I wrote recently about The View co-host Elisabeth Hasselbeck and the inner strength she says she acquired from helping care for her mother during a battle with breast cancer. I ended my post with this statement:

It seems a common thread -- the fact that cancer makes us all stronger in one way or another. It's one of the silver linings, I think. Cancer can be a gift. We just have to regard it as one and look hard for its hidden treasures.

Two readers have since left comments indicating I must be crazy for thinking of cancer as a gift. One reader wrote: I'm certainly glad that Elisabeth was able to take something positive away from her mother's bout with breast cancer, but I'm not sure that I can buy into the "gift" part.

Call Me Larry, that is his name. This remarkable young racehorse came in first in the sixth race at Aqueduct Raceway. His owner Suzie O'Cain, will donate ten percent of his earnings to The Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

The horse is named after Dr. Larry Norton, Breast Cancer Research Foundation Scientific Director and Chairman of the Medical Advisory board, in a cute story. Suzie felt obligated not to use Dr. Norton's first name when addressing him. However, he kept urging her to 'Call me Larry'!

So the horse was named Call Me Larry in honor of Dr. Norton and to raise funds for The Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

The way I see it, there are two threads common to the journeys of many cancer patients and survivors -- the desire to hear stories of others walking in similar shoes and the desire to be heard.

These threads have definitely woven themselves throughout my own cancer experience. When first diagnosed, I searched long and hard for personal stories of women struggling with and conquering breast cancer. Once I was well on my road to recovery, I wanted others to hear my story, in hopes it would resonate with those looking for the same comfort I once craved.

Won't you consider sharing your story too? It might just help you. It will surely help others.

Think about this:

On the Discovery Health website, an offer awaits you.

"We would love to hear your story," reads a portion of the site. "So would the many others who share your relationship to Cancer."

If you are at least 18 years of age and have a few minutes to spare, simply call 888-890-6339 and follow the instructions to record your voice. When all stories are ready to be published in podcast format, an online notice will be posted.

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The one constant thing that gives people fighting cancer hope is the continued support of friends and family. Phone calls, emails, a surprise or planned visit at the door that has a big hug on the other side, a held hand over coffee or tea, or sitting patiently by their side as they go in for treatments. When that support falls by the wayside, it makes the determination to fight this disease or any other less worth the effort. In my humble opinion as someone fighting cancer, we sometimes fight harder to overcome disease for others more than ourselves. Because it is in their caring and the will in their eyes that gives us a much brighter hope than we find in ourselves. It is the lack of support or caring that sets off an internal depression that makes it ten times harder to find the will to fight. People seem to find it easier to hug a tree than a human. Try to imagine if you will sitting in a house alone and thinking about a disease that can run rampant through your body. It is hard to imagine and something that we do not want to think about. Yet many many people face that struggle every day of their lives.

So if you haven't reached out to someone you know, a neighbor, a friend, someone in your church or where you work, or even a family member that is struggling with cancer or any other disease, then find it in your heart to do so. It will make a difference. And if you have reached out to someone once or even twice, know that once is not enough and twice is not enough. No matter how much you think you are being a nuisance, that constant reminder of love and support is 95 percent of your friend's battle. The old saying "You never know who your true friends are until you go through a crisis and see who stands by our side" is very very true. So go stand by someone's side today, tomorrow, and for many days to come to offer support and encourage strength until their fight is successful. Even a phone call goes a long long way.

For those of you who stay in touch with me by phone and emails and that come knocking on my door in this time of need, I thank you very much for giving me the strength and will to survive.

On February 5, the President cut about $11 billion from the National Cancer Institute budget. On March 20, one group -- the Colorectal Cancer Coalition or C3 -- will ask Congress to return some of this money.

Colorectal cancer advocates from all over the country will descend upon Washington DC on this day, in honor of National Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month. Their plan of action on behalf of C3's first-ever Call-On Congress includes meeting with members of Congress face to face, discussing cancer research and prevention funding, and informing these powerful people that the time to cure cancer is now.

These advocates have a lot to accomplish -- and they need your help. So they ask that while they are rallying in DC that you lend your support with a few simple phone calls.

On Tuesday, March 20, between the hours of 9:00 AM and 5:00 PM Eastern Standard Time, pick up your phone and call two Senators and one Representative. Tell them now is the time for all good men and women to come to the aid of the cancer cause.

C3 offers a step-by-step guide for making yourself heard. The group will help you locate your specific legislators and provides a script for what to say and how to say it.

