Mammograms are offered at the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in the Texas Medical Center. They are also offered on M.D. Anderson's self-contained 38-foot van containing a LoRad MIV mammography unit. The van travels to various workplace sites where employees and clients can jump on board the van for a mobile mammogram.

Hartford Hospital's Take the Time mammogram van travels to clinics, churches, senior centers, and other Connecticut locations where women can easily access life-saving screenings. The University Breast Health Center in Augusta, Georgia is home to a mobile mammography program that reaches underserved women unable to report for on-site visits. Lexington Medical Center in South Carolina offers mobile mammograms. Y-ME National Breast Cancer Organization affiliates offer their own traveling screening services. And a mobile mammogram service was offered on Kent State University's campus during this October's Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Mammograms on the go are no different than mammograms at fixed locations. They are high quality, safe, confidential -- and typically speedier than the traditional screening procedure. Often, a woman knows before she departs that her image is technically accurate. She can ask questions and receive information, and she can expect a prompt call from the radiologist or her physician who will discuss results. Sometimes, mobile mammograms take as little as 20 minutes to complete.

Mammograms are recommended for women age 40 and older and for women with a personal or family history of breast cancer. As with all medical services, there are barriers -- such as awareness, cost, transportation, convenience -- that prevent access for some people. Mobile mammograms help drive away barriers. They allow more women more access to the best tool for identifying breast cancer in its earliest form.

Roll on, mammogram vans!

I don't take for granted that I am alive. I am fully aware of it, consciously grateful for it, continually amazed by it. Before I was confronted with breast cancer, I still knew I could die -- in a car accident maybe -- but I thought chances were pretty good that I would make it to a ripe old age. Death was never at the forefront of my mind. I had no reason to believe that life could be snatched from me. And because of this, I am sure some pretty important moments slipped by me, virtually unnoticed. But now -- after a breast cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, radiation therapy, and then more therapy, I realize life is not a guarantee for anyone. Me included. Even at age 36, I am not safe. I feel confident about my future -- and I believe cancer has left my body -- but my life has been threatened like never before. And that makes me wake up and take notice -- really notice -- the moments that are too important to take for granted.

My first baby boy starts kindergarten today. Before cancer, this still would have been a monumental day for us both. But now, after cancer, it's even bigger. Because I know of several moms who did not survive cancer long enough to see their children walk through their first classroom doors -- moms who thought, like me, that they would surely beat cancer and would see their kids off for every first day of school. So I am lucky to have made it to this day -- to witness the wonder of my sweet, shy, sensitive, challenging, demanding, loving boy as he leaves the comfort of home for the real world.

Two days ago, my littlest guy said, "Mommy, I love you and want to keep you forever." Joey -- the boy whose wisdom should guide him right through his first day of school -- said, "Danny, you can't have mommy forever. One day she will die, and you will never see her again." Fortunately, his harsh meaning was lost on three-year-old Danny who kept playing with whatever toy was occupying him at the time. But his meaning was not lost on me. He spoke the truth. And so I plan to soak up the kindergarten moment this morning -- and photograph it and write about it and cherish it for my days to come. And in two years, I hope to do it again with Danny as he starts off on the same path. With me by his side.

I can't decide what to do about my port now that my breast cancer treatment is over. It's been an on-going internal battle. I don't know whether I should leave it in place -- tunneled underneath the skin on my collarbone where it is available and accessible should I ever need further infusions of cancer-fighting drugs -- or whether I should have it removed since there is no real purpose for it right now. There is the issue of superstition and safety -- leaving it right where it is allows for easy use if cancer returns and prevents another surgery to implant a new one. But there is also the issue of moving on -- and removing it because I don't need it, because I may never need it. One doctor told me recently that it should come out because if it remains in my body, I risk infection. And anything foreign in my body for an extended period of time is not completely safe. But a cancer survivor told me that she had hers removed immediately after treatment and had to get a new one because her cancer recurred three months later.

I am accustomed to wrestling matches like this one -- like my stand-off between treatment with Taxol or without Taxol, between anti-depressant or no anti-depressant, between vegan diets and traditional diets. Sometimes I can make a good call. Sometimes I just can't decide. Like right now.