If ovarian cancer survivors could pick a fantasy cheerleading squad, we'd do well to draft Kerry Washington. The actress and Color of Hope spokeswoman has adopted our underfunded and underrepresented disease as her cause, and she really knows her stuff.

A meeting of the minds this week at the Morehouse School of Medicine is putting women's health front and center. And the results are likely to be significant for ovarian cancer patients.

At the 14th annual HeLa Women's Health Conference, clinicians, scientists and medical practitioners from across the nation will gather in Atlanta to discuss the latest in women's cancer news and trends, from early screening to racial disparities. The theme of this year's conference, which will be held Sept. 25, is "Cancer and Reproductive Health." It's a comprehensive undertaking that couldn't be better timed.

September is not only gynecological cancer awareness month but also ovarian cancer awareness month. And while the conference is focused less on the specifics of individual diseases affecting women, Dr. Roland Matthews, chair of the department of obstetrics and gynecology at MSM, says it will highlight the links between them and provide a forum to discuss key issues that apply across the board.

"We're looking at cancer as a basic science," Matthews said. "What we're trying to do is present cutting-edge research. We're going to talk about breast cancer, fertility and cancer, cervical cancer, HPV. Our conversations can apply to any cancer, and they're certainly relevant for women being treated for ovarian cancer."

In June of 2008, I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, a particularly deadly disease that is more often than not found in its later stages. This is due to the cancer's vague symptoms -- bloating, indigestion and loss of appetite -- which seem harmless at first but usually become apparent when the disease has spread to other organs. That was certainly true in my case.

When I think back, I realize that I had classic symptoms. At the time, I attributed them to all the partying I had been doing a few weeks earlier while on vacation. But when things got worse, I knew something was really wrong. By the time I was diagnosed, the cancer had spread to other parts of my abdomen and a lymph node.

Within weeks, I had surgery to remove the malignant tumors, and soon after, I started a tough chemotherapy regimen. It took a toll on my body but not my spirit. In fact, cancer turned me into a crusader and, more recently, a teacher.

In August, I joined a simple but ingenious program, Survivors Teaching Students, which places ovarian cancer survivors in medical classrooms to share personal stories and information with med students, future nurses and aspiring physicians' assistants (PAs). Instructing future doctors and nurses is a job I never imagined being offered, let alone accepting. Until last year, I was more likely to write articles about experts in the medical field rather than lecture in front of them.

But I've become an authority in my own right, and my story, however unlikely, could help save lives.

America is a nation that tries really hard to be sensitive when discussing race and gender -- or even the disabled. We approach these subjects with restraint, choosing our words carefully for fear of insulting others. But when it comes to life-threatening diseases, that reserve seems to get tossed aside by even the most meticulous minds.

Since my diagnosis, a few friends, some extended family members, and random acquaintances have said some downright peculiar things to me. They range from the bizarrely sympathetic: "I couldn't bring myself to call you, but I cried like a baby when I found out you were sick," a family friend told me. I actually felt bad for upsetting her. To the straight-up indifferent: "We're all going to die," wrote one guy in response to my first post. Uh, thanks, I guess.

Although slightly inelegant, shall we say, such comments are really just people's way of showing they care. And while I appreciate the effort, it's clear that it's time for a cancer etiquette intervention.

Consider this list of dos and don'ts as a crash course to navigating your next cancer survivor encounter. Only the basics are covered here. Of course, there are some gray areas (is it okay to be mean to a crabby cancer patient?), mitigating circumstances (should you tell a friend that her drawn-on eyebrows aren't in the right shade or shape?), and times when you just have to make fun of people, cancer or not. In those cases, my advice is do what you have to do. This is simply a primer, a blueprint to ensure that you stay within the bounds of appropriateness. It's not hard. When in doubt, remember flattery is always your ace.

On June 10, the American Medical Association announced plans to publicly oppose President Obama's health care reform. The AMA, a powerful 250,000-member physicians' group, is against a government-sponsored health care option, which it claims will restrict patients' choices by driving out private insurers. It went on to say that a public plan would also lead to "an explosion of costs that would need to be absorbed by taxpayers."

Maybe I'm confused, but I thought this is precisely the situation we find ourselves in now, hence the need for an alternative.

More than 44 million Americans are uninsured and another 38 million of us are underinsured. Those of us who fall into these categories often forgo medical appointments, preventive care, screenings, and follow-up visits, which result in more late-stage diagnoses and worsening medical conditions. In turn, this places a significant financial burden on the system.

I knew something was wrong.

It all started in February of 2008 with some weird gurgling in my belly, followed by a bit of weight gain and bloating. I had just spent Christmas and New Year's in Mexico and thought maybe I had eaten something bad or accidentally drank the water. I was kicking myself for asking for a glass of ice one morning.

Thinking I was suffering digestion issues from a week of partying hard, I made an appointment to see a gastroenterologist. That one appointment turned into many. The bloating continued to worsen and, at one point, I looked several months pregnant. My co-workers and neighbors, excited about my impending motherhood, asked about my due date and guessed at the sex of my baby. Looking back, I wish that had been the case.

Over the following months, I underwent a series of tests before an ultrasound finally revealed what was happening inside my body.

"You have two large tumors on your ovaries," my gastro doc said. "One is the size of a softball."

Now, I had been diligent about making my yearly doctor's visits and had seen my gyn several months before.

When she saw the results of my ultrasound, she thought a cyst she'd found on my right ovary a few years prior had simply grown into a mass that needed to be removed. The process would involve a minimally invasive surgery, she told me, which we could schedule when she returned from vacation in a week. "Your chances of having ovarian cancer are low," she told me reassuringly.

If you go by the statistics, she was right.