The following post is one of a series of posts appearing Monday through Friday on The Cancer Blog. This feature -- Today, I am grateful -- allows me to share with readers my appreciation for all the treasures in my life, both big and small. In my post-cancer world, I find It healing for my soul to be mindful of the good in my life. It is my pleasure to share my gratitude with you.

The night before my lumpectomy, way back in December 2005, I was consumed with fear, worry, and panic. Since I'd found it, the lump in my left breast had been sitting untouched for nearly two weeks. I imagined the mass spreading with each day and believed I could detect its growth each time I felt for it. A doctor told me if it was growing like I thought it was, my tiny pea-sized tumor would be the size of an apple within days.

My fears were unfounded and irrational. I know that now. But during the moments of uncertainty that filled my days between diagnosis and prognosis, I had no direction. I had only my wandering mind for company. The waiting really is the hardest part. Once faced with the specifics of our diseases, we can take action.

Walking into my cancer center waiting room is one of my most sobering experiences. I enter this room -- jam-packed full of men, women, and children -- every three months for a breast cancer follow-up. It never gets easier. It always startles me, stirs my emotions, makes me realize how so many people are touched by such a treacherous and all-consuming disease. The fact that I sit in this room, that I am one of these many people, still doesn't seem real.

It's been almost three years since I got a phone call from a surgeon declaring, "You have cancer." I didn't believe it then. Even after all I've been through -- surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and more -- I hardly believe it now. But it's real. I have scars and new hair and a whole new set of worries to prove it.

Walking into that waiting room proves it's real. There's nothing like it. There's also nothing like walking out, with a clean bill of health and the promise of three more months.

Are we living in a toxic environment? The experts at Canyon Ranch ask us to consider these facts:

• The EPA estimates that 4.7 billion pounds of toxic chemicals are released into the environment annually.
• It's likely that 25 percent of the U.S. population suffers from some level of heavy metal poisoning.
• Fourteen pounds of food colorings, additives, preservatives, emulsifiers, and flavorings are consumed per person each year.

Toxic? Maybe. At minimum, though, we are living in a world filled with chemicals, pesticides, additives, preservatives, antibiotic and hormone residues, and heavy metals. Whether consumed, inhaled, or absorbed, our bodies soak this stuff up. In order to reduce the load, and the toll it takes it takes on our health, there's something we can do. We can eat clean. Here's how:

Spring is here. Time to clean the house. And time to give the 'ol body a once-over too.

According to Chinese medicine, spring is the best time of the year to cleanse the body. So if you're feeling lethargic, sluggish, and just plain weighed down, consider these invigorating tips from Penelope Sach's book Detox: Regaining your health and vitality.

Think about this:

• Cut back on white flour products, sweets, and alcohol.
• Drink one glass of water every hour to flush out excess sugar in your system.
• Up your intake of herbal teas.
• Add natural detoxifying agents to your diet, such as cabbage, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, fish, and eggs.

Elizabeth Edwards, wife of Democratic presidential candidate John Edwards, has had many routine medical follow-ups since her 2004 breast cancer diagnosis. And all of them -- until just a few days ago -- resulted in what is generally termed a clean bill of health.

The term doesn't always come with a sense of relief for those of us surviving breast cancer -- or any cancer for that matter -- because it only really defines what our bodies are telling us at one specific moment. There are no magic blood tests, no special body scans, no conclusive ways of determining whether or not cancerous cells have gone astray and will one day surface again.

I asked my oncologist after my first six-month follow-up how he would know if my cancer returns. He told me it's really up to me to determine whether it comes back. It's up to me to get mammograms and ultrasounds and MRIs. It's up to me to report any symptoms and suspicions. It's up to me to track my general well-being so that it will be clear when something feels not-so-right. If I have a persistent cough or headaches that won't subside, my doctor will take action with X-rays and scans and tests. But as long as I feel fine and nothing troubling presents itself, then I remain in the clean-bill-of-health club.

Edwards no longer has a clean bill of health. But she is determined to use her newest diagnosis -- stage four metastatic cancer of the bones, considered treatable but not curable -- to work toward the best health she can acquire for as long as she can hold onto it. And that is about as good as any of us can do.

My friend -- who has a friend newly diagnosed with brain cancer -- greeted me at the door the other day and asked with a sense of urgency, "How can I help?"

"Help your friend?" I asked.

"Yes, she said, unsure of what she might say or do in this time of great difficulty for everyone involved.

I told her a few things. And then I thought of some more. It wasn't terribly easy to come up with these ideas. Because even though I myself was on the receiving end of help during my cancer journey, it's still hard to imagine what an individual wants or needs -- or doesn't want or need. But here's what I've got to offer.

I hope this helps my friend.

I hope it helps you too.

• Allow your loved one to take the lead. If you sense this person wants to talk, then talk. If you sense talk is not welcomed, then don't talk. To determine whether or not your friend or family member wants to discuss cancer, approach the topic and judge the response you get. I know I can usually tell if someone is willing to open up -- typically the conversation just flows -- and when someone is putting the brakes on chit-chat -- typically the conversation falls flat.

