For about a year after the birth of each of my children I would have occasional panic attacks that left me bereft.  It always happened as I was trying to go to sleep.  I would suddenly be overwhelmed with the idea of dying and leaving my babies without a mother.  My heart would race.  My thoughts would spin out of control.  It was terrifying.

It’s not that I feel that I’m the best mother who ever lived.  I’m sure my sons would survive without me, but no one would love them–every cell of their being–with the blinding love that I have for them.  I grew them (well two out of three of them).    I know every inch of them.

When Elizabeth Edwards died yesterday, I could feel the panic creep around the edges of my heart.

photo credit: NY Daily News

My respect for Ms. Edwards was established long ago–long before I knew she had cancer.  Her brains, grace, love of life, love for her children, self-awareness and seemingly honest self-acceptance were all so admirable.  She’s the very kind of woman I would have loved to have worked for or had as a mentor.

Learning she had cancer was sad.  Realizing she might leave young children behind was much worse.

Hearing of her death yesterday was devastating.

You see Elizabeth Edwards is but one woman, but she represents so many more.  Too many more.

Elizabeth Edwards is the public reminder of the women–the mothers–in my life who are battling breast cancer right now or living with it as a looming shadow in their recent past.  It feels like every month I’m learning of another friend who has been diagnosed–another mother with cancer.

And much like those panic attacks of early motherhood, I’m sitting here today a mix of crazy emotions.  I’m sad for the death of this wonderful woman.  I’m sad for her children.  I am afraid for my friends.  I worry about my own health.  About my children.  I am angry.  I AM SO ANGRY for each child that will be left without a mother this year.

And yet I feel helpless.

We can give money.  We can raise awareness. We can participate in studies.

But I won’t be happy until we don’t ever have to mourn another mother with cancer again.

The thing about the perfect best friend is that you want everyone you know to meet her.

Forget that she loves you even when you’re a bitch. Forget that on a visit to your family’s she walked your infant nephew all night long–while sick as a dog–so that you could get some sleep.

Don’t even consider that she knows all the words to every 80’s song and will sing them with very little prodding or alcohol when you can’t remember the words. And don’t even take into account her phenomenal dancing skills that would have secured her a job as the spotlight dancer on Solid Gold (that again will be performed with no prodding or alcohol).

Those aren’t the reasons you wished she lived next door.

It’s her heart and her smile and her laughter and her kindness that make her your number one gal.

AND SHE IS WHY THE NEW USPSTF MAMMOGRAPHY GUIDELINES MAKE ME WANT TO SCREAM!

My best friend was diagnosed with breast cancer this year at the age of the 37.

You know why?

Because she had a mammography at the urging of her new physician just to establish a baseline.

A baseline!

The growth was the size of a grain of rice. One, tiny, little growth that led to a bilateral mastectomy, drains, chemotherapy, hair loss and the inability to lift her three small children (all 5 and under) for extended periods of time this year.

That baseline mammogram at 37 is what allowed doctors to catch her aggressive form of cancer before she even felt a lump–before it spread to other places in her body.

And now the United States Preventive Services Task Force (USPSTF) has issued a statement indicating that women don’t need to consider regular mammograms until age 50?!

There are no words to convey the rage I feel about this–so I direct you to my friend’s feelings on the issue.

The American Cancer Society IS NOT changing their recommendation that women begin regular screening at the age of 40. (I couldn’t be more proud to be part of their blogger’s council.)

I am so afraid that women will believe this government entity–that insurance companies will believe them too.

The thing about my perfect best friend is that she is with me today–and will be for a long time thanks to an early mammogram.

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Remember when Victoria Secret first came out with the Miracle Bra? You never needed it, but the moment they launched their Miracle Bra bathing suits you had one in your hands.

We all laughed when you tried it on. I think I commented that you now had a shelf on which to rest your drink…and suntan lotion…and my drink…and my suntan lotion. You brushed me off and proudly announced that your mom declared it the “two-carat” bikini–as in you were going to land a 2 ct. diamond engagement ring by wearing it on the beach.

I always knew that wasn’t what was going to do it. You know why?

Late one night out on the beach very much into our cups, you made some comment about needing to follow the campground rules. As usual, we all started calling you out.

“Once a sorority President, always a sorority president.”

“My mom said ‘Don’t go on the Potomac. It’s dangerous on the Potomac.'”

“You’re such a MUFFIN!”

You turned to me, now a college graduate, and tried to look me straight in the eye and slurred,

“I may be a muffin on the outside, but I’m a jalapeno PEPPER on the inside.”

I’m pretty sure I aspirated a marshmallow at that point.

So yesterday, as I sat here hundreds of miles away from the hospital where doctors were removing your breasts–and with them the cancer that was attacking them–I calmed my nerves and even smiled knowing that 2 ct boobs or not, you will always be a jalapeno pepper on the inside.

And NO doctor will ever be able to remove that.