June passed away in April, she was 82. She was one of Canada's most celebrated authors and social advocates. She helped the homeless, dealt with issues of racism and injustice. She did much volunteer work.

In 2004, June was diagnosed with inoperable cancer and refused to undergo treatments.

I came across a last interview with her that I thought was very moving. She talks about her life, her marriage, and the fact that her cancer is terminal.

What an amazing woman.

Soap opera actress Darlene Conley, best known for playing Sally Spectra for the past 20 years on The Bold and the Beautiful, lost her battle with cancer over the weekend. She was 72.

Conley, who was diagnosed with stomach cancer just three months ago, also played characters on Days of our Lives and General Hospital -- and many knew her as black market baby broker Rose DeVille onThe Young and the Restless.

Before embarking on a daytime career, Conley made appearances in movies The Birds and Valley of the Dolls and on television shows such as Murder, She Wrote, Cagney & Lacey, and The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

Holding Tight, Letting Go: Living with Metastatic Breast Cancer is a book written by Musa Mayer, a breast cancer survivor. Few books discuss the realities of metastatic breast cancer. Women with breast cancer live in fear of recurrence. For at least a third of those diagnosed, the disease will eventually spread. When this happens, most people assume it means an immediate death sentence.

The voices in this book speak of a different reality: that women with metastatic disease generally go on to live with their disease, often for many years, and that the time they have can be full and meaningful.

This is a great book for anyone dealing with metastatic breast cancer or even those who have been diagnosed and have a fear of recurrence. I read this book and it helps because my imagination can be far worse than the reality of the situation.

Here are a list of the chapter titles:

• Voices of a Forgotten Population
• Dread, Uncertainty and White-Water Rafting
• Seventeen Stories of Metastatic Breast Cancer
• The Shock of Recurrence
• The Problem of Knowledge: Doctors, Information-Seeking and Statistics
• Medical Treatments and Choices
• Hope and Healing for the Rest of You: Complementary Therapies
• Living with the Side Effects and Symptoms
• Families and Friends Speak: "Its happening to us, too."
• Light and Shadow: Stories of Remission, Work and Identity
• Final Gifts: Disease Progression, Hard Choices, Last Days
• Still Here: The Anatomy of Courage

Journalist, commentator, and cancer patient Leroy Sievers -- the guy we've written about before, the guy who has covered many wars and witnessed countless deaths, the guy who is now observing his own death as cancer in his lungs and spine chip away at his life -- has realized that getting good news takes some getting used to.

Sievers got some good news recently. He learned that the new combination of chemotherapy drugs he's been receiving has shrunk the tumors in his lungs. And scans show the tumor on his spine is healing. It's taken him days to truly understand this concept -- this concept of hope that has miraculously delivered him more time. He didn't expect it.

Sievers fully expected that he would soon be dead. That's why he's been savoring the cold, crisp fall days -- because he was not certain he would ever see such a season. He was sure he would never host another Halloween party either -- a party he canceled this year due to his health. But now, as he takes in this new sensation of hope, he considers the possibility he may be around for another party. And he thinks he'll dress up as a tumor. Halloween is one time when good taste is never important, he says.

Sievers, who offers a weekly personal health update for NPR, available in print or in podcast format on his blog, plans to keep living in the moment. He doesn't want to overdo this hope thing. So right now, he is simply enjoying the colorful leaves -- and the season he calls one of his favorites.

I have had a hard time keeping my counseling appointments lately. Life keeps getting in the way, and counseling keeps getting pushed to the side. The last time I called my counselor to cancel -- due to an emergency room trip with my three-year-old -- I mentioned that my inability to keep up with sessions was perhaps a precursor to an eventual termination of our counseling relationship. My counselor -- Lindsay -- said this was maybe an accurate assessment, that we should discuss the possibility of an ending point. We haven't yet discussed it, though, because I have not made the time to contact her. I have continued to leave counseling on the back burner.

