Writer Jeph Lobe has been working through the stages of grief in the most recent issues of Marvel Comics. You see, Captain America has been gunned down. And his buddies -- Wolverine, the Avengers, Iron Man, and Spider-Man -- are battling with denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. The whole story will be revealed when the latest issue, Fallen Son, hits newsstands July 5th, the day after Independence Day.

Loeb, also an executive producer for NBC's Heroes, chose his storyline to represent current politics.

"Part of it grew out of the fact that we are a country that's at war, we are being perceived differently in the world," he says. "He wears the flag and he is assassinated -- it's impossible not to have it at least be a metaphor for the complications of present day."

I wrote the title of this post -- Prescription for finesse -- on May 30. Then I saved it, knowing I'd come back and churn out a post on the topic. So here I am, ready to write. But I can't remember for the life of me what I'd intended to write about. I know it wasn't about anything news-related -- I would have saved a link to a news story had this been the case -- so it must have been something personal I'd planned to share with you.

My memory has been failing me lately. Once, I completely forgot my sister's phone number -- I call her every day so to go completely blank on how to reach her is a little odd. Another time, I left my cell phone in a drawer in my bathroom -- a drawer that holds my brush and hair clips and headbands -- and I had to call the phone from another phone to locate its whereabouts. I use the whole chemo excuse every time something like this happens. Chemo brain. A convenient explanation for my flighty tendencies.

My doctor says chemo may not be to blame. Perhaps I would have done these things prior to cancer and now I just interpret all my behavior through the chemo filter. Maybe. But I don't remember being so forgetful before toxic drugs traveled my veins. And I don't remember losing the ability to recall lost information. It's frustrating. I want my mental sharpness back. I want to know what I had in mind for this title.

For now, I must accept that what is gone is gone. For the future, I will put in writing everything I wish to remember. As for that story idea: if it ever surfaces in my brain's lost and found bin, I will happily return to write about it.

My friend's husband lost his mother to liver cancer during the wee hours of Sunday morning. He had traveled with his family from Ohio to Florida expecting to take his mom home with him so she could spend her last months where she once lived.

Steve never got to take his mom home. She died just days after he landed in Florida. Still, I am confident he won't return to Ohio empty-handed. His positive and healthy perspective on losing his mom will surely keep him company.

I got to see Steve and Kim -- my very best friend whose bouncy ringlets I envied long before I got my own post-chemotherapy curls -- on the same day Steve's mom died. They needed to get away and wanted a distraction for their two small children.

I am honored to have been chosen as my friends' destination -- not only so they could begin to heal from their loss, but because I gained a renewed sense of calm about death and dying during the time we talked and laughed and reminisced.

Steve's mom, 69, died at home in the loving arms of hospice caretakers who offered her round-the-clock care. During her final hours, she received a bath, a back rub, and a massage with body lotion. She sent non-verbal messages to her family members indicating she wished to be alone and once she had convinced everyone to head for bed, she took her final breaths. She died facing a wall, in contrast to her usual position in which she faced the door, as if to welcome all visitors. Her final resting pose was perhaps her way of saying good-bye. Steve sees it this way.

Just moments after Steve's mom was driven away in a funeral home car, Steve saw the clouds part. And then the rain fell. "Mom just figured out how to turn on the water," Steve said.

I don't think I'll ever forget this remark. Or the fact that the rain didn't last for very long on Sunday. The day Steve's mom died was gorgeous, glorious, and sunny.

There's so much more we talked about -- like the convertible Steve's mom drove and how he thought about placing her urn, her photo, and a scarf in the seat and taking his mom for one last spin before turning the car in -- and we passed the day in a celebratory manner. This, I think, is exactly what Steve's mom would have wanted.

We cannot be silent is one slogan printed on specialty clothing offered by a company called Privacy. Other slogans include United We Cure and Mission. Purpose. Cure.

The slogans say a lot -- but the accomplishments of Carolyn Jones, Founder and President/CEO of Privacy, say a whole lot more.

Think about this:

Jones lost her mother to breast cancer on November 16, 2000 during a time when too many questions about the disease were left unanswered and not enough options were available for women fighting for their lives.

