When you're knee deep in the mess of stress, anxiety, disappointment, panic, fear -- you name it -- isn't it nice to escape for a moment, to feel relief from the burden of heavy emotion? I think so. And I happen to know from personal experience a few techniques that have a calming effect on the most overworked of minds. I'll make it brief, because I know reading volumes of self-help advice is not what's on your worried mind.

• Listen to a favorite song, or any song. It will shift your focus and put your mind in the context of the song. You may even feel recharged and motivated.

• Write down your thoughts. Just write. Don't worry about grammar, spelling, or sentence formation. Just jot down what's on your mind. Transfer your emotion to paper -- or the computer screen -- and see how relieved you can feel.

Seven sweet, simple words were hurled at me last night by my oldest child, Joey -- the boy who makes me as crazy as he does happy.

Joey, six, was all snuggled in bed, cozy with his soft blankets, squishy pillows, and three favorite stuffed puppies. I gave him my usual speech -- Sweet dreams. I love you. Now don't get out of bed -- and then made my usual trek to another room for some me-time. My trip was stopped short, though, because a strong urge inspired me to reverse my steps and return to Joey.

"What are you doing, mommy?" Joey asked as I walked back into the room.

"I thought I'd come rest with you for a little bit," I told him. "Is that OK?" I asked, knowing full well any excuse to avoid sleep is just fine with him

Joey sat straight up, pure joy coloring his tired face. I took this to mean he welcomed my return. And so I crawled into bed and hugged Joey tight. And that's when he spoke the seven words that caused tears to pour from my eyes -- the kind of tears that spill out when the human body can no longer harness its emotion.

The words:

"Mommy, I love you so, so much."

Ever since Joey blessed me with these words, I can't seem to get one thought out of my head.

The thought:

God, I hope I survive cancer long enough to hold this boy in my arms until he is all grown up, until he is wrapping his arms around his own loving child.

I really hope this is not too much to ask.

I never tire of cherishing the moment. Sometimes I get busy and distracted and caught up in the hustle and bustle of life, but I always come back to the simple appreciation of time. There's no stopping it -- time -- and there's no telling how my days will unfold as the seconds and minutes and hours tick by, so I try to live in the present with every breath I take.

Cancer taught me this lesson -- this realization that time is not a guarantee, this deep-down feeling that I must soak up every experience that faces me.

Each night when my husband and I check on our sleeping boys, we sigh with amazement and one of us religiously says something like, Wow, they are so great. We never want to lose sight of the joy these sometimes-challenging little people share with us. And so we watch them in their most peaceful moments, while emotion fills our heads and hearts.

My husband has lost sight of his father -- literally. He died eight years ago today and while John can no longer see the man who passed away suddenly, without warning, and at a much-too-young age, his memories are still vivid. It's the simple things he didn't let slip by that are fresh in his mind today.

John wrote this essay for his mom and two brothers and sent it to them today, in honor of his dad whose life he hopes will never escape him.

And then there were four

I think about him just about every day. Most often it's a song that reminds me of Dad, such as Cats in the Cradle, or even one of his favorite TV shows, Quantum Leap. I was shopping in Publix the other day while a great mix of music played -- a song from Three Degree's came on, When Will I See You Again, and I stood there with a thousand-mile stare on my face as I thought of Dad. I work in a building that looks right across the street from the last residence hall I lived in, Yulee Hall -- the last dorm from which Dad muscled all my belongings. I see that building every day.

The passing of time doesn't fade the memories I have of him, the distance between the last one just increases. Just about this time eight years ago, I laid across Dad's chest well after he took is last breath. That memory is forever burned into my mind along side the memory I have of walking past Kristin's room that fateful day many years ago. Before that day there were six of us, then there were five, and now there are four. Every force of nature cannot stop that number from reaching zero, so I wanted to take this opportunity to tell you all that I love you and think about you every day. Although death may be the worst gift of life, the gift of our kids will keep our numbers growing. It's unfortunate he didn't get to meet any of our kids and they didn't get to meet him -- but in a way they do. There is no doubt I share some of his qualities and those (hopefully only the good ones) affect the way I parent, the way I work, and the way I love.

