When I cry, I write. It makes me feel better to do something productive with my emotions, to channel my tears into something meaningful, to share my on-going journey with cancer so others may somehow benefit.

My tears started to flow after I dialed Amy's phone number this morning -- with the intention of speaking to her husband, almost two months after Amy died of breast cancer. No one answered my call, so voice mail picked up. And Amy's voice spoke to me in words something like you have reached the Wilson's. We cannot take your call. I wonder if her family has chosen to keep Amy's voice as the one that greets all callers. Or have they forgotten to change the message. Or are they stuck, unsure of what to do about this permanent reminder of Amy. Regardless, it must take time to deal with such as issue.

I left a message after Amy's voice became quiet. I recorded my own voice for her husband, told him I've been meaning to call but wanted to give him some time, that I hope he is doing alright, that he is in my thoughts every day. I wished him a Happy Thanksgiving and told him I'd try to call another day.

It was the end of my message that really choked me up -- the saying goodbye to a man I've never met who recently, suddenly had to say goodbye to his 35-year-old wife, the mother of his two small children. My goodbye was so much easier than his, and I think this is why I feel sad.

It made me happy to hear Amy's voice today, to remember her when she was alive and well and swearing she would not let cancer take her before Christmas. And it makes me happy that no one answered my call today -- because maybe it means everyone who lives in Amy's house is moving on with life, shocked as they may be that cancer took Amy weeks before Halloween.

I had no idea my one phone call would churn up so many tears. Thankfully, I have a tried and true method for dealing with them. Writing.