It's May. Summer is upon us. So is the hot sun. What a perfect time for an awareness month.

May is Skin Cancer Awareness Month. So now is the time to learn a thing or two about a disease that is largely preventable, extremely deadly, and almost 100 percent curable when caught early.

Think about this:

Someone dies of melanoma -- the deadliest form of skin cancer -- every 65 minutes. Women ages 20-29 are most at risk, with melanoma ranking as the second most common cancer in this age group. But anyone, regardless of skin color or age, can develop skin cancer.

More than one million Americans will be diagnosed with skin cancer this year -- shocking considering the cause of the disease is no secret: skin cancer is caused mostly by too much sun exposure.

OK, how about some good news?

Britney Spears, fresh out of rehab and back in the spotlight, is explaining why she publicly shaved her head back in February, following a rampage of bizarre behavior.

Think about this:

A friend of Spears says the pop star shaved her head as a tribute to her aunt who died from cancer. The pal states Spears was definitely suffering from postpartum depression at the time and the bold hair maneuver was an act of solidarity.

"Britney's aunt had just died of cancer," says this friend. "She was feeling very guilty because she hadn't been there with her, she was overwhelmingly depressed and she shaved her head in solidarity."

Today, I've been asked twice to offer more specifics about the information contained in posts. I thought I'd communicate my thoughts on this matter publicly so you all may benefit.

First, let me share that blogging is like talking to a friend -- Hey, did you hear about that new study about the breast cancer vaccine?, I might say to my neighbor before I explain the overall gist of the news I happened upon. The purpose of blogging is to communicate a few details and to spark interest, not to capture every speck of information on the topic. Digging up the nitty gritty is for you, the reader.

Your quest for more knowledge takes just one click. Once you read a post, look to the bottom left and you will see a blue link titled Read. Click here and you'll land at the news source related to the post. If you don't find what you're looking for here, just type some key words into Google and search for more. If bloggers happen to find news but there is no internet link -- this happens with magazines and other print publications -- the source will be noted at the end of the post.

If a post contains personal perspective, like this one, you won't find a Read link -- that's because the source is in the blogger's head. You are welcome to leave a comment requesting more information about these posts.

Now this whole lesson on the Read link does not mean you cannot ask questions of bloggers -- please do -- but if you desire the quickest route to post details, this link is your best bet.

I hope this is clear. And I hope you find exactly what you seek in this world where cancer is one hot topic.

Tears are streaming down my face. I can't stop them, and I'm not sure I want to. In a way, I want to feel the tragedy of life lost to cancer because it makes it all real. It makes it personal. It makes me realize the same tragedy could happen to me, my family members, my friends. It makes me want to make a difference even more now that I've seen the chilling pictures of a young woman dying of cervical cancer than moments earlier when I was moved mostly by my own breast cancer journey.

I first read about Heather Lyn Martin on the JANE magazine website, home of a beautifully-written story -- I Hate Tumors -- by Sara Lyle, long-time friend of Heather and senior editor for JANE, a publication for 20-something women. Sara's words powerfully depict the life and death of her friend, stricken with a disease she was sure she would beat. So sure, in fact, she asked Sara to help tell her success story.

Sadly, Heather never got to tell much. Because she died much too soon, at the age of 28. So Sara told the story through her own words and photos -- the same ones responsible for my tears -- and has just recently written a second essay, one year after her first story started reaching young people everywhere.

Sara wrote Why I Still Hate Tumors after inspiring many young women to open their eyes to the realities of a deadly disease. Her words serve to raise awareness about the dangers of cervical cancer -- and the HPV virus that causes it -- and to point women in the direction of resources critical for preventing and conquering the disease.

Sara, because of the death of her dear friend, is saving lives with her message. And she just may save yours.

To see all that Sara has to offer in the fight against cervical cancer and other hated tumors, visit her I Hate Tumors website.

I'm not a big sports fan. But everyone in my family is, and I live in Gainesville, Florida -- home of the Florida Gators -- so by default, I've come to know a bit about sports. And I tend to get caught up in the orange and blue spirit that lives in this town. It's contagious.