I miss you, Dad.

Love, JP

I wrote this journal entry one year ago today. It's one of many entries I look back on to remember my journey with breast cancer, to capture the emotions that preceded the ones I have now, to chart just how far I have come since the day of my diagnosis. This is one of my happier journal entries -- written at a time when I was coming back to life after surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation, when I was happy to be alive and in the company of two little boys whose simplicity inspired me.

My hats were once so important to me. Now they are scattered all over the floor of my bedroom closet. Once my daily camouflage for what cancer had done to me, my hats are now toys. Joey and Danny play with them and toss them around and wear them -- sometimes one at a time and sometimes they pile as many as they can on top of their little blond heads. The hats hold no real significance to them -- they are just playthings and while Joey can recall that I wore them at one time, the emotion wrapped up in the pale blue sleep cap and the black Nike ball cap and the yellow bucket hat is lost on him. I consider this a blessing -- that one day, he and Danny will likely have very little memory of this cancer adventure and that they may only remember what fun it was to wear so many hats.

When I first looked at my pathology report more than 18 months ago, it made little sense. Terms like Bloom Richardson Score and margins and Her2Neu were as foreign to me as the breast cancer that somehow invaded my body. So I read it over and over again and was eventually able to identify the basic meaning hidden within the four pages that detailed my disease. As it turned out, this report was my map. It led me in various directions for various treatments. It contained some roadblocks. It was sometimes confusing. And sometimes I got lost. There were some good and not-so-good stops along the way. And in the end, I reached my final destination -- in the land survival. And this is where I hope to stay. For a long time.

My map is not necessary anymore -- although I still look back at it. I've found that it makes more sense now that time has passed. I can interpret it more objectively, with more perspective and less emotion and fear. I am still learning about the disease that was removed from my breast. And I am realizing there was a lot I never really knew -- like these seven subjects -- when breast cancer was new and fresh and debilitating.

Sing for the Cure CD is a profound musical journey chronicling the experiences of women diagnosed with breast cancer. Narrated by Poet Laureate Dr. Maya Angelou, and featuring the performances of librettist Pamela Martin, the Turtle Creek Chorale and the Women's Chorus of Dallas, the CD offers original songs that capture the emotions of ten composers.

The selections on the Sing for the Cure CD include Prelude For The Uncommon Woman; The Community's Voice; Who Will Speak?; Facing Diagnosis; Borrowed Time; The Partner's Voice; The Promise Lives On; Taking Control; Livin' Out Loud Blues; The Child's Voice; The Sister's Voice; Girl In The Mirror; The Mother's Voice; Who Will Curl My Daughter's Hair; Pursuing A Cure; Groundless Ground; Proclaiming Hope; One Voice: I Will Not Be Silent; Testimonial and Come To Me, Mother.

Live concert performances of Sing for the Cure, dedicated to those affected by breast cancer, have been held in more than 50 US cities, including Carnegie Hall in New York City. The Sing for the Cure CD is available through the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation gift shop.

Regaining focus after losing a loved one to cancer is a tough thing for anyone. Last month Professional golfer Tiger Woods missed his first ever cut in a major championship at the US Open following the loss of his father Earl Woods to prostate cancer on May 3. Tiger regained his focus one month later to win the British Open today.

Mourning for someone you have cared for and loved is a necessary part of feeling better again and continuing with your own life. You will often experience emotions of intense sadness and despair, or it may be hard to believe that the person has really died. You may feel that crying is a sign of weakness, or that you are falling apart but grieving is the way we begin to heal ourselves, just as an injury needs time to heal.

