On August 9, Patty was diagnosed with breast cancer. She is 36 years old, a wife, a mother of four children -- and already a fighter in her battle that has just begun. So far, she has endured surgery, and she will soon proceed through months of intensive chemotherapy, one year of Herceptin treatment, and weeks and weeks of radiation. It's a familiar path for so many women -- a path marked by devastation, fear, worry, and panic. Yet if there is a gift that flows from cancer, it must be the support and concern and love that can cushion the blow delivered by this disease.

Patty has an abundance of support -- and it all starts with her husband, ironically an administrator of two cancer centers, who is blogging her journey with great strength and an overwhelming love for his wife whose own mother died of breast cancer in 1992 at the age of 46. Patty and her husband have been vigilant about monitoring her health over the years -- in light of her family history -- and Patty had been tested, screened, biopsied, and examined many times before her diagnosis. When her recent tests and biopsies revealed breast cancer, it was both shocking and expected.

Now Patty and her husband -- who authors the blog Patty's Journey -- are expecting the best of outcomes on this journey of a lifetime.

Lynne began her blog on August 6 -- one week ago and two months after she endured surgery to clear a clogged bile duct and received the grim and frightening diagnosis of gallbladder cancer. Her cancer is stage IV -- not an uncommon staging for a hard-to-detect disease that many will only survive for two to six months. So Lynne is scared but still strong and hopeful and full of faith. Her goal is to live -- not die -- with cancer, even though her days may be numbered. So Lynne blogs her thoughts and fears and all the bits and pieces of information she gathers about a disease that is rare and resources that are scare. It helps her. And it will surely help others. And here is a glimpse into what she shared in her first post.

If you had only six months or a year to live, would you want to know? What would you do with the information? Would it make a difference in how you lived your life? These are questions I have been asking for the past two months. In asking them, I have also noticed how little guidance there is for this process. Who have I known personally who was able to anticipate their death? I can think of only two individuals, and I never asked them whether or not they were living differently in their awareness of their mortality.

So, those are the themes in this blog. I look forward to a dialog with those I know, and those I don't about this strange, life changing journey.

To Lynne -- and to all others who are faced with the disease -- may you find peace and comfort and strength in every step you take, every direction you follow, every path that becomes your road to recovery.

I don't take for granted that I am alive. I am fully aware of it, consciously grateful for it, continually amazed by it. Before I was confronted with breast cancer, I still knew I could die -- in a car accident maybe -- but I thought chances were pretty good that I would make it to a ripe old age. Death was never at the forefront of my mind. I had no reason to believe that life could be snatched from me. And because of this, I am sure some pretty important moments slipped by me, virtually unnoticed. But now -- after a breast cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, radiation therapy, and then more therapy, I realize life is not a guarantee for anyone. Me included. Even at age 36, I am not safe. I feel confident about my future -- and I believe cancer has left my body -- but my life has been threatened like never before. And that makes me wake up and take notice -- really notice -- the moments that are too important to take for granted.

My first baby boy starts kindergarten today. Before cancer, this still would have been a monumental day for us both. But now, after cancer, it's even bigger. Because I know of several moms who did not survive cancer long enough to see their children walk through their first classroom doors -- moms who thought, like me, that they would surely beat cancer and would see their kids off for every first day of school. So I am lucky to have made it to this day -- to witness the wonder of my sweet, shy, sensitive, challenging, demanding, loving boy as he leaves the comfort of home for the real world.

Two days ago, my littlest guy said, "Mommy, I love you and want to keep you forever." Joey -- the boy whose wisdom should guide him right through his first day of school -- said, "Danny, you can't have mommy forever. One day she will die, and you will never see her again." Fortunately, his harsh meaning was lost on three-year-old Danny who kept playing with whatever toy was occupying him at the time. But his meaning was not lost on me. He spoke the truth. And so I plan to soak up the kindergarten moment this morning -- and photograph it and write about it and cherish it for my days to come. And in two years, I hope to do it again with Danny as he starts off on the same path. With me by his side.

