The seven cancer thoughts I present to you today are purely random. They are not linked by theme or category. There is no rhyme or reason for my choosing them. And they do not belong with one another for any other reason than this: they all come directly from my very own head and are somehow related to the disease that lingers in my thoughts for most minutes of most days. Here they are:

1. Vanity is merely a six-letter word. It's certainly not as important after cancer as it is before. I admit vanity played a role in my life prior to my breast cancer diagnosis and still, it's with me to some degree. But more important than vanity now is waking each morning and realizing I'm alive. I don't want to lose weight to look ultra thin. I choose to reach an ideal weight because I want to be healthy. I don't want a tan. I want skin that is free from damage. My clothes? I want them to fit and feel comfortable. That's it.

2. Normal is a thing of the past. It's funny how I worked so hard to look normal after cancer struck (note: here's vanity rearing its head). Prior to losing my hair to chemotherapy, I worked hard at matching my long, straight, blond hair to a wig that would become my disguise for five months. I found the perfect replica of what would eventually tumble from my scalp, and I wore it proudly. A neighbor who knew I was receiving chemotherapy once told my sister, "That's so great Jacki didn't lose her hair." I looked that much like normal, people didn't know anything had changed. Little did I know change was right around the corner. When my hair grew in, it was dark and curly. Not even close to normal.

3. Cancer gives me time to prepare to die. Now I don't think I'll be dying anytime soon. My cancer is gone, and I like to believe it's not coming back. But having had the disease makes me realize death is for certain. Having time to contemplate this is a gift. Eight years ago, my husband's dad died instantly, from a pulmonary embolism. One of my city's local police officers was just recently killed by a drunk driver. Neither of these men had time to plan for death, to come to terms with their last moments. I have time. Even if my death is untimely, as a result of cancer or something entirely unrelated, I have been thinking about the topic for several years now. Most important, I have been living as if each day is my last. This helps me appreciate how fragile life really is.

4. "Mommy, you probably know a lot more about cancer than I do," my six-year-old Joey told me the other day. Joey's random cancer thought inspired mine: I do know a lot about cancer. I didn't go to medical school to acquire my varied knowledge. I've lived with cancer. I research cancer. I write about cancer. I talk about cancer. Therefore, I know about it. Knowing cancer gives me a sense of control over a disease that feels uncontrollable.

5. Life is about more than cancer. At first, when cancer was new and frightening, it was all I thought about, all I talked about. When I met someone new, I'd somehow bring up the topic. It was my confession of sorts about the disease living in my body. With friends and family, I offered constant updates and progress reports. Cancer was real, fresh, raw, and I had to sort it out -- all the time. Cancer is not so new anymore. Lately, I don't have much to report. It's in the back of my mind now, not the front. It's better this way.

6. We are all tough enough to survive cancer, even those who've commented to me along my journey, "I could never be as strong as you," or "I couldn't handle everything as well as you." I tell these people they can be strong, they can handle it, they can survive. There is no other choice. We either fight or we don't. Individual survival styles may differ but the bottom line is this: cancer is a life or death matter. Everyone I know who faces the disease chooses to live. In my opinion, there's nothing stronger than this.

7. Cancer is a motivating force. Never before have I been so keenly aware of the life that surrounds me, the choices that confront me, the decisions I make. My quest for health, happiness, love, and fulfillment is shaped largely by a disease that almost three years ago left me shattered and hopeless. Cancer can be horrible. It can also be wonderful.