Yesterday, I saw my oncologist for one of my every-three-month follow-up visits. As always, I went armed with my list of questions -- which is really my list of worries -- and one by one, I rattled them off. On a little sticky note, I had written:

• Lymph node
  
• Digital mammogram
  
• Next MRI
  
• Heart
  
• Colonoscopy

And this is what my doctor had to say about my concerns of the day:

Just recently, European researchers announced that MRI scans offer a new way to detect breast cancer in its earliest form. They can even prevent cancer among high-risk women.

Better than standard mammograms, MRI can detect a nonmalignant tumor called ductal carcinoma in-situ, or DCIS. Once found, the lesion can be surgically removed before it becomes cancerous.

Think about this: It is believed that almost all breast cancer starts out as DCIS. And this: if MRI were the gold standard breast cancer screening tool, we might be able to prevent a lot more breast cancer cases than we do now. It seems researchers agree.

I AM THE CURE is the Susan G. Komen new rallying cry. Intended to urge us to take an active role in our own breast health and remind us that we all play an important part in finding a cure, these are words to live by. I think I won't soon forget them -- because I have a new key chain inscribed with all four of them.

My aunt just participated in the Aspen Race for the Cure, and she sent me all the goodies she picked up at the race. She gave me the Ford Warriors in Pink scarf -- I've always wanted one and can't wait to wear it on October 20 when I run in my local Making Strides Against Breast Cancer event. She also passed on to me a race t-shirt, the sign she wore on her back -- in celebration of my beautiful niece Jacki, it read -- and pink ribbon magnets, sunscreen, a Warriors in Pink temporary tattoo, and all sorts of other little trinkets. The key chain was one of them.

My new key chain features four different sized pink metal circles, each one dangling from the key ring. On each circle, there is one word. From the smallest circle to the largest, the words I -- AM -- THE -- CURE appear. All on their own, these circles are pretty powerful. But there's more. On an insert that came with the key chain is an explanation for each circle.

Magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) showed in a study presented at the 2007 annual meeting of the American Society of Clinical Oncology to be better at detecting ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS) than mammograms. MRI's were also shown to be very good at detecting high grade DCIS.

Women are recommended by the American Cancer Society to get an annual mammogram after the age of 40, do clinical breast exams starting in your 20's and if you are in a high risk group to receive annual screening with a breast MRI.

In a study among almost 6,000 women who were screened with both MRI and mammography, MRI detected 92 percent of DCIS cases where mammography only detected 56 percent of cases diagnosed.

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.

As I worked my way to the check-out cubicle at my oncology office yesterday, I carried with me the small stack of paperwork my doctor had handed me. There was a sheet denoting all my charges -- of course. There were orders for a mammogram and MRI. There was a summary of sorts about my visit. I handed each of these papers to the woman eagerly awaiting receipt of my money -- but before I let them leave my hands, I noticed a check mark on one of the papers. It was located right next to words: No cancer present, in remission. There were other words -- like cancer recurrence -- where my check mark could have landed. But it didn't. I ended up just where I want it be, just where I want it to stay.

A simple check mark brightened my day. It's not that I thought my cancer had returned. It's just that my every-three-month check-ups open the door for this possibility. I go to these appointments for a reason -- to identify cancer's current role in my life -- and so there's always a chance something will be discovered. But not today.

No cancer present, in remission. These are five of the most beautiful words ever written about me.

The researchers don't seem to know why, but there is a decline in the number of women in the United States age 40 or older who have had mammograms over the last two years.

A study published in the journal Cancer says that during the period from 1987 to 2000, there was a steady increase in women receiving mammograms. They believe this to be somewhat responsible for the increase in breast cancer survival that occurred during that period. Supporting the phrase -- early detection saves lives.

They evaluate the trends in mammography use by a survey that is administered to 35,000 adults called the National Health Interview Survey. The current analysis focused on women who had mammograms in the last two years. The survey showed that in the year 2000, 70 percent of women reported they had a mammogram in the previous two years. In the year 2005, the number was down to 66 percent.

The doctor who read my mammogram and ultrasound results today is the same doctor who detected in my recent MRI something of unknown significance. Today, the unknown remains. But the significance is not so significant.

This doctor saw an unusual pattern of tissue in my right breast when she viewed my Friday MRI results, some sort of enhancement she didn't see in the left breast or on the MRI I had a year ago. But today's mammogram looked good and today's ultrasound did too. So I guess if three different imaging tests don't turn up anything truly suspicious and there doesn't appear to be anything to biopsy, then all is well. For now.

All that must be determined now is when I will report back for more screening to chart the state of the dense breast tissue that keeps me on my toes.

Another bullet dodged. Another day in the life of a worried breast cancer girl.