Times have changed, in part due to outspoken pioneers like Jones, who are spreading the word and funding the cause.

Part of the Privacy corporate goal is to support medical research and to educate women about early detection and treatment.

"It is very clear that more information and research is needed due to the yearly increase in new cases nationally," says Jones who cites statistics such as this: every 12 minutes a woman in America will die from complications associated with breast cancer. And this: more than 1,500 new cases of male breast cancer will be diagnosed this year.

Privacy, a California-based company with a social conscious, offers for both women and men an assortment of t-shirts, sweatshirts, jeans, hats, recommended books, accessories, breast cancer facts, and even a contest or two. A portion of all profits are donated to breast cancer initiatives with an emphasis on low-income and uninsured populations.

Check it all out right here.

Here's my problem with health-related advice and wisdom -- it's always changing. And I'm never sure if I'm buying into the right practice. Should I eat low-fat foods, for example, or should I stick with moderate amounts of regular food? Is red meat a good source of protein and other goodies or a direct path to breast cancer recurrence? Will sunscreen save my life or cause malignant lesions to develop on my fair skin?

How about drinking eight glass of water a day? Maybe yes. Maybe no, according to experts who say we get water from sources other than diet alone and while we do need to replace water lost through breathing, urination, and sweating each day, our lost fluids do not total 64 ounces. And it seems we can drink too much water. This can lead to an imbalance of sodium and a condition called hyponatremia.

Vitamin supplements? Eat a good amount of fruits, veggies, whole grains, low-fat dairy, protein, and the right amount of calories and you don't need a multivitamin. But most of us don't eat right. So we probably need one.

OK. Now breathe. Take it all in. Filter it. Use it. Abandon it. As for me -- I'm going with the tactic mentioned above several times -- moderation. Seems to me this approach is the key to both health and happiness.

President Bush, in a recent press release, declared April Cancer Control Month. It's a month for educating Americans about cancer, for raising awareness about treatments, for renewing the commitment to fighting this deadly disease.

Bush makes no mention in his release of the millions he just cut from the National Cancer Institute budget and how this might hinder this month's initiative, but he does offer a few relatively inexpensive ideas for individuals who wish to minimize their risk of developing the disease that remains the country's second leading cause of death.

"Individuals can reduce their risk of developing cancer by practicing healthy eating habits, exercising, limiting sun exposure, avoiding tobacco, knowing their family history, and getting regular screenings from the doctor," he writes.

Bush goes on to honor those lost to cancer and commends the strength of the 10 million people in the United States surviving the disease. He extends his gratitude for medical professionals, researchers, family members, and friends who support cancer patients. And he closes with a little history -- and his very own proclamation.

"In 1938, the Congress of the United States passed a joint resolution (52 Stat. 148; 36 U.S.C. 103) as amended, requesting the President to issue an annual proclamation declaring April as 'Cancer Control Month.'

NOW, THEREFORE, I, GEORGE W. BUSH, President of the United States of America, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Constitution and laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim April 2007 as Cancer Control Month. I encourage citizens, government agencies, private businesses, nonprofit organizations, and other interested groups to join in activities that will increase awareness about the steps Americans can take to prevent and control cancer.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand this twenty-ninth day of March, in the year of our Lord two thousand seven, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and thirty-first."

GEORGE W. BUSH

This comment just arrived in response to yesterday's post Headed for melanoma, and it's just too raw and powerful to leave buried in the comment section of the site.

So here it is, word for word -- a chilling and empowering message from a 37-year-old mom of two living with a disease that is downright deadly.

I have melanoma. I was diagnosed last August and have had 6 surgeries in 6 months.

I have lost 4 members in my melanoma support group. I go to Jaime's funeral tomorrow afternoon. She was 29 years old. Heather was 37 when she died on March 2, 2007. The midwife noticed a suspicious mole on her leg during the birth of her 4th child. She died 23 months later. Jan was a mother of 5 ages 9 to 19, she passed away on February 8, 2007. Ceri was only 20 years old when melanoma claimed her life on January 14, 2007.

I always thought skin cancer had to be HUGE, ugly, and hard to ignore. I didn't know it could be small, have no symptoms, and KILL you.