"The more people who call on March 20th and ask for Congress to make funding the war on cancer a priority, the better for us all," says one advocate.

Fewer women are getting mammograms. Facilities offering mammograms are closing. Mammogram machine usage is declining. And we don't really know why.

"We're heading in the wrong direction," says Carol Lee, professor of radiology at Yale University School of Medicine and chair of the American College of Radiology's commission on breast imaging.

"If this decline holds up, it will be very worrisome," she says.

"We're looking at a possible increase in deaths if we see this continue," according to Diana Balma, vice president of public policy at Susan G. Komen for the Cure.

Studies don't show which women -- rich or poor, young or old, educated or uneducated -- are skipping these critical screenings, but there are a few possible reasons for this dangerous drop.

Think about this:

Perhaps there are fewer facilities, staffed by fewer radiologists and technologists due to high lawsuit rates and modest reimbursement. This is scary -- because the number of women old enough to get screened is increasing.

Women may be missing out on all sorts of necessary medical care because of inadequate health insurance or other access problems.

Women may be choosing, for whatever reasons, not to get mammograms, despite strong public urging that women age 40 and older get screened one time every year.

And now think about this:

Recent news about declining breast cancer rates may not be all that good. It may not be that fewer women are developing breast cancer. It may simply be that fewer women are getting early diagnoses because of irregular or nonexistent screening.

I'm just waiting for the call -- the call that prompts my first visit with any number of newly-diagnosed breast cancer patients who want someone to lend an ear, a shoulder, and a few good tips for steering through a scary journey.

I am a new American Cancer Society Reach to Recovery volunteer, trained this past Saturday and ready to help others who are slipping into the shoes I started wearing two years ago. I was first a recipient of this program -- designed to match new breast cancer patients with veteran survivors through face-to-face visits -- and I know well the comfort that comes from the support of someone not so overwhelmed by cancer. So now it's my turn to offer the comfort. And I am oh so ready.

I am armed with literature, communication techniques, gift bags for my patients, and my own official volunteer pin. And while I am a bit anxious about how my first meeting will go, I learned on Saturday that my mere presence will be enough to calm the women whose lives I am about to touch.

There is no better vision for someone just diagnosed with breast cancer than a healthy, happy woman who happens to be surviving the same disease. And so it is hope that I will spread and my unspoken portrayal of life after cancer that will inspire these women. My words will be icing on the cake. It's me these women want to see. And it's these women I want to see as I begin to reach to recovery -- a recovery I suspect will largely be my own.

Cancer-related fear once consumed my mind. Now it sits lodged in the back of my brain and only presents itself on rare occasions.

I handle my fears so much better now than when cancer was new and fresh and raw. My fears hardly ever cause me real anxiety, they don't cripple my mental functioning anymore, and more than ever, they serve to focus my efforts in life. When fear strikes, it's usually a wake-up call of sorts, a reminder to leave no stone unturned, a summons to keep on living.

Although so much less threatening than they once were, my fears still exist. And I like to review them once in awhile, lose myself in a little emotional housekeeping, tidy up some of the mess cancer made. I always feel better when things are in order -- fears included.

• I fear a breast cancer recurrence, the return of a tumor that rises to the surface of my skin and presents itself again underneath my fingertips -- or in my worst-case scenario is lost among dense breast tissue, undetected by self-exam, and caught too late by some combination of mammogram, ultrasound, and MRI.

• I fear more than anything another cancer -- something entirely different from breast cancer, something buried in my body and not as responsive as breast cancer to treatment. I am prepared for a second visit from breast cancer because I know how to proceed, know I will succumb to treatment that is familiar, know I will remove both breasts in the most radical of life-saving approaches. But cancer in my lungs, brain, bones, blood, ovaries is out of my realm. And these cancers -- among many others -- really scare me.
  

• I fear that my mom and my sister -- my first-degree female relatives -- will one day follow in my breast cancer footsteps. I once thought family history trickled down from above, from older family members. Now I know the disease can start with anyone. I am the anyone in my family. I am the reason my mom and sister are closely watched and monitored and tested. I am the one that put the fear of cancer into their hearts and minds -- and into mine.
  

• I fear having another baby. I fear the return of cancer during pregnancy, leaving me with difficult choices regarding my health and my baby's health. I fear cancer returning after a baby is born, leaving me with one more child and more treatment to manage. I fear another cancer would lead to a decreased chance of survival and another baby would leave my husband feeling stranded should I die too soon. And I fear having a baby girl who would inherit the very real chance of developing breast cancer at some time during her life.
  

