The first time I had breast cancer, in 1993, I thought I'd die. Everyone around me thought so, too—especially people who knew people who'd died of it.

Two years later, my physician ordered a bone scan after I complained of nagging hip pain. Its results revealed a suspicious spot on my hipbone that indicated the possibility my breast cancer had metastasized.

Thankfully, my physicians identified the hot spot on my scan as a stress fracture, not cancer. I vowed then to slip the grip of fear by making the most of every cancer-free day I had. I'd make more time for people. If my daughter, son, or friends called, I'd drop what I was doing to talk with them. I'd say no to projects that were energy drains. I'd stay on a low-fat diet for health reasons, but allow an occasional indulgence, such as a hot-fudge sundae. I'd get more sleep, read better books, spend more time in prayer. I decided to see cancer not as a death sentence but as an invitation to live my life more intentionally.

Then an abnormal mammogram in May 2001 indicated I had to take on my foe again. While round two of breast cancer initially knocked me for a loop, I wasn't down long. My systems for coping were already in place. Here's what has helped me—and can help you, too, if you ever have to face breast cancer or know someone who does.

In many breast-cancer cases, women are offered the choice of a mastectomy or a lumpectomy plus radiation, in which small lumps are excised with cancer-free margins. The first time around, I wasn't given a choice. The size of the lump in my left breast (3.8 cm, or golf-ball sized) eliminated the lumpectomy option. Still, I wondered if I should have gotten a second opinion. A different surgeon might have echoed the first's advice, but even that would have assured me I was doing the right thing. The point is, don't rush to judgment. Breast cancer grows slow enough for you to make an informed decision about how to treat it.

When my mother-in-law was diagnosed, she recoiled at a surgeon's advice to have a mastectomy. At my urging, she sought a second opinion. She's cancer-free today after a lumpectomy and radiation.

Some people want to hear only what they have to about a medical problem; anything more terrifies them. For me, information is power; it offers a sense of direction through something that threatens to rob me of all sense of control and order.

My work with breast-cancer support groups such as Reach to Recovery put me in regular contact with survivors. I read everything I could get my hands on. I researched dozens of Internet sites. I knew so much about breast cancer, I was bored by it. However, my second round of breast cancer was easier to deal with, partly because of what I'd learned from the first.

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.