The following post is one of a series of posts appearing Monday through Friday on The Cancer Blog. This feature -- Today, I am grateful -- allows me to share with readers my appreciation for all the treasures in my life, both big and small. In my post-cancer world, I find It healing for my soul to be mindful of the good in my life. It is my pleasure to share my gratitude with you.

The night before my lumpectomy, way back in December 2005, I was consumed with fear, worry, and panic. Since I'd found it, the lump in my left breast had been sitting untouched for nearly two weeks. I imagined the mass spreading with each day and believed I could detect its growth each time I felt for it. A doctor told me if it was growing like I thought it was, my tiny pea-sized tumor would be the size of an apple within days.

My fears were unfounded and irrational. I know that now. But during the moments of uncertainty that filled my days between diagnosis and prognosis, I had no direction. I had only my wandering mind for company. The waiting really is the hardest part. Once faced with the specifics of our diseases, we can take action.

I have known my friend Claire for years (she asked that her last name not be used). So, I remember the shock I felt three years ago when I found out that she had breast cancer. Malignant breast cancer, we whispered to ourselves. Claire had been teaching English for Dole Fruit in Honduras. She came home that summer, and she never went back, even though she had another year left in her contract. Even though we have talked about her experiences over the years, we had never done so formally before she agreed to talk to me for this Survivor Spotlight. She came over and I poured her coffee (black) and we went out back to my studio/office to chat.

How did you find out you had breast cancer?

I went in for a routine mammogram. I had been having mammograms for about the past ten years or so. But I missed the previous year! So, after I found out that I had cancer, I was mortified that I had forgotten the previous year. But actually, I had a benign cyst years earlier, when I was younger and hadn't gone through as much. That was actually much scarier.

How did you find out it was malignant?

Needle biopsy. But I had warning -- the radiologist was pretty sure it was bad, so he gave me warning. The biopsy was just to make sure.

Breast cancer is one of the most prevalent conditions out there, and yet so many of us don't know enough about the disease. Perhaps it's never affected us closely enough, or perhaps we're avoiding the facts, sticking our heads in the sand to save ourselves the pain of facing something that is tragically realistic. But if you're someone who doesn't know much about Breast Cancer, you should, regardless of whether your male or female because there's a good chance that some woman in your life may be diagnosed.

Anyway, my point is, check out this article from eDiets. It's a collection of simple, to-the-point information on breast cancer, including the risk factors, the diagnosis, the prognosis and the treatment. It's about time you knew the facts, for your sake and the sake of others.

I had a lumpectomy. It all turned of fine. I have two scars -- one underneath my armpit, one across the side of my left breast -- and while they are sometimes obvious if I wear a sleeveless shirt, they don't really bother me so much.

Some women -- about one-third to be exact -- are bothered by their lumpectomy results. Even though lumpectomy is intended to conserve the breast, these women say they are so unhappy about how their breasts look, they would consider reconstruction surgery.

According to a study presented at the American Society of Plastic Surgeons (ASPS) Plastic Surgery 2006 conference in San Francisco, 28 percent of breast cancer patients stated they were dissatisfied with the cosmetic outcome of surgery. Of these, 46 percent believed their physical appearance was worse or much worse after surgery. Interestingly, 26 percent of these unsatisfied patients still said surgery gave them an improved sense of body image. Plastic surgeons believe this disparity stems from the relief of having had cancer removed from their bodies, leading them to feel better even though they were not happy with how their breasts looked.

It's been one year since I began writing for The Cancer Blog. According to statistics generated by this site, I've written 27,381 words and 793 posts. If you've been reading for this entire time, you surely know a lot about me. Not only do my posts reflect current news and issues, but they feature all sorts of personal stuff too. When considered together, my work here reflects just about every piece of my cancer journey, my inner most thoughts, my morals and values, my take on the world. But for those of you who haven't been reading for long, for those who have forgotten how I fit into the cancer puzzle, for those who want a recap, here's a rundown on me: Jacki Donaldson.

