The American Cancer Society estimates that approximately 16,600 new cases of myeloma are diagnosed each year in the United States. Bone pain is the most common early symptom of myeloma. Most patients feel pain in their back or ribs, but it can occur in any bone. The pain is usually made worse by movement.

Patients fatigue more easily and often feel weak. They may also have a pale complexion from anemia which is a common medical problem for patients with myeloma and may contribute to the fatigue. If the disease progresses, the concentration of normal cells in the blood may also decrease. Headaches, bruising, nose bleeding, gastrointestinal bleeding, and tingling or numbness in extremities are all symptoms of myeloma.

Patients may have repeated infections because antibodies to invading viruses, bacteria or other disease agents are not made efficiently of in adequate amounts. Urinary tract, bronchial, lung, skin, or other sites of infection may be the first sign of the disease. In addition, recurrent infections may complicate the course of the disease.

Just before my radiation therapy began, my oncologist ran through a long list of potential side effects I might experience from the treatment. The only two significant short-term possibilities were fatigue and burned, blistered skin -- I went on to encounter them both -- but there were other more long-term effects my doctor told me might one day creep up on me.

She told me the range of motion in my arm might be compromised -- it was -- and that lymphedema or swelling could occur -- not yet -- and that I could feel numbness and tingling in my arm -- I do -- and that I should forever take precautions on the left side of my body. No needle sticks, no blood pressure cuffs, no excessive lifting -- all because of radiation and the missing lymph nodes that further complicate matters.

My doctor also told me that while radiation would target one intended area -- my left breast, just where my cancer was found -- other areas would suffer some degree of exposure. My heart, my lung, and my ribs all bordered the location of my tumor and despite measures to protect these areas, they would be zapped, at least minimally.

This all seemed a bit overwhelming 18 months ago when it came barreling at me. But something fortunate happened with the passage of time -- I began to forget about most of this. And while this a blessing really -- to not be burdened by the what ifs -- I realized yesterday when my three-year-old son kicked me with all the force he could muster right in my ribcage that I really must remember the side effects of radiation -- because they could serve to haunt me at any moment.

I remember clearly now my oncologist telling me that my ribcage could be damaged by radiation in such a way that an injury to the area could easily result in broken ribs. But I don't think about this regularly. And I wasn't thinking of it when I snuggled up to my 35-pound baby boy, knowing full well he could strike at any time. But not until he struck did I recall one of the downsides of radiation.

I feel happy and healthy and strong. Like cancer never landed in my lap and threw me for a loop. But somewhere in the back of my chemo brain -- an entirely different side effect story -- I must remember the dangers of the treatments that are keeping me alive. Because the last thing I want is another complication from cancer. I just want smooth sailing -- and smooth snuggling.

In 2006, 174,470 people will be diagnosed with lung cancer in the United States. About 92,700 men and 81,770 women will develop the disease -- the leading cause of cancer death among both men and women.

An estimated 162,460 men and women will die of lung cancer this year, accounting for 28 percent of all cancer deaths and taking more lives than colon, breast, and prostate cancers combined. While most people diagnosed with lung cancer will die within the first two years of diagnosis -- this has not changed in 10 years -- some people are cured. There are currently about 333,000 long-term survivors.

Her diagnosis came at the same time as mine -- in November 2004, just after her husband, John Edwards, and John Kerry lost the presidential election. She received the same treatment as I did -- lumpectomy, chemotherapy, and radiation -- and so I was especially interested in her breast cancer journey as it paralleled my own in many ways. But just after her diagnosis surfaced in the media, Elizabeth Edwards disappeared from the radar -- perhaps like we all do in some way while immersed in the maze of cancer. So I lost track of her. But now -- almost two years later -- Edwards is back from cancer, back in the headlines, and back with a new book, Saving Grace.

Edwards, 57, reveals on the pages of her book the intricacies of her cancer ordeal. She shares that she experienced every side effect possible throughout her treatment. She bruised, bled, developed sores in her mouth, experienced numbness in her hands and feet, lost her hair, felt nauseated, ached in her bones and joints, and suffered yellowed and damaged nails -- and then chemotherapy stopped and she went on to the burning, blistering effects of radiation. Still, she managed to survive. And she thanks those who helped her survive -- for their tenderness, encouragement, humor, tears, and love -- and she writes all about it in her memoir that reveals how she juggled life and marriage and kids and cancer and how she arrived in a new place. A happy place.

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.

Before my radiation for breast cancer, I heard horror stories about the treatment. I heard that I might be extremely tired and severely burned and that I might feel generally unwell for the time it would take to completely zap any and all traces of cancer surrounding my breast. But my own radiation wasn't all that bad -- and really, the worst part of the whole therapy for me was the drive to and from the cancer center every day for seven weeks. It was a hassle, a nuisance, a bother. There were other small annoyances throughout the course of my radiation, but they were minimal -- thanks to some secrets that were shared with me along the scorching path of radiation and beyond. And here are seven of them.