Antiretroviral drugs, used to prevent HIV transmission from mother to child, are now believed to cause genetic damage in infants. This damage, leading to an increased risk of developing cancer, makes it highly plausible these children may be diagnosed with the disease in mid and late adulthood.

Two new studies indicate there are cancer-causing effects of transplacental exposure to AZT, an antiretroviral drug. These effects -- like increased incidence of tumors and tumors with genetic changes -- have been demonstrated in mice and rats and seem to be cause for concern in humans too.

"The cumulative mutagenesis data suggest that infants exposed transplacentally to AZT may be at increased risk for cancer as they age," said one researcher, whose findings are published in Environment and Molecular Mutagenesis.

I've read stories about women whose breast cancer diagnoses were delayed because they explained away certain symptoms. One woman, an athlete, was told by her husband one day that her nipple looked different from the other. "It's probably just the jog bra I've been wearing all day," she assured him. They both moved on.

Some time later, this woman learned that her different nipple was a sign of breast cancer. And she had it. She just didn't know it. And so her diagnosis came late. Eight years later, this young mother of two small children died from a disease she explained away.

This is normal -- the art of explaining away all the odd messages our bodies give us. Perhaps it's the stigma of whining about every little ache and pain that keeps us from pursuing immediate medical attention. It could be the likelihood that our complaints are pretty normal, so we refrain from rushing to judgment.

I'm practicing this well-established art right now. It's odd for me because I've already had breast cancer, and I am usually ultra-sensitive to every twinge of pain I feel. So when I woke this morning, with a tight and aching feeling in my chest, one would have thought I'd be racing out the door, headed for the nearest emergency room. I considered the fact that perhaps I need to be seen, that a chest X-ray might be in order, but I took no action -- because I explained the feeling away. It went something like this:

It must be the way I slept. I slept in a different bed, with one child and one dog, and I don't think I moved an inch all night.

The feeling gets less intense with time. At this moment, I can only feel something -- and it's very mild -- if I inhale deeply.

If I have the same feeling tomorrow morning, I will pursue it -- no, I won't pursue it just yet because I wont' be sleeping in my own bed for a few more nights. I'll wait until I get back to my own bed and see what happens. Maybe this bed is not good for me.

This goes on and on. For me, I think it happens because I suspect nothing really is wrong with me. Perhaps I am dismissing something serious but mostly, I'm chalking this behavior to progress. Because there was a day when I ran to the dentist for a bump on the roof of my mouth -- it was nothing -- and I cried to get myself a next-day mammogram for some lumpy tissue I was convinced was cancer -- it wasn't -- and now, I am happy to feel more like a normal person. I am happy to have perfected my new art, which incidentally I will abandon in an instant if the discomfort persists.

My husband says he's had this feeling before when getting out of bed. I think I'm going to be OK.

It's been one year since Dana Reeve, wife of the late Christopher Reeve, died of lung cancer at the age of 44. And the grace of this woman, who came to represent the non-smoking population of lung cancer victims, is being honored by the Lung Cancer Alliance.

"Lung Cancer Alliance extends its most heartfelt thoughts to the family
and friends of Dana Reeve," says Laurie Fenton, president of the alliance.

"Dana's beauty, grace and valiant struggle against lung cancer will remain indelibly etched in our hearts and minds. In her memory -- and in the memory of loved ones lost to this disease, smoker or not -- let us come together to replace decades of stigma and neglect with hope, greater compassion and support for those living with or at risk for this disease. It is the right thing to do."

The Lung Cancer Alliance is the only national non-profit organization dedicated to patient support and advocacy for those living with lung cancer, the number one cancer killer.

Lung cancer takes more lives -- about 160,000 Americans this year -- than breast, prostate, colon, liver, kidney cancers and melanoma combined.

Today I watched a video of myself. I was interviewing my grandmother about her 83 years worth of memories -- a project my husband and I dreamed up so that my grandma's life story would live on long after her death.

The video was taped in May 2000, three years before my grandma died and four and a half years before I was diagnosed with cancer. My hair was long and blond and straight, like it had been since I was a little girl, and it was twisted and clipped on the top of my head. I instantly longed for this hair -- and for my grandma too -- and just as I was convincing myself that my post-chemotherapy dark, curly hair was merely a new phase of my life -- much like the phase of living without my grandma -- my six-year-old son entered the room, looked at the TV screen and said, "Mommy, I really like your hair like that."

