It is day six past my chemo session and the side effects this time are by far worse than before. I had been told that the affects are cumulative and that each time you will feel worse, for longer, but well, quite frankly I guess I didn't want to believe it.

Once you've been diagnosed with breast cancer, the word "worry" takes on a life of its own. You worry about the treatment working, the cancer coming back, the cancer spreading, how you're supposed to live a "normal" life. You worry. But you live. Because you have to.

I was diagnosed with Stage 3 inflammatory breast cancer. I was 30 years old. I had no insurance. I was screwed.

With November being National Family Caregiver Month, I am immediately reminded and in gratitude for all that my mom did to take care of me during my breast cancer diagnosis and treatment.

The pinking of October has brought much awareness to breast cancer, but this rare form -- Inflammatory Breast Cancer -- is still largely unknown and is often believed to be under-reported due to its late diagnosis.

I was a 27-year-old surgical intern at New York Hospital in 1976 when I took care of my first patient who died from breast cancer. Mrs. M. was a 40-year-old woman with two young children and a loving husband.