The other day, I went to the park with some friends. After spending some time in the lake, the boys went to light the barbecue pit and the girls sat on the grass and gossiped. I was angled towards one girl's back, and as I chatted away, I couldn't help but notice a large marking on her back that looked like a combination of all of these warning signs for skin cancer. It's something that no one would notice if she wasn't wearing a bathing suit, and while I'm certainly no doctor or even somewhat of an expert on skin cancer, I felt compelled to tell her to get it checked out, even though it would probably end up being nothing. But then again, we were having fun and I don't know her that well -- I didn't want to become 'that girl' -- the one who ruins parties by telling people they hardly know that they might have cancer. Because that girl is always such a downer.

So I kept my mouth shut and am wondering now, a few days later, if I should have just said something. I suppose it's not too late. What do you think? Would you be offended or upset if someone told you that you have a suspicious mole on your back? Would you rather that person kept his or her mouth shut?

A doctor found something suspicious when she read the results of the breast MRI I had on Friday. What she found is of unknown significance. This means something caught her attention. She just isn't sure what it is.

This doctor does know that whatever it is inside my right breast appears to be a low-risk something. But still, there's a concern looming in the air -- for her and for me.

I spoke with my oncologist about this concern, and he told me anything suspicious must be pursued by further testing. I'm thankful for that. He also said he expects that nothing actually significant will come of this. But if it does, it will have been caught early.

On Friday, I will report for further testing -- a mammogram and an ultrasound -- and then I will learn more about this unknown something that inhabits my breast, this something that takes me back more than two whole years when another something turned out to be what I feared more than anything. Breast cancer.

"I have a mammogram on Friday," I told my husband just two days before the test I will receive every six months for the rest of my life. The test I should not have even needed for another four years, when I hit the age of 40. The test that helped find a cancerous lump in my breast two years ago and will hopefully catch any future lumps in enough time to save my life.

The mammogram. It's a big test that hinges on one moment of disclosure from the technician who performs the procedure. The disclosure -- everything is fine or the doctor would like to see you -- predicts whether or not life goes on normally or is derailed by uncertainty. Mammograms are a big deal.

"Are you worried?" my husband asked after my announcement. I thought for a moment and then replied, "No."

For some reason, I am not worried about this mammogram. Perhaps it's because I am monitored so regularly by the medical establishment and I'm confident anything suspicious in my breasts will be caught early and treated successfully. Perhaps the routine of it all makes mammograms not so eventful anymore. Maybe I'm just coping better with the seriousness of it all, and mammograms have become one more mundane appointment that requires my presence.

It doesn't matter really. What matters is that I am calm about my mammogram, that I am not giving it serious thought, that I am free of anxiety.

What matters is that I am not worried.

I will visit my oncologist on Monday for my every-three-month check-up. It's the recurring appointment that will appear on my calendar until I hit the five-year-survival milestone. I am three years away.

It's the appointment that consumes at least half of my day due to endless waiting -- waiting for a parking spot, waiting in the lobby, waiting in the exam room, waiting to pay. It's the appointment that officially begins with the drawing of my blood for lab work, continues with a check of my vitals, proceeds with a history review and physical exam with a medical student. It's the appointment that brings me face to face with the man who prescribed my treatment, the man who offers me strategies for living beyond treatment, the man who helps keep me alive. My oncologist.

And so I am preparing for this visit in the same exact way as I always do. I set aside a large chunk of time for this time-consuming extravaganza. I think a lot about the lab work and wonder if something suspicious will surface. I think a lot about the physical exam and wonder if an enlarged lymph node or mass in my breast will be discovered. And I think a lot about what I want to ask -- because this is my only very own allotted time for unraveling the mysteries of cancer with the man who knows the topic like no one else I know.

On Monday, I will ask a few questions. I will ask about tumor markers, about why I am not tested for these indicators of tumor growth, a standard option for my co-writer and co-cancer survivor Kristina Collins. I will ask about Zoloft, about how long I should continue taking this anti-depressant and how to best wean myself from this drug when the time comes. I will ask about the flu shot, about whether or not I can get one during this same appointment.

