Walking into my cancer center waiting room is one of my most sobering experiences. I enter this room -- jam-packed full of men, women, and children -- every three months for a breast cancer follow-up. It never gets easier. It always startles me, stirs my emotions, makes me realize how so many people are touched by such a treacherous and all-consuming disease. The fact that I sit in this room, that I am one of these many people, still doesn't seem real.

It's been almost three years since I got a phone call from a surgeon declaring, "You have cancer." I didn't believe it then. Even after all I've been through -- surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and more -- I hardly believe it now. But it's real. I have scars and new hair and a whole new set of worries to prove it.

Walking into that waiting room proves it's real. There's nothing like it. There's also nothing like walking out, with a clean bill of health and the promise of three more months.

Last Tuesday night, I watched Greta Van Susteren of Fox News' On The Record as she interviewed Brittany Lietz, Miss Maryland 2006. Greta asked Brittany what her Miss Maryland job entails. Brittany told Greta her full-time job is to represent her platform -- skin cancer.

Brittany didn't choose just any topic for her platform. She chose one that is entirely personal.

Skin cancer has left more than 20 scars on Brittany's body. One, on her back, marks the site where a stage two melanoma was removed when she was just 19 years old. It presented as a mole, a little smaller than a nickel, she says. In all likelihood, the cancer was caused by two years of tanning bed use. Brittany says she probably tanned every day for two years. Her pursuit of bronzed skin began when she was 17 and wanted a tan for her prom. It ended after doctors told her she had cancer.

I had a lumpectomy. It all turned of fine. I have two scars -- one underneath my armpit, one across the side of my left breast -- and while they are sometimes obvious if I wear a sleeveless shirt, they don't really bother me so much.

Some women -- about one-third to be exact -- are bothered by their lumpectomy results. Even though lumpectomy is intended to conserve the breast, these women say they are so unhappy about how their breasts look, they would consider reconstruction surgery.

According to a study presented at the American Society of Plastic Surgeons (ASPS) Plastic Surgery 2006 conference in San Francisco, 28 percent of breast cancer patients stated they were dissatisfied with the cosmetic outcome of surgery. Of these, 46 percent believed their physical appearance was worse or much worse after surgery. Interestingly, 26 percent of these unsatisfied patients still said surgery gave them an improved sense of body image. Plastic surgeons believe this disparity stems from the relief of having had cancer removed from their bodies, leading them to feel better even though they were not happy with how their breasts looked.

My six-year-old Joey told his grandmother -- my mom -- the other day, "Nana, you are generous." It was thoughtful and touching and it brought a smile to her face. Later that night, Joey said the same to me. "Mom, you are generous," he proclaimed. And now I'm not sure if he really meant his sweet sentiments or if he was just practicing one of his new kindergarten vocabulary words. Regardless, it got me thinking about how generous his Nana really is.

My mom not only generously gave me life. She also saved my life -- not in the medical, scientific manner surgeons and oncologists saved my life but by the sheer force of love, support, comfort, and undying devotion that seems to involuntarily pour from the hearts of moms with sick children.

I'm in another hospital lobby -- this time waiting while my three-year-old son has surgery to repair a hernia.

So I'm back to reading a magazine. This time I brought my own not-so-outdated publication -- The Oprah Magazine, April 2007. And as I sit here flipping and turning the pages, there is so much I want to tell you.

I'll be back with more. But for now, think about this:

"...see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There's a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh.
as all flesh
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest."

Jane Hirshfield, From What Binds Us

I have a few small triumphs pinned to my chest -- they show in the form of surgery scars and radiation tattoos and puckered skin where a port once lived. Proud flesh. Stronger than the once untested surface. My honors for having survived a battle.

I just heard someone say that time doesn't heal all wounds -- it just makes them worse. I guess it depends on the wound. I imagine losing a child is one wound that never really heals. But I've found that my cancer wounds -- both physical and emotional -- have healed with time. And a trip down memory lane proves it.

