Chances are, someone you love has breast cancer. And if not now, one day this is likely to be true -- because one in eight women will develop an invasive form of the disease at some point during her lifetime.

If and when it happens to you, when you find yourself saying, Someone I love has breast cancer, one of the first things you'll consider is how you might help. It's a natural feeling -- the urge to reach out -- and I've got an idea for you if you find yourself searching for the right way to brighten the day for that someone you love.

Think about this:

How about honoring your loved one in a special Ladies' Home Journal website photo gallery? Simply find a photograph that candidly captures the essence of your special someone, why you love her, and how she is surviving the disease.

To submit by e-mail, send your photo digitally in JPEG format to lhj.breastcancer@meredith.com. Type "breast cancer" in the subject line, and include the following information:

Her Name:
Her Age:
Where she lives (City, State):
What LHJ should know about her:
Your Name:
Your Address:
Your Phone Number:
Your e-mail address:

To submit by mail, include the same information and a copy of your photograph. Mail to:

Ladies' Home Journal/Breast Cancer Photo Gallery, 125 Park Avenue, 20th Floor, New York, NY 10017

Deadline: July 11, 2007

This e-mail just arrived in my inbox. It's one of those chain things -- you know, the read this and forward it to 11 people or all your plumbing will blow up messages. And while I don't tend to pass on to friends and family these types of scare tactics, I realize that the words that follow are definitely worth a read.

So I've extracted all warning and threats from the message I received, and I've pared it down to a very funny piece of prose I believe will strike a chord with women everywhere who know how very important -- and how very painful and humiliating -- the dreaded mammogram can be.

And so here it is, in all it's glory. Read it, absorb it, love it, and pass it on. Or don't pass it on. I'll be OK with your decision either way. Promise.

Go Get Your Mammies Grammed

For years and years they told me,
Be careful of your breasts.
Don't ever squeeze or bruise them.
And give them monthly tests.
So I heeded all their warnings,
And protected them by law.
Guarded them very carefully,
And I always wore my bra.
After 30 years of astute care,
My gyno, Dr Pruitt,
Said I should get a Mammogram
"OK," I said, "let's do it."
"Stand up here real close" she said,
(She got my boob in line),
"And tell me when it hurts," she said,
"Ah yes! Right there, that's fine."
She stepped upon a pedal,
I could not believe my eyes!
A plastic plate came slamming down,
My hooters in a vise!
My skin was stretched and mangled,
From underneath my chin.
My poor boob was being squashed,
To Swedish Pancake thin.
Excruciating pain I felt,
Within it's viselike grip.
A prisoner in this vicious thing,
My poor defenseless tit!
"Take a deep breath," she said to me,
Who does she think she's kidding?!?
My chest is mashed in her machine,
And woozy I am getting.
"There, that's good," I heard her say,
(The room was slowly swaying.)
"Now, let's have a go at the other one."
Have mercy, I was praying.
It squeezed me from both up and down,
It squeezed me from both sides.
I'll bet SHE'S never had this done,
To HER tender little hide.
Next time that they make me do this,
I will request a blindfold.
I have no wish to see again,
My knockers getting steam rolled.
If I had no problem when I came in,
I surely have one now.
If there had been a cyst in there,
It would have gone "ker-pow!"
This machine was created by a man,
Of this, I have no doubt.
I'd like to stick his balls in there,
And, see how THEY come out!

Author Unknown

A friend of mine with breast cancer just sent out an update e-mail to friends and family. She began her message with an apology for her recent lack of communication. But she assured us all that she's been out of the loop not because she's felt sick or tired. It's because she's been too busy with normal life. And that's a good thing, she says.

This friend wasn't so sure how she would fare -- both physically and emotionally -- when she was first diagnosed with cancer. But she seems to have done a champion's job of rolling with the punches. Sure, she's had ups and downs. But she is overwhelmingly positive and hopeful. And jumping off my computer screen as I read her e-mail were at least seven bits of hope that tell me she is doing just fine despite all that is unbelievably hard about breast cancer.

My friend just had her first infusion of Taxol. A breeze, she calls it. One. So easy on her body -- two -- that she headed right out and took her daughter communion dress shopping. Her little love looked beautiful, she wrote. Like a mini-bride. The mother of the mini-bride then -- three -- turned a sad moment into a comforting one when her daughter asked, "Mommy, who do you think will bring me wedding dress shopping?"

