Three words unite all cancer patients: "You have cancer." These words shock the mind and for many begin a period of denial.

Denial is not a bad word. As someone once said in a young adult group I attended, "Sometimes there is a healthy dose of denial."

I experienced a healthy dose of denial when I was diagnosed with stage IV follicular lymphoma at 37. Before my diagnosis, I was an avid athlete and a competitive marathon runner. I felt I was at the peak of good health.

Then one morning, when I lifted my arm and saw a swollen lymph node, I knew it was serious. Walking numbly through weeks of tests and appointments with several doctors at different hospitals, I learned my prognosis. The good news was that my cancer responded to chemotherapy, but the bad news was that it was terminal. I asked a nurse and doctor how long I had to live; they told me I had maybe 10 years.

Ten years are a lifetime when you're 8, a short time when you're 80, and not enough time when you're 37. Still I never asked "Why me?" By 37, I knew people my age and younger who had died of cancer, AIDS, accidents and a wild lifestyle.

As a person of strong faith, I realized none of us are guaranteed a full or super-sized life. Instead of "Why me?" I wondered "Why not me?"

If I only had 10 years to live, what did I want to accomplish? I adopted the beliefs of a "realistic optimist" - I would do anything to beat my cancer, but I didn't want to deny that cancer brings some uncertainty. About this time I read a quote in a magazine that said: "I asked God, 'How much time before I die?' She replied, 'Enough to make a difference.'"

That quote put my situation into perspective. We can make a difference in a minute, a day or a lifetime. It's not about time, it's about quality. So I chose a very aggressive treatment, went into remission, and left my corporate job to attend graduate school and study social work.

During this time, the clock was ticking, and I felt I needed to get comfortable with death. I knew some people who had worked with the Missionaries of Charity in India, and so I traveled to India and volunteered at Mother Teresa's first clinic, Kalighat Home for the Destitute Dying.

My cancer came back when I returned from India. I graduated from Columbia University bald and in treatment and then underwent a bone marrow transplant, thanks to my sister Kathy. It wasn't easy. But with the support of my family and friends, I did recover.

More than 10 years later, I am now considered cured. I am an oncology social worker at CancerCare, a national organization that offers free, counseling and support groups, educational publications and workshops, and financial assistance to anyone affected by cancer.

CancerCare helped me when I was first diagnosed, and now I'm giving back by helping people find their way after a diagnosis. The difference I try to make is to help patients and their families develop a rhythm and get into a space where they can examine their emotions and feelings - guiding them through the maze that is cancer.