A doctor found something suspicious when she read the results of the breast MRI I had on Friday. What she found is of unknown significance. This means something caught her attention. She just isn't sure what it is.

This doctor does know that whatever it is inside my right breast appears to be a low-risk something. But still, there's a concern looming in the air -- for her and for me.

I spoke with my oncologist about this concern, and he told me anything suspicious must be pursued by further testing. I'm thankful for that. He also said he expects that nothing actually significant will come of this. But if it does, it will have been caught early.

On Friday, I will report for further testing -- a mammogram and an ultrasound -- and then I will learn more about this unknown something that inhabits my breast, this something that takes me back more than two whole years when another something turned out to be what I feared more than anything. Breast cancer.

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

My blood looked good. My weight is normal. My temperature was 98.2. My blood pressure was perfect. And the physical exam conducted by my oncologist revealed that for another three-month stretch, I have survived cancer.

There are other exams ahead in the next few months -- a breast MRI, a mammogram, an ultrasound, a follow-up with my radiation oncologist -- but mostly, my life revolves around the every-three-month visit with my medical oncologist. He's the one who plotted the course of my treatment, responds to my physical and emotional ups and downs, and checks my every piece and part. He is the one who will declare my remission in five years, if warranted. He is the one who told me today I am doing very well.

And for the next three months, I will assume I am just that -- very well. And my hope is that on May 21, when I depart his office once again, I am able to report that not one thing has changed.

Cancer-related fear once consumed my mind. Now it sits lodged in the back of my brain and only presents itself on rare occasions.

I handle my fears so much better now than when cancer was new and fresh and raw. My fears hardly ever cause me real anxiety, they don't cripple my mental functioning anymore, and more than ever, they serve to focus my efforts in life. When fear strikes, it's usually a wake-up call of sorts, a reminder to leave no stone unturned, a summons to keep on living.

Although so much less threatening than they once were, my fears still exist. And I like to review them once in awhile, lose myself in a little emotional housekeeping, tidy up some of the mess cancer made. I always feel better when things are in order -- fears included.

• I fear a breast cancer recurrence, the return of a tumor that rises to the surface of my skin and presents itself again underneath my fingertips -- or in my worst-case scenario is lost among dense breast tissue, undetected by self-exam, and caught too late by some combination of mammogram, ultrasound, and MRI.

• I fear more than anything another cancer -- something entirely different from breast cancer, something buried in my body and not as responsive as breast cancer to treatment. I am prepared for a second visit from breast cancer because I know how to proceed, know I will succumb to treatment that is familiar, know I will remove both breasts in the most radical of life-saving approaches. But cancer in my lungs, brain, bones, blood, ovaries is out of my realm. And these cancers -- among many others -- really scare me.
  

• I fear that my mom and my sister -- my first-degree female relatives -- will one day follow in my breast cancer footsteps. I once thought family history trickled down from above, from older family members. Now I know the disease can start with anyone. I am the anyone in my family. I am the reason my mom and sister are closely watched and monitored and tested. I am the one that put the fear of cancer into their hearts and minds -- and into mine.
  

• I fear having another baby. I fear the return of cancer during pregnancy, leaving me with difficult choices regarding my health and my baby's health. I fear cancer returning after a baby is born, leaving me with one more child and more treatment to manage. I fear another cancer would lead to a decreased chance of survival and another baby would leave my husband feeling stranded should I die too soon. And I fear having a baby girl who would inherit the very real chance of developing breast cancer at some time during her life.
  

• I fear not having another baby. I fear the regret I may feel one day, perhaps 50 years from now when I am healthy and cancer-free and without the child I longed for. I fear I am being overly cautious, too tentative, a bit selfish. A fellow cancer survivor once wrote me, "I learned that my family continues, even if I do not. I also learned that they are at least as tough as I am so will cope with the genes I pass to them and their own cancer battles if needed. Finally, I learned they look out for each other just as I looked out for them. No matter what your future, you will never regret giving another child a place in your family." I fear this man may be right.
  

• I fear dying at a young age. I fear leaving my children before they are grown. I fear leaving my husband a single parent, my mom someone who has lost a child, and my sister an only child. I have been told over and over again that my chances of survival are great, fantastic even. I have a 93 percent chance of not dying from breast cancer. This does seem great -- until I take into account that this percentage is good for only five years. My five years will expire when I am 39 years old. What happens then, I am not sure. The only thing I am sure about is that five years is not enough time. I want more, need more, demand more. Yet I fear my days may be numbered.
  

These are the fears that keep me focused. And while they are sometimes not-so-pleasant, I am in no hurry to resolve any of them. I am thankful really to have these fears swirling in my head -- because it means I am alive. And for me, being alive with fears is better than not being alive at all.