Melanoma incidence is increasing faster than any other cancer. According to statistics found on the American Cancer Society's website (www.cancer.org), the prognosis for someone diagnosed with melanoma is worse, stage for stage, than someone with breast cancer.

Getting more than 3 blistering sunburns during childhood doubles your risk. Sunbed use increases ones risk. Having fair skin and light eyes also puts you at a higher than average risk, but having dark skin does not make you immune. Bob Marley died from Melanoma in 1981.

Everyone at higher risk should get screened by a dermatologist every year. And all of us should be checking our own skin each month.

Melanoma is a virulent and aggressive cancer. It begins in the melanocytes, or the pigment in the skin. It presents itself as a change in an existing mole or skin pigment, or in the formation of a new one. It is easily treated in its most early stages. Once it spreads, though, it is often fatal.

Unfortunately, there is no cure for melanoma. Melanoma is one of the cancers that won't respond to conventional chemotherapy. There have been no significant advances in the medical treatment or survival rate in the last 30 years.

More awareness is needed. Most think "it's only skin cancer" and consider it nothing serious. But I can tell you with absolute certainty, they are DEAD wrong.

Today I offer you not so much a Thought for the Day but a Question for the Day. Before I ask my pressing question, though, I want you to consider this story.

Diagnosed with a rare malignant melanoma on her retina in 2001, Ann Guthrie, a South Carolina wife and mother of two grown sons, endured radiation and chemotherapy. The treatments shrunk Guthrie's tumor, but another mass appeared two years later, forcing the removal of her right eye.

At about the same time Guthrie lost her eye, cancer was discovered in her lungs. It was inoperable. Then cancer landed in her brain. And now, without any approved treatment avenues, Guthrie is out of options.

Like many people with terminal illnesses, this woman is willing to try just about anything -- a clinical trial, experimental drugs, risky treatments -- to extend her life. If she's going to die anyway, why not? She just might live longer. And if she doesn't, she could at least help advance science by offering herself up as a sort of guinea pig.

While the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) has proposed changes that would make it easier for patients to access options like these, it's just not that simple right now.

There are ethical issues -- like weighing the needs of people who think anything is better than death against the need of society to prove drugs and treatments work safely. The only way to ensure a sort of balance is through clinical trials -- and letting anyone participate in clinical trials, for example, would make the results harder to interpret.

And there are medical and legal risks. What if terminally ill patients end up in worse shape after a treatment with an experimental drug, for example? What if the FDA or a physician is considered responsible for adverse drug reactions?

Denying terminal patients their last bits of hope is difficult. "It's a hard discussion to have with a patient and his family," says one doctor. "There's a lot of tears. We all would love to be able to get them access to some form of therapy."

And now for my question:

What do you think about terminally ill cancer patients and their access to anything that might extend -- or save -- their lives?

Tears are streaming down my face. I can't stop them, and I'm not sure I want to. In a way, I want to feel the tragedy of life lost to cancer because it makes it all real. It makes it personal. It makes me realize the same tragedy could happen to me, my family members, my friends. It makes me want to make a difference even more now that I've seen the chilling pictures of a young woman dying of cervical cancer than moments earlier when I was moved mostly by my own breast cancer journey.

I first read about Heather Lyn Martin on the JANE magazine website, home of a beautifully-written story -- I Hate Tumors -- by Sara Lyle, long-time friend of Heather and senior editor for JANE, a publication for 20-something women. Sara's words powerfully depict the life and death of her friend, stricken with a disease she was sure she would beat. So sure, in fact, she asked Sara to help tell her success story.

Sadly, Heather never got to tell much. Because she died much too soon, at the age of 28. So Sara told the story through her own words and photos -- the same ones responsible for my tears -- and has just recently written a second essay, one year after her first story started reaching young people everywhere.

Sara wrote Why I Still Hate Tumors after inspiring many young women to open their eyes to the realities of a deadly disease. Her words serve to raise awareness about the dangers of cervical cancer -- and the HPV virus that causes it -- and to point women in the direction of resources critical for preventing and conquering the disease.

Sara, because of the death of her dear friend, is saving lives with her message. And she just may save yours.

To see all that Sara has to offer in the fight against cervical cancer and other hated tumors, visit her I Hate Tumors website.

