I'm in another hospital lobby -- this time waiting while my three-year-old son has surgery to repair a hernia.

So I'm back to reading a magazine. This time I brought my own not-so-outdated publication -- The Oprah Magazine, April 2007. And as I sit here flipping and turning the pages, there is so much I want to tell you.

I'll be back with more. But for now, think about this:

"...see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There's a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh.
as all flesh
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest."

Jane Hirshfield, From What Binds Us

I have a few small triumphs pinned to my chest -- they show in the form of surgery scars and radiation tattoos and puckered skin where a port once lived. Proud flesh. Stronger than the once untested surface. My honors for having survived a battle.

The build-up to 2006 was a bit uncertain for me. At the end of 2004, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and set my sights on short-term survival, moment by moment, day by day. I wasn't sure 2005 -- in its entirety -- was a guarantee so I tried not to look too far ahead. I focused on the completion of each of the year's cancer steps -- surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, the beginning of a year-long Herceptin therapy, and so much more -- and somehow, I survived the whole ordeal. And the whole year.

I made it through 2005, and I have almost made it through 2006 -- a year marked by a cancer slow-down, a more normal existence. Moment by moment, day by day, the burden of cancer loosened it's grip on me. And as I begin to reflect on the year that has all but passed before my eyes, I realize it turned out just fine. Here are seven reasons why.

• On May 19, 2006, my very first post published on The Cancer Blog. What a thrill it was -- and still is -- to find myself engaged in a useful pursuit as a result of my own cancer experience.
  

• On June 28, 2006, the last drops of Herceptin made their way through my body, marking the conclusion of 17 doses of this hopefully life-saving potion.

• On September 15, 2006, my port came out, signaling my acceptance of a life without drug treatment, my faith that I will never again need a foreign object sewn under my skin.

• On December 6, 2006, 18 months of counseling came to a close. Armed with skills to cope with all sorts of emotional issues, I am marching forward, free of the disabling anxiety and free-flowing tears that first landed me in the counseling chair.

• For much of 2006, I have been a student of fitness training, pushing myself physically in search of better health. It's not always easy, I'm not always motivated, and I am known to whine a bit -- but still, I am happier just knowing I am working toward sustained health.
  

• Throughout the entire year, I have walked away from every medical check-up and follow-up with a clean bill of health. I hear the longer someone survives cancer, the less likely the disease is to return. Happily, I have two years of survival under my belt.

• Ever since my diagnosis, I have been reaching for others with journeys similar to mine. First, I reached for support and guidance and reassurance. Then, I reached to offer my own version of support and guidance and reassurance. The year 2006 has been full of rich connections, found only because of cancer. Reaching makes me feel good.

Yes, the year 2006 turned out just fine.

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.

I took my boys yesterday for a tour of the University of Florida's Department of Entomology and Nematology. Translation for these little boys -- ages five and three -- involves one simple word. Bugs. They love bugs, hunt for bugs, capture bugs, and reluctantly set them free because I coax them into allowing these itty bitty creatures to continue living with their "mommies and daddies." I have a soft spot for all living beings -- bugs included.

We learned some crazy facts about bugs yesterday -- insects is the proper term really. We learned there is one cockroach that can live for seven days without its head. We learned there are two types of Madagascar cockroaches living in a lab in the very same building we visited that if set free, would reproduce so quickly they would become a major pest problem in the state of Florida. And we learned that of all animals on this planet, most are insects. But not only did we learn some crazy facts, we -- well, Joey -- shared a crazy fact too.

Joey is five years old. He is the boy who remembers much of my breast cancer journey. He is the one who helped shave my head, the one who thought a banana would make my sick tummy feel better. He's the one who would blurt out to people we never knew very well, "My mommy is bald," the one who asked me just last night if the metal thing -- my port -- was still in my chest. When I told him it's gone, he jumped up and announced, "Yeah, it's gone!" Cancer is one of many vocabulary words housed in Joey's brain. And sometimes the word comes up unexpectedly, in strange contexts, in surprising ways. Like today.

Our bug tour guide told us that in Africa, mosquitoes transmit diseases that kill millions of people. But those with sickle cell anemia are immune to the deadly diseases due to their compromised red blood cells that somehow fend off disease. This fact prompted Joey to share with the guide, "Did you know when people have cancer, there are bugs that can kill the cancer?" Our guide listened to this crazy fact and said in a kid-friendly way, "No, I did not know that. Who told you that?" Joey told her, "I don't remember but someone told me."

I am not sure what prompted Joey to make this announcement. Perhaps he was trying to one-up the tour guide, to sound like an expert on one of his favorite subjects. Perhaps his imagination was in overdrive and he blurted out the best story he could offer. Perhaps he jumbled up a story he had heard on the topic of cancer. And perhaps he is just simply hopeful that one day, bugs will help cure cancer. And wouldn't that be nice -- a simple mosquito comes along, pierces the skin, and poof, cancer is gone.

