Michael Brecker, Grammy Award-winning jazz saxophonist who performed with the likes of Joni Mitchell and Herbie Hancock, died Saturday of cancer. He was 57.

Brecker, considered one of the most influential saxophonists of the past 25 years, died at a hospital in New York City as a result of myelodysplastic syndrome -- a form of cancer in which the bone marrow stops making healthy blood cells.

The Philadelphia native, who began his solo career in 1987 with a self-titled debut recording that turned into Jazz Album of the Year, was forced by his illness to stop playing music at times. So he channeled his creative efforts into raising awareness of a very important cause -- bone marrow donation.

Brecker is survived by his wife, Susan; his children, Jessica and Sam; a brother and a sister.

The kids at St. Jude Children's Research Hospital keep busy getting better. They keep busy making holiday gifts too -- like ornaments and ceramic plates and holiday cards and gift wrap. All of their hand-crafted creations fill the 2006 St. Jude Holiday Hope Gift Book, available now and jam-packed with powerful gifts of hope.

Proceeds from gift purchases -- 84 percent of each sale -- benefit sick children in every community in every country who come to St. Jude for life-saving treatment. Like Caleb, a seven-year-old boy diagnosed in 2004 with leukemia.

Caleb was referred to St. Jude -- where no family is ever turned away because of an inability to pay -- and received treatment for three years. Caleb is now in remission and expresses his feelings through his artwork.

Anna Grace, a five-year-old who was abandoned on a roadside in China when she was one day old, was adopted by an American couple and soon after was diagnosed with a cancerous tumor on her brain stem. After surgery to remove the tumor, Anna Grace was referred to St. Jude for chemotherapy and radiation. Today, Anna Grace is healthy and only returns for check-ups every six months.

St. Jude stories of hope are plentiful. And so are the kid-created holiday gifts offered this season.

I don't take for granted that I am alive. I am fully aware of it, consciously grateful for it, continually amazed by it. Before I was confronted with breast cancer, I still knew I could die -- in a car accident maybe -- but I thought chances were pretty good that I would make it to a ripe old age. Death was never at the forefront of my mind. I had no reason to believe that life could be snatched from me. And because of this, I am sure some pretty important moments slipped by me, virtually unnoticed. But now -- after a breast cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, radiation therapy, and then more therapy, I realize life is not a guarantee for anyone. Me included. Even at age 36, I am not safe. I feel confident about my future -- and I believe cancer has left my body -- but my life has been threatened like never before. And that makes me wake up and take notice -- really notice -- the moments that are too important to take for granted.

My first baby boy starts kindergarten today. Before cancer, this still would have been a monumental day for us both. But now, after cancer, it's even bigger. Because I know of several moms who did not survive cancer long enough to see their children walk through their first classroom doors -- moms who thought, like me, that they would surely beat cancer and would see their kids off for every first day of school. So I am lucky to have made it to this day -- to witness the wonder of my sweet, shy, sensitive, challenging, demanding, loving boy as he leaves the comfort of home for the real world.

Two days ago, my littlest guy said, "Mommy, I love you and want to keep you forever." Joey -- the boy whose wisdom should guide him right through his first day of school -- said, "Danny, you can't have mommy forever. One day she will die, and you will never see her again." Fortunately, his harsh meaning was lost on three-year-old Danny who kept playing with whatever toy was occupying him at the time. But his meaning was not lost on me. He spoke the truth. And so I plan to soak up the kindergarten moment this morning -- and photograph it and write about it and cherish it for my days to come. And in two years, I hope to do it again with Danny as he starts off on the same path. With me by his side.

I was hospitalized twice last year for chemo-induced fever and low blood counts. My first stay came at a busy time -- the hospital's oncology floor was full and there was no space for me. So I was admitted to the bone marrow transplant unit as an overflow patient and suddenly -- even in my very sick and compromised state -- I became the healthiest person on the floor. My white blood count was 700 -- sounded pretty bad to me -- but some of the patients staying on this floor with me had no blood counts because in order to receive a transplant, their own bone marrow is completely depleted in order to prepare for new bone marrow. Patients on this floor are considered pretty healthy when their counts reach 500. I was considered sick and was hospitalized at 700. Adults and children on this floor stay in rooms behind glass panels and with special -- and loud -- air flow systems that push germs out of the room. Visitors must wear gowns and shoe covers and must wash their hands before entering the rooms. Patients might stay on this floor for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy and preparing for their eventual bone marrow transplants. Some patient rooms are decorated and arranged just like home. Parents prepare rooms for children with play areas and craft areas and television areas. This floor is home to many sick children -- and this is what affected me most. For my five days on the bone marrow transplant unit, I gained an up-close and personal look at what many parents and children encounter when cancer derails their lives. It was so much more than I had to encounter. It must be quite an undertaking to prepare a child for this experience.

I picked up a coloring book the day I was discharged and walked off this floor and back into my own life. It's a coloring book that comes from The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and is made by bone marrow transplant patients for children preparing for their own transplants. There is a poster for children to color and hang on their hospital room walls that says I Will Get Well, there is a page that terms chemo and radiation as Laser Rays and Guard Dogs and pages that help children visualize happy moments -- like playing a favorite sport or activity and jumping rope in the warm sunshine. This book reminds children that it is okay to cry and it even includes a prescription: Make sure you get at least one hug every day!

The overall message of this coloring book, which is stated in writing is, "A good attitude does not mean being cheerful all the time; it just means that you know that this is necessary to help fight your cancer."  Well said. And something I will always remember.