I am thrilled that the Gator football team beat Ohio State Monday night, earning the 2007 National Championship title. But I am even more thrilled that one player -- safety Reggie Nelson -- gets to claim this victory, for himself and for his mother, who passed away on December 21 after a three-year battle with breast cancer.

It must have been a bittersweet win for Nelson, who talked with his mom on the phone prior to each of his games. She was his biggest fan and one of his toughest coaches. She cheered him on and offered critiques all the same.

But there was no phone call Monday night -- before Nelson's biggest game ever. But his mom was surely present to witness the wonder and glory of her son. And Nelson surely made every move on that field in honor of her.

"My mom's my life and my best friend," he said prior to her death. "Everything I do is because of her. She's always in my mind."

Nelson did not speak to the media between the time of his mother's death and his match-up with Ohio State. According to the BCS contract, all players must be made available to the media during media day. But the University of Florida struck an agreement with the BCS to waive the clause for Nelson so he could begin to heal from his loss, without the stress of the Arizona media frenzy.

It's been a difficult time for Nelson who is now speaking out about his mom.

"A person never gets over losing his mother," Nelson said on the field Monday night, as confetti fluttered on the national champs. "I'm a Momma's boy at heart. All I wanted was to make her proud."

Previous posts about Reggie Nelson and his mom are as follows:
Florida Gator Reggie Nelson loses mom to breast cancer
Florida Gator would trade football for family

In 1995 my very dear friend Carolyn, gave me a Zygocactus otherwise know as the Christmas Cactus. Although it was small, it was still full of beautiful pink and white blooms and I loved it more than the most popular holiday plant known as the poinsettia which were decorating my house for the holidays. Shortly after that Christmas my friend Carolyn was diagnosed with lung cancer and passed away in the spring of 1996.

The following year, my little Christmas cactus failed to bloom around Christmas but I nurtured it just the same. Later that spring, one faithful bloom appeared on the anniversary of the death of my friend. I called my other best friend whom loved Carolyn dearly and let her know about the special little bloom and we both shared a cry and a laugh and determined that an angel was watching over.

Every year after that around Christmas or shortly there after a solitary bloom comes out on my little Christmas Cactus and I smile at the thought of that special angel looking down on me. A few days ago the most beautiful solitary bloom burst out of the cactus for this season as a reminder that there doesn't have to be lots of blooms on a flower for it to be beautiful. Just one very special one.

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.

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.

I was doing fine at my every-three-month oncologist appointment yesterday. I kept my composure while telling my doctor all about my friend Amy who passed away just one month ago, after a short 15-month battle with breast cancer, at the tender age of 35.

As I detailed the story about how Amy's cancer spread to her brain and lungs, how she was given just two to 12 months to live, how she didn't even survive for two months, I saw in his eyes that he knew exactly why I had hand-picked this story just for him. He knew I was trying to determine my own risk for this same outcome -- and so he was understanding and compassionate and comforting in a medical sort of way. And he was convincing -- when he told me he predicts I will absolutely not follow Amy's same path.

I did just fine for our whole exchange. Until this same man shifted from medical speak and asked me the four simple words that never fail to trigger a trail of unstoppable tears.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

He caught me off guard. I'm not sure I was prepared to dive beyond the surface of my emotions, to reveal my true fear of death from the same disease Amy was sure would not kill her. So I cried. And cried. A medical student fetched me a tissue, my doctor stood and touched my shoulder, and my three-year-old Danny watched with concern. I told everyone I was fine -- mostly, I am -- and I dried my tears. Before departing, my doctor hugged me and told me he'd send in a nurse to give me a flu shot.

Danny thought I cried because I was scared of the flu shot. Had it not been for his own appointment later in the day for the same flu shot, I would have let him believe this was the cause of my tears. Instead, I told him I was sad for a friend who was sick. And he was happy -- until a sharp needle pierced the skin of his little leg hours later.

Danny is happy once again. And I am happy too. My appointment revealed nothing suspicious, nothing worrisome, nothing except the fact that my oncologist thinks of me not just as a case, a statistic, a body that once harbored a disease. He thinks of me as a whole person. And that -- more than anything -- is what makes me cry.