My breast cancer friend Adriene -- who I wrote about on May 19 -- e-mailed me today about a friend of a friend who was just diagnosed with breast cancer. This friend -- Jen -- is 31 years old and just yesterday had a lumpectomy. Adriene asked if I could be in touch with Jen since, like her, I am young and I am a breast cancer survivor and I had a lumpectomy. So far, we are somewhat alike. And depending on the results of Jen's pathology report, we may be even more alike -- if she follows a path anything like mine that included chemotherapy and radiation therapy and Herceptin therapy -- or our paths might diverge from one another. Regardless, I feel a connection to this woman, much like I do with anyone with cancer whose path I cross, anyone who is sent my way, anyone who finds me for the sole purpose of support.

So I told Adriene in my return e-mail, "Yes, I will contact Jen." And I have already sent her an e-mail. And I hope when she reads it that she finds a trace of comfort, a hint of encouragement, a glimpse of hope that can somehow transform scared souls into confident spirits. I hope that she emerges from under the rock of breast cancer. Like I did. Like Adriene did.

If I could go back in time, I would not repeat my journey with breast cancer. I would choose a different path -- one free of disease and treatment and the fear that comes with it all. I would choose the route where my children would never hear me say, "mommy has cancer." The route where there would be less worry about dying, less worry about how my kids would do without me, less worry about how all my loose ends would be tied up without me here to tie them. I would choose another direction in a heartbeat. But there are some things I do treasure about my trip down breast cancer lane -- some things I do not wish to give back, even if given the chance to choose a different path. They are the hidden treasures I discovered along the way, in the midst of a harrowing, sometimes horrendous battle. There are many treasures that have come my way -- and I'm sure there are more to come. Here are seven of my valuable finds.

Husband and wife team -- Dr. Tyler Curiel and Dr. Ruth Berggren -- prepare to relocate to San Antonio, Texas and will leave behind the city torn apart by Hurricane Katrina -- the same city where they worked tirelessly in 100-plus degree heat to rescue frozen cells and tissue from destruction during a storm that destroyed nearly everything in its path. They worked for one week caring for trapped patients at the inner city Charity Hospital, using diminishing generator power and the very basic of supplies. And they worked by flashlight to preserve their temperature-sensitive cells -- the cells that made up most of their life's work. They were successful in their mission -- and happily saved the cells of one of Curiel's medical students who once worked in his lab but died in 2004 of a rare cancer.

In September, the duo will leave New Orleans and will begin work at a nationally recognized cancer center -- the San Antonio Cancer Institue. Curiel will share his expertise in gynecological cancers -- specifically ovarian cancer -- and Berggren will join the health science center as an infectious disease specialist.

For the almost two years I have been receiving treatment for breast cancer, I have traveled the same path -- over and over and over again -- from my house to the hospital and back again. And while I have seen different doctors and received different treatments and visited various departments and locations for all sorts of surgeries and tests and scans and X-rays, the path has remained the same. And after all the time that has passed, the power of the path has never diminished -- despite how familiar it has become.

Today I drove from my house to the hospital for a counseling appointment. I drove the same stretch of highway for a few miles, got off on my usual exit, drove for a few more miles past all the typical shopping centers and restaurants, and came to the light where I always turn left into the Cancer Center. I drove into the parking lot, found a parking space -- thankfully -- and displayed my yellow patient parking permit that allows to park without fear of a $20 ticket. I got out of my car and began my walk to the main hospital where the psychology clinic is located. I passed -- as usual -- the startling crowds of people smoking outside the Cancer Center, the groups of medical students who gather outside the medical facilities, the masses of people in white coats racing around and checking beepers and talking on cell phones. I entered the hospital, traveled to the ground floor, and turned a few corners until I reached my clinic. I checked in, paid my $25 co-pay, and waited for a just a few minutes until I was greeted by my counselor. We walked to a private room, talked for an hour, and then I followed my path in reverse.

