The first documented whole-ovary transplants are now on the map -- the United States map.

On February 5, a renowned infertility expert in St. Louis transplanted a whole ovary from one woman into her sister in order to enable the sibling to have children after a battle with ovarian cancer that resulted in early and permanent menopause.

Dr. Sherman Silber, who performed the same type of transplant on twins last month and has previously restored fertility via ovary tissue transplants, believes his success is unmatched. Apparently, surgeons in China have reported similar success but offer few details to support their claim. And due to a lack of published material about the case, it is believed Dr. Silber's ovary transplants may be the world's first scientifically documented cases.

Silber says whole-ovary transplants, that could potentially allow women with cancer to freeze an ovary, undergo treatment, and then have the ovary returned to restore fertility, could also one day help women who don't have cancer but experience natural premature ovarian failure, which leads to early menopause.

While both of Silber's ovary transplant patients are awaiting news about their status of their fertility, Silber awaits the long-term results of his work. Ovarian tissue transplants last a few years, but whole ovary transplants should last for decades, he says.

On Sunday, for the very first time, I read a magazine article about the hospital where I received treatment for breast cancer. I had never before seen mention of my hospital, my doctors, my city in anything other than local and regional newspapers and on area television stations. I figured news about Shands Hospital at The University of Florida was out there -- in more areas than my own -- because it's a well-known facility. People travel from all over to receive treatment here. So I know it's a good place. But to see in the October 2006 issue of Good Housekeeping an actual blurb about a new kind of lumpectomy -- pioneered right here in Gainesville, Florida -- is exciting.

I am the happy recipient of this new kind of lumpectomy -- which really is not new at all. It was developed 20 years ago by the surgeon who performed my own lumpectomy, and it allows women who undergo lumpectomy the chance to avoid return trips to the operating room.

The method is called frozen section analysis, and it was first used by Dr. Edward Copland III, first director of the UF Shands Cancer Center, who was tired of waiting for pathology reports and tired of operating on patients two and three times to ensure clear tumor margins.

It all happens like this -- a surgeon removes the breast cancer tumor, takes tissue samples, freezes them in an embedding compound, and sends them to a pathologist for immediate analysis. In a typical case, this frozen section process adds just 15 minutes to the operating time. If pathology reveals more tissue must be removed, the surgeon returns to the patient, still under anesthesia, and continues surgery. The patient does not need to return for more surgery.

Surgeons at most institutions rely on a method called permanent section analysis to determine whether or not cancerous cells remain along the margins of a tumor. The technique is labor-intensive, takes days to complete, and requires patients to return for additional surgery if margins are not clear. Surgeons using the frozen section method still consult permanent sections to confirm margins are clear -- but they are mostly certain of their findings during frozen section.

Studies show frozen section analysis to be safe and effective -- and it adds just $851 to the cost of surgery, a savings considering the cost of returning for surgery as a result of permanent analysis.

There are many advantages -- but the procedure is tricky and on occasion can fail to detect some cancerous margins, indicating frozen section should continue to be used in conjunction with permanent section. Opponents of the practice say false positives could result in unnecessary mastectomy. But Copeland says this has never happened at UF -- and he would never remove a woman's breasts until permanent section confirmed it was necessary.

Despite the promise of this method, only a handful of institutions make practice of this surgery-sparing technique. Shands at UF is the only hospital in North Florida where breast surgeons perform frozen section analysis on a regular basis.

The procedure -- which is not risky, is not harmful, and clearly saves patients from returning for surgery -- is the exact procedure I received almost two years ago. Dr. Copeland removed my tumor, froze tissue samples, sent them to pathology, and 15 minutes later knew my tumor had clear margins and had not spread to my lymph nodes. He visited my family in the hospital waiting room just after surgery and told them the good news -- clear margins, no spread, a 1.1 cm. tumor, stage I. And while other tumor criteria, such as ER/PR status and HER2 status, did not come my way immediately, I at least knew the basics when I woke from surgery. No waiting. No worrying. No complaints.

Photographs tell powerful stories. They depict people and objects and landscapes and emotions in deep, meaningful ways. They capture permanent visual representations of moments in life. They paint pictures that even the most well-crafted words could not reproduce.

When Mary Ann Nilan was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2004 at the age of 40, she knew her story must be told -- through pictures. So she asked a photographer to record it all, stating, "I hope the pictures make the road easier for other women." The rest is history.

She calls it a photo essay and titles it The Diary of Healing. For 17 frames -- with photographs dominating each space and text kept to a minimum -- Nilan shares her journey that began with the discovery of breast cancer in both breasts and several lymph nodes, the journey that took her through chemotherapy, a double mastectomy, and reconstruction with implants.