And that's all. For now. Until three more months pass and my calendar tells me it's time to return for this recurring appointment that takes me closer to the five-year mark.

Breast cancer is widespread -- so widespread that most of us have direct personal contact with someone living with this disease. Information about breast cancer is also widespread -- so widespread that it's easy to get lost in the maze of details that define this illness that two million women in the United States are living with at this very moment. Breast cancer has its own set of definitions and facts and statistics -- and myths too. And here are seven myths that are not worth spreading.

Most lumps in the breast are cancer.
Actually, most lumps in the breast are not cancer. But every lump should still be examined and diagnosed.

Breast cancer does not occur in young women.
While most breast cancer cases occur in women over the age of 50, breast cancer can and does occur in women of all ages. I was diagnosed at age 34.

Women with large breasts have a greater risk of breast cancer.
Size does not affect risk. But it can be more difficult to examine large breasts and therefore detect a suspicious lump due to a larger amount of tissue.

A woman has little or no risk of breast cancer if she has has no family history of the disease.
Most women with breast cancer -- about 75 percent -- have no family history of breast cancer. Simply being female puts all women at risk. I have no family history of breast cancer -- but I still was diagnosed with this disease and have been treating it for almost two years.

If mammography shows nothing to worry about, then there is nothing to worry about.
Mammography can miss 10 to 15 percent of all breast cancers. So any suspicious mass should be investigated with further tests -- such as ultrasound and MRI. When my lump was examined during a mammogram, my doctor was not worried. But an ultrasound that followed revealed a solid mass -- and this was something to worry about. A biopsy came next. And then came my breast cancer diagnosis.

Once a woman is treated for breast cancer, she should avoid becoming pregnant.
Many breast cancer survivors go on to have successful pregnancies and healthy children. Women should consult their doctors, however, about current and previous treatments and should discuss any possible concerns about pregnancy after breast cancer.

Removal of the entire breast is safer than segmental mastectomy.
Survival is similar for women who have breast-conserving surgery -- like a lumpectomy -- and for those who have either a total or modified mastectomy.

It's not surprising that inaccurate information is floating around about breast cancer -- because there is so much information on the topic and much of it is not completely understood by those who study the disease every day. But we all can take an active part in our own education by researching each tidbit of news that comes our way. We can confirm it, deny it, and understand it better if we take matters into our own hands. And if we don't spread anything we just are not sure about. We owe it to ourselves -- and women everywhere -- to spread only the most accurate information about this disease we all need to better comprehend.

For me, it's the small things that matter most as I heal from breast cancer. Like a hand on my shoulder, a note in the mail, a phone call to see how I'm doing -- and a happy boobie card my friend and fitness trainer gave me the other day. I went to her house for a training session, and she greeted me at the door with a purple piece of paper cut into the shape of breasts. Butterfly stickers marked the nipple areas and the words Good Luck, Jacki were written happily in red marker. Just the day before I received this cheery gift, we had spoken about my upcoming mammogram and ultrasound for a suspicious lump I had discovered in my breast. We have spoken about my whole cancer journey over the course of my whole training journey -- so she knows all about the ups and downs. And when she sensed my dip in spirits, she reached out, with love and concern -- and with happy boobies.

My mammogram and ultrasound turned out just fine. Nothing is wrong. What I felt is just normal tissue. My cancer is not back. So my spirits are back up -- and my happy boobies are hanging on my refrigerator as a reminder of the support that still surrounds me every day.

My mammogram and ultrasound today revealed nothing but normal, healthy tissue. The doctor said my pictures looked beautiful -- and she could find not one thing to worry about. She really looked for something -- because I was convinced there was something wrong when I found a lump-like bump in my left breast two weeks ago. So convinced that I was riddled with anxiety and panic and fear. But now I am happy and content once again -- and relieved that my fears were unfounded.

