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When I was diagnosed with breast cancer the second time, my surgeon suggested a conference at which my husband and I and various physicians would discuss my case to determine the best treatment course. I leaped at the opportunity.

The meeting began with slides of my cancer cells and two treatment options: mastectomy or lumpectomy with radiation. But as we talked, the oncologist admitted he preferred getting rid of all breast tissue to avert possible recurrence. The surgeon then argued for mastectomy, too, saying it would be better to do everything now rather than in stages. Soon, a consensus emerged.

I left the conference with a clear sense of direction. My questions had been addressed. I'd been a full participant in the discussion. Everyone in that room had helped me decide a mastectomy was my best choice.

During my first round of breast cancer, a surgeon made a suggestion for which I've always been grateful. "You're so young, you ought to consider immediate reconstruction," he said. I was 48 at the time. I did, and for the most part, I was happy with the results. But several months later, when I attended a Reach to Recovery seminar and saw the slides of a plastic surgeon who specialized in breast reconstruction, I began to wonder if my plastic surgeon had really done so well.

What would this specialist think of my reconstruction? From what I could see, my left breast couldn't compare with the quality of the breast reconstruction that was displayed on the screen.

When I faced a second mastectomy in 2001, I tried calling that plastic surgeon. While waiting for a response, I researched the list of physicians provided by the American Society of Plastic Surgeons, and even met with a local plastic surgeon. No one stood out as a breast-reconstruction specialist.

A week later, I made a trip across two states to see the specialist whose work I'd seen. He did the surgery. From the time the bandage came off, my new breast looked so natural I didn't think of mourning the one I'd lost.

When people ask why God would give me breast cancer twice, I often say, "Why would he give me health? One is no more deserved than another."

I go on to tell them how God's used cancer for good in my life. For one thing, it's brought the reconciliation of my son and daughter. Sibling rivalry ruled through childhood, teenage years, and well after both left home. But the day we learned the spot on my hip might be metastasized breast cancer, my son and daughter reached out for each other. As I watched them embrace, tears ran down my cheeks. If this was what cancer could accomplish, I was willing.

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