Her photographs document significant stops on her physical and emotional trek. They show her bald head, the wig she wore only once and then let hang on a hook, the scars that crossed her flat chest after surgery, an injection of saline that painfully pierced the skin of her new breasts, her children measuring her hair as it grows in after chemotherapy. The photographs are both hopeful and chilling. They are breast cancer. They are more than words could ever capture.

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer almost two years ago, my greatest fear was losing my hair. The fear was consuming, painful, over-the-top. That was long ago -- and I survived. I can look back now and realize that the panic about losing my hair was such a small-scale fear -- compared to what I fear now. Now I fear a recurrence of cancer. And it's a whole lot more disabling than a little worry about being bald.

I have a few techniques for settling my fears when they get out of control. Sometimes I take deep breaths. Sometimes I distract myself and occupy my mind with something more pleasant than anxiety -- like writing, exercising, playing with my little boys. And sometimes I read about others who have come before me and have handled the same distress I sometimes feel about cancer taking up residence in my body again. Mostly I learn from stories of other women who have survived breast cancer. And I learn that I can handle the fear, that I can handle cancer if it does come back. And the women I find most inspiring are those who have had a recurrence -- or two or three -- and who still manage to happily tackle the life they have in front of them. They give me hope that if a recurrence comes my way, I too can conquer it. And here are seven snippets of hope from the book Hope Lives! The After Breast Cancer Treatment Survival Handbook -- from women who keep on surviving breast cancer.

Women undergoing radiation treatment for breast cancer are marked with blue tattoos on their chest to show technicians where the radiation beam needs to be pointed. The blue tattoos are permanent, although after treatment a woman can have them removed.

Sheryl Crow, diagnosed with breast cancer last spring, who went through radiation treatment and has the blue tattoo, said, "I've kept my tattoo because it is a reminder for me. It's a reminder of that time. It's a reminder of how I want to look at my life. I want to remember. I don't want it to fade on me so fast."

Christy Schwan, who was diagnosed with breast cancer four years ago and received the blue tattooing while undergoing radiation treatment, wrote a book called The Blue Tattoo Club. According to Schwan, in the spirit of sisterhood of breast cancer survivors, all women with the blue tattoos are members of the club. With her book, she wants to reach out and make sure no woman ever feels alone in her breast cancer journey.

Each cancer survivor is different. Some embrace cancer survivorship as a way to make the lives of others facing similar challenges and the world in general a better place. They reach out to comfort and to offer hope. Others simply want to forget as fast as possible the cancer experience. There is no one right way to be a cancer survivor, but I admire people like Crow and Schwan who do not walk away, who stick around, who fight as fierce warriors and gentle healers in this battle against cancer. It is, as Lance Armstrong said, the obligation of the cured for cancer survivors until a cure is found for all.

The first time you hear incredulous news you might be inclined to wonder aloud in stunned amazement -- how did that happen?! -- which is exactly how I reacted when I read about John Heron in Scotland, who was diagnosed with kidney cancer and scheduled to have his cancerous tumor removed only to have his healthy kidney removed instead. The hospital apologized, his wife refused comment. Aren't there just times when saying you are sorry just does not mean what it could. I understood his wife's silence. There are events in life that just leave you speechless. What happened to Heron more than qualified.

In today's The Daily Times of Marysville Tennessee is a new report that Goldie Claude has quite a bit to say about the surgeon who removed her healthy kidney and left the cancerous kidney. The 86 year-old woman is distraught and suing her doctors over the tragic error. Before the operation she worked two 12-hour shifts every weekend taking care of patients at a small health care facility. Bless her heart, she's 86. According to Claude, who is left with one-third of one kidney, says she can't work now and is having nervous spells. I can imagine.

There is a lesson here that needs to be put forward. In the event you ever find yourself scheduled for surgery, take a permanent marker and ask a trusted family member or friend to write on your body instructions on what should be removed. With arrows if necessary. Never mind if you grew up with your mother telling you to quit writing on yourself with a ballpoint pen. Just do it. Remember what happened to John and Goldie.

Some people detail their journeys with cancer through journaling -- like me -- and some use other mediums to express their emotions about this life-threatening disease.

Marilyn Whitney uses watercolors to sum up her experiences. As she underwent all sorts of procedures for breast cancer, two thoughts kept crossing her mind. One thought was the tendency to flee and the other was that there must be some way to help others by describing her procedures.

So after each hospital session, Marilyn would go home and craft a watercolor of what she had just seen and experienced. Then she would add a poem so the viewer would fully understand the message she was trying to convey.