Waiting in the auditorium of a northern California high school, I grow nervous as the seats start filling up. I'm here to talk to teenagers about a habit that's disturbingly on the rise among their age group - smoking.

I go to the podium on the stage and look out at 1,000 young faces, some yelling across the room to each other. This is going to be a tough audience.

But the instant I open my mouth, the room turns silent. By the time I finish my first sentence; I can hear a pin drop. I'm amazed. It's the robotic rasp of my voice that commands their attention as they listen to my story.

It all started on a summer afternoon at Orchard Beach in the Bronx back in the l940s. I was 15 and went there every Sunday. That day a distinguished-looking man who worked for a well-known modeling agency approached me. He gave me his card and told me I had the healthy, outdoor looks that would be right for modeling. So, a few days later, I took the subway down to the address on the card. Much to my surprise, they signed me on. I did my first job for the fashion magazine Harpers Bazaar. After that, the jobs kept coming. I was on billboards, the cover of Life, on TV. People recognized me on the street. It was flattering, to say the least, and so very exciting.

That's howl ended up in a Lucky Strike ad in 1949. I was only 17 and didn't smoke. They dressed me in winter clothes, put me on a fake ski slope holding a cigarette and ski poles. That picture was used in hundreds of ads, posters, and billboards, and I became the "Lucky Strike Girl."

During the shoot, one of the tobacco executives asked me if I smoked. When I told him "no," he said, "You're an up-and-coming model, and you'll probably be doing other cigarette ads and commercials. It would be good if you knew how to hold a cigarette and puff on one."

So I tried it one day. It tasted awful. If someone had told me that the cigarette I was struggling to smoke could one day hurt me; I never would have taken another puff. But that was the "innocent age of tobacco" - everyone smoked, and I was determined to master it to feel grown up and sophisticated. So I tried another. Within the year, I was addicted. A Chesterfield was my constant companion.

By the time the health warnings were stirring, it was the late 1950s. I was married to Joe, my high school sweetheart, retired from modeling and busy raising our four children. I was also smoking a pack and a half a day. My husband smoked three. I vaguely remember hearing something on the news about how smoking could hurt you, but nothing about cancer, and nothing that convinced either of us to stop.

I swore off it many times, only to light up again and tell myself I'd stop tomorrow, never suspecting how devastating that decision would be.

When I awoke one morning with an earache, though, that was the farthest thing from my mind, especially since the doctor who examined my ear found nothing wrong.

As the pain worsened, I saw doctor after doctor; none of them found anything. But eight months later, as the pain persisted, I was advised to go to an ear and throat specialist, who solemnly explained I had throat cancer. I didn't believe him when he told me that my horrible earaches were a classic symptom. Seeking another opinion, I went to cancer specialists at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Hospital, a short drive from our home on Long Island. They confirmed my worst fear.

At 51, I was operated on within the week. When I woke from the anesthesia, I was cold and asked for a blanket, but no sound came out of my mouth. I was horrified. To save my life, they had taken out my voice box. I sobbed in silence. The only way I could communicate was by writing. It was devastating because I love people and am talkative by nature. Not only my voice, but my whole personality was gone. My rage swelled. I felt like putting my fist through a wall.

Instead, I learned to cope. Every day after a laryngectomy is a mental and physical challenge. My throat swelled from the follow-up radiation therapy, making it difficult to swallow. I was also too exhausted to do anything but plop on the couch and stay there. Joe and the children were wonderful about encouraging me on. Nobody could smoke around me, so Joe and the kids - all smokers - quit. Over time, so did all of our neighbors, which helped me snap out of my depression and realize I may have helped save a few lives.

With the help of the American Cancer Society, I tried learning to talk again by swallowing air and creating a type of speech with belching. It took me six months to learn esophageal speech, and at that, I could burp out only one word -"church." It took me another six months before I could manage mechanical-sounding sentences. I was so embarrassed because people stared. I was terrified of opening my mouth in public, so Joe went everywhere with me. He spoke for me and buffered others' reactions. Often they spoke as if I weren't there. Even now, some people speak very loudly to me. I'm not deaf - I just can't speak well.

However, I was really determined to speak again and practiced a lot. Eventually I became so proficient, the American Cancer Society asked me to be a spokesman. In the last 13 years, I have taught hundreds of other cancer survivors to talk again. When they first come to me, I see the desperation and depression that I once felt. But I encourage them to be independent and do the things they used to do. "Enjoy life to the fullest, "I say. "You are lucky that you still can." And then I remind them that it was only the ability to speak that was lost - and with work, that, too, can be restored.

While I tried to be optimistic for others, I lived with the nagging thought of a recurrence. Patients with cancer of the larynx are at risk for developing new cancers, especially within the first two years of treatment. But after seven years, I really thought I was home free. Then a chest X-ray at my six-month check-up indicated that my life was going to be turned upside down again. A CAT scan confirmed the doctor's worst suspicions: It was lung cancer. I couldn't believe it. A tumor is sneaky. I looked and felt great, but here I was, frightened and in disbelief, back on the operating table. I didn't know if I could beat it this time.

As I went into the next few months of recovery, I didn't just lie on the couch. My doctor told me that the best way to get my lungpower back was to exercise. So I walked, and it made me feel much better. That was eight years ago. My husband and I still walk every day at Jones Beach, near our home. It's funny how beaches have played a significant part in my life. So, in a way, has advertising. Now it's my turn to work on an anti-smoking message.

Over the past few years, I have appeared in commercials, lobbied legislators to create and pass anti-smoking bills, spoken at the White House, and worked hard against teenage smoking. Over 3,000 teenagers become hooked on tobacco each day, which is why I travel to high schools all over the world, holding up my old cigarette advertisements and telling my story. "You were given a strong and healthy body - take care of it," I tell them. "If you smoke, it's not going to hurt anybody else, just you - and it will catch up with you."

Not long ago, I saw three young girls smoking at a bus stop. I went over to them and told them what had happened to me.

Maybe they thought I was crazy. But I receive letters all the time from children saying that after hearing me speak, they decided not to smoke anymore. That's what makes it worthwhile, I hope I can help change the dreadful statistics because more than 400,000 Americans die from smoking each year.

It's ironic that when I had one, I wasn't using my voice to make a difference, and now I'm grateful to be alive and doing some good.