A friend of a friend was diagnosed this week with a cancerous brain tumor -- a glioma to be exact -- and the surgery to remove the mass is scheduled for Monday.

I don't know much about this woman or her cancer, but I do know doctors told her yesterday she will likely survive for only a few years. I can't help but think that if doctors had given me this same prediction at the time of my cancer diagnosis, my time would just about be up.

I can't fully grasp the magnitude of this sad and sobering news. But I can comprehend that any one of us could be on the receiving end of such an announcement at any given moment. We are all vulnerable. And so I am confronted once again with the powerful and painful reminder that each day really could be my last.

Every time I hear about someone who has died from cancer, it knocks me down a notch. It makes me sad for the person, for the family, for the friends, for me -- because I know I am not guaranteed survival from cancer and while I mostly live each day as if I am immune to this tragic outcome, the knowledge that people do really die from this disease that I am trying to beat is overwhelmingly sobering. And what shakes me most is the fact that these people who die from cancer must have had the same outlook as me at some point in their journey -- the outlook of promise and hope and continued survival. And then something happens that jolts this hope from their grasp. It could happen to me -- and my family and my friends. And that scares me.

Sometime last year, my husband told me about a woman in one of his graduate classes whose husband was fighting melanoma that had spread to his brain. He was in year number eight of constant treatment -- both traditional and alternative -- and with each day, his hope for survival was fading. His wife and my husband talked at times about his journey -- and they talked about my journey with breast cancer. And after the class ended, both spouses periodically checked on each other. Today, my husband asked this woman in an e-mail about her husband. She replied and shared that he died last October. She wrote that he could not fight any longer -- that the last chemotherapy he tried to endure was too hard on him. He died with dignity. And she is proud of him. And I can't stop crying.

My tears will dry. And sadness will drift from my every thought. And I will return to my usual enthusiastic approach to surviving my own dreaded disease. But in the back of my mind, where I have saved every sad story about cancer and death, my sorrow will linger. And I suppose it should. So I can keep my sights on the possibility that surrounds me -- death -- and so I can continue living with every fiber of my being. Because living is not a guarantee. Ever.

There is something about reading stories about other cancer survivors that helps me in moments of despair. Sometimes I look to the blogs that I read regularly -- blogs that capture the essence of realities that are not my own -- and I feel somehow comforted. I gain perspective and can remove myself a bit from my own turmoil. I gather strength and hope from others who struggle like me. I absorb the words written in these journals and see the photos of real people with real struggles and the big picture becomes clear to me -- breast cancer is widespread and far-reaching. And because of this, I have a lot of company of my path of uncertainty. This is what soothes me.

Books help me too -- the kind of books with little snippets of advice and wisdom from other survivors. Like Hope Lives! The After Breast Cancer Treatment Survival Handbook. My favorite chapter is about recurrence. There are passages from women who have had breast cancer two and three times and these strong women remind me that I if necessary, I can fight again and again and again. This book is humbling, sobering, and powerful. The voices that inhabit the pages put a bounce in my step and peace in my head. Hope does in fact live.