I remember a time when I visited tanning salons and was assured by those working the front desks that tanning beds were safer than the sun. Many years later, I know this is entirely untrue.

Think about this:

The New Zealand Cancer Society experts say sunbeds should never be used as a tanning method because the risk of skin cancer is too great.

Tanning bed UV radiation is five times stronger than UV from the sun, says one doctor who also suggests people wrongly assume sunbeds are safer than the sun. Instead, they place individuals at significant risk for harm. In fact, the risk of developing melanoma, the deadliest from of skin cancer, increases by 75 percent for those who use a tanning bed before the age of 35.

The Cancer Society, wishing to ban the use of sunbeds for anyone under age 18, has commissioned further research into the use of this deadly practice.

Its never too late to quit smoking, says a new study conducted by researchers at the University of Texas M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. Its even beneficial if you have already been diagnosed with lung cancer.

The research showed that those who quit smoking after being diagnosed became less severely impaired by the disease than those that continued to smoke. The ability for the person to care for themselves and handle daily routines was increased when they gave up the habit.

Even though the study did not show an increased survival benefit for those that quit, they noted that continued smoking may deteriorate a lung cancer patient's quality of life by starving their tissues of oxygen, which worsens outcomes from chemotherapy and radiation.

Don't ever think its pointless to quit!

On Saturday, my three-year-old threw a tantrum like never before. His daddy was departing for a football game, and he was not happy. He wanted him to stay home. He wanted to go with him. He just wanted him.

Danny clung to my husband with every ounce of energy he could muster, and his full-force fit came just as I peeled his strong little fingers off my husband's hand, allowing him to escape through the garage door. Danny tried to escape too so I locked and chained the door. He responded by hitting, banging, and beating the door and screaming with all his might. No amount of reasoning could penetrate this all-out display of emotion, so I carried Danny like a sack of kicking potatoes into his room where I plopped him into his bed. I told him he could come out of his room when he was ready to be nice, when he could say something other than, "Mommy, you are not my best friend anymore." It didn't take long for Danny to calm down. But he didn't come out of the room. He fell asleep. And then my house was quiet.

Enter my five-year-old who decided he wanted to watch TV while his brother napped. TV watching would have guaranteed me some down time, but I don't really prefer this mindless activity. Just as I was trying to think of something productive Joey and I could do together -- coloring, painting, reading -- Joey announced, "Let's put up our Christmas tree!" Now? In early November? Almost six weeks before we will actually celebrate this festive occasion? This request was not really consistent with my holiday planning schedule and my initial thought was to squash the idea -- because it didn't fit into my grand plan of putting up the tree just a few weeks before Christmas.

Planning is one of my strengths. And one of my weaknesses. Sometimes it's good. Sometimes it's too stifling, too rigid. So in the spirit of the my new after-cancer-worldview, characterized by the guiding principle of tomorrow is never a guarantee, I considered Joey's enthusiasm for holiday decorating and realized his plan would just give us more time to really enjoy the season that always makes me happy. So I told Joey, "Yes, we can put up our Christmas tree."

After a trip to the attic where I wrestled with all sorts of junk and managed to gather all the necessary Christmas parts, Joey and I spent hours perfecting our tree. And when Danny woke up, he joined us and happily placed ornament after ornament on the same exact tree branch. And when we were done, we admired our sparkling tree in all its glory. On a warm, sunny day in Florida. On November 11.

Tis the season.

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.

When I first started going to counseling, I was told I would need eight to 10 sessions of cognitive behavioral therapy to help me deal with my anxiety, my panic, my fear of breast cancer recurrence. My first session was in May 2005 -- and I am still going. Those initial sessions are possibly all I really needed -- and perhaps I could have stopped the therapy long ago. But stopping never came up and no one told me I had to call it quits so I kept on marching into territory I had never before traveled. I have a degree in counseling -- but I'd never been counseled. I know how to listen to others and share empathy and ask open-ended questions -- but I'd never been the one talking and sharing and venting and crying and answering questions. Until last May -- when I discovered the appeal and the comfort of the counseling chair.

I marched into one of my sessions yesterday and plopped into a brown faux leather recliner. I talked about my recent graduation from Herceptin therapy and about how I might manage in life now that treatment is over. I talked about my jobs -- as a writer and a preschool teacher -- and how they fit into my world. I talked about the level of stress in my days and about how my once constant fear that cancer was trailing me has largely diminished. I talked about how breast cancer is no longer my constant companion -- about how it is now just an acquaintance. And I talked about how counseling was once so necessary and about how it is now just a luxury that helps me maintain peace as I live forward.

I am not sure when I will stop going to counseling. But I'm not completely sure of much anymore. And I've learned from counseling to not really question the future -- to just live in the moment and to give thought primarily to the here and now. And right here, right now, I'm sticking with my sessions, my one hour every month, my comforting counseling chair.

For the almost two years I have been receiving treatment for breast cancer, I have traveled the same path -- over and over and over again -- from my house to the hospital and back again. And while I have seen different doctors and received different treatments and visited various departments and locations for all sorts of surgeries and tests and scans and X-rays, the path has remained the same. And after all the time that has passed, the power of the path has never diminished -- despite how familiar it has become.

Today I drove from my house to the hospital for a counseling appointment. I drove the same stretch of highway for a few miles, got off on my usual exit, drove for a few more miles past all the typical shopping centers and restaurants, and came to the light where I always turn left into the Cancer Center. I drove into the parking lot, found a parking space -- thankfully -- and displayed my yellow patient parking permit that allows to park without fear of a $20 ticket. I got out of my car and began my walk to the main hospital where the psychology clinic is located. I passed -- as usual -- the startling crowds of people smoking outside the Cancer Center, the groups of medical students who gather outside the medical facilities, the masses of people in white coats racing around and checking beepers and talking on cell phones. I entered the hospital, traveled to the ground floor, and turned a few corners until I reached my clinic. I checked in, paid my $25 co-pay, and waited for a just a few minutes until I was greeted by my counselor. We walked to a private room, talked for an hour, and then I followed my path in reverse.

The path is always the same. It is routine and predictable and rarely varies. But it has never become dull and I have never become numb to it -- because the power that is wrapped up in my drive and my subsequent steps that take me to and from my destinations still has a tight hold on me. I can travel the same path for other purposes -- to shop or have dinner -- and the power is lost. But when I travel for reasons all about cancer, the power overwhelms me. It happened today -- as I drove listening to the same CD I always play on these missions, as tears filled my eyes. I was not sad -- just overflowing with emotion. Emotion about all that I've encountered -- the encounters with fear and dread and total repulsion and the encounters with hope and joy and pure contentment. Today I felt powerful. Simply powerful. Because I have overcome what has faced me so far and because I am still traveling the same road, the same path to ensure my future health and well-being -- which is something I hope to become all too familiar with.