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.

A few days ago, notification of an e-mail arrived in my inbox. It popped up right in front of me, with the sender's name -- Amy Wilson -- glaring in black print right before my eyes. Amy is my friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer just after my own diagnosis. We e-mailed frequently about our cancer hopes and fears and so it was never before odd that a message would travel from her computer in Ohio to mine in Florida. But on the day this one e-mail arrived, it was odd -- because Amy died two weeks ago, after a 15-month battle with the disease we both vowed to conquer.

The e-mail was not from Amy. It was from her husband, Paul. And it was as comforting to hear from him as it was odd to see Amy's name flash in front of me. You see, I have wanted to call Paul, e-mail Paul, send a card to Paul -- something. I have wanted to reach out in some way, even though I have never met the man who thought he would spend the rest of his life raising his two children with Amy. But I never could figure out what I would write or say or send. I have been afraid that it would be hard for him to talk about Amy's death. I've been afraid that it would be hard for me to talk about her death. So I have waited, hoping the passage of time would help prepare me for some sort of action. And in the end, time was not necessary. Because Paul reached out to me. And this is what he wrote in the e-mail he sent from Amy's mailbox.


And now I can contact Paul, because he has opened the door. He -- the one suffering the greatest loss -- has comforted me. And now I need to thank him.

In July 2005, Amy Wilson was diagnosed with breast cancer. In the months that followed, Amy endured a lumpectomy, a mastectomy, reconstruction, and chemotherapy. In January 2006, Amy's treatment ended. And she set off on a journey of survivorship.

In August 2006, Amy found out her cancer had spread to her brain and lungs. Her doctors gave her two to 12 months to live. On Thursday, October 5, 2006, Amy died. She was 35 years old.

Amy became my friend shortly after her original diagnosis and eight months after my own breast cancer diagnosis. A mutual friend brought us together and for a little more than one year, we shared a rich connection, cemented in shared struggles and victories. Through phone conversations and e-mail exchanges and cards and gifts sent through the mail, Amy and I shared a special friendship. But I never looked Amy in the eye, never offered her a hug, never met her husband and children. I knew her only from a distance. Still, our partnership was powerful. It was comforting. And sadly, it is over.

Our same mutual friend called me Friday morning to tell me Amy had passed away -- a mere 15 months after her battle began, three months shy of the end-of-treatment anniversary she happily anticipated, five years from the age of 40 -- the age she had determined would mark her first true survivor milestone.

I miss Amy. I miss the pieces of hope that vanished with her death. I miss that I never met her, never hugged her, never said goodbye.

Amy, whose journey was chronicled in her local Ohio newspaper, is survived by her husband, her two children -- Luke, age five and Ella, age two -- and among others, her mother, who is currently fighting her own breast cancer battle.

Somehow, Amy -- my friend whose cancer has spread to her brain and lungs just five months after her initial treatment for breast cancer -- ended up comforting me today when we spoke about her shocking news. Somehow, Amy is the strong one -- convinced that she will live long after the year she was given to survive this cancer metastasis while I feel somewhat defeated. Somehow, Amy is approaching this ordeal with spunk and grace -- while I feel a bit deflated. Somehow, Amy is teaching me that attitude is everything. That there is still hope. That she can outlive the statistics and numbers that predict she will not fare well. Somehow, Amy is strengthening me through her difficult moments. Somehow, she is worrying about me -- the one not experiencing the blow of a cancer recurrence.

Somehow, Amy -- with more on her plate than any one person should have to manage -- has already established that she is a fighter. That she will fight for her life. That she will survive. Somehow, she makes me feel better.

When Amy Turner Tunick, an actress and writer who wrote The Feel Good Column for the South Florida Sun-Times, was first diagnosed with cancer she wrote:

"It doesn't seem real. There were no signs or symptoms. Maybe it's a genetic thing. But will I ever really know? I've been a very healthy active 44 year-old woman. I don't drink or smoke.  But, sometimes, unfortunate things do happen to good people. And I don't doubt I'm a good person. Actually, I believe I'm an exceptional person. I'm positive, optimistic, inspiring and enthusiastic. I try to be caring, loving and honest. So, sadly, I'm not blaming anyone, including God, that I've just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer." 

Tunick did not exaggerate when she described herself as a positive, optimistic, inspiring and enthusiastic person. Her columns reflected that, and she had a way of inspiring the reader to feel optimistic about life. She had a way of reminding you of the simple joys of life and the importance of the people in your life. In one of her last columns, she wrote, ''Cry, scream, feel sorry for yourself -- but not for long. Basically, this is all about hope. Never lose it. Never give in or give up.''

Tunick had this to say about death, "I believe that Death teaches us that the time is now. The time is now to pick up a telephone and call the person that you love. Death teaches us the joy of the moment. It teaches us we don't have forever. If teaches us that nothing is permanent. It teaches us to let go, there's nothing you can hang on to. And it tells us to give up on expectations and let tomorrow tell its own story, because nobody knows if they'll get home tonight."

Tunick won't be getting home tonight. She lost her battle to cancer and the world lost more of its light. Tunick was 47.

My friend Amy is done with chemo. Her hair is growing back.  Her spirits are lifting.  She is coming back to life after a diagnosis that sent her world into a tailspin.  I know this from e-mails and phone chats and a series of articles written about Amy in the Akron Beacon Journal.  Yet I have never seen Amy, have never reached for her hand or given her a hug or supported her in the way I would have liked to -- but our relationship is still solid and strong because of our connection.  We are both breast cancer survivors -- diagnosed not too far apart from each other and at an age that seemed much too young for what we now know is a much too common disease.  We were both 34.

Amy and I became friends because of a common friend.  Amy's high school friend was my college roommate who linked us when she realized we were both fighting a similar battle.  I am thankful for this match-up because my bond with Amy is priceless.  She is always on my mind and will always be my companion on this journey that we both agree has been both devastating and positively meaningful.  Read on and you too can get to know my friend Amy.