Photographs tell powerful stories. They depict people and objects and landscapes and emotions in deep, meaningful ways. They capture permanent visual representations of moments in life. They paint pictures that even the most well-crafted words could not reproduce.

When Mary Ann Nilan was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2004 at the age of 40, she knew her story must be told -- through pictures. So she asked a photographer to record it all, stating, "I hope the pictures make the road easier for other women." The rest is history.

She calls it a photo essay and titles it The Diary of Healing. For 17 frames -- with photographs dominating each space and text kept to a minimum -- Nilan shares her journey that began with the discovery of breast cancer in both breasts and several lymph nodes, the journey that took her through chemotherapy, a double mastectomy, and reconstruction with implants.

Her photographs document significant stops on her physical and emotional trek. They show her bald head, the wig she wore only once and then let hang on a hook, the scars that crossed her flat chest after surgery, an injection of saline that painfully pierced the skin of her new breasts, her children measuring her hair as it grows in after chemotherapy. The photographs are both hopeful and chilling. They are breast cancer. They are more than words could ever capture.

I took my boys yesterday for a tour of the University of Florida's Department of Entomology and Nematology. Translation for these little boys -- ages five and three -- involves one simple word. Bugs. They love bugs, hunt for bugs, capture bugs, and reluctantly set them free because I coax them into allowing these itty bitty creatures to continue living with their "mommies and daddies." I have a soft spot for all living beings -- bugs included.

We learned some crazy facts about bugs yesterday -- insects is the proper term really. We learned there is one cockroach that can live for seven days without its head. We learned there are two types of Madagascar cockroaches living in a lab in the very same building we visited that if set free, would reproduce so quickly they would become a major pest problem in the state of Florida. And we learned that of all animals on this planet, most are insects. But not only did we learn some crazy facts, we -- well, Joey -- shared a crazy fact too.

Joey is five years old. He is the boy who remembers much of my breast cancer journey. He is the one who helped shave my head, the one who thought a banana would make my sick tummy feel better. He's the one who would blurt out to people we never knew very well, "My mommy is bald," the one who asked me just last night if the metal thing -- my port -- was still in my chest. When I told him it's gone, he jumped up and announced, "Yeah, it's gone!" Cancer is one of many vocabulary words housed in Joey's brain. And sometimes the word comes up unexpectedly, in strange contexts, in surprising ways. Like today.

Our bug tour guide told us that in Africa, mosquitoes transmit diseases that kill millions of people. But those with sickle cell anemia are immune to the deadly diseases due to their compromised red blood cells that somehow fend off disease. This fact prompted Joey to share with the guide, "Did you know when people have cancer, there are bugs that can kill the cancer?" Our guide listened to this crazy fact and said in a kid-friendly way, "No, I did not know that. Who told you that?" Joey told her, "I don't remember but someone told me."

I am not sure what prompted Joey to make this announcement. Perhaps he was trying to one-up the tour guide, to sound like an expert on one of his favorite subjects. Perhaps his imagination was in overdrive and he blurted out the best story he could offer. Perhaps he jumbled up a story he had heard on the topic of cancer. And perhaps he is just simply hopeful that one day, bugs will help cure cancer. And wouldn't that be nice -- a simple mosquito comes along, pierces the skin, and poof, cancer is gone.

My cancer journey would not be nearly as interesting, as enlightening, as tender if Joey was not along with me for the ride. He keeps me busy and keeps my spirits up. He keeps me grounded and keeps life simple. Best of all -- he keeps me laughing.

My brother-in-law came up to me tonight with his iPod and handed me his headsets. A cue to put them on, I guessed -- and so I did. A song played and right away I liked what I heard. It was the exact type of music I like -- with a grungy, rock kind of sound. I figured Jack knows what I like and was sharing a new song with me. Which he was -- but there was something more to it. It wasn't just a good song -- it was a good song about cancer, with a message of hope and strength and living through the struggles of a life that has been shaken. Written by Scott Leger of the Austin-based band wideawake, Maybe Tonight, Maybe Tomorrow is dedicated to the millions of people affected by cancer -- those who have lost, those who have survived, those who fight and volunteer and support and research and raise awareness and give and inspire. And for those without cancer too really. For anyone who is faced with forces that threaten the most precious of assets -- time.