I like to find meaning in ordinary life events. Like my dreams, for example. The other day, I had a dream about a friend from high school. In my dream, this friend was a doctor at my local hospital, where all my cancer poking and prodding takes place. It makes sense this guy was a doctor -- last I heard from him, he was in medical school. Where he practices medicine, I had no idea. But maybe my dream was a clue. Maybe it was sign this old pal is right here in Gainesville, Florida.

Nope. I did a Google search and he's in Ohio -- right where we graduated from high school and he attended medical school. Not so much meaning in that dream. That's OK. I'm on to my next life interpretation now.

Ever since I was diagnosed with breast cancer my brother-in-law has been wearing a pink bracelet -- the one that says: Share Beauty. Spread Hope. For almost three whole years, the same rubbery band has been hanging from his wrist. Everyone in my family started out with one of these trinkets of support. And every one of us has since abandoned our pink fashion statement -- everyone except for Jack. He has stood firm in his support. I'm not sure he ever took that thing off. What a guy.

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.

When I first looked at my pathology report more than 18 months ago, it made little sense. Terms like Bloom Richardson Score and margins and Her2Neu were as foreign to me as the breast cancer that somehow invaded my body. So I read it over and over again and was eventually able to identify the basic meaning hidden within the four pages that detailed my disease. As it turned out, this report was my map. It led me in various directions for various treatments. It contained some roadblocks. It was sometimes confusing. And sometimes I got lost. There were some good and not-so-good stops along the way. And in the end, I reached my final destination -- in the land survival. And this is where I hope to stay. For a long time.

My map is not necessary anymore -- although I still look back at it. I've found that it makes more sense now that time has passed. I can interpret it more objectively, with more perspective and less emotion and fear. I am still learning about the disease that was removed from my breast. And I am realizing there was a lot I never really knew -- like these seven subjects -- when breast cancer was new and fresh and debilitating.

I have heard the term chemobrain many times -- even here at The Cancer Blog when Dalene wrote about it. And I've started using the terminology myself -- to explain my new-found odd behavior. Like when I put a carton of ice cream in the refrigerator with no recollection of it. And when I took a cap off a pen, couldn't find it, and discovered it on top of an egg carton in the refrigerator. I don't think this is a refrigerator theme -- just a coincidence -- because I've also lost a clipboard at work, forgotten to hand a guest her glass of water immediately after I prepared it, lost library books and movies, and failed to remember responsibilities time and time again. This may seem like minor forgetfulness -- this is what my oncologist believes may be at work -- but for me, this is odd. I have always had a good memory, have always delivered on my promises, and have never felt as scattered as I do now. So I call it chemobrain -- a good excuse, I figure -- and am now trying to determine what exactly this word means.

My oncologist tells me he doesn't really like this term. He thinks it puts a negative spin on regular functioning. He believes those of us who have experienced chemotherapy look more closely at our post-chemo behavior and may interpret quirky stuff as more serious than it is. It probably existed before chemotherapy, he says. But now, we are more sensitive to it and find chemotherapy a good explanation. He may be right. But for me, something in my head has definitely been altered.

One patient advocate for Hurricane Voices: A Breast Cancer Foundation believes that something doesn't have to be scientifically proven to exist. And while chemobrain may not be completely proven, there are still studies that support its existence -- which manifests itself through aging-type memory problems, forgetfulness, distraction, and loss of the ability to calculate quickly. Some studies show that 20 to 30 percent of women who undergo chemotherapy for breast cancer, and some who receive similar treatment for lymphoma, score lower than average on mental function tests for as long as 10 years after chemotherapy. ''There's enough data now to at least know it's a real effect,'' said Dr. Ian F. Tannock, a psychiatrist who has studied this issue at Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto. Some suggest that typical aging may be at fault -- and for premenopausal women who may be rushed into menopause, this effect may be due to hormonal issues. Regardless, it seems to stem from chemotherapy -- somehow. And somehow, this topic needs more attention, more research, and maybe a more positive name.

Mike Adams starts Lying with statistics: How conventional medicine confuses the public by posing this question, "Which drug would you rather take? One that reduces your risk of cancer by 50 percent, or another drug that only eliminates cancer in one out of 100 people?" He believes most people would choose the drug that reduces the risk by half.

But both of these choices refer to the same drug and the same outcome. Curious? Here's how Adams explains it. Let's say a new breast cancer drug is being tested and there are 100 women in the clinical trial. At the beginning of the trial, two women are expected to get breast cancer. The other 98 women are not even expected to get breast cancer. Just two of them. At the end of the trial, only one woman gets breast cancer. If you interpret the results of this trial by absolute risk, then the reduction of breast cancer is one woman out of 100. However, if you interpret the results by relative risk -- that out of two women only one got breast cancer -- then the reduction of breast cancer with the new breast cancer drug being tested is an incredible 50 percent.

Remember, at the beginning of the trial, the researchers hypothesized that two women would get breast cancer and since only one did get breast cancer -- one out of two equals 50 percent. Now, if you are a pharmaceutical company who wants to extol the virtues of this new experimental drug, which risk -- absolute or relative -- would you use? Especially if you are trying to grab the interest and support of financial backers and the public? Relative -- of course. It sounds better. And it's true.

However, if you want to discredit a drug or therapy, you would use absolute risk. You would refer to the therapy in a framework of absolute risk. The one out of 100 statistical outcome, as in, it doesn't work very well -- only one out of 100 showed benefit from use. Adams points out this happens all the time when conventional medicine refers to claims made by alternative therapies in say, herbal remedies. And it's true. Nothing about absolute or relative risk is untrue but each can give a vastly different impression of what is true. Before you read another health news headline about another research study or new drug, go read his commentary in its entirety. It will make you pause -- it will make you think twice -- it will prompt you to ask, "what are we talking here -- absolute or relative risk?"