since that January day for the infusion of breast cancer chemotherapy drugs -- is about to be removed.

Tomorrow -- September 15, 2006 -- my sister will drive me to the same hospital where another minor surgery will result in the removal of this same port and its accompanying parts. I will come home with a scar that will mark the spot symbolic of my cancer travels. Along with my healed lumpectomy incisions and my head full of new hair, this scar will remind me of where I've been and will not ever let me lose sight of where I'm going -- full steam ahead into a life I am blessed to have in front of me. A life that was never promised to me for any specific amount of time. A life I am going to wrap my arms around -- for every second, every minute, every breath I am lucky enough to take.

Several boxes containing injections of Neulasta have lined the bottom of my refrigerator for more than a year. They are left-overs from chemotherapy -- from a time when one needle pierced the skin on my arm after each chemo treatment to keep my blood counts in a safe range. I've looked at them day after day after day, and I've allowed them to sit in the same exact spot for all this time. But today, they are in the trash -- not because I made a conscious choice to throw them away but because water spilled all over the inside of my refrigerator and left them soggy and damaged. Surely I would not have used them in this condition, I thought -- so I tossed them. But really, I would not have used them anyway. They were old -- probably past their expiration date -- and I am not receiving chemotherapy anymore. I had absolutely no use for them. But I kept them for safety or comfort or some other impractical reason -- for the same reason I keep a basket full of old medication in my kitchen cupboard. It's all cancer-related -- most of it never touched because I don't really like taking medication, even when necessary. So this stock-piling tendency defies all logic for me. Until today -- when part of my past sits in a white trash bag, ready for the curb, and the rest of it is soon to be trashed. So I can continue moving forward. Away from cancer. For good.

My port -- that thing that pops up from under the skin on my collarbone, that thing that by default stays in place because I can't decide whether or not to remove it -- is now officially in maintenance mode, now that my treatment for breast cancer is complete. My last Herceptin infusion was on June 28. And my first port flush was today. For as long as I keep my port -- and for as long as it has no real use -- I must have it flushed one time each month. So today, I strolled into the cancer infusion center where I've spent many hours and this time spent just a few minutes -- enough time for my usual chemo nurse to puncture the skin on top of my port, push through a rather large needle, and inject a dose of blood thinner into the lines of the port to keep clots away. The whole procedure was harmless, painless, no big deal at all. And I will return one month from today for a repeat performance.

One day these once-a-month visits may become a hassle. After all, I have to find a place for this appointment in my already-busy schedule and find childcare for my kids and find a place to park. I have to numb my port and endure a needle stick and sometimes fight traffic to get home. And the whole trip to and from the cancer center takes longer than the procedure itself. Clearly, this may be a waste of time for a port I don't even need right now. But at the moment, this visit is just what I need while I sort out the details of my post-treatment world. I need to go back to the infusion center. I need the comfort of the drive. I need to feel part of the chemo community. I need medical people swirling around me. I need a bit of hand holding. For now anyway.

It's hard to describe the feelings that overwhelmed me during my bad days with cancer. I could call them consuming and crushing and sickening and frightening and crippling and still not completely cover all the bases. It's much easier to describe the feelings that overwhelmed me on my good days with cancer. I felt -- and still mostly feel this way -- happy and spunky and motivated and invigorated and fulfilled. And I felt loved -- because most of my bad days were turned around by the love of others. It was like clockwork. When I needed it most, a surprise awaited me in my mailbox or my inbox or on on the other side of my front door or on my front porch. These surprises strengthened me on my bad days -- and sometimes beyond the bad days. They still help me really -- because my memory of how they saved me from days of despair continues to fuel my good days. And here are seven of my special surprises.

Tomorrow is Independence Day. And I have been thinking all day today about all the freedom I have in my life at this exact moment in time. I have had the fortunate luxury to live for my entire life in the land of the free and the home of the brave -- to enjoy the pleasure of a country that is defended by courageous and selfless service men and woman and where I have opportunities that area boundless. I have had for the past five a half years the glorious freedom to stay at home with my children -- and the freedom, thanks to my husband who works to support us all, to avoid an all-encompassing and potentially stressful career. And recently, I have been enjoying two new freedoms -- one thanks to my three-year-old son who decided that he could in fact use the potty which has afforded me the thrilling freedom from changing diapers, smelling diapers, buying diapers, storing diapers, carrying diapers. He is my youngest child and his major feat has truly set me free from a way of life that has lingered on and on. But even more liberating than this -- which still is huge in my book -- is my new freedom from an almost-two-year journey through cancer treatment. My last infusion of cancer-fighting drugs sailed through my veins last week and I am now free to live my days without constant medical intervention. It's a freedom not all cancer patients get. A freedom I have never known. A freedom I will not take for granted, will not ever forget, will not ever stop enjoying. And while I will give special consideration to my freedom on each Independence Day that follows this one, I will really feel grateful each and every day for the independence that fills my world. It's a gift I would never return, never trade, never discard. It's a gift of a lifetime.

Someone once told me to think of cancer as a chronic condition -- an illness like diabetes or asthma that may linger for life and may require continual treatment. And while battling cancer, perhaps for life, I should just hope that medical advances occur and new treatments become available. And maybe, just maybe, the science of medicine will decrease by leaps and bounds the number of people who die from cancer.

During my own battle with cancer -- which has been 18 months long -- two new breast cancer drugs have hit the scene with rave reviews from researchers and medical professionals. This is good news for me because my type of breast cancer makes me a candidate for both drugs. Herceptin is one of these drugs -- given to women who are HER-2/neu positive -- that's me -- and over express a protein that makes the tumor aggressive. Herceptin is received over 52 weeks -- and I go every three weeks for a 90-minute infusion of this clear liquid that causes me really no side effects at all. It can be toxic to the heart but monitoring tests have revealed that my heart is not suffering at this time. And with just three more infusions to go -- one this Wednesday -- I will likely encounter no adverse reactions to this potentially life-saving drug.

And now Tykerb is making headlines. Tykerb, suggested for use with advanced breast cancer and manufactured by British-based GlaxoSmithKline PLC, is an experimental drug that delays the growth of tumors nearly twice as long as standard chemotherapy in patients who no longer respond to Herceptin. This finding, reported this past Saturday at a meeting in Atlanta of the American Society of Clinical Oncology, confirms initial findings about the promise of this drug -- that like Herceptin, made by Genentech, precisely targets tumors without killing lots of healthy cells. The difference between the two drugs is that Herceptin blocks the protein on the cell's surface and Tykerb does it inside the cell -- blocking a second abnormal protein too. And while Herceptin is given intravenously, Tykerb is given in pill form -- which may make it cheaper and easier to use.

While now part of an international study, Tykerb may be available to women in the United States later this year. And it perhaps will be offered in conjunction with Herceptin or instead of Herceptin for women with advanced breast cancer.

I hope I do not ever need Tykerb -- and that Herceptin alone will be enough for me -- but it is comforting to know that there is something else out there. Something that if necessary, just might help me live with this potentially chronic condition called cancer.