Chemotherapy is harsh, which is good when it comes to killing cancer. What's not-so-good is that it can also cause hair loss, inflict nausea, and disable the proper functioning of all sorts of organs -- including the ovaries. Chemotherapy, therefore, can affect female fertility.

In some cases, doctors have extracted immature eggs from adult women about to receive chemotherapy, matured them in a laboratory, and then implanted them when the women are ready to have children. Until now, no one had ever tried this with eggs from young girls -- girls who have not yet undergone puberty. But it's just recently happened.

Doctors have removed eggs from young female cancer patients and for the first time, have brought the eggs to maturity before freezing them.

A new study sheds new hopeful light on pancreatic cancer survival -- for patients 65 and older.

The study, conducted at Thomas Jefferson University and Thomas Jefferson University Hospital in Philadelphia, found patients in this age group who survive pancreatic cancer for at least five years have a better chance than patients not yet 65 at surviving another five years.

Researchers studied the records of 890 patients with pancreatic cancer who underwent the standard pancreaticoduodenectomy, or Whipple procedure. And lead researcher Charles Yeo reports that surgery can in fact extend and improve the quality of life for this population.

"Not too long ago, few lived for five years after diagnosis," he said. "Today, that not true. There's been a paradigm shift in the way we treat and think about this disease."

Additional details on this promising study can be found in the journal Surgery.

Researchers have pioneered the first technique to biopsy tissue from the living eye in order to predict what tumors possess a high chance of spreading to other parts of the body.

If the eye cancer metastasizes the patient will usually not survive the disease. Ocular melanoma attacks the pigment cells in the retina. Earlier studies discovered that patients who are missing one copy of chromosome 3 in their tumor tissue are more likely to have highly aggressive cancers.

This new procedure could offer huge medical and psychological benefits to the patients. Dr. Tara Young, assistant professor of ophthalmology at UCLA's Jules Stein Eye Institute and a Jonsson Comprehensive Cancer Center researcher, said "Identifying patients at high risk for metastasis is an important first step toward reducing the death rate of this cancer, which kills nearly half of its patients."

The technique of fine needle aspiration for collecting cancer cells from the living eye has been the standard of care at the Jules Stein Eye Institute since 2004, but adopted by only a handful of other ophthalmic centers in the nation.

Ocular melanoma is the most common eye cancer to strike adults. Some 2,000 cases are newly diagnosed every year in the United States and Canada.

Patients want to know about their prognosis. The patients that have a low chance of metastasis can breathe a sigh of relief and the high risk group can plan arrangements for their family and finances. The high risk group might also want to have more aggressive treatment and join a clinical trial to find better treatments to treat metastatic eye cancer.

The technique, known as radioembolization or intra-arterial brachytherapy, uses the vascular system to deliver targeted treatment to the tumor. The tiny glass bubbles filled with radioactive material deliver high doses of tumor-killing radiation directly to the liver tumors.

Liver tumors use a supply of blood that is largely separate from the blood that nourishes normal liver tissue, so very few of the bubbles end up in the healthy liver.

The bubbles are smaller than the diameter of a human hair. The outpatient procedure takes about an hour to complete. The bubbles release over 10-14 days.

Patients may be candidates for this procedure if they are not able to get a liver transplant. Mayo Clinic radiation oncologists are now using this procedure.

"I have a mammogram on Friday," I told my husband just two days before the test I will receive every six months for the rest of my life. The test I should not have even needed for another four years, when I hit the age of 40. The test that helped find a cancerous lump in my breast two years ago and will hopefully catch any future lumps in enough time to save my life.

The mammogram. It's a big test that hinges on one moment of disclosure from the technician who performs the procedure. The disclosure -- everything is fine or the doctor would like to see you -- predicts whether or not life goes on normally or is derailed by uncertainty. Mammograms are a big deal.

"Are you worried?" my husband asked after my announcement. I thought for a moment and then replied, "No."

For some reason, I am not worried about this mammogram. Perhaps it's because I am monitored so regularly by the medical establishment and I'm confident anything suspicious in my breasts will be caught early and treated successfully. Perhaps the routine of it all makes mammograms not so eventful anymore. Maybe I'm just coping better with the seriousness of it all, and mammograms have become one more mundane appointment that requires my presence.

It doesn't matter really. What matters is that I am calm about my mammogram, that I am not giving it serious thought, that I am free of anxiety.

What matters is that I am not worried.

Back in the summer of 2000, a year before I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I was told I had an abnormal pap smear. Cancerous and precancerous changes in the cervical cells are often first detected by the pap test. A sample of cells are removed from the cervix and then examined under a microscope. If the pap test does come back abnormal the physician will usually schedule a colposcopy. I was advised after my abnormal pap smear to go through this procedure. A colposcopy is when the doctor will use a microscope to better see the cervix and find abnormal cells that he can then remove and further evaluate. This procedure was not any more uncomfortable than a normal gynecological visit, except for the mild cramping afterward.