She said she hopes we get to visit again sometime soon -- without feeling the need to talk solely about breast cancer. I have the same hope. Yet I am deeply satisfied with the conversation we shared about our similar cancer journeys -- mine two years old; hers brand new.

We had never before met -- or even spoken -- and knew each other only from an exchange of e-mails. It was this Cancer Blog that drew us together. She left a comment on one of my posts, I sent her a personal e-mail, and swiftly, our friendship blossomed.

I met my newest cancer friend this weekend -- face-to-face, up close and personal. It was lovely. We talked about chemotherapy -- she just completed her second treatment -- and wigs and radiation and about how our husbands and children cope with cancer. We talked for more than an hour, and then went our separate ways.

And now we are back to e-mail correspondence and our shared hope -- that we will one day meet again, to talk about more than just breast cancer.

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.

In July 2005, Amy Wilson was diagnosed with breast cancer. In the months that followed, Amy endured a lumpectomy, a mastectomy, reconstruction, and chemotherapy. In January 2006, Amy's treatment ended. And she set off on a journey of survivorship.

In August 2006, Amy found out her cancer had spread to her brain and lungs. Her doctors gave her two to 12 months to live. On Thursday, October 5, 2006, Amy died. She was 35 years old.

Amy became my friend shortly after her original diagnosis and eight months after my own breast cancer diagnosis. A mutual friend brought us together and for a little more than one year, we shared a rich connection, cemented in shared struggles and victories. Through phone conversations and e-mail exchanges and cards and gifts sent through the mail, Amy and I shared a special friendship. But I never looked Amy in the eye, never offered her a hug, never met her husband and children. I knew her only from a distance. Still, our partnership was powerful. It was comforting. And sadly, it is over.

Our same mutual friend called me Friday morning to tell me Amy had passed away -- a mere 15 months after her battle began, three months shy of the end-of-treatment anniversary she happily anticipated, five years from the age of 40 -- the age she had determined would mark her first true survivor milestone.

I miss Amy. I miss the pieces of hope that vanished with her death. I miss that I never met her, never hugged her, never said goodbye.

Amy, whose journey was chronicled in her local Ohio newspaper, is survived by her husband, her two children -- Luke, age five and Ella, age two -- and among others, her mother, who is currently fighting her own breast cancer battle.

I have had a hard time keeping my counseling appointments lately. Life keeps getting in the way, and counseling keeps getting pushed to the side. The last time I called my counselor to cancel -- due to an emergency room trip with my three-year-old -- I mentioned that my inability to keep up with sessions was perhaps a precursor to an eventual termination of our counseling relationship. My counselor -- Lindsay -- said this was maybe an accurate assessment, that we should discuss the possibility of an ending point. We haven't yet discussed it, though, because I have not made the time to contact her. I have continued to leave counseling on the back burner.

But today Lindsay sent me an e-mail to check in. She wrote that I am probably going to be okay on my own now -- in the aftermath of cancer -- and that we should have one final session to reflect on my progress over the past 16 months. I have not replied to Lindsay -- not because I am busy with other things but simply because her words made me cry. They still make me cry, hours later. I'm not exactly sure why. And I'm not exactly sure how I will follow up on scheduling my very last session.

I assume my tears -- my sadness -- are part of the healing process, part of the separation anxiety I feel each time a part of my treatment ends and a part of my life moves on. I assume I am sad at the prospect of leaving a vital part of my recovery behind, about leaving the comfort of my counseling chair, about leaving Lindsay. The possibilities are endless. And I suppose we will cover all possibilities when Lindsay and I sit down for our last, final, concluding session -- when we recall how much I have grown since the day we first met, when I could barely mutter a word about cancer without weeping uncontrollably, when I could barely manage to find pleasure in my days, when I could barely imagine that life could -- and would -- offer me peace and happiness.

Today, life is good. And it's clear that counseling is no longer necessary for my survival. But that doesn't make it any easier to make my final appointment. To contemplate saying my last goodbye. To tackle life completely on my own. Which is what I will do -- in time -- so I can continue moving on, away from breast cancer.

It can be hard to remember when it's time for check-ups and exams and screenings. Many come just once each year and with the swift passage of time, it's easy to forget our medical to-do lists. But missing an appointment -- or even delaying one -- can lead to missed and delayed diagnoses. So remembering these easy-to-forget chores is key. And perhaps reminders are the key to remembering.

