I was trained months ago to serve as a Reach to Recovery volunteer for the American Cancer Society (ACS). My purpose: to meet face-to-face with women facing breast cancer, to offer them some measure of comfort, to help them manage their overwhelming emotions, to provide them with information and resources, to impart hope during a time of fear and uncertainty.

For months, I had not been called upon to meet with anyone in my community. I'd like to think this is a good thing -- a sign of decreasing breast cancer cases perhaps -- but I tend to believe it stems from a hesitancy to ask for help or a lack of knowledge about this support program. Regardless, I got my first call last week. And I made my first visit. And these are my first impressions of my first encounter as a Reach to Recovery volunteer.

The Reach to Recovery program operates on the premise of matching like-cancer survivors. I was matched with a young woman -- she is 31; I am 37, although my diagnosis came at age 34 -- and each of us was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer. We both had surgery, both have young children, both feel a little sad that because of cancer, we likely won't have more children. We connected. We bonded. For a little more than one hour, we were in the same boat. Together, we tackled rough waters.

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.

A few days ago, notification of an e-mail arrived in my inbox. It popped up right in front of me, with the sender's name -- Amy Wilson -- glaring in black print right before my eyes. Amy is my friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer just after my own diagnosis. We e-mailed frequently about our cancer hopes and fears and so it was never before odd that a message would travel from her computer in Ohio to mine in Florida. But on the day this one e-mail arrived, it was odd -- because Amy died two weeks ago, after a 15-month battle with the disease we both vowed to conquer.

The e-mail was not from Amy. It was from her husband, Paul. And it was as comforting to hear from him as it was odd to see Amy's name flash in front of me. You see, I have wanted to call Paul, e-mail Paul, send a card to Paul -- something. I have wanted to reach out in some way, even though I have never met the man who thought he would spend the rest of his life raising his two children with Amy. But I never could figure out what I would write or say or send. I have been afraid that it would be hard for him to talk about Amy's death. I've been afraid that it would be hard for me to talk about her death. So I have waited, hoping the passage of time would help prepare me for some sort of action. And in the end, time was not necessary. Because Paul reached out to me. And this is what he wrote in the e-mail he sent from Amy's mailbox.


And now I can contact Paul, because he has opened the door. He -- the one suffering the greatest loss -- has comforted me. And now I need to thank him.

And so the countdown begins -- 22 days until my port comes out. On September 15 at 9:00 AM I will report to the basement of Shands Hospital at the University of Florida where I will be doped into a semi-conscious state and wheeled into an operating room. Doctors and nurses will open the skin near my collarbone and while watching their own procedure on a monitor hanging overhead will remove my port and all connected tubing. They will close my skin, leaving an incision that will quickly become a scar -- and a physical reminder of the cancer than once settled into my breast and the drugs that ran through my veins in search of it. It will be my battle scar -- second in importance only to the marks that criss cross my stomach and mark the spot where two big baby boys stretched my skin to unimaginable proportions.

The state of my port has plagued me for some time now -- ever since I knew chemotherapy was fast approaching its end. I have wanted to keep it in place just in case I need it again. And I have wanted to get it out just in case I never need it again. And when it came down to making a decision, I decided taking it out was best. So I can move on. So I can move forward. So I can move away from cancer. I know I'll never move completely away from it -- and that's okay. I don't want to forget my journey. I just want to live beyond its reach. Beyond the port that pops out from under my skin. The port that if needed again, can simply be put back in place.

And so my soul searching -- chronicled in the following two posts -- is over. My port is coming out.

• Wrestling with cancer decisions turns up uncertainty
• A little hand holding eases departure from cancer treatment

It's kind of a blur how exactly I came to receive a phone call from a volunteer at the American Cancer Society just after my breast cancer diagnosis. I must have checked a box on one of many medical forms shuffled my way during this confusing time. Or I requested assistance from someone, somewhere, at some point in time. I'm not really sure. But I am sure of this -- one very nice woman, a young breast cancer survivor herself, called me one afternoon from the Reach to Recovery program. She asked me about my situation, told me of hers, and led me to resources -- other survivors, support groups, and the fitness group Team Survivor -- and she met me one afternoon with a goodie bag full of information and comforting gifts. She was my first link to the world of breast cancer survivors.

I've come to know this woman in different circles since she first called me. She was a physical therapist at the same center where I received therapy for post-surgery and radiation concerns. She has been present at every walk and fitness event and cancer function I have attended. And she leads the local Team Survivor group -- so I receive e-mails from her about all sorts of events and gatherings and opportunities for joining a spirited group of strong women. And just today, I received an e-mail invitation from her -- intended for all young survivors she knows who might be interested in becoming Reach for Recovery volunteers. I replied instantly. Yes, I want to do it. She happily replied. So in a short time, I will receive training for this very important job.

It's not a hard job -- it just requires some phone calls and a few personal visits. And the ability to share advice. And words of wisdom. And love and care and compassion for those who may not know how to manage during a personal brush with breast cancer. Whether facing a possible breast cancer diagnosis, a new diagnosis, or a troubling time with lymphedema or reconstruction, Reach to Recovery volunteers offer a hand to anyone grasping for assistance.

I must have been grasping during my own difficult time. I just don't remember much about that time. All I know is that someone helped me at a critical time. And now it's my turn to be that someone.

It does not surprise me that the Cleveland Clinic Cancer Center is among the best in the nation -- with internationally recognized physicians -- because I have always known this hospital to be the one stop where all medical difficulties and mysteries might be best managed -- in Ohio anyway. Growing up just an hour away from this facility, I thought maybe this was just the best Ohio hospital and that people headed here when other area hospitals could not deliver the best care. But now I know that the Cleveland Clinic is a destination for people from many states and countries. U.S. News & World Reports names the Cleveland Clinic one of the nation's top three hospitals, the clinic's heart program is ranked number one, it boasts a highly successful Children's Hospital, and cancer patients travel from all over the world for leading-edge cancer care at the Cleveland Clinic Taussig Cancer Center. There is even a Cleveland Clinic location in Florida. This hospital -- that I once believed was nothing more than a local healing place -- has quite a reach. And quite a reputation.