Unfortunately upon further evaluation I was diagnosed with cervical dysplasia which lead to me getting the LEEP procedure, loop electrosurgical excision procedure, an outpatient surgery. I was very scared since I had never been put under general anesthesia. I came out of the surgery and again all that happened was more cramping throughout the next few days. Since that time I have had normal pap smears and never miss my yearly appointment to get this test done.

A phase II clinical trial suggests that daily treatment of Celebrex (celecoxib) may effectively treat high-grade precancerous changes to the cervix. The results were published in the journal Gynecologic Oncology. Celebrex belongs to the class of drugs known as non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs. Researchers took 25 patients with high grade precancerous changes of the cervix and treated them with either Celebrex 200mg twice a day or a placebo.

The results showed that cervical abnormalities improved in 75 percent of patients treated with Celebrex and 31 percent of patients treated with the placebo. A complete disappearance of detectable cervical abnormalities was experienced by 33 percent of patients treated with Celebrex and 15 percent of patients treated with placebo.

The researchers conclude that Celebrex could offer a noninvasive approach to treating precancerous cervical changes. Larger studies are needed to confirm these findings.

Even though the LEEP procedure was not that terrible, it would have definitely been better to take a pill instead. I do hope this proves to be successful in the treatment of cervical dysplasia.

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.

I didn't know what was coming when I plopped myself down in the waiting room of an Ear, Nose, and Throat clinic yesterday -- which is a good thing. Had I known what doctors would do to me, I may have run the other way. I may have learned to live with the pain I was experiencing each time I swallowed food. But I waited patiently, aware that doctors would "scope" my esophagus, mildly certain the procedure could be uncomfortable, completely unprepared for the full "scope" experience.

I swallowed a pill on Friday night -- not even a whole pill, just a half of one pill -- and it hurt when it went down my throat. I've had the feeling before, a sensation like the pill got stuck, but the discomfort has always gone away within a few hours. This time, it lasted. It hurt to swallow saliva. It hurt to swallow food. It just hurt. So after three days, I took myself to the clinic -- with the subtle worry that cancer was settling in my esophagus.

I know rationally that every ache and pain I experience is not cancer. But I've had cancer. And so I constantly battle a nagging fear lodged deep in my head that reminds me cancer is always a possibility, that cancer is often a shocking outcome of a routine little test for a simple little health concern.

I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer of the throat, voice box, esophagus, or stomach. That's the good news. The scope revealed -- via a tiny camera that traveled through my body -- nothing but healthy tissue. That makes me happy. The test did not make me happy.

I now know the scope is a long, thin tube that enters the body through one nostril. Ouch. It travels into the throat. Ouch. The patient swallows when it reaches the throat to assist in maneuvering it down further. Ouch. The scope then makes its way past the voice box, though the esophagus, and into the stomach. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. The travels are all displayed on a monitor, and I actually got a glimpse of these body parts -- during the split second when I was able to control my gagging, loosen my grip on the arms of the exam chair, and open my clinched eyes. So I saw for myself that everything looks healthy -- just before the tube was pulled right back through all these parts, leaving me with a very sore throat.

Now that I am home and have talked with a few people, I hear that some patients are unconscious for this procedure. They are completely unaware of the horrors of the scope. I got a few sprays to numb my nose and throat and drank a thick cocktail of lidocaine -- but I did not get the luxury of unconsciousness. And in the end that is okay. I got to see what was happening. I got to hear the doctor's revelation that nothing major is wrong. I got to witness the wonder of medical technology. I got to prove to myself that I can handle a little discomfort in exchange for a clean bill of health. And I got to learn that I have a bit of acid reflux. And now I have to squash that nagging fear that reminds me of the literature out there suggesting a link between acid reflux and cancer.

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.

Chloe is a little girl conceived through in vitro fertilization -- not because her parents could not conceive in the traditional manner but because they wanted to make sure Chloe had no predisposition to cancer in her genetic makeup. And in vitro fertilization is one method of almost ensuring this. There is still a three percent chance of failure but Chloe's parents felt confident in the elective process that would mostly prevent her from inheriting a genetic mutation for colon cancer that has devastated her family -- Chloe's father carries this mutation, and his mother, grandfather, and two uncles have all died from colon cancer.

A growing number of couples are using preimplantation genetic makeup to detect a predisposition to cancers that may or may not develop later in life. Using this procedure, parents subject their tiny embryos to genetic tests to determine whether or not they harbor defective genes. Essentially, parents get to pick and choose from embryos in a petri dish which one they want. Since the embryo that became Chloe did not test positive for any defective genes, she was the chosen one. And she is now a healthy two-year-old girl.