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.

Check out Self magazine's 2006 breast cancer handbook that is available online. Some of the features and articles include How to help your friend diagnosed with breast cancer, which gives tips to support your friend every step along the way of her cancer journey. You can also learn how to be more informed about breast cancer yourself by taking the breast cancer IQ test or reading the article The Stages of Breast Cancer to better understand the disease.

In another article, Legacy's of Strength, actresses Christina Applegate and Brittany Murphy along with singer Mya talk about something they all have in common. All three of their mothers have been diagnosed with breast cancer. The three women share their experiences and the knowledge that they too might be at risk and how they handle it in their own lives.

Glamour's October magazine features stories about breast cancer survivors. Cancer Vixen Marisa Acocella Marchetto, cartoonist for Glamour and The New Yorker and author of Cancer Vixen: A True Story, is profiled. And another survivor -- young mom Kelly Corrigan who authors her online journal Circus of Cancer -- is highlighted. And Allison Briggs, diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 26, shares her photo journal with readers who learn from all three survivors that more and more, women are sharing their cancer journeys in very public ways.

Allison -- Alli -- could not sleep the night she was diagnosed with breast cancer so she sent her boyfriend to the store for medication to calm her upset stomach. While he was gone, she noticed a camera sitting on the bedside table. She had an overwhelming urge to start snapping photos. So she took some self-portraits, had her boyfriend take some more when he returned home, and decided that night she would document her journey through photographs. She wanted to remember this phase of her life -- even though she had no idea how it would turn out.

Life is turning out just fine for Alli, who has rallied a support team called The Rack Pack, a group of women who aim to make a difference -- all because of the inspiration and strength they receive from their friend Alli. They are participating in the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer 3-Day, 60-mile walk in San Diego November 10-12. They sell Rack Pack t-shirts. They offer e-mail notification of exclusive Rack Pack events. They share updates about Alli. They never stop trying to make a difference -- for Alli and for women everywhere fighting breast cancer.

Beginning today, these words will be broadcast on various local Gainesville radio stations. These words are about breast cancer, about raising money for this serious disease, about Making Strides Against Breast Cancer, about the American Cancer Society. These words are about me. These are my words.

I'm Jacki. I'm someone you know. I'm a mother of two young sons, a wife, a sister, an aunt, a daughter, a friend. I am a freelance writer and a preschool teacher. I like to exercise and scrapbook and watch my little boys enjoy life's simple pleasures. I like pedicures, massages and candles. I'm 36 years old. I'm someone you know -- but I'm not alone.

I was diagnosed with breast cancer almost two years ago. And the American Cancer Society was instrumental in my recovery. I was comforted by their cancer programs and events, soothed by volunteers who called me at home to lend an ear, and educated by American Cancer Society literature and resources.

Join me for our Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walk on Saturday, October 14th, at the North East Park in Gainesville at 7:30 a.m. to help fund breast cancer research. Visit www.cancer.org or call 1-800-ACS-2345 to learn how you can become involved. Because someone you know has breast cancer. I'm someone you know -- I'm a breast cancer survivor -- and with the American Cancer Society, I'm not alone.

Somehow, Amy -- my friend whose cancer has spread to her brain and lungs just five months after her initial treatment for breast cancer -- ended up comforting me today when we spoke about her shocking news. Somehow, Amy is the strong one -- convinced that she will live long after the year she was given to survive this cancer metastasis while I feel somewhat defeated. Somehow, Amy is approaching this ordeal with spunk and grace -- while I feel a bit deflated. Somehow, Amy is teaching me that attitude is everything. That there is still hope. That she can outlive the statistics and numbers that predict she will not fare well. Somehow, Amy is strengthening me through her difficult moments. Somehow, she is worrying about me -- the one not experiencing the blow of a cancer recurrence.

Somehow, Amy -- with more on her plate than any one person should have to manage -- has already established that she is a fighter. That she will fight for her life. That she will survive. Somehow, she makes me feel better.