But today Lindsay sent me an e-mail to check in. She wrote that I am probably going to be okay on my own now -- in the aftermath of cancer -- and that we should have one final session to reflect on my progress over the past 16 months. I have not replied to Lindsay -- not because I am busy with other things but simply because her words made me cry. They still make me cry, hours later. I'm not exactly sure why. And I'm not exactly sure how I will follow up on scheduling my very last session.

I assume my tears -- my sadness -- are part of the healing process, part of the separation anxiety I feel each time a part of my treatment ends and a part of my life moves on. I assume I am sad at the prospect of leaving a vital part of my recovery behind, about leaving the comfort of my counseling chair, about leaving Lindsay. The possibilities are endless. And I suppose we will cover all possibilities when Lindsay and I sit down for our last, final, concluding session -- when we recall how much I have grown since the day we first met, when I could barely mutter a word about cancer without weeping uncontrollably, when I could barely manage to find pleasure in my days, when I could barely imagine that life could -- and would -- offer me peace and happiness.

Today, life is good. And it's clear that counseling is no longer necessary for my survival. But that doesn't make it any easier to make my final appointment. To contemplate saying my last goodbye. To tackle life completely on my own. Which is what I will do -- in time -- so I can continue moving on, away from breast cancer.

When we memorialize someone at the time of death, we often refer to the date of birth and the date of death. These numbers tell us something -- like the age of the person -- but they don't say much about the life that fills the gap between start date and end date. They don't tell of the life that was surely full of ups and downs and victories and struggles. And happiness and joy and sadness and sorrow. And family and friends and jobs and hobbies. They don't do justice to the true stuff of life that is so much more important than numbers. But there is something important about these two sets of numbers -- something that when really examined, tells the full story. This important something -- the dash.

The dash that separates these static numbers is what tells the story of life. So consider your own dash when contemplating life, while determining how to spend your time and fill your days. Make your dash matter. Make it worthwhile. Make it something that people will talk about long after your own numbers become a matter of permanent record. And when you memorialize loved ones in the future, think about what their dashes mean. Talk about them, remember them, honor them. And pass on this link -- www.thedashmovie.com -- so others will consider the meaning that flows from each simple dash.

The Beck family blogs about life in California -- about soccer games and parades and hikes and family trips. They display happy photos of their kids eating pancakes made by daddy and playing on the beach and dressing up for Halloween. And they also blog about breast cancer -- because Valerie Beck, wife and mom of two young children, was diagnosed with this disease on June 26, 2006.

Valerie is just two months into her journey and has just completed her second chemotherapy treatment. She has already survived surgery and scary pathology results and some dark moments. But Valerie will surely conquer cancer with her happy take on life, her supportive family, and her ability to go with the flow -- however unpredictable it may be. And her husband -- author of the family blog -- keeps all readers updated on Valerie's progress. He is positive, hopeful, and a bit frightened too. On July 8, he wrote:

What a past couple days, my beautiful bride Valerie, my wife, my life long partner has a serious fight in front of her. She is going to grow old with me, she is going to help me spoil our grandchildren, we will beat this! I have faith, and I believe, but I also believe you cannot hide from the awful truths, this is not a nice disease. Three of the best doctors in the world do not come rushing to your aid in ONE DAY if they thought "you will easily make it through this" (which is what it seems I am always telling Valerie). I am trying to be strong, I feel I have to be, but sitting here in front of an inanimate object I find it easier to share my inner fears. I do have faith we will make it through this ..... it just won't be easy.

It won't be easy. But it can be done. Best wishes, Beck family!

I like to read. I just don't find much time to do it -- with two kids, two jobs, an unpredictable exercise schedule, endless medical appointments, and all the other craziness that accompanies life. I would like to find more time for books -- books a bit more complex than the one I found time to read at bedtime tonight about a frog and a toad who spend their days flying kites and enjoying picnics together. I would like to read books that capture relationships and life experiences and a bit of mystery too.