• I fear not having another baby. I fear the regret I may feel one day, perhaps 50 years from now when I am healthy and cancer-free and without the child I longed for. I fear I am being overly cautious, too tentative, a bit selfish. A fellow cancer survivor once wrote me, "I learned that my family continues, even if I do not. I also learned that they are at least as tough as I am so will cope with the genes I pass to them and their own cancer battles if needed. Finally, I learned they look out for each other just as I looked out for them. No matter what your future, you will never regret giving another child a place in your family." I fear this man may be right.
  

• I fear dying at a young age. I fear leaving my children before they are grown. I fear leaving my husband a single parent, my mom someone who has lost a child, and my sister an only child. I have been told over and over again that my chances of survival are great, fantastic even. I have a 93 percent chance of not dying from breast cancer. This does seem great -- until I take into account that this percentage is good for only five years. My five years will expire when I am 39 years old. What happens then, I am not sure. The only thing I am sure about is that five years is not enough time. I want more, need more, demand more. Yet I fear my days may be numbered.
  

These are the fears that keep me focused. And while they are sometimes not-so-pleasant, I am in no hurry to resolve any of them. I am thankful really to have these fears swirling in my head -- because it means I am alive. And for me, being alive with fears is better than not being alive at all.

I'm not a big sports fan. But everyone in my family is, and I live in Gainesville, Florida -- home of the Florida Gators -- so by default, I've come to know a bit about sports. And I tend to get caught up in the orange and blue spirit that lives in this town. It's contagious.

I am thrilled that the Gator football team beat Ohio State Monday night, earning the 2007 National Championship title. But I am even more thrilled that one player -- safety Reggie Nelson -- gets to claim this victory, for himself and for his mother, who passed away on December 21 after a three-year battle with breast cancer.

It must have been a bittersweet win for Nelson, who talked with his mom on the phone prior to each of his games. She was his biggest fan and one of his toughest coaches. She cheered him on and offered critiques all the same.

But there was no phone call Monday night -- before Nelson's biggest game ever. But his mom was surely present to witness the wonder and glory of her son. And Nelson surely made every move on that field in honor of her.

"My mom's my life and my best friend," he said prior to her death. "Everything I do is because of her. She's always in my mind."

Nelson did not speak to the media between the time of his mother's death and his match-up with Ohio State. According to the BCS contract, all players must be made available to the media during media day. But the University of Florida struck an agreement with the BCS to waive the clause for Nelson so he could begin to heal from his loss, without the stress of the Arizona media frenzy.

It's been a difficult time for Nelson who is now speaking out about his mom.

"A person never gets over losing his mother," Nelson said on the field Monday night, as confetti fluttered on the national champs. "I'm a Momma's boy at heart. All I wanted was to make her proud."

Previous posts about Reggie Nelson and his mom are as follows:
Florida Gator Reggie Nelson loses mom to breast cancer
Florida Gator would trade football for family

A few days ago, notification of an e-mail arrived in my inbox. It popped up right in front of me, with the sender's name -- Amy Wilson -- glaring in black print right before my eyes. Amy is my friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer just after my own diagnosis. We e-mailed frequently about our cancer hopes and fears and so it was never before odd that a message would travel from her computer in Ohio to mine in Florida. But on the day this one e-mail arrived, it was odd -- because Amy died two weeks ago, after a 15-month battle with the disease we both vowed to conquer.

The e-mail was not from Amy. It was from her husband, Paul. And it was as comforting to hear from him as it was odd to see Amy's name flash in front of me. You see, I have wanted to call Paul, e-mail Paul, send a card to Paul -- something. I have wanted to reach out in some way, even though I have never met the man who thought he would spend the rest of his life raising his two children with Amy. But I never could figure out what I would write or say or send. I have been afraid that it would be hard for him to talk about Amy's death. I've been afraid that it would be hard for me to talk about her death. So I have waited, hoping the passage of time would help prepare me for some sort of action. And in the end, time was not necessary. Because Paul reached out to me. And this is what he wrote in the e-mail he sent from Amy's mailbox.


And now I can contact Paul, because he has opened the door. He -- the one suffering the greatest loss -- has comforted me. And now I need to thank him.

