Here's what might be a typical train of thought for someone surviving cancer. That someone, in this case, is me.

I have been getting sicker and sicker for the past three days. Sore throat, sore ears, and a heavy head made me think at first it was some sort of sinus issue. Add a cough, a rumbling and painful chest, sore gums, chills and sweats, and a fever roaring past 102.8 and the worries start rolling in. I feel like I did twice before, just before I was admitted to the hospital with dipping white blood counts.

The worst of it hit Friday night and since I just couldn't make myself sit in the ER for hours on end, I overstepped my boundaries, tracked down my hospital's on-call oncologist, and listed off my symptoms. Since my treatment for breast cancer concluded one year ago, the doctor wasn't worried. He called it an infection and called me in a prescription. In a few days, when my course of antibiotics run out, I should be fine.

I'm sad, worried, and frustrated because of what happened to me at the beach this past weekend. I got burned. Really burned.

I thought I did everything right. I applied sunscreen, even had my husband coat my back, shoulders, and hard-to-reach spots with the powerful lotion intended to block the sun's most damaging rays. I sat underneath an umbrella while watching my boys, their own pale bodies slathered in a baby sunblock potion, as they jumped, ran, and bounced in the waves. I reapplied my sunscreen after a short stint in the pool and a stroll on the sand left my skin feeling tender. Still, I sizzled. My back is red, the skin underneath my suit straps white as can be in contrast to the bright color it borders, My chest is red and sore and itchy with bumps.

I feel sick, like I've exponentially upped my risk for skin cancer. As a cancer survivor, I feel particularly vulnerable. I not only fear a return of breast cancer, you see. I fear other cancers too. My ultra white skin already puts me at risk for sun damage. My past forays into sunbathing don't help. What happened this weekend, I'm afraid, makes things worse.

Heavy head. Heavy body. Sore throat. Sore gums. Swollen lymph nodes. Fever blister. Hurts to chew. Hurts to swallow. Hurts to recall last time symptoms appeared. During chemotherapy.

Drugs attacking cells. Body weak. Blood counts plummeting. Body crashing. Headache. Fever. Sore throat. Sore gums. Trip to hospital. For five days. For antibiotics. For opinions. For constant monitoring. For daily shots to rebuild blood.

Phone call to dentist who knows my burden. Of worry. And fear. And anxiety. That never really goes away. Always reappears. A virus, he says. All of it. The throat. The gums. The lymph nodes. The fever blister. Nothing more. Should last five to seven days. Don't worry. Relax. Call if it gets worse.

Feeling better. Feeling emotional. Because people are so kind. Like my dentist. Who eased my mind. Soothed my soul.

Time to march forward. For myself. For today.

Just two months after her mother lost her battle with gall bladder cancer, Liane was diagnosed with breast cancer. It all happened earlier this year -- and while Liane is still mourning the loss of her mother, she is also still managing the madness of her own disease. Liane is surviving with courage, with determination, with the same powerful spirit that powered her mother's fight.

Liane lives in a small city -- population 43,000 -- in northern Alberta Canada. She has been happily married for 18 years and has two daughters, ages 13 and 15, and a golden retriever named Sunny. Liane loves to garden, cook, read, and spend time with family. She normally works full-time in a real estate and property management office but has been blessed with six months off for treatment. Liane is already -- without a doubt -- a survivor.

I didn't know what was coming when I plopped myself down in the waiting room of an Ear, Nose, and Throat clinic yesterday -- which is a good thing. Had I known what doctors would do to me, I may have run the other way. I may have learned to live with the pain I was experiencing each time I swallowed food. But I waited patiently, aware that doctors would "scope" my esophagus, mildly certain the procedure could be uncomfortable, completely unprepared for the full "scope" experience.

I swallowed a pill on Friday night -- not even a whole pill, just a half of one pill -- and it hurt when it went down my throat. I've had the feeling before, a sensation like the pill got stuck, but the discomfort has always gone away within a few hours. This time, it lasted. It hurt to swallow saliva. It hurt to swallow food. It just hurt. So after three days, I took myself to the clinic -- with the subtle worry that cancer was settling in my esophagus.