Actress Gwyneth Paltrow has lost five family members to cancer -- and she fears the disease may one day strike her. So she's taking action now and is trying to beat back the cancer curse that seems to loom over her loved ones.

Ever since losing her famous father in 2002 to throat cancer, Paltrow has been approaching life from a biological perspective.

"Cancer has been the curse of my family,"she said. "I am challenging these evil genes by natural means. I am convinced that by eating biological foods it is possible to avoid the growth of tumors. I began this crusade soon after my father's death. Since then the fight against tumors has been my mission."

Paltrow and her husband, Coldplay's Chris Martin, have embraced a strict vegetarian diet for their young family, and they hope their commitment to healthy eating will ward off the illness they fear may be headed right for them.

I never tire of cherishing the moment. Sometimes I get busy and distracted and caught up in the hustle and bustle of life, but I always come back to the simple appreciation of time. There's no stopping it -- time -- and there's no telling how my days will unfold as the seconds and minutes and hours tick by, so I try to live in the present with every breath I take.

Cancer taught me this lesson -- this realization that time is not a guarantee, this deep-down feeling that I must soak up every experience that faces me.

Each night when my husband and I check on our sleeping boys, we sigh with amazement and one of us religiously says something like, Wow, they are so great. We never want to lose sight of the joy these sometimes-challenging little people share with us. And so we watch them in their most peaceful moments, while emotion fills our heads and hearts.

My husband has lost sight of his father -- literally. He died eight years ago today and while John can no longer see the man who passed away suddenly, without warning, and at a much-too-young age, his memories are still vivid. It's the simple things he didn't let slip by that are fresh in his mind today.

John wrote this essay for his mom and two brothers and sent it to them today, in honor of his dad whose life he hopes will never escape him.

And then there were four

I think about him just about every day. Most often it's a song that reminds me of Dad, such as Cats in the Cradle, or even one of his favorite TV shows, Quantum Leap. I was shopping in Publix the other day while a great mix of music played -- a song from Three Degree's came on, When Will I See You Again, and I stood there with a thousand-mile stare on my face as I thought of Dad. I work in a building that looks right across the street from the last residence hall I lived in, Yulee Hall -- the last dorm from which Dad muscled all my belongings. I see that building every day.

The passing of time doesn't fade the memories I have of him, the distance between the last one just increases. Just about this time eight years ago, I laid across Dad's chest well after he took is last breath. That memory is forever burned into my mind along side the memory I have of walking past Kristin's room that fateful day many years ago. Before that day there were six of us, then there were five, and now there are four. Every force of nature cannot stop that number from reaching zero, so I wanted to take this opportunity to tell you all that I love you and think about you every day. Although death may be the worst gift of life, the gift of our kids will keep our numbers growing. It's unfortunate he didn't get to meet any of our kids and they didn't get to meet him -- but in a way they do. There is no doubt I share some of his qualities and those (hopefully only the good ones) affect the way I parent, the way I work, and the way I love.

I miss you, Dad.

Love, JP

Today I watched a video of myself. I was interviewing my grandmother about her 83 years worth of memories -- a project my husband and I dreamed up so that my grandma's life story would live on long after her death.

The video was taped in May 2000, three years before my grandma died and four and a half years before I was diagnosed with cancer. My hair was long and blond and straight, like it had been since I was a little girl, and it was twisted and clipped on the top of my head. I instantly longed for this hair -- and for my grandma too -- and just as I was convincing myself that my post-chemotherapy dark, curly hair was merely a new phase of my life -- much like the phase of living without my grandma -- my six-year-old son entered the room, looked at the TV screen and said, "Mommy, I really like your hair like that."

"I do too," I told Joey.

"Can you get it back?" he said.

"No, I can't get it back," I replied, knowing that I would never bleach my hair back to its original natural color and that the forces of nature will forever prevent me from removing the curl that today looked somewhat like what frames a lion's face.

So, no, I can't get my hair back. And I can't get my grandma back. But I am thankful for the video that captures us together, talking and laughing and remembering. And should my own grandchildren ever wish to interview me when I am 83 years old, I will definitely tell them about my sweet and spunky grandma and all of her touching stories. And I will tell them about the great blond hair I had the privilege of wearing for the first 34 years of my life.

