I recently edited a story for Health magazine about what it’s really like to have breast cancer. The survivor stories were both inspiring and heartbreaking. But the women who haunted me the most were those who were not only worrying about staying alive, but about whether they could still get pregnant.
“Learning that I may not be able to have a baby was the hardest thing I had to deal with,” says Stephanie Gensler, a 39-year-old ad exec who was diagnosed with stage II aggressive breast cancer at age 34. She underwent a lumpectomy, six months of chemo, and 36 radiation treatments. “My doctor says it’s possible,” says Gensler, “but I’m not sure it is.”
That kind of uncertainty drove many women to a recent Web seminar hosted by BreastCancer.org on breast cancer and fertility. To learn the wide-ranging questions women asked, the answers they got, and the latest advancements in preserving fertility after breast cancer treatment, read my latest post in Health.com’s Breast Cancer Journey.
Even though my favorite color is green, I’ve picked up a lot of pink products over the years—dozens of pink-lidded cartons of yogurt, a pink chopping knife, pink breath mints, pink lipstick, and even a pair of pink boxing gloves, all in the name of breast cancer research. I’ve always felt satisfaction snapping up pink-ribbon 
There are at least two million women living with 
Sometimes I feel like my bra is killing me. Not literally, of course: Just poking or binding me or making itself known in ways that are extremely annoying. If I didn’t think it would alarm the UPS man or any other visitor to my front door (I work at home), I would go braless all the time. That would please one Ralph L. Reed, PhD, because he thinks that brassieres—particularly when they’re too tight—literally could be killing women by causing 
I’ve made a resolution to eat better for my breasts. I’m hoping that once I identify all of the most boob-healthful foods, I’ll start nibbling and “won’t be able to stop.”
1984 was a good year for my girls. My boobs were still small enough that I could go braless, but big enough that no one would mistake me for a boy. It’s one of the few times I actually liked my breasts (aside from a brief stint as a cocktail waitress in 1977 and when I was breast-feeding, adventures best saved for future posts). The rest of my life has been filled with mammary dissatisfaction, and apparently I’m not alone. When we asked 
When I was little I would sometimes ride with my parents out to farmland my family owned in the Iowa countryside. I remember the thrill of weaving through rows of corn that stood way taller than me.
