I'm just waiting for the call -- the call that prompts my first visit with any number of newly-diagnosed breast cancer patients who want someone to lend an ear, a shoulder, and a few good tips for steering through a scary journey.

I am a new American Cancer Society Reach to Recovery volunteer, trained this past Saturday and ready to help others who are slipping into the shoes I started wearing two years ago. I was first a recipient of this program -- designed to match new breast cancer patients with veteran survivors through face-to-face visits -- and I know well the comfort that comes from the support of someone not so overwhelmed by cancer. So now it's my turn to offer the comfort. And I am oh so ready.

I am armed with literature, communication techniques, gift bags for my patients, and my own official volunteer pin. And while I am a bit anxious about how my first meeting will go, I learned on Saturday that my mere presence will be enough to calm the women whose lives I am about to touch.

There is no better vision for someone just diagnosed with breast cancer than a healthy, happy woman who happens to be surviving the same disease. And so it is hope that I will spread and my unspoken portrayal of life after cancer that will inspire these women. My words will be icing on the cake. It's me these women want to see. And it's these women I want to see as I begin to reach to recovery -- a recovery I suspect will largely be my own.

I am an expert in the game of what-if. I guess it's because my recent what if this hard lump in my breast is cancer worry turned into Oh My God, it is cancer that I am so polished at this exercise in all things irrational. Sure, some worries will be fulfilled by reality but for the most part, things turn out okay. But still, I worry. When a bone hurt in my arm last year, I was sure it was bone cancer. It wasn't. When I felt a soft bump on the roof of my mouth, I whisked myself to the dentist for my mouth cancer diagnosis. It was just a little bit of inflammation, probably from a cold. A headache landed me in a tube for a scan of my head. It revealed nothing interesting, and ibuprofen fixed me right up. And lately, I am checking every mole, freckle, spot, speck, and discoloration that adorns my fair skin.

I asked about each of these what-if marks yesterday at my annual skin cancer screening. Surprise -- nothing is wrong with me. But all unfounded fears aside, there is some method to my madness about skin cancer because I have had several bad burns in my life, have spent too many hours in the sun in search of a tan, and have already had a few pre-cancerous spots removed from my skin. So I do plan to monitor my skin -- just maybe not every day -- for the ABCDs of melanoma. And you should too -- because melanoma is the deadliest of skin cancers, and it is known for spreading, which makes treatment essential. So consider these what-ifs when screening yourself for skin cancer.

What if a spot on my skin is Asymmetrical? This means that one half of the mark on your skin does not match the other half. See your dermatologist.

What if the Border of the spot is irregular? This means that the edges are ragged, notched, or blurred. See your dermatologist.

What if the Color of the spot is not uniform? This means that shades of tan, brown, and black are present. Dashes of red, white, and blue add to the mottled appearance. See your dermatologist.

What if the Diameter is more than 6 millimeters? This is about the size of a pencil eraser. Any growth of any mole should also be of concern. See your dermatologist.

It is estimated that 44,000 Americans will develop melanoma annually. Of these people, 7,300 will die. But the death rate is declining -- because patients are seeking help earlier. Perhaps the ABCDs of melanoma are helping. I hope they help you -- and me too.

The topic of my hair is often the subject of conversation -- and is a constant reminder that this brown curly hair I have covering my head is nothing like the straight blond hair I was born with, grew up with, was known for. Because my little boys have white blond hair, I am consistently asked by strangers, "Where did your boys get that blond hair?" "From me," is what I want to say because it's the truth -- but that would make no sense to anyone who does not know me, anyone who does not know that my hair -- that once looked much like my boys' hair -- was lost to chemotherapy and returned shockingly different. So sometimes I just chuckle in wonder with these strangers who may not expect an answer anyway. Or I tell them the story -- if they seem to really want in on the details of the mystery. Most people are surprised that my hair grew back like it did. I am not surprised -- I was warned that it might happen -- although it is still a startling discovery each time I look in the mirror, each time I look back at photos, each time I see gray hairs emerging through my dark hair -- gray that only slightly showed up in the midst of my blond locks.

The memory of my blond hair keeps popping up. My husband told me the other day that he had a dream about me -- I was in a restaurant, at a table, by myself. He was walking toward me. And I had blond hair. The rest of the dream is insignificant. The blond hair is significant. And the other day, I pulled my brush out of my purse. It hasn't been used in more than a year -- because I don't brush my curls at all -- and at the base of the brush, wound around the bristles, were long blond strands of hair. My blond hair. My old hair. The same hair I showed my friend who visited from Ohio last week -- the hair that was once on my head, was cut off in preparation of the great fallout, and is now kept in a ziplock bag.

I like my brown hair. I like my curls. But I miss my blond hair. I am sad that I no longer match my children, that I don't look like the bride in my wedding photo, that I will attend my 20-year high school reunion in two years and will wear a photo name tag that looks nothing like me. I like the familiar -- which is why I never wanted to show my bald head, why I covered my head with blond wigs and hats to keep my appearance as close to normal as possible. And then in a strange turn of events, my hair grew back in an unfamiliar fashion -- and somehow the question, "I see where your boys get that blond hair" flip-flopped into "Where did your boys get that blond hair?" It is all still new to me. I know one day it will become familiar and normal and not such a big deal. Some day. I hope.

Internationally acclaimed mezzo-soprano Lorraine Hunt Lieberson died Monday in Santa Fe, New Mexico at the age of 52. Hunt Lieberson battled breast cancer in the recent past and had canceled performances in 2005 and 2006 due to back problems -- yet no one was prepared for her death, which occured at her home with her husband by her side. The music world is shocked by her passing. There were no obvious warning signs because Hunt Lieberson often kept her health matters private. No public announcement regarding cause of death has been released.

Known for her beautiful voice -- and a repertoire that ranged from Baroque to contemporary -- the singer, a native of the San Francisco Bay area, began her career as a violist and later became a recitalist, a concert singer, and an operatic performer. She was powerful and polished in her unconventional opera delivery, says Richard Gaddes, director of the Santa Fe opera. She could take her audiences to depths so intense and so true, and her level of commitment will be very difficult to match. She was in a class of her own.