"I do too," I told Joey.

"Can you get it back?" he said.

"No, I can't get it back," I replied, knowing that I would never bleach my hair back to its original natural color and that the forces of nature will forever prevent me from removing the curl that today looked somewhat like what frames a lion's face.

So, no, I can't get my hair back. And I can't get my grandma back. But I am thankful for the video that captures us together, talking and laughing and remembering. And should my own grandchildren ever wish to interview me when I am 83 years old, I will definitely tell them about my sweet and spunky grandma and all of her touching stories. And I will tell them about the great blond hair I had the privilege of wearing for the first 34 years of my life.

Ovarian cancer is often found in advanced stages. Detecting the cancer at the early stages is difficult because the vague symptoms are often missed by physicians who may think other causes are responsible.

A new screening test can help physicians detect ovarian cancer by offering the patients a checklist of symptoms. As many as 90 percent of ovarian cancers can be cured if detected in the early stages. Patients need to know what symptoms to look out for and track the frequency of the symptoms they are experiencing.

The symptoms on the checklist included pelvic and abdominal pain, urinary frequency and urgency, increased abdominal size or bloating; and difficultly eating or feeling full. The screening test picked up early stage ovarian cancer 57 percent of the time, and advanced staged disease 80 percent of the time.

Sherry Salway Black, executive director of the Ovarian Cancer National Alliance and a survivor of the disease, said the screening test could change how people think about ovarian cancer. "There is not a lot of general public awareness of the symptoms and risk factors" Black said. "Giving women more information and helping them to be more informed about their own health is critical"

If we made no further progress in breast cancer research from this day on, the number of women dying from breast cancer five years from now would still drop substantially because we've progressed so much over the past few years, says MD Eric Winer in the October 2006 issue of Oprah magazine. Winer, director of the Breast Oncology Center at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and associate professor of medicine at Harvard Medical School, is right. There has been a lot of progress. Breast cancer research is on a roll. And here are seven reasons why.

A few days ago I posted about Cathy's EC Cafe. It's a webpage designed to help those diagnosed with esophageal cancer. In that post I mentioned one of the stories I liked on the webpage written by a six year esophageal cancer survivor named Barry Bokhaut. I decided to email Barry and talk to him about his experience and any advice he might have for those diagnosed.

I think Barry's story is inspirational and can help others newly diagnosed know that survival is possible even though the statistics look grim. According to the American Cancer Society 13,770 of the 14,550 estimated cases of esophageal cancer in 2006 will die of their disease. At the current time only less than 20 percent of patients survive five years.

Barry answered the question as to why esphageal cancer is so hard to cure. "Esophageal cancer's low survival rates is in a large part due to the fact that the symptoms are very benign, and the disease is often very advanced before doctors properly diagnose it. Far too many people are told by their doctors that they are suffering from heart burn or indigestion, and are given antacids. By the time the difficultly in swallowing manifests, and the doctors get around to a full diagnostic workup, the disease is very established and extremely difficult to deal with, as it spreads quickly."

On Friday, I was full of anxiety and panic and worry -- all over a lump I feel in my left breast that my oncologist says is probably just scar tissue from my lumpectomy two years ago. I don't like the word probably and the more I thought about it, the more unsettled I became. Too many young women hear that the suspicious bumps and lumps they detect in their breasts are nothing to worry about -- and too many women go on to later discover that these same bumps and lumps are in fact cancer. Sometimes it's in enough time to treat the cancer -- and sometimes it's too late.

I am a young woman -- 36 years old -- and I have already had breast cancer. I do not wish to obsess for my entire life about cancer but when I feel a lump in my breast, I want to know it is definitely nothing to worry about. Or I want to know that it is definitely something to worry about -- so I can treat it early.

So when I first got a mammogram and ultrasound appointment scheduled for a week from Friday, I accepted it and wrote it down in my calendar. And then panic set in. I realized I could not wait one week and that I should be able to demand a quicker response. So I called my doctor's office, spoke to the receptionist through uncontrollable tears, and somehow ended up with the doctor herself on the phone. "What's wrong?" she said. "I'm freaking out," I told her. "What do you want to do?" she asked. "Do you want to come in right now?" She told me she had a busy day, had a biopsy to perform that would take a while, but that I could come hang out in her office until she could get to me. Or I could come in on Monday, she said. I let myself calm down a bit and told her Monday would be good. She asked me what time I wanted to come -- she offered me any time that fit my schedule. I chose 9:00 AM.

