Cancer sent me into a state of depression. And it took more than a year of counseling and treatment with an anti-depressant to bring me back to a balanced and healthy level of functioning.

My type of depression -- the kind that shows up just after a cancer diagnosis -- is not uncommon. And neither is the spillover that depression can leave on the children of moms depressed because of their disease.

A study at the University of Pittsburgh -- the first to examine the relationship between children's concerns and a mother's cancer-related depression -- found children of depressed breast cancer patients were more likely to be concerned or anxious about their mother's cancer and about how the disease affects their families.

It's not surprising that kids worry about their moms during times of illness. What startled researchers, though, is the fact that children's' anxieties extended to concerns about the entire family.

The results of this study, funded by the National Cancer Institute, has clear implications. As a society, we need to think about how depression affects whole family units. Oncologists must learn to spot depression early and must swiftly assist women in finding appropriate treatment. And parents should talk openly about cancer and it's emotional side effects with their children in an effort to protect them from withdrawing, hiding their concerns, and suffering in silence.

Most estimates indicate nearly one quarter of women diagnosed with breast cancer have young children. And about 100,000 kids will be affected by a cancer diagnosis this year alone.

I've had my very own extreme makeover. And while it has nothing to do with cosmetic plastic surgery or an overhaul on my house, it's been an appearance-altering and life-changing event. I'll call it my Extreme Makeover: Cancer Edition.

Stop One

The first stop on my extreme makeover tour came compliments of a lumpectomy -- to remove one cancerous tumor in my breast along with four lymph nodes. I was left with two scars that travel underneath my armpit, a bit of scar tissue buried beneath the skin, and a tinge of numbness that comes and goes without warning.

Stop Two

My second stop brought me a port -- to save my veins and ease the infusion of chemotherapy -- which for more than a year allowed me to look a bit like an alien. A foreign object sewn under the skin of my collarbone popped up something like a tracking device that identified my whereabouts. Now surgically removed, my port has been discarded. A scar marks the one-time location of this wondrous apparatus.

Stop Three

The third facet of my makeover was quite extreme -- is still quite extreme. It happened like clockwork -- 13 days after my very first chemotherapy treatment -- and while I knew it would happen, the shock of total hair loss was not minimized in any way, shape, or form by predictability. And the shock of my new dark, curly hair with a sprinkling of gray -- that replaced my blond, straight hair -- amazes me every time I look in the mirror.

Stop Four

For four months, I lost my menstrual cycle to chemotherapy -- not such a bad deal except for the hot flashes that arrived for the same four-month period. When my cycles returned, they were unpredictable and much more intense than ever before. They are still problematic.

Stop Five

Surgery and radiation limited the range of motion in my left arm. Physical therapy helped some, and weight training helps too. But my arm is permanently affected by the attempts to save my life.

Stop Six

Just when I thought my makeover journey was coming to an end, my mind told me otherwise. Bouts of fogginess, forgetfulness, and just plain odd behavior marked the beginning of what researchers now call chemo brain. The plentiful drugs that cycled through my body for almost two years are playing tricks on my brain.

Stop Seven

And to cope with it all -- my scars, my hair, my confusing cycles, my tightened arm, and my chemo brain -- I made one last stop at the pharmacy for an anti-depressant. Prescribed so that I could become accustomed to my new life after cancer, my Zoloft keeps me calm and peaceful and happy. And one day, when I have adjusted to all that has changed in my world, I will wean myself off this potion.

I am not sure I would ever elect to alter my appearance -- although I am sometimes tempted by a tummy tuck to remove what two more-than-10-pound babies left with me.

Mostly, I think cancer has done enough to reshape and redesign my whole self. And while I didn't wish for any of my cancer changes, I think they help me define me. They tell a story -- of challenge and hardship and victory and survival. For as long as I am alive, for as long as my extreme makeover is visible, it will be clear that I have conquered something great and powerful. And that makes me proud.