This networking event called Let's Talk About Sex: Reclaiming Intimacy After Breast Cancer will focus on sexuality and intimacy after a breast cancer diagnosis.

Join Living Beyond Breast Cancer (LBBC) on Wednesday, May 30, 2007, from 6:00 p.m. to 8:30 p.m. at the Philadelphia Marriott West in West Conschohocken, PA.

Featured speaker Kara Nakisbendi, MD will provide a candid and caring discussion about intimacy after a breast cancer diagnosis and how to reclaim sexuality to improve quality of life.

Join Living Beyond Breast Cancer (LBBC) for a free educational teleconference titled Medical and Quality-of-Life Updates from the 43rd Annual Meeting of the American Society of Clinical Oncology.

The teleconference will be held on Monday, June 11, 2007 at 12:00 p.m. - 1:30 p.m. (EDT). You can participate by using any telephone or by computer using Real Network Player or Windows Media Player. Register online at www.lbbc.com or call 610-645-4567.

This teleconference brings to you groundbreaking research presented at the largest annual conference of cancer professionals in the United States. Some topics discussed will be:

• Advances in surgical, hormonal and chemotherapy treatments
• Using diet and nutrition to improve quality of life
• Clinical trials measuring the long-term impact of treatment on health and well-being
• New information on how to treat and manage metastatic breast cancer

Following the speaker presentation there will be an interactive question and answer session.

I never predicted counseling would be part of my treatment for cancer. I am well-acquainted with the practice of talk therapy -- I have a graduate degree in counselor education and spent seven years counseling college students with presenting issues such as roommate conflicts, alcohol use and abuse, sexual assault, and depression -- but I never envisioned myself on the receiving end of such a relationship, never imagined I would be the one prescribed an anti-depressant and referred for cognitive-behavioral therapy.

Yet I have spent the past two years talking candidly -- and at times weeping uncontrollably -- with a talented young woman who has given me the tools to cope with life in the aftermath of a cancer diagnosis. And on Tuesday, the culmination of these two years will result in one final session. Together, my counselor and I will recount what has happened to me, how I have handled it, how I will proceed for the rest of my life.

At the end of my one-hour session on Tuesday, I will be set free. I will walk the white, sterile halls of a hospital basement, travel in an elevator up one flight, and exit a building I never knew could become so familiar. I will allow the outdoors to greet me, and for the very first time since cancer invaded my life, I will accept the challenge of living forward -- without the therapy that helped save my life.

On Tuesday, my case will be closed. On Tuesday, a new version of my life begins.

I've never had a problem with crying. My tears of joy and sorrow have always flowed easily, and I have never regretted shedding any one of them. I once told a college student I mentored who was hesitant to cry over a work-related scenario that I cry all the time. She later told me my confession sticks in her mind -- my ability and willingness to cry freely, without reservation. I told her I consider crying a cleansing, therapeutic process. I told her that I always feel replenished after a good cry. And I still believe this, years and years after my encounter with this student.

I cried just a few days ago while talking to my doctor and then my mom about how cancer may prevent me from having another child, if not physically, then emotionally. I just don't know if I could peacefully experience a pregnancy with the fear of cancer recurrence. And this makes me cry. Because I want another child. But I don't think I will have one. I cried at my oncologist appointment the other day while talking about the death of a friend. I cry while reading certain books and while watching sad movies and television shows. Two nights ago, I cried while watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, about a breast cancer survivor. I cry when recalling the births of my babies and while marveling at my little growing boys. And I know I will cry when I read a journal a friend just shared with me, written by his uncle who lost a daughter to brain cancer.

Tears cleanse my soul. And sometimes, they complicate matters. They make me wonder how well I am, two years after my cancer diagnosis. I interpret my tears now more than ever, in an effort to determine how well I am coping with life in survival mode. I wonder if the tears that frequently well up in my eyes are normal or if they are indicative of the depression that prompted my oncologist to prescribe an anti-depressant. I consider that perhaps I should be better able to handle some topics, some situations, some tough experiences without becoming weepy. And I also realize that perhaps my tears are completely normal, that I could be ultra sensitive to my every emotion, that as long as I feel happy and function easily, I am just fine.

I plan to iron all this out at my next and final counseling session that I need to schedule. This closing session will allow me to wrap up two year's worth of cancer issues, to close one chapter of my life and begin another. I just need to make the appointment. Which I have yet to do. Because contemplating the end of something so healing seems so daunting. And for better or for worse, this makes me cry.

During the month of October, Sears Portrait Studio is celebrating the beauty and strength of breast cancer survivors. Sears will donate 10 percent of their retail sales of the Picture the Cure products to the Susan G. Komen Foundation for breast cancer awareness.

Sears is offering a Survivor Package. Breast cancer survivors will receive a FREE 8X10 and won't have to pay the session fee. Other products offered are the breast cancer awareness photo bracelets and the supporter package that includes a portrait CD.