So tomorrow morning, I will find out what exactly sits underneath the skin on my left breast, near my armpit -- what exactly it is that feels to me like a little mound of tissue that just doesn't seem right. Maybe it's scar tissue -- and I hope it is -- and maybe it's something else. I can only hope that at the end of my appointment I look foolish for pursuing something that doesn't deserve the attention I'm giving it. But if it does deserve attention, I will know I've done the right thing by vigorously pursuing an appointment I just couldn't wait one week for.

A reader left a comment the other day on the Cancer Blog post death by cancer dims outlook of promise, hope, survival. It was positive and supportive and inspiring -- and sad too. The reader shared that her mother passed away in February after a year-long battle with gallbladder cancer. She wrote that her mother handled her diagnosis, chemotherapy, transfusions, medications -- and her final days -- with true grace. And this is a big deal. Because there is not much information floating around on the topic of this cancer. So this woman didn't have much to cling to. Like I do. As a breast cancer survivor, I have mounds of resources at my disposal. I have books and magazines and websites and blogs that devote generous coverage to breast cancer. There are walks and runs and yard sales and fashion shows and other fundraisers that make breast cancer survivors the lucky recipients of extensive research and study. I see pink ribbons all over town and license plates on the roads and clothing and hats and even tennis shoes that promote breast cancer awareness. I could go on -- and on and on.

Gallbladder cancer is rare. So perhaps that's why there is not an abundance of information on the disease that has no known cause or test to detect its presence in the body. The American Cancer Society estimates that about 8,750 new cases of gallbladder cancer and bile duct cancer (excluding bile ducts within the liver) will be diagnosed in 2006 in the United States. And about 3,260 people will die of these cancers in 2006. Of these new cases and deaths, about half are due to gallbladder cancer, which affects predominantly women and those who are older than 65. Diagnosis of this cancer is difficult because symptoms do not often surface until the late stages when aggressive treatment becomes necessary. Surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation therapy are typical treatment tools, along with palliative therapy to help control or reduce symptoms. There are also drugs currently under study in the areas of both targeted therapy and immunotherapy.

It's good to know that gallbladder cancer is rare -- and that it takes far fewer lives than breast cancer and other diseases -- but for the unfortunate ones who are diagnosed with this life-threatening illness, the lack of information and resources is a truly an unfortunate side effect.

Every promising drug therapy has a potential dark side. Hycamtin -- topotecan hydrochloride -- a cancer-fighting drug used to treat patients with ovarian and lung cancer, has received FDA approval for treatment of late-stage cervical cancer. When surgery or radiation is not a viable option for women diagnosed with recurrent or incurable cervical cancer, Hycamtin can be added to cisplatin as a combination chemotherapy drug therapy shown to provide life-lengthening benefit.

Combining Hycamtin with cisplatin is not a cure, and in clinical trials showed an additional survival benefit of three months when compared to treatment with cisplatin alone. Who would not choose to live as long as possible, even if you are measuring life in months? However, the combination drug therapy is likely to increase the risk in lowering white cell counts, decreasing blood platelets, inducing nausea, vomiting, diarrhea and hair loss. Quantity of life versus quality of life is the dark side of this drug therapy promise. One woman might choose quantity of life, and another woman choose quality of life. There is no wrong or right but when making a choice it needs to be made with eyes wide open.

For more information, there is a Hycamtin website offering information on how the chemotherapy drug is administered and the side effects a woman can expect during treatment. While it is written for ovarian and lung cancer patients, I believe the basic over all information should be the same for cervical cancer patients.

Thanks to Joel Arellano of Autoblog for this news tip!

European women diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer with tumors that over-express the HER2 protein will now be receiving the sought after, and fought for, drug Herceptin. Six years ago, the drug, known to reduce the risk of recurrence of breast cancer by 46 percent, was approved for women with late-stage HER2 breast cancer, but not for women in the early-stages of the same cancer. In the UK, there have been public protests and almost daily headline news over women being denied access to the drug through the universal health care medical coverage plans. Depending on where a woman lived, some breast cancer patients were receiving Herceptin, while other women were not getting the drug.

Joanne Rule, head of UK charity Cancerbackup is quoted as saying, "Breast cancer patients across England and Wales are currently experiencing a dreadful postcode lottery; denied Herceptin because of where they live or how exceptional their lives are deemed to be. This can stop now."