It's an ethical minefield -- this scientific creation of human life and the picking and choosing of which embryos will survive and which ones will not. One expert says the issue centers around what is considered serious enough to warrant such testing -- and who gets to make this decision. Ethical dilemmas surrounding this issue will only continue to grow as more and more options become available. Already embryos are tested for predisposition for obesity and deafness and a mild skin condition. Some clinics even screen for gender. Some fear this practice may lead to a genetic class divide where the wealthy will become more genetically pure than the poor -- because this process is difficult and expensive, costing tens of thousands of dollars without insurance coverage.

Chloe's parents are happy they made the choice they did. Her father says he doesn't know if he could handle being told his daughter has cancer -- especially with the knowledge that he could have prevented it.

Heartburn has never really been considered a major health concern. It has been considered uncomfortable and annoying and troublesome -- yet still only a harmless nuisance. In recent studies, though -- summed up in the September 2006 Oprah magazine -- heartburn has been linked to a deadly form of esophageal cancer. Apparently, people who experience heartburn one time per week or more have a fivefold or greater risk of adenocarcinoma of the esophagus -- a cancer with incidences jumping as much as 500 percent over the past 40 years. Experts insist, however, that adenocarcinoma is still rare. One doctor states that 40 percent of Americans have heartburn once per month -- yet only 8,000 to 9,000 people develop this specific cancer each year.

For the unfortunate few who do go on to contract cancer, there is hope in a surgical procedure to remove the cancer and part or all of the esophagus and nearby lymph nodes -- which can dramatically increase the odds for survival. For most of us, a bit of heartburn does not signal an eventual cancer diagnosis. It just means we might need to self-treat the symptoms with over-the-counter remedies. And a recent review at Stanford suggests that sleeping with your head elevated can reduce reflux pain.

You should see a doctor if your heartburn results in a consistent burning sensation, difficulty swallowing, or vomiting.

I know how it feels to have breast cancer. I do not know how it feels to live without a breast for almost two years. My friend Larissa, who was diagnosed with breast cancer in her early thirties, shared her journey with me and talked about what it was like not to have immediate reconstruction after her diagnoses and what led her to that decision.

Larissa started out thinking she had ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS). A mastectomy was decided since the DCIS was widespread throughout the breast. She then met with a plastic surgeon and planned to have immediate reconstruction with an expander. At this point Larissa choose to get a second opinion. The second opinion didn't agree with the first one like she wished.

The appointment at the second opinion was very frightening to Larissa for a few reasons. First, the hospital had just purchased a new high-tech ultrasound machine. Larissa was the lucky one who got to try it out first! Second, what they discovered was that the cancer looked like it had become invasive, breaking out of the milk ducts and also spreading to the lymph nodes. Larissa said she "freaked out".

She knew this would mean chemotherapy and radiation and possibly a lot worse. So she made up her mind to delay reconstruction. Larissa didn't want anything else to go wrong. She said "I want to start fighting".

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

Parents may want to save their kids' baby teeth for more than just nostalgic reasons -- they may want to save them because they are rich in stem cells and the pulp tissue could provide the means to treatment for injuries and disease. BioEden Inc. is a new company out of Austin, Texas pioneering this effort that is so new some doubt science will ever catch up with the expectations of this firm. But President Jeff Johnson says all evidence indicates that baby teeth are a wonderful source of stem cells -- cells that doctors and researchers pursue for their capability of replicating and morphing into specialized cells that can be used to repair the body. Experts think baby teeth stem cells might one day be used for bone, teeth, and even nerve cell regeneration which could hold potential for spinal cord injuries and Alzheimer's and Parkinson's diseases.

Parents may find brochures in their dentist offices featuring the benefits of banking their children's teeth once they fall out. And pursuing tooth banking is no different than pursuing any other dental procedure. There are fees involved, of course -- banking fees and perhaps referral fees from dental offices -- and other considerations that each parent must weigh. Dr. Phil Hunke, president of the American Academy of Pediatric Dentistry and pediatric dentist for 32 years, says the idea of removing cells and freezing them holds true promise -- and he may want to bank the tooth of a child or grandchild once he learns more. Dr. Kevin Donly, a professor of pediatric dentistry, says he sees some potential but will not be banking teeth for his three little boys. He just doesn't think he's at the point where it's necessary. Another pediatric dentist -- Dr. John Updyke -- believes that if money were not an issue, all parents should bank their kids' teeth. But many young families can't afford the initial $595 and the $89 annual storage cost it requires. And without a solid scientific backing, tooth banking might not come up as a priority for many when it may take 10 years or more to even determine how useful these specific stem cells will be.