It's an unsettling journey -- the pursuit of the five-year cancer survival mark. Some say each year of cancer survival makes the future more of a sure thing. And so surviving five years -- the traditional landmark of real remission -- is a big accomplishment. But then there's the perspective of numbers that for me say I have a 93 percent chance of surviving breast cancer for five years. After that, though, there's no telling what will happen. So I am eagerly awaiting the moment when I cross the five-year finish line as I anxiously realize this very same moment may also signal a more dismal outlook.

The paradox hit me straight in the face yesterday as I was waiting for my radiation oncologist to give me another six-month all clear announcement. I was reading the January/February 2007 issue of Coping magazine while I waited. And as I flipped through the pages, I landed right at these words:

Studies show that half of all breast cancer recurrences occur after completion of five years of standard tamoxifen therapy. Additionally, a third of women with estrogen receptor-positive early breast cancer experience a recurrence, and more of half of these recurrences occur more than five years after surgery.

Now this doesn't apply directly to me. My breast cancer was estrogen receptor-negative which makes me a non-candidate for tamoxifen. And this is what scares me. My tumor was aggressive and while my treatment was also aggressive, I don't get the extra five-year protection from hormone therapy. If women taking this drug can have recurrences after completing the therapy, I wonder what's in store for me having not had it.

Maybe I'm making comparisons that don't amount to any real conclusions. Perhaps my type of disease allows for a more secure future. Or perhaps it places me on shaky ground. I don't know for sure. And I don't think I'll dive any deeper into research than I already have. Instead, I will live for today -- while enjoying the announcement my oncologist shared with me yesterday. All clear!

I was driving down the highway today when I looked to my right and saw out of the corner of my eye a blue pick-up truck. The driver -- a man -- wore a cowboy hat and his passenger -- a woman -- wore a turban and a mask that covered her nose and mouth. It was similar to the yellow paper-like mask I wore during chemotherapy when low blood counts and fevers knocked my body all out of whack. So when I briefly glanced at this woman, I diagnosed her -- with cancer.

I guess my medical radar could be off, my diagnosis could be wrong -- but I suspect not. It was an all-too-familiar sight -- the bald head obviously disguised, the mask warding off germs and infection, the eyes the only visible marking of a face. Yet it was still a startling sight, a sad sight, a sight that never loses its power over me as I travel the highway of life.

I am thankful to still be on the highway -- to not have been tragically run off the road -- and the woman whose path I crossed today may be just fine after her journey with cancer runs its course. But it's such a dismal sight -- the ravages of cancer visibly displayed on the undeserving victims of a harsh disease.

Maybe my approach is all wrong. Perhaps it would be better if my vision today prompted thoughts of a spirited warrior bravely battling a fierce opponent with victory the likely outcome. But instead I saw sickness and sadness. Because this is how I felt -- sick and sad -- when my appearance was marked by a hat and a mask.

But now I am healthy and happy. And I am confident I will one day see my co-survivors in a more hopeful light. There is hope, after all, for each of us diagnosed with this life-threatening disease.

Perhaps after I've been on the road to recovery for a while longer, dismal will turn to dazzle. Perhaps then I will see as much shine in those wearing cancer on their sleeves as I saw today in the blue paint of the truck that passed me on the highway.

I have a new friend who is a new breast cancer survivor. She is surviving a new diagnosis, a recent lumpectomy, and the moments leading up to another surgery to further investigate the margins surrounding the tumor removed from her breast. She is surviving the first phase of her breast cancer journey. A phase full of uncertainty and fear and panic. A phase so new and so fresh and so raw, her mind is whirling. A phase that has her grasping for any bit of direction she can find as she navigates a terrifying, unfamiliar road.

My friend is a young wife and mother whose worries are consuming her. She e-mailed me today and asked if I ever have moments when I look at my young children and worry that cancer will take me from them while they are young. She asked if I have always been so sure I will be okay. And so I replied with this candid cancer confession.