Two years ago I wrote about my wounds, fresh and raw and painful, on my Breast Cancer blog.

Confession
Wednesday, February 23rd, 2005

Those of us diagnosed with cancer are not the only survivors of our diseases. Our families and friends and caregivers and even employers and co-workers survive right along with us. Sure, the facets of our survivorship vary tremendously -- but we all survive the wrath of cancer in our own unique ways.

My two little boys have spent the past two years surviving breast cancer -- my breast cancer. And while they still don't fully comprehend the magnitude of such a disease, they do understand cancer is a sickness. They understand it took my hair, made me feel sick, left me with scars, and they religiously comment on every pink ribbon they see. They call the ribbons cancer.

I am often asked how my children handled my diagnosis, my treatment, my emotions. They handled it all well, I think, and as time passes, they do better and better. In fact, cancer seems to have vanished into thin air for Joey, who will turn six on Wednesday, and Danny, who is three and a half years old. I know this because of their answers to a few questions I asked them last night, on the eve of 2007.

What was the best thing you did this year?

Joey: Swimming in the pool.
Danny: Being at school.

What was the worst thing that happened this year?

Joey: Getting that boo-boo on my foot, when it scraped on the driveway.
Danny: The cheetah that was chasing me.

What could you have done better this year?

Joey: Learning to ride my bike without training wheels.
Danny: Watching Ice Age.

What would you like to work on during this new year?

Joey: Building a better stick house.
Danny: Drinking milk.

What was the scariest thing that happened this year?

Joey: When I thought there were monsters in my room.
Danny: When there was a cheetah in my room.

What was the funniest thing that happened to you this year?

Joey: When Jack (uncle) and Bud (grandpa) tickled me.
Danny: When the cheetah was chasing me.

When I say the word Daddy, what do you think about?

Joey: Someone who makes me laugh.
Danny: no reply -- he was distracted by the movie Ice Age.

When I say the word Mommy, what do you think about?

Joey: I don't know.
Danny: no reply -- still distracted by the movie Ice Age.

What do you wish for 2007?

Joey: I wish I could fly.
Danny: I wish I could slide on a sleigh.

And that's a wrap. Not one mention of cancer. Not one response concerning endless medical appointments, my drastically different hair, or the port -- they called it a stone -- that was removed from my body in September.

There truly are more important things in life than cancer for two little boys whose memories of a horrible disease will hopefully fade with each passing year -- until not even a pink ribbon catches their attention.

Happy 2007, Joey and Danny. May all your wishes come true!

I've had my very own extreme makeover. And while it has nothing to do with cosmetic plastic surgery or an overhaul on my house, it's been an appearance-altering and life-changing event. I'll call it my Extreme Makeover: Cancer Edition.

Stop One

The first stop on my extreme makeover tour came compliments of a lumpectomy -- to remove one cancerous tumor in my breast along with four lymph nodes. I was left with two scars that travel underneath my armpit, a bit of scar tissue buried beneath the skin, and a tinge of numbness that comes and goes without warning.

Stop Two

My second stop brought me a port -- to save my veins and ease the infusion of chemotherapy -- which for more than a year allowed me to look a bit like an alien. A foreign object sewn under the skin of my collarbone popped up something like a tracking device that identified my whereabouts. Now surgically removed, my port has been discarded. A scar marks the one-time location of this wondrous apparatus.

Stop Three

The third facet of my makeover was quite extreme -- is still quite extreme. It happened like clockwork -- 13 days after my very first chemotherapy treatment -- and while I knew it would happen, the shock of total hair loss was not minimized in any way, shape, or form by predictability. And the shock of my new dark, curly hair with a sprinkling of gray -- that replaced my blond, straight hair -- amazes me every time I look in the mirror.

Stop Four

For four months, I lost my menstrual cycle to chemotherapy -- not such a bad deal except for the hot flashes that arrived for the same four-month period. When my cycles returned, they were unpredictable and much more intense than ever before. They are still problematic.