I was born and raised in Ohio but have also lived in Nevada, Virginia, and Florida -- my current home. My life always went pretty much according to plan -- I lived happily with my parents and one sister, faithfully attended school, went to college, got married, had two baby boys and a series of good jobs, and had just begun commenting to my family members about how lucky our family was not to have been affected by cancer. It seems just as I spoke this aloud, cancer arrived.

Elizabeth Edwards has been told the metastatic cancer found in her bones is considered stage four. And it's treatable. But not curable.

Tricky stuff -- all this cancer terminology -- and a little hard to fully comprehend.

I saw Sheryl Crow talking with Maria Shriver and Dr. Susan Love on Larry's King's CNN program the other night. Crow says her breast cancer was curable -- it was teeny tiny and had not spread and required a lumpectomy and radiation, but not chemotherapy. "I'm the walking poster child for early detection," she said. Her cancer was caught and treated swiftly. She is cured. Theoretically.

Can Crow's cancer still return? Yep.

We just aren't sure at the time of one cancer discovery if these deadly cells have drifted away from the main site and will later show up elsewhere, explained Dr. Love. All predictions would have Crow living a long life free of cancer. But they may have had Edwards in the same boat just two years ago when she was first diagnosed with breast cancer.

So now Edwards' cancer is not curable. It is treatable. And this is a bit easier to understand. Her cancer will never go away. But doctors can keep it at bay. And Love says they can even make it better. But there is no cure for what Edwards has. So she will live with cancer for the rest of her life.

I guess curable means: the cancer is gone and we hope it never comes back. And treatable means: the cancer is not gone and will never be gone but we will treat it for as long as we can.

I think I get it.

When I received radiation after my lumpectomy I had to go every weekday for around six weeks. That was five years ago. These days researchers are talking about a new way to receive radiation treatments that are much shorter in duration.

Partial breast irradiation is a new option available to women but is still in the experimental stages. The new technique gives radiation only to the area of the breast where the cancer was removed. It would be given twice a day over a period of five days. A catheter, a small, flexible tube used to deliver the radiation treatment, may be in for a total of seven to ten days.

Whole breast radiation is now the standard of care and is given to the entire breast and not just the area where the cancer was removed. Past studies have show this method to be effective in keeping breast cancer from returning after a lumpectomy.

If you are interested in learning more about partial breast radiation, speak with your physician about participating in a clinical trial.

I've had my very own extreme makeover. And while it has nothing to do with cosmetic plastic surgery or an overhaul on my house, it's been an appearance-altering and life-changing event. I'll call it my Extreme Makeover: Cancer Edition.

Stop One

The first stop on my extreme makeover tour came compliments of a lumpectomy -- to remove one cancerous tumor in my breast along with four lymph nodes. I was left with two scars that travel underneath my armpit, a bit of scar tissue buried beneath the skin, and a tinge of numbness that comes and goes without warning.

Stop Two

My second stop brought me a port -- to save my veins and ease the infusion of chemotherapy -- which for more than a year allowed me to look a bit like an alien. A foreign object sewn under the skin of my collarbone popped up something like a tracking device that identified my whereabouts. Now surgically removed, my port has been discarded. A scar marks the one-time location of this wondrous apparatus.

Stop Three

The third facet of my makeover was quite extreme -- is still quite extreme. It happened like clockwork -- 13 days after my very first chemotherapy treatment -- and while I knew it would happen, the shock of total hair loss was not minimized in any way, shape, or form by predictability. And the shock of my new dark, curly hair with a sprinkling of gray -- that replaced my blond, straight hair -- amazes me every time I look in the mirror.

Stop Four

For four months, I lost my menstrual cycle to chemotherapy -- not such a bad deal except for the hot flashes that arrived for the same four-month period. When my cycles returned, they were unpredictable and much more intense than ever before. They are still problematic.

