I have a new friend who is a new breast cancer survivor. She is surviving a new diagnosis, a recent lumpectomy, and the moments leading up to another surgery to further investigate the margins surrounding the tumor removed from her breast. She is surviving the first phase of her breast cancer journey. A phase full of uncertainty and fear and panic. A phase so new and so fresh and so raw, her mind is whirling. A phase that has her grasping for any bit of direction she can find as she navigates a terrifying, unfamiliar road.

My friend is a young wife and mother whose worries are consuming her. She e-mailed me today and asked if I ever have moments when I look at my young children and worry that cancer will take me from them while they are young. She asked if I have always been so sure I will be okay. And so I replied with this candid cancer confession.

I look at my boys every day -- mostly at night when they are sleeping and peaceful and perfect and when cancer makes me most emotional -- and wonder "what if I am not here for them for very long?" I think all the time "if I died right now, am I confident they will be okay?"

Just before I went for my first Herceptin treatment -- and just after I had read that a few women died from an allergic reaction to the drug -- I started writing a bunch of notes for my husband for after I died. I told him where to buy the boys good shoes and I listed the names of all their doctors. I reminded my husband to remember to cut their fingernails and toenails and to e-mail everyone in my address book about my death. I wrote and I cried -- and my notes sit right behind me right now on a bookshelf. I did not die -- and the notes were not necessary. Only a few women died from Herceptin and they all had previous health issues. I am not sure why I got all worked about it --- I went on to have not one side effect from the treatment really. It was not really the Herceptin, I guess -- it was the cancer. It's always on my mind, always will be.

How can we not contemplate death when it is happening to young women just like us? So, yes, I think about dying. But my gut tells me I will be okay for some time. My gut has served me well. I think there will come a time when yours will serve you well too!

And after I wrote this, I thought about other confessions I could reveal that might shed some light on my whole realm of surviving cancer. So here are six more completely candid cancer confessions.

Candid Confession #2

I truly, deeply, genuinely fear that every ache, pain, and twinge of discomfort I experience will lead to another cancer diagnosis. A bump on the roof of my mouth, a gurgling stomach, a lingering headache, an odd shape of tissue in my breast, pain in my esophagus -- each of these discoveries has sent me into a tailspin of panic, relieved only by a visit to a physician for exams that rule out my worst fear. Rationally, I know my fears are irrational. Logically, I am fine. Emotionally, I am not.

Candid Confession #3

I can't imagine how I would emotionally cope with pregnancy now that I've had cancer. I can't imagine feeling calm and peaceful and serene while contemplating the possibility of a recurrence while pregnant, the possibility of a recurrence after pregnancy, the possibility that my early death would leave my husband with the monumental responsibility of three children, the possibility of a birth defect resulting from the poisonous drugs that for two years have been swirling through my body, the possibility I would give birth to a baby girl and would pass on to her the legacy of breast cancer. The possibilities are endless. And yet I want the same third baby I wanted moments before I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I just don't know if the gamble is worth it. And I don't know if the regret will haunt me when I turn out to be alive and well with two grown boys.

Candid Confession #4

I have been open and honest with my little boys about breast cancer. They know the basics. They know I had a boo-boo in my boobie, they know it was removed, they know medicine took my hair and made me better. They know the word cancer, they know it's a sickness, they know at the time being, we are done with it. But they are young -- five and three -- and have no real understanding of the word. They have no comprehension of what cancer can really do, can really take away from us all. And so there is a little pit in my stomach that aches for my little boys whose lives will forever be touched by cancer in ways none of us can predict. They are innocent and unsuspecting. I am afraid of what cancer might do to their simple souls.

Candid Confession #5

I am afraid of what cancer will do to me -- short of the whole death thing. I am afraid of the chemotherapy drug Adriamycin that seeped into my veins and can be toxic to my heart. I am afraid of the drug Herceptin that sailed through my same veins over the course of one year that can also damage my heart. I am afraid of the sun because of an allergic reaction caused by my chemotherapy drugs. And I am afraid of chemo brain -- the mental fogginess I periodically experience that can prevent me from remembering my own phone number and can sometimes wipe out my short-term memory.

Candid Confession #6

I have never been a fan of medication and even tried to avoid drugs to minimize treatment side effects. So when my oncologist recommended an anti-depressant during treatment to help manage my constant tears and constant anxiety, I was reluctant. Not until he convinced me that many cancer patients benefit from anti-depressants to take the edge off heightened emotion did I agree to try a daily dose of Zoloft. It worked -- in combination with counseling -- and I am not afraid to confess that this medication helps me survive.

Candid Confession #7

In spite of my fears and my worries and my panic, I truly am okay. I am happy and confident and downright positive for most minutes of most days that I will survive this disease that makes me a bit unstable at times. Therefore, my most important cancer confession is this -- I have dark moments and I have dismal days and I have decisions facing me that I can't even begin to make. But I am alive right now. I am healthy. I have two beautiful children and a loving family who keep me smiling. And if it wasn't cancer, it would be something else popping up to plague me. I'm okay with cancer -- and in an odd way, I like that it keeps me thinking and analyzing and reflecting. I like that it helps me help others -- like my new friend, a new breast cancer survivor.