Cancer is something we like to believe happens to the next person.

And, in fact, it was happening to the woman next to me on the morning of Aug. 22.

My 83-year-old mother, Sandy Cason, was scheduled that day for breast cancer surgery at a Thousand Oaks hospital.

"I didn't get the 80 percent," was Mom's way of saying her biopsy had shown cancer. Only 20 percent of women who undergo this procedure — which involves a needle seemingly long enough to knit a poncho — actually have the cancer.

My mother's malignancy was diagnosed after what she considered a particularly heavy-handed mammogram.

Mammograms, a rite of passage for women turning 40, are pretty much nobody's idea of a spa day. Technicians twist and compact the tender tissue as if sculpting balloon animals.

Because of this squish and crunch factor, it's easy for women to "forget" to schedule the procedure at the recommended one- to two-year intervals.

It's even easier to let them slide when we read dueling studies about their effectiveness. A few years back, the Danes published a report pronouncing them worthless at saving lives. The Swedes contradicted their Nordic neighbors; their study showed mammograms improved cancer survival by 20 percent.

Then we are told the test's effectiveness depends on the age of the woman.

And we have all heard this scary pronouncement of breast cancer patients: "The mammogram missed my cancer."

An estimated 20 percent do fail to show a cancer in progress. That's why experts advise mammograms be accompanied by regular self-examination and consultation with a healthcare professional.

I let the tests lapse for six years myself and was relieved recently when mine came up normal.

But my mother had kept up on hers. Several months before her diagnosis, the doctor put a "watch" on one area and told her to come back for a retest in six months.

After the passage of that short period of time, the X-ray detected a suspicious growth.

At first, my mom wondered "why me?" and why "at my age should I put myself through treatment?"

But Mother is a tough lady. She has survived Legionnaire's disease, open heart surgery and my hippie phase.

The surgery and the procedures that led up to it were simply no fun.

My mom gritted her teeth and got through them.

They call cancer The Big C. Dreaded. Feared. Loathed.

But not my mom's cancer. According to a drawing by her oncologist, one spot was the size of a peppercorn; the other resembled a couple of stuck-together poppy seeds.

The doctor told her it was the smallest cancer he had seen in years.

Breast cancer caught this early has a 95 to 98 percent cure rate.

And the reason it was stopped in its killing tracks? Regular mammograms.

My mother will not need chemotherapy. She probably won't need radiation, either.

In all, between diagnosis and surgery, my mother knew she was living with cancer for approximately 21 days.

For everyone we hear about whose cancer was not detected by a mammogram, there must be at least one or more women like my mother. They undergo the surgery, recover from it and go on with their lives.

Face it. Any day you walk into a hospital with cancer and walk out without it is a good day. Any day you make the transition from breast-cancer patient to breast-cancer survivor is a cause for celebration.

October has been declared National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. So, I know, my column is jumping the gun by a week.

But last week, when we celebrated my mother's birthday over a steak dinner, one thought came to mind.

It's never too early for early detection.

— E-mail Colleen Cason at ccason@VenturaCountyStar.com.