I hate it when I fit the mold for some not-so-great research finding. Like the recent news about how women with early-stage cancer of the left breast (that's me) who are treated with radiation following lumpectomy (me again) face an increased risk of developing radiation-related coronary damage.

OK, so the benefits of radiation therapy still outweigh the risks. Still, when radiation is applied to the breast on the same side as the heart, there are worries. I knew about these concerns. My radiation oncologist addressed them prior to my treatment. Hearing that an actual, important, convincing study confirms what I already knew may be a side effect, though, makes my heart race a little bit more.

There were 961 women with stage I and II breast cancer who were followed in this study. Well, the arteries in their hearts were studied anyway. Some had left-sided breast cancer; the others had right-sided. Some 12 years after radiation, 46 of the 485 left-sided women and 36 of the right-sided group needed cardiac stress testing. Among those tested, 59 percent in the left-sided group had abnormalities. Only 8 percent in the right-sided group showed problems.

Left-handed women under the age of 50 are more than twice as likely to develop breast cancer than those who are right-hand dominant.

What?

Yep, that's what a new study reveals.

This left-handed conclusion, published in the journal Epidemiology, comes from the study of 12,000 women in the Netherlands whose medical histories were followed for 13 years. Discounting all other factors -- lifestyle, environment, and other disease -- left-handers came up with a risk of breast cancer 1.39 times that of right-handers. For pre-menopausal women, the figure climbed to 2.41.

I know just how Jon Lester feels as he survives the cancer that took him out of the game of baseball and threw him into the arms of the medical system.

It's not the baseball I can identify with. It's the little bit of cancer fear that never really goes away. And it's the will to return to the land of the living that Lester and I share.

"When you're laying in bed at night, when you're not doing anything, you think about it a little bit," he says. "As long as I keep busy, I'm all right. Every now and again I feel something and go, `OK, what was that?' but I try not to think about it too much."

Lately, Lester is thinking mostly about a return to Boston's pitching staff, less than six months after a cancer curve ball came right at him, threatening both his promising career and his life.

Lester, whose weight was down to 190 during chemotherapy, is back up to 212 -- five pounds less than his normal weight -- and his arms are powerful, his legs strong, his appearance healthy.

As a rookie last year, Lester became the first Red Sox left-hander to win his first five decisions. He was 7-2 with a 4.76 ERA when cancer came crashing into his world. Diagnosed with anaplastic large cell lymphoma in August, Lester received treatment at both the Dana Farber Cancer Institute in Boston and at his hometown Hutchinson Cancer Research Center in Seattle. His last chemotherapy dose was delivered on December 4. His last check-up was in January. And now, newly 23 and cancer-free, Lester is ready to play ball.

Lester is prepared for his coaching staff to hold him back. He says he can tell everyone until he's blue in the face that he's ready but he knows the staff has his best interests in mind. He trusts their professional opinions, and he'll accept a return to the minors if that's what is in store for him.

"I'm not as hard on myself as I was last year," he said. "It's just a matter of enjoying playing baseball and not necessarily the result. So (I'm) just trying to enjoy things and take it day by day and live my life the best I can."

Former NASCAR champion Benny Parsons, hospitalized on December 26 due to complications from lung cancer, died today in Charlotte, North Carolina after a short battle with the disease. He was 65.

Parsons, who had not smoked since 1978, was diagnosed with cancer in his left lung in July 2006. He underwent aggressive chemotherapy and radiation and announced in October that he was in remission. But the intensive treatment rendered his left lung useless and then a blood clot appeared in his right lung, prompting his admission to the hospital where he spent his remaining days in an induced coma.

Parsons was confident he could survive with one lung and compared his condition to that of John Wayne.

"John Wayne lived and had a great career with one lung," he said. "There is no reason why I can't do the same. It will take a little while for the right lung to pull the weight for the left lung so until then I will still need to use oxygen when I walk. I won't need it sitting or commentating races and to me that is the main thing. If given a choice between cancer or losing a lung I would say that I got the right end of the deal."

Parson's intense spirit was his trademark. It motivated him to rise from a poor childhood, leave behind a taxi driving job, and head straight to the top of NASCAR. His success is marked by his 1994 induction into the International Motorsports Hall of Fame and his 1995 induction into the National Motorsports Press Association's Stock Car Racing Hall of Fame.