The explanation my doctor offered for the lumpiness I detected goes like this: my breast has been swollen and plump ever since my lumpectomy and radiation over the course of almost two years. Slowly, the swelling is disappearing and so all the tissue hidden under the plumpness is coming to the surface. It's always been there -- she could see it when she looked at my previous mammograms -- but I haven't noticed. Now, it's become more apparent as my breast returns to its normal size and shape. And so it seemed new to me. And suspicious. And wrong. But it's okay. It's normal. It's nothing to worry about.

And so I am not worried. I am settled and calm and thrilled to be surviving breast cancer, without fear that the disease is coming back. At least for today.

On Friday, I was full of anxiety and panic and worry -- all over a lump I feel in my left breast that my oncologist says is probably just scar tissue from my lumpectomy two years ago. I don't like the word probably and the more I thought about it, the more unsettled I became. Too many young women hear that the suspicious bumps and lumps they detect in their breasts are nothing to worry about -- and too many women go on to later discover that these same bumps and lumps are in fact cancer. Sometimes it's in enough time to treat the cancer -- and sometimes it's too late.

I am a young woman -- 36 years old -- and I have already had breast cancer. I do not wish to obsess for my entire life about cancer but when I feel a lump in my breast, I want to know it is definitely nothing to worry about. Or I want to know that it is definitely something to worry about -- so I can treat it early.

So when I first got a mammogram and ultrasound appointment scheduled for a week from Friday, I accepted it and wrote it down in my calendar. And then panic set in. I realized I could not wait one week and that I should be able to demand a quicker response. So I called my doctor's office, spoke to the receptionist through uncontrollable tears, and somehow ended up with the doctor herself on the phone. "What's wrong?" she said. "I'm freaking out," I told her. "What do you want to do?" she asked. "Do you want to come in right now?" She told me she had a busy day, had a biopsy to perform that would take a while, but that I could come hang out in her office until she could get to me. Or I could come in on Monday, she said. I let myself calm down a bit and told her Monday would be good. She asked me what time I wanted to come -- she offered me any time that fit my schedule. I chose 9:00 AM.

So tomorrow morning, I will find out what exactly sits underneath the skin on my left breast, near my armpit -- what exactly it is that feels to me like a little mound of tissue that just doesn't seem right. Maybe it's scar tissue -- and I hope it is -- and maybe it's something else. I can only hope that at the end of my appointment I look foolish for pursuing something that doesn't deserve the attention I'm giving it. But if it does deserve attention, I will know I've done the right thing by vigorously pursuing an appointment I just couldn't wait one week for.

I was examined yesterday by my radiation oncologist and two medical students during a six-month follow-up appointment. And any apprehension I had prior to the visit -- about a recurrence of breast cancer or the detection of cancer somewhere else in my body -- is gone. Because I walked away with the news that I am doing just fine. No lumps or bumps or suspicious masses were found. No enlarged lymph nodes were detected. And since I did not report any pain or tenderness or sensitivity or other trouble, I was sent on my way with nothing more than a notice for a return appointment in another six months. I have other appointments hanging in the balance -- one with my medical oncologist in August and a mammogram in November -- and I am sure hesitation and worry will again sneak into my head. But for now, I can only feel the true exhilaration that comes from truly good news. Like the exhilaration that comes from a breathtaking moment at the ocean -- where the power and beauty of the sea and the sky and the sand is all it takes for one five-year-old boy to feel amazingly free.

Each year 350 children are diagnosed with a rare form of thyroid cancer. What are the random odds that three teenagers who live within a few miles of each other would be diagnosed with this particular cancer?

Cincinnati News 5 is reporting that the parents of these teens are asking this question and speculating that it might have an environmental cause. The parents wonder -- could a pipeline that runs through town carrying jet fuel have leaked into the ground water -- or is the Edgewood Middle School all three teens attended built on a site that is contaminated?

The parents have no proof, they have no answers and no one seems to want to help them find out what the problem might be that has led to the unusually high concentration of thyroid cancer cases to be diagnosed in one small group of teens living in such close proximity to one another.

