I wrote the title of this post -- Prescription for finesse -- on May 30. Then I saved it, knowing I'd come back and churn out a post on the topic. So here I am, ready to write. But I can't remember for the life of me what I'd intended to write about. I know it wasn't about anything news-related -- I would have saved a link to a news story had this been the case -- so it must have been something personal I'd planned to share with you.

My memory has been failing me lately. Once, I completely forgot my sister's phone number -- I call her every day so to go completely blank on how to reach her is a little odd. Another time, I left my cell phone in a drawer in my bathroom -- a drawer that holds my brush and hair clips and headbands -- and I had to call the phone from another phone to locate its whereabouts. I use the whole chemo excuse every time something like this happens. Chemo brain. A convenient explanation for my flighty tendencies.

My doctor says chemo may not be to blame. Perhaps I would have done these things prior to cancer and now I just interpret all my behavior through the chemo filter. Maybe. But I don't remember being so forgetful before toxic drugs traveled my veins. And I don't remember losing the ability to recall lost information. It's frustrating. I want my mental sharpness back. I want to know what I had in mind for this title.

For now, I must accept that what is gone is gone. For the future, I will put in writing everything I wish to remember. As for that story idea: if it ever surfaces in my brain's lost and found bin, I will happily return to write about it.

As evidence mounts, it's becoming more and more clear that chemo brain, a mental fogginess that can result from chemotherapy, is a real concern and not just a convenient excuse cancer patients use to explain away their flighty and forgetful tendencies. It seems the brain really can suffer cognitive damage from the poisonous drugs that fight off deadly cancer cells. And sometimes, this damage is present years after treatment.

Add to chemo brain the normal aging process as well as brain conditions such as mild cognitive impairment and even schizophrenia and the brain might not stand a chance of ever remembering anything. Unless we buy into the new concept of mental training -- somewhat like physical fitness training -- in which case we may be able to bring back a level of sharpness to our lives.

Research suggests this type of training may delay mental decline. And Betty Hall, 85, who is taking a brain fitness class at her senior living complex in Illinois, says brain-enhancing activities are definitely helping her.

Hall is participating in an eight-week program where she spends one hour per day, five days per week using a computer to match words and listen for details in stories. She says it's helping her remember where she places her keys and her grocery lists -- and it's even helping her in her bridge club.

"I've won four times out of the last five at bridge club, and I think the players are going to shoot me because I keep remembering the cards people have," she said. "It's much easier for me to concentrate . . . and I brag about it everywhere I go."

One clinical professor of neurology says brain health programs will explode over the next few years because of the stunning findings on this front. One study shows relatively short training regimens, lasting just five or six weeks, improve functioning for as long as five years. And booster sessions help advance these gains. Study participants says their everyday tasks, like managing finances, are much easier after mental workouts. Another study of the computer software Hall uses shows the program shaves an average 10 years off the mental age of users.

Not all mental training is alike, and different cognitive difficulties may call for different training protocols. But the simple fact that I can work out my brain like I can work out my body gives me hope that I can possibly reverse the effects of chemotherapy on my own foggy brain, that I can one day not worry anymore that I might find my check book in the refrigerator and my cell phone in my sock drawer. Bring on the workouts!

Thanks to Bev, my brainy friend, for this story tip!

Glamour's October magazine features stories about breast cancer survivors. Cancer Vixen Marisa Acocella Marchetto, cartoonist for Glamour and The New Yorker and author of Cancer Vixen: A True Story, is profiled. And another survivor -- young mom Kelly Corrigan who authors her online journal Circus of Cancer -- is highlighted. And Allison Briggs, diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 26, shares her photo journal with readers who learn from all three survivors that more and more, women are sharing their cancer journeys in very public ways.

Allison -- Alli -- could not sleep the night she was diagnosed with breast cancer so she sent her boyfriend to the store for medication to calm her upset stomach. While he was gone, she noticed a camera sitting on the bedside table. She had an overwhelming urge to start snapping photos. So she took some self-portraits, had her boyfriend take some more when he returned home, and decided that night she would document her journey through photographs. She wanted to remember this phase of her life -- even though she had no idea how it would turn out.

Life is turning out just fine for Alli, who has rallied a support team called The Rack Pack, a group of women who aim to make a difference -- all because of the inspiration and strength they receive from their friend Alli. They are participating in the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer 3-Day, 60-mile walk in San Diego November 10-12. They sell Rack Pack t-shirts. They offer e-mail notification of exclusive Rack Pack events. They share updates about Alli. They never stop trying to make a difference -- for Alli and for women everywhere fighting breast cancer.

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.

I wrote this journal entry one year ago today. It's one of many entries I look back on to remember my journey with breast cancer, to capture the emotions that preceded the ones I have now, to chart just how far I have come since the day of my diagnosis. This is one of my happier journal entries -- written at a time when I was coming back to life after surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation, when I was happy to be alive and in the company of two little boys whose simplicity inspired me.