Stop Five

Surgery and radiation limited the range of motion in my left arm. Physical therapy helped some, and weight training helps too. But my arm is permanently affected by the attempts to save my life.

Stop Six

Just when I thought my makeover journey was coming to an end, my mind told me otherwise. Bouts of fogginess, forgetfulness, and just plain odd behavior marked the beginning of what researchers now call chemo brain. The plentiful drugs that cycled through my body for almost two years are playing tricks on my brain.

Stop Seven

And to cope with it all -- my scars, my hair, my confusing cycles, my tightened arm, and my chemo brain -- I made one last stop at the pharmacy for an anti-depressant. Prescribed so that I could become accustomed to my new life after cancer, my Zoloft keeps me calm and peaceful and happy. And one day, when I have adjusted to all that has changed in my world, I will wean myself off this potion.

I am not sure I would ever elect to alter my appearance -- although I am sometimes tempted by a tummy tuck to remove what two more-than-10-pound babies left with me.

Mostly, I think cancer has done enough to reshape and redesign my whole self. And while I didn't wish for any of my cancer changes, I think they help me define me. They tell a story -- of challenge and hardship and victory and survival. For as long as I am alive, for as long as my extreme makeover is visible, it will be clear that I have conquered something great and powerful. And that makes me proud.

I never got a chance to call for the results of my breast biopsy the day after it was performed -- because my phone rang hours before I was told to inquire about the pathology of my lump. That one phone call changed everything. Forever.

November 2004

The next day, November 24 and the day before Thanksgiving, my phone rang at 10:00 AM and the doctor who did the biopsy said the pathology report was back already. He said that unfortunately, cancer cells were found. He said I would need a lumpectomy (surgery to remove the lump), radiation, and possibly chemotherapy. He told me to buy a book called Dr. Susan Love's Breast Book. I got the book that day.

Somehow, I made it though the Thanksgiving weekend, with my thoughts jumping from the hope that this would turn out okay to the fear that I would not see my boys grow up. My mind wandered and worried about surgery and what treatments I would have. I wondered if I could have more kids and whether or not I would lose my hair. I cried and lost sleep and was hopeful too.

I learned a lot from reading my new book. I learned that many women do go on to have kids after cancer but I also learned that chemotherapy in young women can cause early menopause. I learned that I have an 85 percent survival rate and also that I will get tiny little tattoos surrounding my breast to aid in the proper delivery of radiation. These permanent tattoos will also alert any future doctors that my breast has had radiation because I can never have it again in that same area. The book helped me feel positive about this journey but it also helped me face reality.

I have since faced reality. And now I am surviving the reality of breast cancer. Following my diagnosis, I endured a lumpectomy, four rounds of dose-dense chemotherapy, more than six weeks of radiation, and one year of Herceptin treatment. Through it all, I learned that I am okay, that I will likely see my boys grow up, that my early menopause was only temporary, that I am physically able to have more children, that I did in fact lose my hair, that my 10 tiny tattoos are so small I can barely see them, that my survival rate is much higher than 85 percent.

I knew I had breast cancer the day I detected a lump in my breast. It just took eight days to confirm my suspicion. And now it's been two years. I have survived for two years.

On Sunday, for the very first time, I read a magazine article about the hospital where I received treatment for breast cancer. I had never before seen mention of my hospital, my doctors, my city in anything other than local and regional newspapers and on area television stations. I figured news about Shands Hospital at The University of Florida was out there -- in more areas than my own -- because it's a well-known facility. People travel from all over to receive treatment here. So I know it's a good place. But to see in the October 2006 issue of Good Housekeeping an actual blurb about a new kind of lumpectomy -- pioneered right here in Gainesville, Florida -- is exciting.

I am the happy recipient of this new kind of lumpectomy -- which really is not new at all. It was developed 20 years ago by the surgeon who performed my own lumpectomy, and it allows women who undergo lumpectomy the chance to avoid return trips to the operating room.