The American Cancer Society offers a free mammogram reminder in the form of e-mail message sent each year to remind women to schedule their mammograms. It takes just a moment to register with an e-mail address and a preferred month and day of the year for this e-mail to arrive. To register for your yearly reminder, click here.

The College of American Pathologists offers a free reminder service for the following appointments -- blood donation, cholesterol screening, colon cancer screening, diabetes test, pap test, and mammogram. Click here to choose one or more of these options that also require just just an e-mail address and preferred month and date for delivery.

So forget that string around your finger -- reach for your computer keyboard right now. It takes just a few keystrokes to ensure prompt testing for the health issues that if detected early, can save our lives.

After my breast cancer diagnosis, I received endless offers from friends and family who offered to help me. I was offered meals, babysitting, errands, escorts to appointments, and two faraway friends even told me they would hop on a plane in an instant to come stay with me. I accepted a tiny bit of help -- like a meal here and there and a morning of babysitting -- but I really did not want much assistance. Mostly because I am do-it-myself type of person and however unhealthy this can be -- especially in the midst of a health crisis -- I wanted my life to remain as normal as possible. And if that meant taking care of my kids, despite nausea and fatigue, I wanted to do it. I wanted to be the one in the driver's seat on my way to treatments and procedures. And I wanted to run my own errands. Part of me believed that accepting help meant I was really sick. And I couldn't admit that. Yet it was true. I was sick. I needed help.

And I need help now too -- while I am healthy and strong and able to do everything for myself. And maybe that's why I am able to ask for it -- because it doesn't require my confession that something in my life is not alright. And actually, asking for this type of help helps me express that I am really okay, that I am able to use my health to help others.

I've been keeping a journal ever since I was first diagnosed with breast cancer. I first wrote by hand in a pink fabric-covered book, sprinkled with multi-colored polka dots. It looked feminine -- which is why I bought it -- and it's vibrance made me feel inspired, motivated, eager to write down the dreaded details of the beginning of my journey. Then I stopped writing in this book and began typing my words in an on-line journal -- a blog. My husband designed the presentation of it, with a pink banner that serves as the backdrop for the title -- my Breast Cancer blog. My first entry was completed on December 21, 2004 and I am still chronicling my journey here. I am also writing for this site -- the Cancer Blog -- and I write whenever and wherever else I can record my words. I do it because it helps me process information in a quiet, calming, introspective way. It soothes me, helps me work through panic and anxiety, helps me heal, and helps me chart my progress. When I look back at what I've written, I realize how far I've come -- or haven't come -- and it helps me move forward. I recommend journaling for everyone, and I recommend these seven simple suggestions for getting started.

I received a comment today on my Sunday Seven post about how inspiring sentiments help me survive. The comment was from a women who is surviving lung cancer and she asked a question to all readers really -- when will the fear of recurrence ever go away? How do you out there deal with it? So I replied to her private e-mail address and shared my thoughts about fear and recurrence and how I deal with these issues as a cancer survivor. She replied and wrote, your e-mail was so uplifting. I think I just found you on a really bad day and I am thankful that I did. And so I realized that maybe I should not limit my thoughts to just one person when others are surely in her same boat -- my same boat. So here is what I wrote to this one reader who -- like so many others on my journey -- has helped me by allowing me the chance to help her.

Just want to say that I think you are already dealing with the fear-of-recurrence thing because you have been surviving for as long as you have been traveling this bumpy road. So while you survive, you just need to live each day like it's your last and fight for your life at the same time. Someone once told me to think of cancer as a chronic condition -- something we will live with for the rest of your lives. And we just keep treating it, wherever it pops up. And the longer we survive, the more resources there are to help us survive even longer. As for getting through each day, I recommend counseling (I go once per month but at one time I went each week). I also take an anti-depressant (Zoloft) which I do not push on anyone, but for me, it has helped. I went to my oncologist one day and asked him how to live peacefully without worrying constantly that cancer is coming back to haunt me -- he said many cancer patients take anti-depressants to take the edge off so I began the drug and began counseling too. Neither completely take away the fear -- but they help me manage and that's all I can ask for. I also have two little boys who keep me busy and distracted from feeling sorry for myself. And I try to keep busy in other ways too. Helping others with cancer -- or others who just need help -- is healthy too!

Helping others with cancer does help me. It reminds me that I am not alone and that others have fears like me and that collectively, we can all survive better if we lean on one another and borrow from one another and inspire one another.