I once waited to see my oncologist -- in a room with nothing more than outdated magazines and my own wandering mind -- for four hours. I offered up 20 hours of my time for chemotherapy treatments and then spent five days -- two times, for a total of ten days -- waiting in the hospital for doctors to determine how to raise my blood counts and decrease my fever after the completion of a dose-dense chemotherapy attack. I traveled to and from radiation appointments for 35 days, spending an average of 90 minutes on each of these round-trip excursions. I reclined in an infusion chair every three weeks for 12 months so that a new breast cancer wonder drug could sail through my veins. I spent 52 hours in that chair. And I spent countless hours pouring out my emotions to a counselor, in an attempt to clear my mind of all that cancer took from me -- including my time.

These are just seven memories I have of time lost to cancer. There are others -- countless others -- but this should suffice as proof that among all the potential side effects that accompany cancer, loss of time is a guarantee.

According to the first study to put a price tag on the time patients spend battling cancer, it seems the disease steals at least $2.3 billion worth of time for patients in the first year of treatment alone.

Eleven of the most common cancers were included in the study. And it was determined that 368 hours are lost during the first year of treatment for ovarian cancer. For lung cancer, 272 hours are lost. For kidney cancer, 193 hours go down the drain. These hours don't take into account time spent in bed recovering from surgery or chemotherapy treatments. It accounts only for time engaged in actively receiving care -- it counts chemotherapy, radiation, blood tests, scans, surgery, check-ups, waiting to see doctors, and driving to and from appointments.

The study, published in the Journal of the National Cancer Institute, sheds new light on the burden of commitment -- the human cost of cancer.

"Cancer is more than the just the dollars and cents for the medicines and the treatments and the doctors. It's also the lost opportunities for the patients," said the American Cancer Society's Dr. Len Lichtenfeld, of this overlooked reality.

Lichtenfeld says this study demonstrates the need for early detection. The earlier cancer is caught, the less time patients spend in the system. It also shows the need for more targeted therapies that spare patients physical side effects and allow them opportunities for taking pills at home instead of receiving treatment in clinics.

I would love to have back the time I spent treating and recovering from cancer. But I'm not heartbroken over my lost time. Because it bought me something in the end -- more time.

For 18 months, New Zealand resident Heather Kubiak lived with undiagnosed breast cancer. It was no fault of her own that her disease was left undetected for all this time. It was the fault of the hospital staff who lost her file -- marked urgent -- and thus failed to communicate with her about the cancer living in her body.

In December 2003, Kubiak had both breasts removed because her cancer had spread. And so began the battle for her life -- and the battle against a system that admittedly botched up her medical care due to organizational failure.

It took years to resolve her claim but earlier this year, Kubiak, a wife and mother of four, received a lump-sum compensation of -- $9,000. That's $16.66 per day for every day of the 18 months her undiagnosed breast cancer continued to spread.

It was important for Kubiak to see her hospital held accountable -- and while $9,000 hardly makes up for what she has lost -- she is happy the legal ordeal is over. And she hopes her experience will motivate others to actively pursue their own medical misadventures.

"I do worry for people who aren't articulate enough or strong enough to fight the system because you have to keep on and on," she says.

Gerald Boyd, the first black managing editor of The New York Times, the man forced to resign two years after his appointment -- during a reporter's plagiarism scandal -- died Thursday of lung cancer. He was 56.

Boyd was diagnosed with cancer in February and while he was sick for most of the year, he kept his condition private from most friends and colleagues.

Boyd is credited for his ability to mobilize a reporting team and surround a story to capture every important fact. He was tough and demanding and had a huge heart. And while he left the paper under sad circumstances, he also left as a well-respected newsman.

Boyd became managing editor in 2001 and resigned in 2003 after the discovery that reporter Jayson Blair had plagiarized material, invented quotes, and wrote stories using datelines of places he'd never seen. The scandal resulted in discontented staff members who lost confidence in Boyd's leadership.

After his resignation, Boyd became involved in several projects and found himself writing a column for Universal Press Syndicate. His goal -- to help people understand how newsroom decisions are made.

Boyd is survived by his wife and 10-year-old son.