Stop Five

Surgery and radiation limited the range of motion in my left arm. Physical therapy helped some, and weight training helps too. But my arm is permanently affected by the attempts to save my life.

Stop Six

Just when I thought my makeover journey was coming to an end, my mind told me otherwise. Bouts of fogginess, forgetfulness, and just plain odd behavior marked the beginning of what researchers now call chemo brain. The plentiful drugs that cycled through my body for almost two years are playing tricks on my brain.

Stop Seven

And to cope with it all -- my scars, my hair, my confusing cycles, my tightened arm, and my chemo brain -- I made one last stop at the pharmacy for an anti-depressant. Prescribed so that I could become accustomed to my new life after cancer, my Zoloft keeps me calm and peaceful and happy. And one day, when I have adjusted to all that has changed in my world, I will wean myself off this potion.

I am not sure I would ever elect to alter my appearance -- although I am sometimes tempted by a tummy tuck to remove what two more-than-10-pound babies left with me.

Mostly, I think cancer has done enough to reshape and redesign my whole self. And while I didn't wish for any of my cancer changes, I think they help me define me. They tell a story -- of challenge and hardship and victory and survival. For as long as I am alive, for as long as my extreme makeover is visible, it will be clear that I have conquered something great and powerful. And that makes me proud.

Photographs tell powerful stories. They depict people and objects and landscapes and emotions in deep, meaningful ways. They capture permanent visual representations of moments in life. They paint pictures that even the most well-crafted words could not reproduce.

When Mary Ann Nilan was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2004 at the age of 40, she knew her story must be told -- through pictures. So she asked a photographer to record it all, stating, "I hope the pictures make the road easier for other women." The rest is history.

She calls it a photo essay and titles it The Diary of Healing. For 17 frames -- with photographs dominating each space and text kept to a minimum -- Nilan shares her journey that began with the discovery of breast cancer in both breasts and several lymph nodes, the journey that took her through chemotherapy, a double mastectomy, and reconstruction with implants.

Her photographs document significant stops on her physical and emotional trek. They show her bald head, the wig she wore only once and then let hang on a hook, the scars that crossed her flat chest after surgery, an injection of saline that painfully pierced the skin of her new breasts, her children measuring her hair as it grows in after chemotherapy. The photographs are both hopeful and chilling. They are breast cancer. They are more than words could ever capture.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and Bare Escentuals, a company that offers a makeup line of products made from 100 percent pure bareMinerals -- free of preservatives, talc, oil, fragrance and other skin irritants -- will be featuring a limited edition Pink Passion Rose Radiance Collection.

According to Bare Escentuals, all profits from the three-piece collection -- i.d. bareMinerals Rose Radiance All-Over Face Color, i.d. Rose Radiance Lip Gloss and the i.d. Heavenly Face Brush -- are going to the National Breast Cancer Foundation.

In an effort to celebrate mothers, daughters, girlfriends and women everywhere as they embrace life, renew hope and fulfill their dreams Bare Escentuals encourages all women to Think Pink this October.

According to the company website, Bare Escentuals began thirty years ago to create a feather-light makeup as a solution to the heavy look and feel of traditional foundations. While beneficial for most women, the makeup line is especially designed for women with skin sensitivities, allergies, scars, blemishes, rosacea, wrinkles and pigmentation. Bare Escentuals CEO Leslie Blodgett uses real women with real skin problems to be the company's beauty spokesmodels.

Bare Escentuals Pink Passion Rose Radiance Collection will be available during National Breast Cancer Awareness Month from Sephora locations nationwide. To learn more about the makeup products offered and the special Pink Passion Rose Radiance Collection, visit Bare Escentuals.

I will be honest. After a double mastectomy left my chest mutilated and scarred, I worried if I would be physically attractive to a man after breast cancer surgery. It's not that I think men are shallow, it had more to do with all that cancer was taking away in my life, and I was not sure how much I would pay in the final cost of losses.

