The American Cancer Society has happily announced that cancer deaths have declined for the second straight year. This is big news -- mostly because our population is growing and aging and it's entirely possible this could have led to an increase in cancer deaths. Not only is this not true, but the drop in deaths for this second year is eight times greater than the drop during the first year. Amazing.

It's hard to imagine in light of this great news that there are still less hopeful statistics out there on the cancer front. But there are so many dimensions to this disease -- prevention, detection, diagnosis, treatment, survival -- that the numbers can vary tremendously depending on perspective.

From the perspective of diagnosis, one in two men and one in three women in America today will develop cancer during their lifetimes. These staggering statistics, based on data collected during 2001 through 2003, are detailed in a pivotal paper appearing in The Oncologist -- a monthly peer-reviewed journal for doctors devoted to cancer patient care.

Dr. Matthew Hayat and colleagues, who worked on this paper for the National Cancer Institute, reveal other worrisome numbers and facts.

It seems the number of new cancer patients is expected to more than double from the current 1.36 million in 2000 to almost 3 million in 2050. Five-year survival for all cancer stages combined ranges from as low as 16 percent for lung cancer patients to 100 percent for prostate cancer patients. And black Americans are reported to have the highest cancer incidence and mortality rates for men and women for all cancers combined.

So while less people are dying from cancer, diagnosis of the disease seems to be on the rise. Not exactly a perfect scenario -- but if science and research can keep up, perhaps those diagnosed with cancer will need to prepare not for death, but for the management of a chronic condition.

A few early mornings ago, when my eyes were blurry with sleep and I was holding my three-year-old son, I walked right into the corner of a door. I slammed my little toe -- hard -- and I'm pretty sure it's broken. It's red and swollen. It hurts and throbs. It barely fits in a shoe. And the pedicure I got the other day -- a not-so-wise choice, I know -- really caused my baby toe a lot of discomfort.

Yesterday, while wearing cute little sandals -- to show off my french pedicure, of course -- I followed my husband and two little boys on an outdoor adventure down a steep cliff. Our destination was a stream -- the boys love water -- and while I didn't tumble and fall down the hill, I did gain a lot of momentum on my descent and ended up running full force toward the stream -- directly into a boulder of a rock, where my other little baby toe scraped right across a jagged edge. A chunk of skin hung off my toe, blood seeped out, and I hopped around on my other foot -- with its own possibly broken toe -- while the pain eased up a bit. And then I sat down and contemplated my recent toe misfortune.

My injured toes, along with an itchy, irritating skin rash I suspect is due to an allergy of some sort, have caused me some amount of stress. But it's not major, it's not debilitating, and it's doesn't even compare to the stress of cancer.

I keep playing this cancer comparison over in my head -- minor pain vs. major pain, minor stress vs. major stress. Others in my life are doing the same. My fitness trainer, who has been on crutches for weeks and weeks with a broken foot, told me when she feels down about her condition, she reminds herself, it's not cancer.

Life has become a matter of perspective for me like never before. Cancer set the bar. And now all other life issues go up against this bar -- and any that are not a matter of life and death I realize are just not so bad.

So I have two sore toes. And itchy skin. But I don't have cancer -- anymore -- and so life is just fine.

I remember thinking when my grandma was a spunky 80-year-old -- still going to aerobics classes in her purple tights -- that it must be sad to be such an age when so many friends and acquaintances are falling ill and passing away. My grandma was always one to care for others, call on others, pray for others -- and often she seemed to be the only one in her circle who was thriving. Somehow, she took it all in stride and continued baking and gardening and sewing and living strong until her own death at the age of 86 -- when she left her remaining friends and acquaintances wondering if their own time on Earth was approaching a quick end. At the time, I thought this loss of friends was merely a side effect of aging. It didn't seem to concern me at my own young age of 30. I didn't really know any 30-year-olds who were dying. And I didn't predict anyone my age would be dying until I was closer to the age of 80. How wrong I was.

I am now 36 years old. And I know many women my age who have died -- most of them because of breast cancer, the same disease I have been fighting for nearly two years. So it's not only sad to me that people my age are dying, it's also quite personal and frightening -- for it could easily me in the same predicament. So I feel vulnerable -- so many years earlier than I imagined.

I think I know how my grandma must have felt when her loved ones were leaving her. And I think I will take her same approach to coping with this unfortunate fact of life. Although I couldn't possibly bake and garden and sew like she did, I can keep busy with my own hobbies and interests. And I can continue living strong until my own death -- which hopefully won't occur until after I've made my appearance in purple tights. About 50 years from now.

The breast cancer chemotherapy drug Adriamycin is often called The Red Devil. It's red in color and devilish in it's attack on both cancer cells and healthy cells. After her own personal attack by this drug, Katherine Russell Rich wrote a book, and she called it The Red Devil: To Hell with Cancer -- and Back. It's her account of how she got sick at the age of 32 with a relentless form of breast cancer. Although she was given just a short period of time to survive, Rich conquered cancer. And years later, she is alive and well. And she has discovered -- by mere coincidence -- that her book years ago inspired a group of women in Baltimore who are helping breast cancer patients through kind deeds. They foot the bill for transportation costs, housecleaning, and massage. They pick up and deliver medications. They gather and hug and eat. They take strolls. They call themselves The Red Devils.

Rich only found out about The Red Devils support group when a friend noticed a mention of the group in a newspaper. She informed Rich who visited the group's website. What she found took her breath away.

It seems a woman named Lark Schulze had at one time been desperate to learn about young women with stage IV breast cancer -- the same stage her 30-year-old daughter faced -- and she could not find any helpful resources. Until she came across Rich's book and poured herself into one woman's story. Moved by Rich's words, she tried to locate her, with no luck. So she took what she gathered from the book and after losing her daughter 19 months after diagnosis, became a founding member of a powerful support group -- The Red Devils -- in late 2002.

Despite failed attempts at finding Rich, Schulze says Rich changed her life. And now that the women have connected, Rich says Schulze has changed her life. At first Rich was afraid to be drawn into Schulze's world. But with a hunger to understand breast cancer from a mother's perspective, Rich took the plunge. She talked to Schulze, visited her, strolled with her, and soon the hard lump she'd carried in her stomach for so long began to soften as she connected in a deep and bizarre way with a woman she had inspired -- a woman she had never before known.

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 just received in the mail my Certificate of Completion for St. Jude's  Campaign for a Cure. I have never really known much about St. Jude Children's Research Hospital -- except that I can be brought to tears by the television specials that showcase sick children whose lives depend on the research and treatment that this hospital offers. But I came to know more about St. Jude this year after a friend asked me to make a donation for the Up 'til Dawn program he sponsors on the college campus where he works -- a program that involves more than 150 college campuses nationwide and partners faculty, staff, students, and communities in an extravaganza of activity, education, and fundraising to benefit the children at St. Jude. So I made a donation and then was contacted by St. Jude with an invitation to help them further -- and I did. I sent out 10 pre-written letters to friends and family asking for their support. I was given an attainable fundraising goal. And I met it. So this is why I received my certificate -- and some cheery address labels too.