I know rationally that every ache and pain I experience is not cancer. But I've had cancer. And so I constantly battle a nagging fear lodged deep in my head that reminds me cancer is always a possibility, that cancer is often a shocking outcome of a routine little test for a simple little health concern.

I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer of the throat, voice box, esophagus, or stomach. That's the good news. The scope revealed -- via a tiny camera that traveled through my body -- nothing but healthy tissue. That makes me happy. The test did not make me happy.

I now know the scope is a long, thin tube that enters the body through one nostril. Ouch. It travels into the throat. Ouch. The patient swallows when it reaches the throat to assist in maneuvering it down further. Ouch. The scope then makes its way past the voice box, though the esophagus, and into the stomach. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. The travels are all displayed on a monitor, and I actually got a glimpse of these body parts -- during the split second when I was able to control my gagging, loosen my grip on the arms of the exam chair, and open my clinched eyes. So I saw for myself that everything looks healthy -- just before the tube was pulled right back through all these parts, leaving me with a very sore throat.

Now that I am home and have talked with a few people, I hear that some patients are unconscious for this procedure. They are completely unaware of the horrors of the scope. I got a few sprays to numb my nose and throat and drank a thick cocktail of lidocaine -- but I did not get the luxury of unconsciousness. And in the end that is okay. I got to see what was happening. I got to hear the doctor's revelation that nothing major is wrong. I got to witness the wonder of medical technology. I got to prove to myself that I can handle a little discomfort in exchange for a clean bill of health. And I got to learn that I have a bit of acid reflux. And now I have to squash that nagging fear that reminds me of the literature out there suggesting a link between acid reflux and cancer.

I was in the emergency room the other night with my three-year-old who was experiencing a mysterious leg pain that resulted from a bad case of strep throat. It wasn't serious enough to warrant swift movement from the waiting room to an actual room and we sat in a holding pattern with a crowd of other patients, some of whom were still waiting after Danny had been treated and released. I was told patients are served in the order in which they arrive but also according to the seriousness of their complaints -- which takes me back to the night I was in the ER with a fever, headache, sore throat, and sore gums. The night I was given a mask and was immediately escorted from the waiting room to a private room where doctors and nurses treated me for neutropenia -- a condition caused by chemotherapy and marked by a drop in neutrophil levels, a condition that puts chemotherapy patients at great risk for infection. This was the second time I went to the hospital for neutropenia. Both times I was admitted and treated for five days.

And so sitting in the ER reminded me about how serious chemotherapy side effects can be. And it makes me want to caution all chemotherapy patients to never dismiss the signs that the body is suffering -- to never tough it out with the hope that a good night's sleep or a few days rest will straighten everything out. Because it may not -- and the end result may be tragic.

All chemotherapy patients should be briefed by their medical teams about when to call for medical assistance. For me, a temperature of 100.4 was the magic call-for-help signal. And twice, I called for help -- once in the middle of the night. But any symptoms , and definitely a combination of symptoms, are cause enough for a simple phone call. So don't delay. Don't excuse warning signs that your body is struggling. Don't second-guess your decision to notify a medical professional about your symptoms. Just call. It could save your life.

Just before my chemotherapy for breast cancer started -- when I was fantastically frightened by the toxic drugs that were about to drip into my veins -- I was told by doctors, nurses, survivors, friends that I would be just fine. I was young and strong and tough. I would easily tolerate the beating my body was about to take. This is what I was told and actually came to believe myself. I had no other choice really than to approach chemotherapy with a fighter mentality. And so I did. And I did pretty well for my first three doses of Adriamycin and Cytoxan -- given every two weeks instead of three in a dose-dense fashion -- followed by one injection of Neulasta 24 hours later to maintain normal blood counts. And then something happened. And I did not end up tolerating the chemotherapy my gut told me was a scary endeavor.