The last book I read -- The Shop on Blossom Street -- is the kind of book I like. It is easy to read and captivating and inspiring and comforting. It is the kind of book I want to keep reading -- long after I have to put it down to tend to distractions. Perhaps it's the thread of cancer woven into the storyline of this book that kept me wanting more.

The Shop on Blossom Street -- by Debbie Macomber -- follows four women who are all seeking change in their lives. The lead character opens a yarn shop, years after a cancer diagnosis and with the intention of moving forward despite an uncertain future. She hosts knitting classes and forms relationships with three other women in search of brighter days.

Character Lydia Hoffman -- the cancer survivor -- overcomes obstacles and challenges and even another cancer scare. She finds friendship and love and all sorts of unexpected discoveries. She even graces the pages of a second book -- A Good Yarn -- that follows her continued life journeys.

I have the book A Good Yarn. It's on my bookshelf. And I can't wait to read it. I just can't find the time.

Lynne began her blog on August 6 -- one week ago and two months after she endured surgery to clear a clogged bile duct and received the grim and frightening diagnosis of gallbladder cancer. Her cancer is stage IV -- not an uncommon staging for a hard-to-detect disease that many will only survive for two to six months. So Lynne is scared but still strong and hopeful and full of faith. Her goal is to live -- not die -- with cancer, even though her days may be numbered. So Lynne blogs her thoughts and fears and all the bits and pieces of information she gathers about a disease that is rare and resources that are scare. It helps her. And it will surely help others. And here is a glimpse into what she shared in her first post.

If you had only six months or a year to live, would you want to know? What would you do with the information? Would it make a difference in how you lived your life? These are questions I have been asking for the past two months. In asking them, I have also noticed how little guidance there is for this process. Who have I known personally who was able to anticipate their death? I can think of only two individuals, and I never asked them whether or not they were living differently in their awareness of their mortality.

So, those are the themes in this blog. I look forward to a dialog with those I know, and those I don't about this strange, life changing journey.

To Lynne -- and to all others who are faced with the disease -- may you find peace and comfort and strength in every step you take, every direction you follow, every path that becomes your road to recovery.

According to data available on cancer patients and caregivers, of all the patients diagnosed with cancer, at least 50 percent will be cared for by a family member. Cancer Caregivers Strength for Caring points to a survey from the Journal of Family Nursing that provides insight into the life and unmet needs of a cancer caregiver.

Some of the information from the study reveals that 82 percent of cancer caregivers are women; 71 percent are married; 54 percent live with the patient; 47 percent are more than 50 years old and 36 percent reported care giving took more than 40 hours of time per week.

Cancer caregivers make certain the person they are caring for has everything they need and often take care of the cancer patient's normal daily tasks, errands and chores that the loved one with cancer might not be able to do for themselves while undergoing cancer surgery and treatments. What the study found was cancer caregivers do not take time to take care of themselves and the toll it takes on the caregiver can be negative and profound.

It's hard to describe the feelings that overwhelmed me during my bad days with cancer. I could call them consuming and crushing and sickening and frightening and crippling and still not completely cover all the bases. It's much easier to describe the feelings that overwhelmed me on my good days with cancer. I felt -- and still mostly feel this way -- happy and spunky and motivated and invigorated and fulfilled. And I felt loved -- because most of my bad days were turned around by the love of others. It was like clockwork. When I needed it most, a surprise awaited me in my mailbox or my inbox or on on the other side of my front door or on my front porch. These surprises strengthened me on my bad days -- and sometimes beyond the bad days. They still help me really -- because my memory of how they saved me from days of despair continues to fuel my good days. And here are seven of my special surprises.

