At the University of Florida, where my husband works, spouses can get campus I.D. cards which allow access to recreational centers, swimming pools, a university lake, and more. A few years ago, I stood in line for my card. It was during my chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer, and I wore a blond wig topped with a ball cap. Once at the front of line, a college student employee told me to remove my hat so my photo could be taken. I couldn't take my hat off -- it covered a partial wig made for use with hats, and the very top was made of soft cotton and no hair. I didn't want to be photographed wearing my clown-like wig. I didn't want to be photographed bald. I wanted to look as normal as possible during a time when I felt nothing of the sort.
I told the I.D. center staff of my situation and although these young people seemed a bit unsettled by my story, they complied. And I now have an I.D. that pictures me, my blond wig, and my pink hat. It looks nothing like me. My post-chemo hair came in dark and curly.
No one is suggesting women use the abortion pill RU-486 to keep a well-known breast cancer gene from doing its dirty work, but scientists have successfully used this pill to keep tumors at bay in mice bred with the BRCA1 gene. And while this breakthrough may not benefit the human population just yet, it does indicate there may be something on the horizon to help women who carry the gene and are destined to develop breast cancer.
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. 
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.
Research studies are indicating that the powerhouse antioxidants in pomegranate juice can slow the progress of prostate cancer; that pomegranate seed oil aids in the destruction of breast cancer cells, and topically-applied pomegranate extract might provide skin cancer prevention. 
We received an alert from friends of Lynne Smith about important news regarding the cost of a colonoscopy. While it does not make much sense that the same diagnostic procedure could differ in cost by thousands of dollars, depending on the insurance company and institution, that appears to be the case. 
