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.

I hadn't been on an airplane since 2001. So all of the customs and rituals of airport safety were entirely new to me. I had no idea I 'd be told to remove my shoes before walking through the security contraption or that my baggage would be opened, searched, and inspected. It was a whole new world for me. Prior to 2001, none of these security measures were necessary. A compression sleeve wasn't either.

A compression sleeve -- my own personal security device -- is my new travel companion. Designed to protect my arm from swelling caused by the combination of missing lymph nodes and airplane cabin pressure, this sleeve fits my arm from wrist to armpit. It's tight like a glove and while it's not a very apparent fashion statement, it's slightly visible with its darker-than-flesh color.

I almost forgot to wear my sleeve on my flight to Tucson because I sometimes forget about breast cancer and it's effect on my life still. I sometimes forget how unsafe this world can be too. Then I see barefoot travelers passing through an airport corridor just before a jolt sparks my memory, and I rush to pull on my sleeve before it's too late.

There are four missing lymph nodes up my sleeve. And I must never forget this.

Radioactive cancer patients attending this weekend's Super Bowl in Miami could be in for an alarming experience when they pass through radiation detectors designed to signal the presence of dirty bombs. Such cancer patients -- who have received treatment using radioisotopes and still may have tiny amounts of radioactive material in their bodies -- may want to come armed with letters from their doctors explaining their precarious set of circumstances.

The use of radioisotopes in medicine is growing -- and so is the use of radiation detectors in our security-conscious nation, which means patients are triggering alarms when they are not even aware they are being scanned, doctors and security officials say.

Nearly 60,000 people a day in the United States undergo treatment or tests that leave traces of radioactive material in their bodies, according to the Society of Nuclear Medicine. These traces are not enough to hurt anyone, but they are enough to trigger radiation alarms for up to three months.

Radioisotopes are commonly used to diagnose and treat certain cancers and thyroid disorders, to analyze heart function, and to scan bones and lungs. And many doctors already know to equip their patients with travel cards because of the problems they can encounter in public places.

Nearly 20 million nuclear medical procedures were performed in the United States in 2005 -- up 15 percent from 2001. Clearly, the number of people who could be mistaken for terrorists is quite large. So if you are one of these people -- with the power to create a buzz in a public setting -- get your papers in order so you can quickly confirm your identity as nothing more than a cancer patient.

Less than one year ago, Rep. John P. "Jack" Murtha, D-Pa., came crashing onto the national scene with his opinion that the U.S. military could accomplish nothing more in Iraq and should be pulled out of the war zone. It was a harsh opinion -- and one his Democratic partners thought might hurt their party at a time when they were trying to gain control of Congress. The fact that the Democrats had been seen as weak on national security didn't help. And then a funny thing happened.

Murtha, 74 -- a decorated Marine and the first combat veteran of the Vietnam War elected to the House of Representatives -- became one of the most popular Democrats around, despite or maybe because of his passionate beliefs. Once a behind-the-scenes kind of man, he is now in the public eye. He's out raising money for Democrats in many states. He's attending fundraising events with Al Gore and others. And he's gathering allies at every turn. And while he still faces opposition, he believes that he must make public what he stands for. And so he does. And because of his recent uncharacteristic charismatic presence, details about this once-to-himself man are emerging. Details like these: A local airport is named for him. An institute for the study of neuroscience and pain is named for him. And a breast cancer center bears the name of his wife, Joyce.

The Joyce Murtha Breast Care Center at Windber Medical Center opened its doors in February 2002. Located in Windber, Pennsylvania, this center began as a collaboration between Walter Reed Army Medical Center and Windber Medical Center and ever since its beginning has offered full diagnostic services for breast health and disease in one convenient location.

Murtha is surely raising awareness with his opinion about the military and national security and war. And even breast cancer gets a little press out of the whole frenzy surrounding this man and his efforts. Which reminds me that somehow, breast cancer seems to touch the lives of just about everyone is some way.

If you count yourself among the working poor, or one of the vanishing middle-class in a constant struggle to make ends meet, do not read this -- it is not going to cheer you up.

The most significant and unavoidable risk factor that increases the chance of being diagnosed with cancer is the aging process. The older we get, the more susceptible we are to developing cancer. Because of this fact, research into the aging process, how we age, and why we age -- even if the research is not specifically looking at the link between aging and increased cancer risk -- still might one day provide some insight into the potential for reducing cancer risks associated with aging.

Young children can not begin to grasp the full picture when it comes to a parent or a close loved one being diagnosed with cancer. Children ages 3-6 are in the concrete operational stage, according to the Piagetian theory of development. At this age children can understand that a parent is not feeling well today,but they are not able to grasp the ramifications of an illness that will extend into the future. Abstract concepts are just not within this developmental stage. Parents of children this age are often flummoxed as to how to help their kids cope with a cancer diagnosis. Concrete, physical concepts are the best approach for this age. Hugs and lots of physical contact lets the child know that their immediate environment is safe. Explaining that cancer is not contagious, like a cold, will also help with understanding. If a child wants to help, he/she can draw pictures for their loved ones. Also explaining that a cancer diagnosis is not the child's fault will help lend a sense of security to the situation.
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