Americans are urged to know their family medical histories -- and to share them with their doctors.

Spearheaded by the U.S. surgeon general's office and other public and private agencies, this urging is critical -- because knowledge of family history can lead to more frequent and earlier screenings for particular cancers, to changes in diet and exercise to combat onset of heart disease and diabetes, to more formal genetic counseling and testing if warranted.

This Thanksgiving marked the third anniversary of Thanksgiving National Family History Day, a day the surgeon general's office has reserved for family discussion and documentation of medical histories.

"Family history itself is the first and best genetic test," says Sharon Terry, president of Genetic Alliance, a non-profit group in Washington, D.C.

Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston has started a work-place initiative regarding medical family history. In the past year, about half of the 13,000 employees -- from physicians to file clerks -- have completed the computerized family history forms developed by the surgeon general's office.

Acting surgeon general Kenneth Moritsugu says, "knowing your family history can help you make better health choices. Much of what we do in American health care is treat chronic diseases, many of which involve choices over a lifetime."

When I cry, I write. It makes me feel better to do something productive with my emotions, to channel my tears into something meaningful, to share my on-going journey with cancer so others may somehow benefit.

My tears started to flow after I dialed Amy's phone number this morning -- with the intention of speaking to her husband, almost two months after Amy died of breast cancer. No one answered my call, so voice mail picked up. And Amy's voice spoke to me in words something like you have reached the Wilson's. We cannot take your call. I wonder if her family has chosen to keep Amy's voice as the one that greets all callers. Or have they forgotten to change the message. Or are they stuck, unsure of what to do about this permanent reminder of Amy. Regardless, it must take time to deal with such as issue.

I left a message after Amy's voice became quiet. I recorded my own voice for her husband, told him I've been meaning to call but wanted to give him some time, that I hope he is doing alright, that he is in my thoughts every day. I wished him a Happy Thanksgiving and told him I'd try to call another day.

It was the end of my message that really choked me up -- the saying goodbye to a man I've never met who recently, suddenly had to say goodbye to his 35-year-old wife, the mother of his two small children. My goodbye was so much easier than his, and I think this is why I feel sad.

It made me happy to hear Amy's voice today, to remember her when she was alive and well and swearing she would not let cancer take her before Christmas. And it makes me happy that no one answered my call today -- because maybe it means everyone who lives in Amy's house is moving on with life, shocked as they may be that cancer took Amy weeks before Halloween.

I had no idea my one phone call would churn up so many tears. Thankfully, I have a tried and true method for dealing with them. Writing.

I am thankful. Plain and simple. I am thankful -- for these seven reasons.

One. Joey and Danny. The little boys who tore out of my body at a combined almost 21 pounds and have been tearing through life with the same screaming spirit they exhibited the very moments they entered the world. I didn't know it at the time, but these boys were delivered just in time -- for they became the angels who guided me through breast cancer. I can't even consider how I would have survived without them.

Two. Each and every member of my family who has supported me, loved me, motivated me, and comforted me during all phases of my life. The same people who really stepped to the plate when the breast cancer deck was stacked against me and I was faced with losing my life.

Three. The millions of breast cancer survivors who came before me. The women who fought, conquered, lost -- and paved the way for my own survival.

Four. My hair. It's brown. It's curly. It's nothing like the blond, straight hair I loved for 34 years -- before it was stolen by chemotherapy. But it's hair. And it's mine. And it sure beats having no hair at all.

Five. Writing. I entered college as a journalism major and somehow pursued entirely different interests. Eighteen years later, I am back to writing -- thanks to the material cancer gave me.

Six. Connections. I have collected a whole circle of friends whose faces I have never seen. Yet our shared experiences with cancer and other life-changing events have made us fast friends. Our bonds are deep, meaningful, and nothing like I've ever known.

Seven. My health. The love of my husband. My niece and borrowed little girl. Reminders of my late grandmother. Loving co-workers. The roof over my head. The food on my table. And so much more.

I am thankful. Plain and simple. I am thankful.