My cancer journey would not be nearly as interesting, as enlightening, as tender if Joey was not along with me for the ride. He keeps me busy and keeps my spirits up. He keeps me grounded and keeps life simple. Best of all -- he keeps me laughing.

Danny became aware of my port just before it was removed. He was only 18 months old when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and my journey went pretty much unnoticed by this small boy who had no idea ports were not standard on every person he met. Now he is three years old and even though he still has no real idea why a port popped up from underneath my skin for two years, he did come to realize it was something akin to a boo-boo that one day goes away.

My port went away on September 15. And ever since that day, Danny has been very concerned about the incision that marks the spot once home to a foreign device. For one week after my port removal, my incision was covered. Danny wondered why. I told him I was healing, that I had to keep my boo-boo protected, that I could not take a shower because it could not get wet. Danny was very attentive. He pulled at the neck of my shirt every time I held him to sneak a peak at the site of my surgery. He asked if it hurt, if doctors cut me with a knife, if new skin was growing underneath my bandage. "Yes", "yes", and "yes." I told him. And one day when I decided to take a shower, despite orders to keep the area completely dry, Danny said, "The doctor said you cannot take a shower." I told him, "I know." And he said, "But actually you did take a shower." I told him he was right and hoped he would not pursue my disobedience any further. He did not -- he was just checking up on me, he was just concerned about me, he was just wondering if I may have compromised something. I told him I was fine.

I did not do any damage with my rebellious shower, my bandage is off, and Danny only peeks once in a while to monitor the area. He is mostly back to his normal life, free from all nursing duties. And I am mostly back to life, free from my port and happily showered in love by my littlest guy -- the guy who was once oblivious to all things cancer related, the guy who somehow became my caregiver.

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.

On January 14, 2005, my sister drove me to the hospital for my port placement -- a minor surgical procedure to implant an Infuse-a-Port® underneath the skin on my collarbone. My port -- used steadily ever since that January day for the infusion of breast cancer chemotherapy drugs -- is about to be removed.

Tomorrow -- September 15, 2006 -- my sister will drive me to the same hospital where another minor surgery will result in the removal of this same port and its accompanying parts. I will come home with a scar that will mark the spot symbolic of my cancer travels. Along with my healed lumpectomy incisions and my head full of new hair, this scar will remind me of where I've been and will not ever let me lose sight of where I'm going -- full steam ahead into a life I am blessed to have in front of me. A life that was never promised to me for any specific amount of time. A life I am going to wrap my arms around -- for every second, every minute, every breath I am lucky enough to take.

I guess it was my decision to remove my port -- now that my chemotherapy is over and there is no more treatment in store for me -- that prompted a surge of worry deep in my gut. A worry that is heightened today about an odd spot of tissue in my left breast that my oncologist told me one week ago was nothing to worry about, was probably just scar tissue from the lumpectomy that was performed in just about the same location as this spot.

For one week, I have tried to be okay with this assessment -- that it is nothing to worry about -- but this is not in my nature really. Especially since my first lump -- the one that turned out to be cancer -- was also nothing to worry about, according to a few doctors. But a mammogram and ultrasound determined otherwise and prompted my two-year journey with treatment for breast cancer.

And now that my journey is slowing and approaching a stop and my port is ready to come out, I am worried about something that just does not feel right. So I made a call to the medical person who knows how to steer me through the system, and I will soon get a mammogram and ultrasound to figure out exactly what is going on. And then I can move forward -- with my surgery on September 15 to remove my port or with a detour on my journey with breast cancer.

And so the countdown begins -- 22 days until my port comes out. On September 15 at 9:00 AM I will report to the basement of Shands Hospital at the University of Florida where I will be doped into a semi-conscious state and wheeled into an operating room. Doctors and nurses will open the skin near my collarbone and while watching their own procedure on a monitor hanging overhead will remove my port and all connected tubing. They will close my skin, leaving an incision that will quickly become a scar -- and a physical reminder of the cancer than once settled into my breast and the drugs that ran through my veins in search of it. It will be my battle scar -- second in importance only to the marks that criss cross my stomach and mark the spot where two big baby boys stretched my skin to unimaginable proportions.

The state of my port has plagued me for some time now -- ever since I knew chemotherapy was fast approaching its end. I have wanted to keep it in place just in case I need it again. And I have wanted to get it out just in case I never need it again. And when it came down to making a decision, I decided taking it out was best. So I can move on. So I can move forward. So I can move away from cancer. I know I'll never move completely away from it -- and that's okay. I don't want to forget my journey. I just want to live beyond its reach. Beyond the port that pops out from under my skin. The port that if needed again, can simply be put back in place.

