At the University of Florida, where my husband works, spouses can get campus I.D. cards which allow access to recreational centers, swimming pools, a university lake, and more. A few years ago, I stood in line for my card. It was during my chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer, and I wore a blond wig topped with a ball cap. Once at the front of line, a college student employee told me to remove my hat so my photo could be taken.

I couldn't take my hat off -- it covered a partial wig made for use with hats, and the very top was made of soft cotton and no hair. I didn't want to be photographed wearing my clown-like wig. I didn't want to be photographed bald. I wanted to look as normal as possible during a time when I felt nothing of the sort.

I told the I.D. center staff of my situation and although these young people seemed a bit unsettled by my story, they complied. And I now have an I.D. that pictures me, my blond wig, and my pink hat. It looks nothing like me. My post-chemo hair came in dark and curly.

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 went out to lunch with my husband and kids yesterday. Sitting right behind us in the restaurant was a woman wearing a white hat, worn to mask an obvious bald head. My two little boys kept watching this woman, my littlest turning in his seat to get the best possible view. These boys, ages five and three, were not looking at this woman because a bald head is an odd sight in a public venue. They were looking because, to them, a bald head is familiar. And I think they were sizing up this woman, recalling what I once cleverly hid -- my own bald head.

We all noticed the woman in her white hat. But we handled our observations differently. My husband chose to focus on the task at hand -- eating. My boys chose to stare. I chose to contemplate.

I contemplated talking to this woman. I always have this urge -- to talk with others I suspect are fighting cancer -- and I always wonder if it's appropriate to approach strangers to discuss such a personal topic. Do I have a free pass to enter another's cancer world because I myself have membership in the same world? Perhaps. Perhaps not. So when faced with a possible cancer survivor -- marked mostly by a bald head -- I usually hesitate, contemplate, and then do nothing other than quietly consider what life might be like for the person who faces me.

Maybe I lack courage and should find a way to connect with these strangers. It may do us all a bit of good. Maybe courage has nothing to do with it. Maybe I refrain from conversation out of respect for each person's privacy. I am not convinced either way.

For now, I think I'll stick with what works, what feels safe -- observation and contemplation. And maybe next time I'm in a restaurant and notice someone strikingly familiar, I'll take a stab at my husband's approach -- just simply eating.

Angela Lemke was a young woman of 33 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer and she went through a range of emotions in the challenges of cancer surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation. She speaks about feeling sick -- physically, mentally and emotionally. Lemke admits she felt shame and embarrassment at no longer fitting in and looking different after chemotherapy hair loss.

Lemke became frustrated at the hair loss alternatives available, and with her sister-in-law, designed the Inspired by You Ponytail Hat. She loved wearing it as it made her feel like her old self again. Lemke now offers individually created ponytail hats for other women experiencing chemotherapy hair loss. At the time of purchase, a woman can choose from over 288 variable combinations in creating a customized ponytail hat.

You can find out more about Lemke's ponytail hats and create one of your own online at her website. At Inspired by You the motto is: Hope Matters ... Courage Counts!

I visited a neighbor yesterday who has breast cancer. She has had one dose of chemotherapy and just yesterday shaved her head. I stopped by to see her new hairstyle and to give her a gift -- a collection of goodies including a hat, some Healing Garden bath lotions and sprays, a flower pen I made, and a card reminding her that like me, she will survive the madness of breast cancer treatment and will go on to enjoy a full head of hair again. And while our travels will be similar in some ways, they are also very different.  You see, Gayle had a mastectomy and I did not. So I can't relate to the emotion that comes from losing a breast and feeling lopsided and searching for a bathing suit to mask the unevenness and waiting for reconstruction that won't take place until after chemotherapy is complete. But Gayle is one strong woman and while I know she will have dark moments at times, her attitude and spirit is remarkable. I went to visit her thinking I could spread some hope her way and I walked away with a dose of hope from her -- a woman new to this journey yet full of courage and strength and bravery.

Gayle, 33 years old, a wife, and mom of two small boys, told me she will go to work tomorrow with a bald head -- she is not interested in cover-ups -- and this makes her an exceptional person in my book. I never did bare my baldness to the world and kept it covered until my new hair was growing back. I admire Gayle -- and all the women who display their heads like badges of honor -- because she is a true survivor. And one who just might teach me a thing or two.

My son shaved my head 16 months ago.  My hair was falling out in clumps from chemotherapy, and I thought the trauma of losing my hair all at once would be somehow less painful than watching it fall from my scalp one batch at a time.  It was still traumatic -- and I cried -- but Joey told me, "It's only a haircut, mommy.  You are not going to die."  Joey was four.  I was 34.  And he was right -- I did not die.  And my hair is growing back. 

It's not the same long, blond, straight hair I once had -- it's now short and dark and curly.  But I have hair.  It feels a whole lot better than not having hair.  Losing my hair was hard.  Being bald was hard.  I never found the strength or courage to flaunt my shiny scalp and I searched high and low for the perfect cover-up.  I found it at Hip Hats.