My hats were once so important to me. Now they are scattered all over the floor of my bedroom closet. Once my daily camouflage for what cancer had done to me, my hats are now toys. Joey and Danny play with them and toss them around and wear them -- sometimes one at a time and sometimes they pile as many as they can on top of their little blond heads. The hats hold no real significance to them -- they are just playthings and while Joey can recall that I wore them at one time, the emotion wrapped up in the pale blue sleep cap and the black Nike ball cap and the yellow bucket hat is lost on him. I consider this a blessing -- that one day, he and Danny will likely have very little memory of this cancer adventure and that they may only remember what fun it was to wear so many hats.

I have heard the term chemobrain many times -- even here at The Cancer Blog when Dalene wrote about it. And I've started using the terminology myself -- to explain my new-found odd behavior. Like when I put a carton of ice cream in the refrigerator with no recollection of it. And when I took a cap off a pen, couldn't find it, and discovered it on top of an egg carton in the refrigerator. I don't think this is a refrigerator theme -- just a coincidence -- because I've also lost a clipboard at work, forgotten to hand a guest her glass of water immediately after I prepared it, lost library books and movies, and failed to remember responsibilities time and time again. This may seem like minor forgetfulness -- this is what my oncologist believes may be at work -- but for me, this is odd. I have always had a good memory, have always delivered on my promises, and have never felt as scattered as I do now. So I call it chemobrain -- a good excuse, I figure -- and am now trying to determine what exactly this word means.

My oncologist tells me he doesn't really like this term. He thinks it puts a negative spin on regular functioning. He believes those of us who have experienced chemotherapy look more closely at our post-chemo behavior and may interpret quirky stuff as more serious than it is. It probably existed before chemotherapy, he says. But now, we are more sensitive to it and find chemotherapy a good explanation. He may be right. But for me, something in my head has definitely been altered.

One patient advocate for Hurricane Voices: A Breast Cancer Foundation believes that something doesn't have to be scientifically proven to exist. And while chemobrain may not be completely proven, there are still studies that support its existence -- which manifests itself through aging-type memory problems, forgetfulness, distraction, and loss of the ability to calculate quickly. Some studies show that 20 to 30 percent of women who undergo chemotherapy for breast cancer, and some who receive similar treatment for lymphoma, score lower than average on mental function tests for as long as 10 years after chemotherapy. ''There's enough data now to at least know it's a real effect,'' said Dr. Ian F. Tannock, a psychiatrist who has studied this issue at Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto. Some suggest that typical aging may be at fault -- and for premenopausal women who may be rushed into menopause, this effect may be due to hormonal issues. Regardless, it seems to stem from chemotherapy -- somehow. And somehow, this topic needs more attention, more research, and maybe a more positive name.

The tunnel was long. And dark. And winding. And foggy. And ominous. It seemed to last forever -- at the time -- and at moments, time seemed to stand still. I was not sure if I'd ever pass through it and be okay -- if I'd ever see the light at the end. But I did. I tunneled through it all -- somehow -- and I came out feeling more alive than ever before. Now, some time after my escape from the fog, I am already taking for granted the fact that I am breathing, that I am healthy, that I am living. And when my fitness trainer noticed yesterday that I do not get dizzy and lightheaded anymore during my workouts -- when I once had to sit down, breathe, collect my whereabouts -- I realized that some of my progress since exiting my breast cancer tunnel is already lost on me. And I don't want to lose sight of where I was and how far I've come. I want to remember it and measure it and never forget how alive I am at this very moment. So I have started to really think about how things have changed since I felt stuck in time, in a dark place. I am thinking about my times in a hospital bed when I was barely able to stand up, barely able to walk a few steps without feeling like I would collapse. Now I can hop out of bed at a moment's notice, half asleep in response to a demanding child screaming from his bed. I am thinking about my once challenging pre-cancer exercise routine and how a time came when my legs felt so heavy I could not even contemplate walking down my street. Yesterday, I completed an hour of weight training. Today I ran for 20 minutes. Tomorrow, I go back for more weight training. And I remember feeling incoherent, unable to conjure of meaningful thoughts or sentences. And now, despite some potential chemo brain forgetfulness, I am back on track.

I have only just touched the surface. There is so much more to reflect on. So I plan to think more about my travels so I can better appreciate how I arrived at the exact place where I am right now -- where it's light and clear, where time passes at normal speed, where I feel lucky to be alive.

I always notice women wearing ball caps. I wore them almost every day while I received chemotherapy last year. I used them to cover my bald head -- along with wigs made for ball caps -- because I never could muster up the courage to show the world what was happening to me. So I look at others who wear these hats and wonder if they wear them for the same reason I did. Most times, I can tell they are worn for nothing more than fashion or for a means to disguise a bad hair day -- but there are times when I spot a ball cap that covers the battle scars of a war with cancer. And this makes me sad. And proud. And connected to these women who share an experience with me -- even though we never meet or speak or realize the bond we share. It's like watching another mom with a brand new baby in a stroller -- and knowing how it feels to be that mom with a new life at her fingertips and all the joy and potential (and lack of sleep and worry and tantrums) that lie ahead. It's a silent sisterhood -- being a mom in the world with other moms and being a cancer survivor in the world with other cancer survivors.

I never thought ball caps would be so important in my life. I observe them and analyze them and remember how they cushioned the blow I took when my blond hair left me for good.

My blond, straight hair never came back. Dark, curly hair took its place -- and it now sits underneath a ball cap because I'm having a bad hair day.