The path is always the same. It is routine and predictable and rarely varies. But it has never become dull and I have never become numb to it -- because the power that is wrapped up in my drive and my subsequent steps that take me to and from my destinations still has a tight hold on me. I can travel the same path for other purposes -- to shop or have dinner -- and the power is lost. But when I travel for reasons all about cancer, the power overwhelms me. It happened today -- as I drove listening to the same CD I always play on these missions, as tears filled my eyes. I was not sad -- just overflowing with emotion. Emotion about all that I've encountered -- the encounters with fear and dread and total repulsion and the encounters with hope and joy and pure contentment. Today I felt powerful. Simply powerful. Because I have overcome what has faced me so far and because I am still traveling the same road, the same path to ensure my future health and well-being -- which is something I hope to become all too familiar with.

Joey has a hard time staying in bed when we put him down for the night. When we ask him why he continually gets up, he tells us that he wants to be with us -- mommy and daddy --  and that he wants to watch TV and that he's just not tired. He is five years old. And he will try anything to coax us into allowing him to stay up just a little bit longer. Lately, he's been asking serious questions he knows will take some time to answer -- like how exactly does a light bulb work? And how does lightening get in the air? And how do you build a house? Last night, his questions followed a medical path -- a cancer path really.

The international health group PATH has received an infusion of cash from Microsoft's Bill Gates to support the launch of a program that will provide the new cervical cancer vaccines to women in poor countries. With a $27.8 million grant from the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation, PATH will begin in India, Peru, Uganda and Vietnam. Of the 250,000 women who die from cervical cancer each year, most of them live in the world's poorest countries. 

The sexually-transmitted human papillomavirus, HPV, is believed to be responsible for nearly three-fourths of cervical cancer diagnosis. Two cervical cancer vaccines, Merck's Gardasil and GlaxoSmithKline's Cervarix, will become available this year to protect women from the virus. In previous posts, we wondered what would happen to women who live in poor countries and how the cancer vaccine would be made available for them. This sounds like a start.

There is something about reading stories about other cancer survivors that helps me in moments of despair. Sometimes I look to the blogs that I read regularly -- blogs that capture the essence of realities that are not my own -- and I feel somehow comforted. I gain perspective and can remove myself a bit from my own turmoil. I gather strength and hope from others who struggle like me. I absorb the words written in these journals and see the photos of real people with real struggles and the big picture becomes clear to me -- breast cancer is widespread and far-reaching. And because of this, I have a lot of company of my path of uncertainty. This is what soothes me.

Books help me too -- the kind of books with little snippets of advice and wisdom from other survivors. Like Hope Lives! The After Breast Cancer Treatment Survival Handbook. My favorite chapter is about recurrence. There are passages from women who have had breast cancer two and three times and these strong women remind me that I if necessary, I can fight again and again and again. This book is humbling, sobering, and powerful. The voices that inhabit the pages put a bounce in my step and peace in my head. Hope does in fact live.

Ideally, the Dervaes would reside on a couple of country acres in order to live the organic, self-sufficient eco-friendly and health conscious lifestyle they live. Instead, finding themselves in the middle of an urban landscape, on a simple city block in Pasadena, California, the five member family has transformed the 1/5 acre and city home into a sustainable urban homestead that provides them with enough organic and cancer prevention food that they have turned the excess crops into a lucrative home business.

The family is vegetarian, and the yard blooms with over 350 varieties of edible and useful plants. The 1/10 acre organic garden now grows over 6,000 pounds of organic produce each year. The money from the cottage-industry produce business helps fund purchases of solar panels, energy efficient appliances, and a biodiesel processor. The family makes their own vegetable oil-based bio-diesel fuel to run the family car. They have chickens and ducks, and compost with worms.

The Dervaes family is generous in the time they spend showing others what they are doing, from allowing local school children come take a tour to giving how-to workshops to keeping a blog. For the last three years, I have followed their daily lifestyle with fascination, reading the daily journal they keep. So much in the way they live is a cancer prevention lifestyle. They protect their health, they protect the health of others, and they protect the health of the planet -- in the way they choose to live. All while living in the middle of a city on a small city lot. I think you will enjoy the visit to the Path to Freedom journal.