• If talk is not in the cards, then consider an offer of food. Sometimes actions speak much louder than words. So think about calling a restaurant in your friend's town and ordering a meal to be delivered right to the door. Most eating establishments accept credit card numbers over the phone so location should be a non-issue. Even those deep in despair need to eat, and taking away the chore of cooking and cleaning up can be quite a gift.

• If the gift of food is not up your alley, how about sending a small gift, like a candle, a pair of cozy socks, a grocery store gift card, a music CD, a gift certificate for a spa. You name it, your special something might brighten the day.

• If you live near your loved one and have some free time, offer to drive to appointments, visit during treatments, pick up kids and entertain them for the day, clean house, cook, and clean up dinner. Try to be very specific with your offers. Say, "I'd like to pick up your kids tomorrow at lunch so you can take a nap" or "I'm coming over on Sunday to rake leaves." These offers are easier to accept than the "call me if you need anything" kind.
  

• If a quick stop at your loved one's house is possible, drop off a book on the front porch or set some pretty potted flowers by the door. Or do both. Then walk away without saying a word. Let your help take your friend by surprise.

• When you do have the chance to talk, avoid guiding the conversation with your own thoughts and advice, unless requested. Saying, "Everything will be OK," for example, may not be true. Assuring your friend she will sail right through chemotherapy may backfire if nausea and fatigue are just down the road. Stating, "it's OK, your hair will grow back," doesn't really help those living with the horror of hair loss. So stay away from promises and predictions and stick to the present. Ask questions, listen, and paraphrase back what your friend has shared. These are basic counseling techniques. The premise is that allowing the person to work through the issues is more important than what we can do to directly help.
  

• Don't forget about the good old greeting card or short note that lets your loved know how much you care. Let the card say it if you wish to avoid writing and then add an address, a stamp, and send your support on its way.
  

• This makes eight -- so much for sticking to my Sunday plan -- but I must share this too: Don't forget about your loved one after months and even years pass by. Initial diagnoses are tough and treatments are tough too. But as your friend survives each day, remember to check in. Cancer is a life-long battle for many. Support and assistance may be just as valuable a year down the road as it is on day one.

A new PSA density test may help identify men at high risk of developing prostate cancer.

The test, used after a biopsy finds no signs of life-threatening prostate cancer, can compare the size of a man's prostate to his levels of a cancer-related protein called prostate-specific antigen (PSA).

Even though both men with high and low PSA densities can have clean biopsies, studies show it's men with very high PSA densities who are at greatest risk of developing prostate cancer. This and the fact that biopsies can miss between 20 and 33 percent of tumors makes this new test a potential breakthrough for the prevention and detection of prostate cancer.

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.

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.

I'm in the market for a new vacuum cleaner. Mine is 11 years old -- it was a wedding gift -- and although it still picks up the dirt and sand and grime that often litters my carpet as a result of two busy little boys, it's been through the ringer. Maybe that's because all I do is vacuum, or so my 5-year-old Joey thinks. He was asked in preschool one day to talk about his daddy's job and his mommy's job. He told his teachers that his daddy "plays the keyboard" which is true but while he meant a computer keyboard, his teachers conjured up the image of a musician and wanted to invite Joey's daddy to join the class for a jam session. And Joey said that his mommy "vacuums." Of all the things I do in a day -- as a mostly stay-at-home-mom -- Joey seems to think vacuuming sums me up. I think this justifies the purchase of a new vacuum cleaner.

There's a pink vacuum cleaner on the market, and I think it's just what I need. Made by Oreck Corporation -- a company that intends to offer the finest products for a cleaner, healthier home -- this vacuum also benefits the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation by donating $50 for each consumer who tries for 30 days this special edition Clean for the Cure product. This hypo-allergenic vacuum weighs just eight pounds and comes with an eight-year guarantee and eight free annual tune-ups. And you can't beat the pink color and pink breast cancer ribbon displayed prominently on this product that can tidy up the messiest of messes while helping to power the fight against breast cancer. I'm sold.

That's what I am calling AOL's list of top ten green cities -- the top ten cancer prevention cities -- because when it comes to reducing environmental cancer risks and promoting a healthy lifestyle, a city that is known as a green city is also a cancer prevention city. AOL's criteria in choosing the top ten green cities they believe are creating a healthy and livable place for its residents are: clean air and clean water, renewable energy, reliable city buses, trams, streetcars and subways, a growing number of parks and greenbelts, and farmer’s markets.

Not to claim bragging rights, but my hometown of Portland, Oregon is on the list. Austin, Texas; Minneapolis, Minnesota; Boulder, Colorado; Burlington, Vermont; Madison, Wisconsin; San Francisco, California; Santa Monica, California; Chicago, Illinois and New York, New York made the list. New York City? Yes. According to AOL's reviewers, Central Park goes a long way in making New York City a green city. As does the fact that 80 percent of the residents use public transportation. New Yorkers use fossil fuels at the rate the U.S. did in the 1920s. To learn all the ways these cities made the green list, go read AOL's Top 10 Greenest Cities. Or as I like to think of it -- the top ten cities promoting a healthy lifestyle and maintaining clean livable areas resulting in the creation of a cancer prevention environment -- the top ten cancer prevention cities.