There is still time to register, volunteer or donate for the Avon Walk For Breast Cancer which will take place in several cities across the United States -- Los Angeles, New York, Charlotte, Washington DC, Boston, Chicago, Denver, and San Francisco. This weekend walk that extends over two days and 39 miles will take place as soon as September 2006 in Los Angeles and as late as July 2007 in Denver. This walk, designed to benefit medically underserved women and men -- allowing them treatment they otherwise would not receive -- also funds research teams as they continue their quest for a cure. With Prevention magazine as the national sponsor and other official sponsors such as Reebok, the Avon Walk For Breast Cancer has made quite a mark already. This year's Chicago walk raised a record-breaking $8.2 million and tracked the steps of more than 3,500 participants. There is no better proof than this -- in my opinion -- that walking can make quite a difference.

I confess. I was once a sun worshiper. I grew up in Ohio where a really sunny day was rare -- so on the occasion when the sun was bright and hot, I was in my back yard or at a swimming pool or at a lake soaking up the warmth and comfort of the rays that mostly burned my skin but gave me a glow that eventually turned the slightest shade of tan and made me feel healthy. It's ironic really -- that I felt healthy when the act of sunbathing is so completely damaging. And I knew this at the time and for the many years that followed -- and I still basked in the sun and vacationed in Florida and sometimes actually drove in the direction of the sun on a overcast day, in search of a tan that was never fully achieved because my skin is pale and fair and was never meant for any amount of sun exposure.

At the same Atlanta meeting of the American Society of Clinical Oncology where the breast cancer drug Tykerb was touted as perhaps the next wonder drug, findings were also released concerning chemotherapy and end-stage cancer. It seems that many patients in the last weeks and days of their lives are receiving chemotherapy -- when it is clear that there is no hope for survival. Perhaps patients don't want to give up and so they choose to fight to the very end. I think I would be hard-pressed to throw in the towel if a doctor thought I might benefit from continued treatment. Miracles do happen.

Doctors may be part of the problem, though, according to researchers. Patients don't want to give up -- and neither do doctors. But cancer specialists report that overly aggressive treatment gives false hope and puts people though unnecessary suffering and costly ordeals when hospice would be a more effective route. The purpose of hospice -- to help people die with dignity and in comfort -- is ineffective, however, when it's not used to its full potential. A large review of Medicare records showed in 1999 that nearly 12 percent of cancer patients died after receiving chemotherapy in the last two weeks of life. This was up from 1993 -- 10 percent -- and is probably higher today. These individuals could have been peacefully preparing for death and instead were suffering through the trials of harsh treatment.

The solution -- that must be implemented by doctors -- is a willingness to accept that there is a time to stop followed by an honest conversation with the patient whose cancer has spread widely and is incurable.

Another study presented at this Atlanta meeting revealed that some patients are not being offered newer treatments that might truly save their lives. New lung cancer treatments have extended survival from 20 percent at one year to 50 percent, for example. Yet only 11 percent of doctors in one Wisconsin study would refer such patients for treatment.

It would be nice to know for sure that one life is about to end, regardless of treatment, and to know that another might be saved because of treatment. And maybe one day -- when treating cancer is an exact science -- this will be a reality.

Research and cancer prevention programs all suggest that obesity can lead to the development of a number of cancers. In a continuing series of posts looking at alternative weight loss programs, this one is about the Eat QOD diet. Basically, it is a simple dietary practice of eating what you like, within reason, on one day, and the next day is spent fasting, with a maximum caloric intake of about 300-400 calories. On Eat QOD, you lose weight gradually, without setting off the internal starvation alarm that tells your body to horde fat reserves as a survival means -- a cycle ultimately undermining most long-term diet success. According to Eat QOD practitioners, there is a Zen benefit to the Eat QOD fasting diet.

• Many cultures fast to clear the mind and get closer to themselves, to nature, and to higher spiritual powers gained by spiritual fasting.
• You may well feel some of this during the OFF days.
• At worst, you will have more free time, and will avoid after-meal drowsiness.
• At best, you might begin to get more in touch with yourself and with your body.
• You may start to feel truly hungry for the first time, for specific foods.
  

The Eat QOD website is nicely done and offers educational information and resources that include the Eat QOD blog, forum, book, mini-meal recipes and a weight loss charting tool to track your progress.