And so my soul searching -- chronicled in the following two posts -- is over. My port is coming out.

• Wrestling with cancer decisions turns up uncertainty
• A little hand holding eases departure from cancer treatment

My port -- that thing that pops up from under the skin on my collarbone, that thing that by default stays in place because I can't decide whether or not to remove it -- is now officially in maintenance mode, now that my treatment for breast cancer is complete. My last Herceptin infusion was on June 28. And my first port flush was today. For as long as I keep my port -- and for as long as it has no real use -- I must have it flushed one time each month. So today, I strolled into the cancer infusion center where I've spent many hours and this time spent just a few minutes -- enough time for my usual chemo nurse to puncture the skin on top of my port, push through a rather large needle, and inject a dose of blood thinner into the lines of the port to keep clots away. The whole procedure was harmless, painless, no big deal at all. And I will return one month from today for a repeat performance.

One day these once-a-month visits may become a hassle. After all, I have to find a place for this appointment in my already-busy schedule and find childcare for my kids and find a place to park. I have to numb my port and endure a needle stick and sometimes fight traffic to get home. And the whole trip to and from the cancer center takes longer than the procedure itself. Clearly, this may be a waste of time for a port I don't even need right now. But at the moment, this visit is just what I need while I sort out the details of my post-treatment world. I need to go back to the infusion center. I need the comfort of the drive. I need to feel part of the chemo community. I need medical people swirling around me. I need a bit of hand holding. For now anyway.

I can't decide what to do about my port now that my breast cancer treatment is over. It's been an on-going internal battle. I don't know whether I should leave it in place -- tunneled underneath the skin on my collarbone where it is available and accessible should I ever need further infusions of cancer-fighting drugs -- or whether I should have it removed since there is no real purpose for it right now. There is the issue of superstition and safety -- leaving it right where it is allows for easy use if cancer returns and prevents another surgery to implant a new one. But there is also the issue of moving on -- and removing it because I don't need it, because I may never need it. One doctor told me recently that it should come out because if it remains in my body, I risk infection. And anything foreign in my body for an extended period of time is not completely safe. But a cancer survivor told me that she had hers removed immediately after treatment and had to get a new one because her cancer recurred three months later.

I am accustomed to wrestling matches like this one -- like my stand-off between treatment with Taxol or without Taxol, between anti-depressant or no anti-depressant, between vegan diets and traditional diets. Sometimes I can make a good call. Sometimes I just can't decide. Like right now.

Joey has a hard time staying in bed when we put him down for the night. When we ask him why he continually gets up, he tells us that he wants to be with us -- mommy and daddy --  and that he wants to watch TV and that he's just not tired. He is five years old. And he will try anything to coax us into allowing him to stay up just a little bit longer. Lately, he's been asking serious questions he knows will take some time to answer -- like how exactly does a light bulb work? And how does lightening get in the air? And how do you build a house? Last night, his questions followed a medical path -- a cancer path really.

This is my port. It looks to me like a bottle cap sewn under the skin on my chest. My son Joey -- he is five years old --  calls it my stone and his brother Danny -- he just turned three -- at one time thought everyone must have this same boo-boo. He would look for it, feel for it, hunt for it. But mine is the only port he could actually locate and now that he's getting older, he is not so concerned with it anymore.

My concern about the port is that everyone who needs chemotherapy should have one. It's the alternative to receiving IV sticks in the arms and hands and except for one quick stick that can sting -- I use a 5% lidocaine numbing cream prior to my infusion and with this miracle lotion, I don't feel a thing -- it is quick and painless. My port is a one-stop shop. Once accessed, blood can be drawn, drugs and fluids can be infused, shots can be injected, and at the end of treatment, an injection of blood thinner keeps the line clear and clean. The line attached to the port underneath my skin travels into large veins in a direct and efficient manner. While hospitalized for chemo-induced fever and low blood counts, I received antibiotics and a blood transfusion through this method. There was one stick when I was admitted and for my five-day stay, I never had to be poked again.

My port, called Infuse-a-Port®, was implanted during a minor outpatient surgery with use of a local anesthesia and it was ready for use immediately after the procedure.

My port has been used for 16 months now and will no longer be necessary at the end of July -- this is when the last drops of Herceptin will sail through my veins. Then I get to decide whether to keep my port or have it removed. It can stay for many years as long as it is flushed once each month. The superstitious part of me thinks I should keep it for future use -- if necessary -- and the rational part of me thinks I need to get rid of this bottle cap because I may never need it again. Regardless, I love my port. It has eased the discomfort of chemotherapy and for that, I am grateful.