It's funny the random things you remember from your past. I was thinking the other day of a guy I went to high school with, who told us one day that, seeing as his uncle and grandpa both died of cancer, there was no doubt in his mind that he would too. 'He's fishing for sympathy', I scribbled furiously to a friend, 'What a whiner'. I'm not nearly as judgmental in adulthood, but some things don't change: I still don't like that kind of negative thinking. Yeah, my dad, grandparents and aunts died of cancer, but so what? I'm not them.

What reminded me of that story was this one, about Shirley McQueen, who's seen 14 relatives -- including all of the women in her family -- die of breast cancer. She says she feels like she's 'standing in the middle of the M25 waiting for a lorry to hit her', and with those odds, I don't blame her. But I truly believe in the power of positive thinking, and if I were in a similar situation, I hope with every fiber of my being that I can muster up enough faith to steadfastly ascertain that cancer will not, under any circumstances, be the end of me, like I've seen so many brave survivors do. I think without that sort of hope, we're just a bunch of lost souls, floundering, preparing for death and not looking towards the future.

How have you found hope in your battle with cancer?

A few days ago, notification of an e-mail arrived in my inbox. It popped up right in front of me, with the sender's name -- Amy Wilson -- glaring in black print right before my eyes. Amy is my friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer just after my own diagnosis. We e-mailed frequently about our cancer hopes and fears and so it was never before odd that a message would travel from her computer in Ohio to mine in Florida. But on the day this one e-mail arrived, it was odd -- because Amy died two weeks ago, after a 15-month battle with the disease we both vowed to conquer.

The e-mail was not from Amy. It was from her husband, Paul. And it was as comforting to hear from him as it was odd to see Amy's name flash in front of me. You see, I have wanted to call Paul, e-mail Paul, send a card to Paul -- something. I have wanted to reach out in some way, even though I have never met the man who thought he would spend the rest of his life raising his two children with Amy. But I never could figure out what I would write or say or send. I have been afraid that it would be hard for him to talk about Amy's death. I've been afraid that it would be hard for me to talk about her death. So I have waited, hoping the passage of time would help prepare me for some sort of action. And in the end, time was not necessary. Because Paul reached out to me. And this is what he wrote in the e-mail he sent from Amy's mailbox.


And now I can contact Paul, because he has opened the door. He -- the one suffering the greatest loss -- has comforted me. And now I need to thank him.

I have heard the term chemobrain many times -- even here at The Cancer Blog when Dalene wrote about it. And I've started using the terminology myself -- to explain my new-found odd behavior. Like when I put a carton of ice cream in the refrigerator with no recollection of it. And when I took a cap off a pen, couldn't find it, and discovered it on top of an egg carton in the refrigerator. I don't think this is a refrigerator theme -- just a coincidence -- because I've also lost a clipboard at work, forgotten to hand a guest her glass of water immediately after I prepared it, lost library books and movies, and failed to remember responsibilities time and time again. This may seem like minor forgetfulness -- this is what my oncologist believes may be at work -- but for me, this is odd. I have always had a good memory, have always delivered on my promises, and have never felt as scattered as I do now. So I call it chemobrain -- a good excuse, I figure -- and am now trying to determine what exactly this word means.

My oncologist tells me he doesn't really like this term. He thinks it puts a negative spin on regular functioning. He believes those of us who have experienced chemotherapy look more closely at our post-chemo behavior and may interpret quirky stuff as more serious than it is. It probably existed before chemotherapy, he says. But now, we are more sensitive to it and find chemotherapy a good explanation. He may be right. But for me, something in my head has definitely been altered.

One patient advocate for Hurricane Voices: A Breast Cancer Foundation believes that something doesn't have to be scientifically proven to exist. And while chemobrain may not be completely proven, there are still studies that support its existence -- which manifests itself through aging-type memory problems, forgetfulness, distraction, and loss of the ability to calculate quickly. Some studies show that 20 to 30 percent of women who undergo chemotherapy for breast cancer, and some who receive similar treatment for lymphoma, score lower than average on mental function tests for as long as 10 years after chemotherapy. ''There's enough data now to at least know it's a real effect,'' said Dr. Ian F. Tannock, a psychiatrist who has studied this issue at Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto. Some suggest that typical aging may be at fault -- and for premenopausal women who may be rushed into menopause, this effect may be due to hormonal issues. Regardless, it seems to stem from chemotherapy -- somehow. And somehow, this topic needs more attention, more research, and maybe a more positive name.

Beginning August 5 and running through to August 13, Odd Job Humanitarians are offering their services to local residents of Victoria in an effort to raise money for cancer research. During the Week to End Cancer, Oak Bay high school graduate Scott Baker is spearheading the campaign that will offer handyman and odd job services as a way to solicit monetary donations for cancer research -- instead of just asking people for money.

The Victoria News has published a nice feature about Scott Baker. He started raising money for the BC Cancer Foundation when he was in 9th grade. In his senior year, he was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma.

Baker and fellow Odd Job Humanitarians are college students with little disposable income but lots of brawn, brains and big hearts. They state that no job is too odd or too small - and they will clean windows, dig ditches, even help sort through an attic and organize memorabilia. Sounds like a win-win proposition.

If you live in the area and would like to support cancer research and need a few odd jobs done, visit Victoria News feature story Volunteers clean for cancer to contact Scott Baker and the Odd Job Humanitarians.

Herceptin -- a targeted breast cancer drug used to treat women who are Her2 positive -- has received rave reviews and has shown great promise in cutting down on recurrence of this aggressive form of breast cancer. Given over the course of 52 weeks, Herceptin is wondrous for its lack of short-term side effects. There is no hair loss, no compromise of blood counts, no significant sickness. For me, fatigue may have resulted from this treatment -- but it's unclear to me really whether it was the Herceptin or the two small boys I have living in my house that most contributed to my occasional exhaustion. Regardless, I functioned well while receiving Herceptin for the past year -- and I did not suffer anything more than a twinge of pain when my port was accessed for each treatment. In the short term, I have fared well. In the long term, the jury is still out.