One of NASCAR's 50 greatest drivers and the 1973 champion, Parsons retired from racing in 1988 and headed straight into a broadcasting career. He spent the past six years as a commentator for NBC and TNT and even continued to call races from the booth during his treatment. He hosted a weekly radio program and kept fans updated on his condition on his very own blog.

Judging by the comments left for Parsons on a January 8th post about his hospitalization, there was an abundance of love for this man, nicknamed BP by the NASCAR community.

"He was a great driver and a terrific broadcaster, but above anything else he was a kind and generous human being," said Dick Ebersol, chairman of NBC Sports. "His character and spirit will define how he is remembered by all of us. Benny will be sorely missed."

Parson's death comes eight days after the death of NASCAR driver and Truck Series Champion Bobby Hamilton.

Just before my radiation therapy began, my oncologist ran through a long list of potential side effects I might experience from the treatment. The only two significant short-term possibilities were fatigue and burned, blistered skin -- I went on to encounter them both -- but there were other more long-term effects my doctor told me might one day creep up on me.

She told me the range of motion in my arm might be compromised -- it was -- and that lymphedema or swelling could occur -- not yet -- and that I could feel numbness and tingling in my arm -- I do -- and that I should forever take precautions on the left side of my body. No needle sticks, no blood pressure cuffs, no excessive lifting -- all because of radiation and the missing lymph nodes that further complicate matters.

My doctor also told me that while radiation would target one intended area -- my left breast, just where my cancer was found -- other areas would suffer some degree of exposure. My heart, my lung, and my ribs all bordered the location of my tumor and despite measures to protect these areas, they would be zapped, at least minimally.

This all seemed a bit overwhelming 18 months ago when it came barreling at me. But something fortunate happened with the passage of time -- I began to forget about most of this. And while this a blessing really -- to not be burdened by the what ifs -- I realized yesterday when my three-year-old son kicked me with all the force he could muster right in my ribcage that I really must remember the side effects of radiation -- because they could serve to haunt me at any moment.

I remember clearly now my oncologist telling me that my ribcage could be damaged by radiation in such a way that an injury to the area could easily result in broken ribs. But I don't think about this regularly. And I wasn't thinking of it when I snuggled up to my 35-pound baby boy, knowing full well he could strike at any time. But not until he struck did I recall one of the downsides of radiation.

I feel happy and healthy and strong. Like cancer never landed in my lap and threw me for a loop. But somewhere in the back of my chemo brain -- an entirely different side effect story -- I must remember the dangers of the treatments that are keeping me alive. Because the last thing I want is another complication from cancer. I just want smooth sailing -- and smooth snuggling.

Women whose wedding dresses are created by bridal gown designer Aimee Lauren get a little something extra when they purchase their dream dresses. They get something of a twist -- a pink twist, in the form of a ribbon.

Each of Lauren's brides gets a pink breast cancer ribbon sewn on the inside lining over the left breast of their custom gowns -- a reminder for them to check their breasts for life. It's Lauren's way of saying, don't forget, please don't forget.

Most of Lauren's clients are young -- in their 20s and 30s -- and are not thinking of breast cancer. But they should be. Because breast cancer happens to young women -- like Lauren, who was diagnosed with the disease at a young age and in the midst of climbing the New York fashion ladder. She found a lump in her left breast during a monthly self exam. And now she is forever diligent about breast cancer awareness and early detection.

At fittings, Lauren never misses the opportunity to educate her brides about taking charge of their own health.

"I don't ever want to hear somebody say ever again that it doesn't happen to young people," she says. " It can happen to anyone."

I still can't believe I got breast cancer. I really can't believe it's been two years since my whole journey began.

I found a lump in my breast on November 16, 2004. It took eight days of doctoring and worry before the mystery that lingered beneath the skin of my left breast unfolded.

Ever since that November day, I have been documenting my struggles and triumphs with a disease that turned my life upside down.

It all started exactly like this.

On November 16, 2004, I felt a lump in my left breast while taking a shower. I have always been aware of what my breasts feel like. I have a lot of dense tissue -- so dense that the surgeon who performed my breast reduction had trouble separating the tissue to take some out and leave some in.