The method is called frozen section analysis, and it was first used by Dr. Edward Copland III, first director of the UF Shands Cancer Center, who was tired of waiting for pathology reports and tired of operating on patients two and three times to ensure clear tumor margins.

It all happens like this -- a surgeon removes the breast cancer tumor, takes tissue samples, freezes them in an embedding compound, and sends them to a pathologist for immediate analysis. In a typical case, this frozen section process adds just 15 minutes to the operating time. If pathology reveals more tissue must be removed, the surgeon returns to the patient, still under anesthesia, and continues surgery. The patient does not need to return for more surgery.

Surgeons at most institutions rely on a method called permanent section analysis to determine whether or not cancerous cells remain along the margins of a tumor. The technique is labor-intensive, takes days to complete, and requires patients to return for additional surgery if margins are not clear. Surgeons using the frozen section method still consult permanent sections to confirm margins are clear -- but they are mostly certain of their findings during frozen section.

Studies show frozen section analysis to be safe and effective -- and it adds just $851 to the cost of surgery, a savings considering the cost of returning for surgery as a result of permanent analysis.

There are many advantages -- but the procedure is tricky and on occasion can fail to detect some cancerous margins, indicating frozen section should continue to be used in conjunction with permanent section. Opponents of the practice say false positives could result in unnecessary mastectomy. But Copeland says this has never happened at UF -- and he would never remove a woman's breasts until permanent section confirmed it was necessary.

Despite the promise of this method, only a handful of institutions make practice of this surgery-sparing technique. Shands at UF is the only hospital in North Florida where breast surgeons perform frozen section analysis on a regular basis.

The procedure -- which is not risky, is not harmful, and clearly saves patients from returning for surgery -- is the exact procedure I received almost two years ago. Dr. Copeland removed my tumor, froze tissue samples, sent them to pathology, and 15 minutes later knew my tumor had clear margins and had not spread to my lymph nodes. He visited my family in the hospital waiting room just after surgery and told them the good news -- clear margins, no spread, a 1.1 cm. tumor, stage I. And while other tumor criteria, such as ER/PR status and HER2 status, did not come my way immediately, I at least knew the basics when I woke from surgery. No waiting. No worrying. No complaints.

My sister recently ran into the surgeon who removed my breast cancer tumor almost two years ago -- on December 3, 2004. He asked my sister how I was doing, recalled the unprecedented rash I developed from the latex and Tegaderm tape used during my lumpectomy, and then talked about how terribly busy he has been.

This surgeon -- who spends countless clinic hours with women whose breasts are somehow diseased and then spends day after day in operating rooms trying to remedy these diseases -- said he is amazed and at how many breast cancer cases are consuming his time. It's sad -- the amount of women showing up with breast cancer -- but there is a silver lining to this cancer cloud, because according to this surgeon, the vast majority of these breast cancer cases are early stage. This means they were caught swiftly and quickly. And for the women behind these cases, there is a good chance of long-term survival.

And so maybe all the pink and all the press surrounding breast cancer is working. Maybe it's inspiring women to pursue self-breast exams, clinical exams, mammography, and other screening options. Maybe all the persistence and passion about breast cancer is the reason for this early detection -- the key to a good prognosis.

My surgeon closed his chat with my sister by telling her to call him if anyone in our family ever needs anything. But he told her he hopes he never has to hear from us. My sentiments exactly.

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.

Cynthia Yousefi is a wife and mother of three living in Granada Hills, CA. She is 42 years old and works as an analyst for a Federal agency. She and her family enjoy trips to Harrah's Rincon Casino in San Diego -- and while the destination is a favorite, the sights along the way also bring them pleasure. Cynthia enjoys museums and amusement parks and swimming and evening walks. She enjoys a lot these days because she feels she's been given a second chance at life -- now that she is surviving breast cancer.

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.