I remember thinking when my grandma was a spunky 80-year-old -- still going to aerobics classes in her purple tights -- that it must be sad to be such an age when so many friends and acquaintances are falling ill and passing away. My grandma was always one to care for others, call on others, pray for others -- and often she seemed to be the only one in her circle who was thriving. Somehow, she took it all in stride and continued baking and gardening and sewing and living strong until her own death at the age of 86 -- when she left her remaining friends and acquaintances wondering if their own time on Earth was approaching a quick end. At the time, I thought this loss of friends was merely a side effect of aging. It didn't seem to concern me at my own young age of 30. I didn't really know any 30-year-olds who were dying. And I didn't predict anyone my age would be dying until I was closer to the age of 80. How wrong I was.

I am now 36 years old. And I know many women my age who have died -- most of them because of breast cancer, the same disease I have been fighting for nearly two years. So it's not only sad to me that people my age are dying, it's also quite personal and frightening -- for it could easily me in the same predicament. So I feel vulnerable -- so many years earlier than I imagined.

I think I know how my grandma must have felt when her loved ones were leaving her. And I think I will take her same approach to coping with this unfortunate fact of life. Although I couldn't possibly bake and garden and sew like she did, I can keep busy with my own hobbies and interests. And I can continue living strong until my own death -- which hopefully won't occur until after I've made my appearance in purple tights. About 50 years from now.

I was in the emergency room the other night with my three-year-old who was experiencing a mysterious leg pain that resulted from a bad case of strep throat. It wasn't serious enough to warrant swift movement from the waiting room to an actual room and we sat in a holding pattern with a crowd of other patients, some of whom were still waiting after Danny had been treated and released. I was told patients are served in the order in which they arrive but also according to the seriousness of their complaints -- which takes me back to the night I was in the ER with a fever, headache, sore throat, and sore gums. The night I was given a mask and was immediately escorted from the waiting room to a private room where doctors and nurses treated me for neutropenia -- a condition caused by chemotherapy and marked by a drop in neutrophil levels, a condition that puts chemotherapy patients at great risk for infection. This was the second time I went to the hospital for neutropenia. Both times I was admitted and treated for five days.

And so sitting in the ER reminded me about how serious chemotherapy side effects can be. And it makes me want to caution all chemotherapy patients to never dismiss the signs that the body is suffering -- to never tough it out with the hope that a good night's sleep or a few days rest will straighten everything out. Because it may not -- and the end result may be tragic.

All chemotherapy patients should be briefed by their medical teams about when to call for medical assistance. For me, a temperature of 100.4 was the magic call-for-help signal. And twice, I called for help -- once in the middle of the night. But any symptoms , and definitely a combination of symptoms, are cause enough for a simple phone call. So don't delay. Don't excuse warning signs that your body is struggling. Don't second-guess your decision to notify a medical professional about your symptoms. Just call. It could save your life.

I can't decide what to do about my port now that my breast cancer treatment is over. It's been an on-going internal battle. I don't know whether I should leave it in place -- tunneled underneath the skin on my collarbone where it is available and accessible should I ever need further infusions of cancer-fighting drugs -- or whether I should have it removed since there is no real purpose for it right now. There is the issue of superstition and safety -- leaving it right where it is allows for easy use if cancer returns and prevents another surgery to implant a new one. But there is also the issue of moving on -- and removing it because I don't need it, because I may never need it. One doctor told me recently that it should come out because if it remains in my body, I risk infection. And anything foreign in my body for an extended period of time is not completely safe. But a cancer survivor told me that she had hers removed immediately after treatment and had to get a new one because her cancer recurred three months later.

I am accustomed to wrestling matches like this one -- like my stand-off between treatment with Taxol or without Taxol, between anti-depressant or no anti-depressant, between vegan diets and traditional diets. Sometimes I can make a good call. Sometimes I just can't decide. Like right now.

One of the first books I read after my breast cancer diagnosis was issued in hardback in 1986 -- 20 years ago -- and then was published again and reissued and reprinted in 1990, 1998, and 2002.While the cover has changed and perhaps some wording too, the message in this book -- Love, Medicine, & Miracles by Bernie S. Siegel, M.D. -- remains unchanged.  And it is inside the covers of this book that I keep learning that I have the capacity and power to become an exceptional patient -- despite the fact that I've been faced with a life-shattering diagnosis of cancer.

A friend of mine told me last year about her friend who was featured in a newspaper article about a program called Buddy Check 12. I read the article online and cataloged the gist of the story in my head. But I didn't do much with the information as I was in the midst of treatment for breast cancer and thought perhaps at a later date, I could better sort through the abundance of resources that were sent my way.