My breasts always seem lumpy to me and I never knew if I'd be able to tell the difference between normal and abnormal tissue. Four years ago I had a mammogram because of something I felt. It all turned out fine -- it was just the dense tissue. All of my annual GYN visits have revealed nothing abnormal. But I've always been aware and curious which is why I found something in the shower. I knew it was not normal.

It was hard and felt like a small green pea. It moved around and for the first few days, I had a hard time locating it. Once I became obsessed with it, I could find it immediately.

NOTE: This post was written prior to the announcement that Freddy Fender passed away on Saturday at the age of 69. A more detailed post concerning his death will follow.

Grammy award winning musician Freddy Fender, 69, was released Thursday from the hospital and is now resting at his home in South Texas. He is battling lung cancer and while he is at home now, sources say he is gravely ill as a result of treatment and a recent blood infection.

Fender has wanted to share a public statement but is just not up to it. His wife, Vangie Huerta, and his spokesperson, Ron Rogers, are speaking on his behalf. Both report the cancer that started in Fender's left lung has spread to his body. Fender has been ill for some time -- with both diabetes and hepatitis C. He also received a kidney from his daughter in 2002 and underwent a liver transplant in 2004.

Born Baldemar Huerta in 1937, Fender has won three Grammy awards, the most recent in 2002. His music career began in the late 1950s with the hits Before the Next Teardrop Falls, Wasted Days and Wasted Nights and You'll Lose a Good Thing.

My mammogram and ultrasound today revealed nothing but normal, healthy tissue. The doctor said my pictures looked beautiful -- and she could find not one thing to worry about. She really looked for something -- because I was convinced there was something wrong when I found a lump-like bump in my left breast two weeks ago. So convinced that I was riddled with anxiety and panic and fear. But now I am happy and content once again -- and relieved that my fears were unfounded.

The explanation my doctor offered for the lumpiness I detected goes like this: my breast has been swollen and plump ever since my lumpectomy and radiation over the course of almost two years. Slowly, the swelling is disappearing and so all the tissue hidden under the plumpness is coming to the surface. It's always been there -- she could see it when she looked at my previous mammograms -- but I haven't noticed. Now, it's become more apparent as my breast returns to its normal size and shape. And so it seemed new to me. And suspicious. And wrong. But it's okay. It's normal. It's nothing to worry about.

And so I am not worried. I am settled and calm and thrilled to be surviving breast cancer, without fear that the disease is coming back. At least for today.

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.

I guess it was my decision to remove my port -- now that my chemotherapy is over and there is no more treatment in store for me -- that prompted a surge of worry deep in my gut. A worry that is heightened today about an odd spot of tissue in my left breast that my oncologist told me one week ago was nothing to worry about, was probably just scar tissue from the lumpectomy that was performed in just about the same location as this spot.

For one week, I have tried to be okay with this assessment -- that it is nothing to worry about -- but this is not in my nature really. Especially since my first lump -- the one that turned out to be cancer -- was also nothing to worry about, according to a few doctors. But a mammogram and ultrasound determined otherwise and prompted my two-year journey with treatment for breast cancer.

And now that my journey is slowing and approaching a stop and my port is ready to come out, I am worried about something that just does not feel right. So I made a call to the medical person who knows how to steer me through the system, and I will soon get a mammogram and ultrasound to figure out exactly what is going on. And then I can move forward -- with my surgery on September 15 to remove my port or with a detour on my journey with breast cancer.

Did you know, statistically, that one out of every 10,000 patients who have surgery leave the operating room with a surgical sponge or other foreign object inside their body? While this type of unfortunate incidence is rare, it does happen and there are people attempting to come up with a way to make sure the odds of it happening are reduced to zero.

One solution being considered is the placement of a radiofrequency ID (RFID) chip in surgical sponges. At the end of surgery, a wand to detect the chip is waved over the patient. The wand would alert the surgical staff if a sponge has been left in the body of the patient.

The current method involves a sponge count. Sponges are counted before surgery and then counted again at the end of surgery. But, according to the researchers, counting is susceptible to human error. At this time, they are working out the cost-effectiveness of the chip in surgical sponges -- and how they would go about changing work flow in the operating room.