According to one of the parents, all they want is to have water samples tested and they feel their requests have been ignored for the last 18 months. Now city officials plan on meeting with the parents next week to discuss their concerns.

It is frustrating to be ignored when you are asking for help to find the cause of circumstances that appear suspicious. It seems rather than let this matter drag out as long as it has, it would have been so much easier for officials to just look into it when it first came up. At least the parents would not have been left to draw their own conclusions.

Young women sometimes are dismissed when they pursue medical attention for suspicious lumps, bumps, pains, or changes in their breasts -- because breast cancer is not so common in young women and medical professionals may assume that breast cancer is not the culprit for the complaints brought before them by young women. But young women do get breast cancer -- I did at age 34 -- and many times, the tumors found in young breasts are more aggressive than those that appear for older women. So it is critical that young women seek medical attention for anything out-of-the-ordinary. And it is critical that doctors respond with urgency so that breast cancer in young women can be detected early -- and treated appropriately.

I wrote earlier today about my mom -- about how she was headed for a mammogram this afternoon. She has since been for her exam, returned, and shared the news that we all wish for -- everything looks fine. Nothing suspicious. No cancer. And so that is my gift for today.

I have received many gifts as a result of cancer -- the news of a clean and clear mammogram is just one such gift. There are many emotional gifts I've received since my breast cancer diagnosis a year and a half ago -- extra love, overwhelming support, loads of kindness, an abundance of prayers, recent compliments about my new dark, curly hair. And I've received many tangible gifts too that comfort me every day. When I walk into my kitchen, I see an angel made from a paper clip, a bead, and a ribbon -- it was a gift from my Chemo Angel once I graduated from my eight-week course in chemotherapy. When I walk into my bedroom, I see the quilt on my bed that was made by the loving hands of my mom friends and then delivered to my doorstep when I was sick, tired, and bald. I see a pink stuffed breast cancer bear sitting on my dresser and yellow, fuzzy, comfy socks inside my dresser drawer. I see a box of cards and letters and books and relaxation tapes -- and so much more -- that sits in another room. I wear a breast cancer charm bracelet that dangles from one arm and another that jingles from my other arm and a backpack that hangs from my back. I am surrounded by gifts that were priceless when they were given to me and are just as priceless today.

These gifts that adorn my personal space lift my spirits, warm my soul, inspire me. They are constant reminders of where I've been and how far I've come. My gifts -- good news from a mammogram, emotional rewards, and actual tokens of the love and support that surround me -- have become a therapy I never looked for, never knew I'd discover, and never would trade for anything.

There is no major test or screening tool or exam that reveals the definite presence of cancer in the body. There are mammograms that can detect suspicious masses in the breast and there is a blood test that might raise concerns about the health of ovaries and there are various x-rays and scans that allow doctors to peek into the intricacies of the human body -- and some tests, like the mammogram clearly do save lives -- but some tests that seem harmless can damage the psyche while accomplishing little else.

I asked my oncologist how he would know if my breast cancer returns. He said I will receive regular mammograms and ultrasounds of my breasts. And he will perform in-office exams every few months. He will complete a breast exam and will feel my neck for enlarged lymph nodes. He will listen to my lungs and feel my stomach. But largely, he will rely on me to report symptoms and signs and complaints -- because these are the true indicators that something is amiss.

I imagined myself getting a whole host of tests on my whole body to rule out that cancer is invading every part of me. But this won't happen without reason -- because some tools, like imaging tests, may detect noncancerous abnormalities and false positives that lead to unnecessary psychological stress and tests -- and sometimes even surgery. So if I develop a persistent cough that can't be controlled, perhaps my oncologist will order a chest x-ray. If headaches begin to plague me and relief is not in sight, then perhaps a scan of my head will be in order. But as long as I feel well, the assumption is that I am well. It's better for my soul this way -- to live life without the constant worry that cancer will return. And it's a whole lot more cost effective too.