I've never had a problem with crying. My tears of joy and sorrow have always flowed easily, and I have never regretted shedding any one of them. I once told a college student I mentored who was hesitant to cry over a work-related scenario that I cry all the time. She later told me my confession sticks in her mind -- my ability and willingness to cry freely, without reservation. I told her I consider crying a cleansing, therapeutic process. I told her that I always feel replenished after a good cry. And I still believe this, years and years after my encounter with this student.

I cried just a few days ago while talking to my doctor and then my mom about how cancer may prevent me from having another child, if not physically, then emotionally. I just don't know if I could peacefully experience a pregnancy with the fear of cancer recurrence. And this makes me cry. Because I want another child. But I don't think I will have one. I cried at my oncologist appointment the other day while talking about the death of a friend. I cry while reading certain books and while watching sad movies and television shows. Two nights ago, I cried while watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, about a breast cancer survivor. I cry when recalling the births of my babies and while marveling at my little growing boys. And I know I will cry when I read a journal a friend just shared with me, written by his uncle who lost a daughter to brain cancer.

Tears cleanse my soul. And sometimes, they complicate matters. They make me wonder how well I am, two years after my cancer diagnosis. I interpret my tears now more than ever, in an effort to determine how well I am coping with life in survival mode. I wonder if the tears that frequently well up in my eyes are normal or if they are indicative of the depression that prompted my oncologist to prescribe an anti-depressant. I consider that perhaps I should be better able to handle some topics, some situations, some tough experiences without becoming weepy. And I also realize that perhaps my tears are completely normal, that I could be ultra sensitive to my every emotion, that as long as I feel happy and function easily, I am just fine.

I plan to iron all this out at my next and final counseling session that I need to schedule. This closing session will allow me to wrap up two year's worth of cancer issues, to close one chapter of my life and begin another. I just need to make the appointment. Which I have yet to do. Because contemplating the end of something so healing seems so daunting. And for better or for worse, this makes me cry.

Caregivers are affected by cancer in their own unique and special ways. And those of us who have never been cancer caregivers and those of us who are patients receiving the care will never really know how it feels to walk in caregiver shoes -- until we do it ourselves.

Dr. Mitchell Luftig has done it himself. And after traveling a dark and unwanted journey of caring for his wife with breast cancer, he realized that he had learned a thing or two -- and he learned that he could share a thing or two. So he wrote a book, Be a Hero To The Woman You Love When She Gets Sick, and he speaks openly about his role as caregiver -- and his role at the time as father of twin high school daughters and husband of 20 years and clinical psychologist too. The whole ordeal turned his world upside down and he hopes that his story helps others -- primarily men -- who find themselves in a lonely place with the daunting job of caring for the people they love. As a psychologist, Luftig has good insight. And he wishes to help minimize the psychological barriers that prevent men from effectively caring for loved ones during times of serious illness.

Luftig shares in his book his realization that while he cannot repair and fix all hard times, he does have some important tools. And his power tools are love, support, and understanding. He has learned to sew joy out of rough cloth. He understands that he cannot shelter his family members from bad times, but he can shoulder their burden. And he now appreciates that all things are not so bad when measured against the yardstick of a life-threatening disease like cancer. Luftig's whole collection of wisdom and lessons and advice fill his book -- and bits and pieces also appear in periodic articles in Coping magazine. It's worth the read -- and the journey starts here.