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.

I've had my very own extreme makeover. And while it has nothing to do with cosmetic plastic surgery or an overhaul on my house, it's been an appearance-altering and life-changing event. I'll call it my Extreme Makeover: Cancer Edition.

Stop One

The first stop on my extreme makeover tour came compliments of a lumpectomy -- to remove one cancerous tumor in my breast along with four lymph nodes. I was left with two scars that travel underneath my armpit, a bit of scar tissue buried beneath the skin, and a tinge of numbness that comes and goes without warning.

Stop Two

My second stop brought me a port -- to save my veins and ease the infusion of chemotherapy -- which for more than a year allowed me to look a bit like an alien. A foreign object sewn under the skin of my collarbone popped up something like a tracking device that identified my whereabouts. Now surgically removed, my port has been discarded. A scar marks the one-time location of this wondrous apparatus.

Stop Three

The third facet of my makeover was quite extreme -- is still quite extreme. It happened like clockwork -- 13 days after my very first chemotherapy treatment -- and while I knew it would happen, the shock of total hair loss was not minimized in any way, shape, or form by predictability. And the shock of my new dark, curly hair with a sprinkling of gray -- that replaced my blond, straight hair -- amazes me every time I look in the mirror.

Stop Four

For four months, I lost my menstrual cycle to chemotherapy -- not such a bad deal except for the hot flashes that arrived for the same four-month period. When my cycles returned, they were unpredictable and much more intense than ever before. They are still problematic.

Stop Five

Surgery and radiation limited the range of motion in my left arm. Physical therapy helped some, and weight training helps too. But my arm is permanently affected by the attempts to save my life.

Stop Six

Just when I thought my makeover journey was coming to an end, my mind told me otherwise. Bouts of fogginess, forgetfulness, and just plain odd behavior marked the beginning of what researchers now call chemo brain. The plentiful drugs that cycled through my body for almost two years are playing tricks on my brain.

Stop Seven

And to cope with it all -- my scars, my hair, my confusing cycles, my tightened arm, and my chemo brain -- I made one last stop at the pharmacy for an anti-depressant. Prescribed so that I could become accustomed to my new life after cancer, my Zoloft keeps me calm and peaceful and happy. And one day, when I have adjusted to all that has changed in my world, I will wean myself off this potion.

I am not sure I would ever elect to alter my appearance -- although I am sometimes tempted by a tummy tuck to remove what two more-than-10-pound babies left with me.

Mostly, I think cancer has done enough to reshape and redesign my whole self. And while I didn't wish for any of my cancer changes, I think they help me define me. They tell a story -- of challenge and hardship and victory and survival. For as long as I am alive, for as long as my extreme makeover is visible, it will be clear that I have conquered something great and powerful. And that makes me proud.

Before my radiation for breast cancer, I heard horror stories about the treatment. I heard that I might be extremely tired and severely burned and that I might feel generally unwell for the time it would take to completely zap any and all traces of cancer surrounding my breast. But my own radiation wasn't all that bad -- and really, the worst part of the whole therapy for me was the drive to and from the cancer center every day for seven weeks. It was a hassle, a nuisance, a bother. There were other small annoyances throughout the course of my radiation, but they were minimal -- thanks to some secrets that were shared with me along the scorching path of radiation and beyond. And here are seven of them.

"The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated." -- Mark Twain

According to several international news services and tabloid newspapers with an online presence, Elizabeth Taylor, legendary movie star and cancer survivor, is suffering heart failure and near death. Reported to be bedridden at her home in Bel Air, California, she is said to have cancelled her annual Easter party to plan her funeral. According to an unnamed friend, "Liz is inching closer to death every day and she knows it. It is not a pretty picture. She's not leaving a lot of money to her children. She wants the bulk of her fortune to go to AIDS research." I guess dying isn't enough of a news story, a publisher decided to add this scurrilous gossipy little comment from an anonymous friend on how her estate will be settled. Other than her attorneys and estate planners, I doubt few know the status of her will.

Her publicist, Dick Guttman, states that Taylor is not near death, and is instead, quite busy with her successful perfume and jewelry lines and the work she does for AIDS. "The endless health stories surrounding Taylor's supposed impending death," Guttman says, "have just become exasperating." Mark Twain predicted this one right. I cannot find any credible reports indicating that Guttman is playing smoke and mirrors with the public. All the reports of Taylor's impending death do seem to be coming from very specific, and perhaps slightly questionable, sources for news information. My vote for accuracy goes to Guttman. We send her our best wishes for continued good health.