Worse yet, I wondered if simply being someone who had been diagnosed with cancer would make people run the other way. If the private conversations I have had with other women who have been diagnosed with breast cancer are a true indication, these are secret fears most of us share.

We each find our own inspiration back to feeling accepted and attractive in reclaiming the every day challenges and joys of relationships and life. For me, one of the ways I found that gave me hope was watching other breast cancer survivors enter new relationships or get married. As in -- obviously it doesn't seem to matter when it comes to love how imperfect you might be physically -- cancer surgery scars and all -- or that you were someone who had cancer.

I even find inspiration in Kylie Minogue being voted the number one desired traveling companion of men in a poll conducted by British Airways. She beat out Rachel Stevens and actress Angelina Jolie for the top spot. Not bad.

Yes, I know, few of us have the attractive quality of fame, fortune and international celebrity status to carry us along, but that does not matter. The fact that Minogue was voted by men as the number one person they would most like to be seated next to on a flight just reaffirms one more time the hope factor for me.

Seriously, I am okay now, it's been a few years but I remember when this private fear hurt my heart and I wondered if cancer had stolen more from me than was obvious at the time of diagnosis. If you are newly-diagnosed and reading this, and worry and wonder privately what life will be like down the road, it only gets better and the fears and worry about sex appeal will be have been for naught. Few will run the other way.

As if the horrors of breast cancer are not enough -- surgery and recovery, chemotherapy and recovery, radiation and recovery, additional treatments and recovery -- weight gain often comes along and rounds out the full breast cancer package. It is most common for women who have chemotherapy -- the curse is not often seen for women who have surgery alone or surgery followed by radiation -- and while it may seem the lesser of all evils for some women, others may be plagued by an additional battle with weight. In addition to the self esteem blow that breast cancer delivers -- complete with scars and removal of breasts and reconstruction and hair loss -- weight gain in this body-image obsessed era can take its toll. There are also health concerns related to weight gain -- and an excess of weight is reported to sometimes influence a return of breast cancer and can be a risk factor for other cancers too.

The American Cancer Society reports that the average weight gain is five to eight pounds over a year's time -- but that gaining 25 pounds is not uncommon either. This phenomenon is somewhat of a mystery, although there are some theories about why women are at risk for this not-so-pleasant side effect of breast cancer. Some women get nauseated during chemotherapy and don't eat much -- but others have intense food cravings and tend to eat more. Body composition may also change and research shows that chemotherapy possibly diminishes lean body mass and increases fatty tissue. Menopause may also be to blame -- natural and chemically-induced menopause operate the same and both slow metabolism. So it takes more physical activity to burn what less activity accomplished prior to chemotherapy. Women experiencing treatment also tend to exercise less which can contribute to weight gain. And some women fault the Tamoxifen they take following chemotherapy -- although research does not support a strong link between the two. There are many possibilities. Yet none of them are definite. There is one definite, though -- a healthy menu, a healthy exercise routine, and a healthy support team can help women ward off this unfair consequence of an unfair disease.

Before my radiation for breast cancer, I heard horror stories about the treatment. I heard that I might be extremely tired and severely burned and that I might feel generally unwell for the time it would take to completely zap any and all traces of cancer surrounding my breast. But my own radiation wasn't all that bad -- and really, the worst part of the whole therapy for me was the drive to and from the cancer center every day for seven weeks. It was a hassle, a nuisance, a bother. There were other small annoyances throughout the course of my radiation, but they were minimal -- thanks to some secrets that were shared with me along the scorching path of radiation and beyond. And here are seven of them.

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.

The Healing Art Foundation offers cancer survivors a wonderful, if not unusual, gift: a tattoo. Permanent make-up, areolia re-pigmentation or cover ups are just a few of the services the foundation offers to cancer survivors. The non-profit group depends on public donations and the pro-bono services of the artists to keep the program operating. Madame Chinchilla, one of the first artists to tattoo images on cancer scars, states that creating beauty on the marks that initially caused so much pain and horror is a healing act for both the artist and the patient. To learn more about this unique therapy, click here.