My brother-in-law just read the post I wrote about his allegiance to the pink breast cancer bracelet -- the one that snapped after three solid years of wear, the one he replaced a day later.

I wrote my previous post in an attempt to give meaning to this perhaps symbolic happening. A breast cancer bracelet breaks -- what could that mean? I took a stab my own interpretation. My thoughts are featured in that post, On broken cancer bracelets. Now, Jack is weighing in with his own twist on the matter. I like his version.

Jack says his bracelet, worn ever since I was diagnosed with breast cancer in November 2004, broke because I am free of cancer. The bracelet is no longer necessary. End of cancer. End of bracelet. End of story.

When we memorialize someone at the time of death, we often refer to the date of birth and the date of death. These numbers tell us something -- like the age of the person -- but they don't say much about the life that fills the gap between start date and end date. They don't tell of the life that was surely full of ups and downs and victories and struggles. And happiness and joy and sadness and sorrow. And family and friends and jobs and hobbies. They don't do justice to the true stuff of life that is so much more important than numbers. But there is something important about these two sets of numbers -- something that when really examined, tells the full story. This important something -- the dash.

The dash that separates these static numbers is what tells the story of life. So consider your own dash when contemplating life, while determining how to spend your time and fill your days. Make your dash matter. Make it worthwhile. Make it something that people will talk about long after your own numbers become a matter of permanent record. And when you memorialize loved ones in the future, think about what their dashes mean. Talk about them, remember them, honor them. And pass on this link -- www.thedashmovie.com -- so others will consider the meaning that flows from each simple dash.

In the moment of despair, the cliche time heals all wounds may seem anything but comforting. But that's because it's true. It takes time to heal and we are not in the right frame of mind just as something unfortunate has happened to accept -- or believe -- this advice that might come flowing from a well-wisher's lips. It's popular wisdom. It's commonly offered as comfort. It's easy to spit out. And while our wounds do not exactly fade with the passage of time, we are able to put a more positive spin on them. But it's tough to appreciate this until the unfortunate moment is long gone.

According to a recent study -- summarized in the September 2006 Ladies Home Journal magazine -- memories of distressing events, like the death of a loved one, don't go away but they do gradually get colored by more hopeful emotions. As time passes, we tend to remember strongly emotional experiences as positive even if they were once harrowing. "People are resilient," says one researcher. "We come to terms with our experiences in as positive a way as we can." So we may eventually see the death of a friend as something that made us stronger, something that reminds us to treasure our friendships. Our ability to find such meaning in the saddest of times helps transform it into a valuable experience -- and not just a sad one.

And this is exactly how I feel about having had cancer. No one could have convinced me at the time of my diagnosis that time would heal my wounds. I wasn't even sure how much time I had left on this planet. I was panic-stricken and frightened and tended to defeat conventional wisdom. But now that two years worth of time has passed me by and I am pretty certain I will continue surviving for a long time, I realize time is responsible for my positive outlook. Time did not completely heal my wounds -- I still have days when my wounds are raw -- but it surely bandaged them. And so I do believe time heals all wounds -- in a way -- and I am thankful for each moment of time I have to marvel at this truth.

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 don't take for granted that I am alive. I am fully aware of it, consciously grateful for it, continually amazed by it. Before I was confronted with breast cancer, I still knew I could die -- in a car accident maybe -- but I thought chances were pretty good that I would make it to a ripe old age. Death was never at the forefront of my mind. I had no reason to believe that life could be snatched from me. And because of this, I am sure some pretty important moments slipped by me, virtually unnoticed. But now -- after a breast cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, radiation therapy, and then more therapy, I realize life is not a guarantee for anyone. Me included. Even at age 36, I am not safe. I feel confident about my future -- and I believe cancer has left my body -- but my life has been threatened like never before. And that makes me wake up and take notice -- really notice -- the moments that are too important to take for granted.

My first baby boy starts kindergarten today. Before cancer, this still would have been a monumental day for us both. But now, after cancer, it's even bigger. Because I know of several moms who did not survive cancer long enough to see their children walk through their first classroom doors -- moms who thought, like me, that they would surely beat cancer and would see their kids off for every first day of school. So I am lucky to have made it to this day -- to witness the wonder of my sweet, shy, sensitive, challenging, demanding, loving boy as he leaves the comfort of home for the real world.

Two days ago, my littlest guy said, "Mommy, I love you and want to keep you forever." Joey -- the boy whose wisdom should guide him right through his first day of school -- said, "Danny, you can't have mommy forever. One day she will die, and you will never see her again." Fortunately, his harsh meaning was lost on three-year-old Danny who kept playing with whatever toy was occupying him at the time. But his meaning was not lost on me. He spoke the truth. And so I plan to soak up the kindergarten moment this morning -- and photograph it and write about it and cherish it for my days to come. And in two years, I hope to do it again with Danny as he starts off on the same path. With me by his side.