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.

She says it's all that really matters to her -- the time she spends with family. It comes before work and commitments and responsibilities. It shapes her minutes, her hours, her days. It brings her joy and laughter and sometimes tears. It propels her, comforts her, inspires her. And it shows -- in everything she does. And she does a lot. But most important, especially in light of today -- Grandparent's Day -- is what she does for her grandchildren who are too small to truly express what's in their little hearts but will surely one day shout from rooftops with joy about this woman who wraps them in love every day. But for now, these three children -- ages five, three, and almost two -- mostly just shout happily about all sorts of things that don't always make a lot of sense. So today, I will speak for them. I will say thank you to their Nana -- my mom -- who watches her granddaughter every day, picks up her grandson from kindergarten two times per week, takes all three kids on swimming adventures, babysits on a moment's notice, and has twice this year sat with her daughters for hours in emergency rooms with sick babies. And in addition to the fact that she was completely by my side during my breast cancer diagnosis and treatment, she was also somehow caring for my children -- her grandsons.

If my mom wasn't sitting with me during chemotherapy infusions, she was watching my boys so my husband could be with me. If she wasn't sitting with me in the hospital each time I was admitted with neutropenia, she was at home with my boys so my husband could sit with me. And when my husband had to rush me to the hospital with dangerous fevers, she arrived in the middle of the night, slept in my bed, and greeted my babies when they woke. She entertained my boys every day for seven weeks while I hauled myself to and from radiation appointments. During chemo, she took my kids when I was tired, foggy, incoherent and needed desperately to sleep. She did it all -- tirelessly, effortlessly, constantly.

And so on this Grandparent's Day, I realize that I owe this grandma for saving my life. By caring for the two most important people in my world, she allowed me to fight for my life -- and to come back to life. And there seems nothing really appropriate I can share with her for this gift she has given me. But I can say thank you. And one day, when they can eloquently express their own feelings, I know Jordan and Joey and Danny will all let their Nana know just how important she is. All day. Every day.

I was in the emergency room the other night with my three-year-old who was experiencing a mysterious leg pain that resulted from a bad case of strep throat. It wasn't serious enough to warrant swift movement from the waiting room to an actual room and we sat in a holding pattern with a crowd of other patients, some of whom were still waiting after Danny had been treated and released. I was told patients are served in the order in which they arrive but also according to the seriousness of their complaints -- which takes me back to the night I was in the ER with a fever, headache, sore throat, and sore gums. The night I was given a mask and was immediately escorted from the waiting room to a private room where doctors and nurses treated me for neutropenia -- a condition caused by chemotherapy and marked by a drop in neutrophil levels, a condition that puts chemotherapy patients at great risk for infection. This was the second time I went to the hospital for neutropenia. Both times I was admitted and treated for five days.

And so sitting in the ER reminded me about how serious chemotherapy side effects can be. And it makes me want to caution all chemotherapy patients to never dismiss the signs that the body is suffering -- to never tough it out with the hope that a good night's sleep or a few days rest will straighten everything out. Because it may not -- and the end result may be tragic.

All chemotherapy patients should be briefed by their medical teams about when to call for medical assistance. For me, a temperature of 100.4 was the magic call-for-help signal. And twice, I called for help -- once in the middle of the night. But any symptoms , and definitely a combination of symptoms, are cause enough for a simple phone call. So don't delay. Don't excuse warning signs that your body is struggling. Don't second-guess your decision to notify a medical professional about your symptoms. Just call. It could save your life.