So lets go get those beautiful bald heads captured on film!

I have had a hard time keeping my counseling appointments lately. Life keeps getting in the way, and counseling keeps getting pushed to the side. The last time I called my counselor to cancel -- due to an emergency room trip with my three-year-old -- I mentioned that my inability to keep up with sessions was perhaps a precursor to an eventual termination of our counseling relationship. My counselor -- Lindsay -- said this was maybe an accurate assessment, that we should discuss the possibility of an ending point. We haven't yet discussed it, though, because I have not made the time to contact her. I have continued to leave counseling on the back burner.

But today Lindsay sent me an e-mail to check in. She wrote that I am probably going to be okay on my own now -- in the aftermath of cancer -- and that we should have one final session to reflect on my progress over the past 16 months. I have not replied to Lindsay -- not because I am busy with other things but simply because her words made me cry. They still make me cry, hours later. I'm not exactly sure why. And I'm not exactly sure how I will follow up on scheduling my very last session.

I assume my tears -- my sadness -- are part of the healing process, part of the separation anxiety I feel each time a part of my treatment ends and a part of my life moves on. I assume I am sad at the prospect of leaving a vital part of my recovery behind, about leaving the comfort of my counseling chair, about leaving Lindsay. The possibilities are endless. And I suppose we will cover all possibilities when Lindsay and I sit down for our last, final, concluding session -- when we recall how much I have grown since the day we first met, when I could barely mutter a word about cancer without weeping uncontrollably, when I could barely manage to find pleasure in my days, when I could barely imagine that life could -- and would -- offer me peace and happiness.

Today, life is good. And it's clear that counseling is no longer necessary for my survival. But that doesn't make it any easier to make my final appointment. To contemplate saying my last goodbye. To tackle life completely on my own. Which is what I will do -- in time -- so I can continue moving on, away from breast cancer.

When I first started going to counseling, I was told I would need eight to 10 sessions of cognitive behavioral therapy to help me deal with my anxiety, my panic, my fear of breast cancer recurrence. My first session was in May 2005 -- and I am still going. Those initial sessions are possibly all I really needed -- and perhaps I could have stopped the therapy long ago. But stopping never came up and no one told me I had to call it quits so I kept on marching into territory I had never before traveled. I have a degree in counseling -- but I'd never been counseled. I know how to listen to others and share empathy and ask open-ended questions -- but I'd never been the one talking and sharing and venting and crying and answering questions. Until last May -- when I discovered the appeal and the comfort of the counseling chair.

I marched into one of my sessions yesterday and plopped into a brown faux leather recliner. I talked about my recent graduation from Herceptin therapy and about how I might manage in life now that treatment is over. I talked about my jobs -- as a writer and a preschool teacher -- and how they fit into my world. I talked about the level of stress in my days and about how my once constant fear that cancer was trailing me has largely diminished. I talked about how breast cancer is no longer my constant companion -- about how it is now just an acquaintance. And I talked about how counseling was once so necessary and about how it is now just a luxury that helps me maintain peace as I live forward.

I am not sure when I will stop going to counseling. But I'm not completely sure of much anymore. And I've learned from counseling to not really question the future -- to just live in the moment and to give thought primarily to the here and now. And right here, right now, I'm sticking with my sessions, my one hour every month, my comforting counseling chair.

Some people detail their journeys with cancer through journaling -- like me -- and some use other mediums to express their emotions about this life-threatening disease.

Marilyn Whitney uses watercolors to sum up her experiences. As she underwent all sorts of procedures for breast cancer, two thoughts kept crossing her mind. One thought was the tendency to flee and the other was that there must be some way to help others by describing her procedures.

So after each hospital session, Marilyn would go home and craft a watercolor of what she had just seen and experienced. Then she would add a poem so the viewer would fully understand the message she was trying to convey.

Some days are just better than other days -- and good deeds can make it a better day. Earlier this month, I shared a story with you about Brian Mammen, an 18 year-old who has been battling cancer for the last three years and is having a tough time right now. I told you that Brian is a young man with dreams -- things he would like to do. Helping Heroes Productions had been contacting the media and community friends in the hopes that someone could help make his ultimate dream of playing guitar with Van Halen's legendary bass guitarist Michael Anthony a reality.

Dreams come true if they involve people with big hearts. Michael Anthony came to see Brian at Brian's family home and spent the day with him, playing guitar, sharing music, laughter and stories. As Brian's grandmother tearfully watched as Brian lived his dream, she is quoted as saying, "It is times like this that cause people to reach out and really touch each other, and it makes me feel so wonderful."

"I've been blessed with great kids and career, and if I can give anything back I am glad to do it," Anthony said. In addition to spending an hour jamming with Brian, Anthony gave him a signature guitar strap, CD, and specialized Van Halen picks -- and a signed bass guitar. Hats off to Anthony! Who rocks as much as a successful musician as he does as a compassionate human being.