With an emotional breakdown of tears on the finishing hole, Tiger Woods wept openly in the arms of his caddy Steve Williams. This was his first victory since his father's death and some critics questioned whether Woods could regain the focus needed to stay on top of the rankings in the professional golf world. Watching the British Open on television and seeing the final shot by Tiger filled my eyes with tears to know the pain this man felt while winning such a glorious title in golf without the presence of the father that has stood by him his whole career. But he regained his stance at the top of the world rankings and keeps the focus that was taught to him by his father Earl Woods.

"After the last putt, I realized my dad's never going to see this again, and I wish he could have seen this one last time," Woods said at the trophy presentation. "He was out there today keeping me calm. I had a very calm feeling the entire week, especially today."

Tiger Woods now has three British Open titles, the same as Jack Nicklaus, and his victory at Hoylake carried another comparison. The first major Nicklaus won after his father died in 1970 also was the British Open.

For the almost two years I have been receiving treatment for breast cancer, I have traveled the same path -- over and over and over again -- from my house to the hospital and back again. And while I have seen different doctors and received different treatments and visited various departments and locations for all sorts of surgeries and tests and scans and X-rays, the path has remained the same. And after all the time that has passed, the power of the path has never diminished -- despite how familiar it has become.

Today I drove from my house to the hospital for a counseling appointment. I drove the same stretch of highway for a few miles, got off on my usual exit, drove for a few more miles past all the typical shopping centers and restaurants, and came to the light where I always turn left into the Cancer Center. I drove into the parking lot, found a parking space -- thankfully -- and displayed my yellow patient parking permit that allows to park without fear of a $20 ticket. I got out of my car and began my walk to the main hospital where the psychology clinic is located. I passed -- as usual -- the startling crowds of people smoking outside the Cancer Center, the groups of medical students who gather outside the medical facilities, the masses of people in white coats racing around and checking beepers and talking on cell phones. I entered the hospital, traveled to the ground floor, and turned a few corners until I reached my clinic. I checked in, paid my $25 co-pay, and waited for a just a few minutes until I was greeted by my counselor. We walked to a private room, talked for an hour, and then I followed my path in reverse.

The path is always the same. It is routine and predictable and rarely varies. But it has never become dull and I have never become numb to it -- because the power that is wrapped up in my drive and my subsequent steps that take me to and from my destinations still has a tight hold on me. I can travel the same path for other purposes -- to shop or have dinner -- and the power is lost. But when I travel for reasons all about cancer, the power overwhelms me. It happened today -- as I drove listening to the same CD I always play on these missions, as tears filled my eyes. I was not sad -- just overflowing with emotion. Emotion about all that I've encountered -- the encounters with fear and dread and total repulsion and the encounters with hope and joy and pure contentment. Today I felt powerful. Simply powerful. Because I have overcome what has faced me so far and because I am still traveling the same road, the same path to ensure my future health and well-being -- which is something I hope to become all too familiar with.

My mom just wished me a happy birthday and said she recalls vividly the days of June 19th and 20th -- way back in 1970. She remembers June 19th because she was admitted to the hospital on this day and June 20th because this was the day she gave birth to me. Her own birthday is just two days from now -- but it is my birthday that is more memorable, more joyous, more etched in her mind. And so it is not my birthday -- today -- that evokes emotion in me or makes me feel nostalgic about the day a life was born. The days my own two babies were born -- January 3 and May 30 -- are the birthdays that are most powerful for me. These are the days when I personally pushed two big boys into the world -- and for me, that is a cause for a celebration.

I will still celebrate my birthday today -- with a day spent with my boys, a dinner out with my husband, perhaps some gifts, and the thrill of knowing I've lived to the age of 36 after a breast cancer diagnosis at age 34. So it will be a happy day for sure. And I am thankful to my mom for pushing me into the world so I can know the true pleasure of birthdays that are not my own.

I visited a neighbor yesterday who has breast cancer. She has had one dose of chemotherapy and just yesterday shaved her head. I stopped by to see her new hairstyle and to give her a gift -- a collection of goodies including a hat, some Healing Garden bath lotions and sprays, a flower pen I made, and a card reminding her that like me, she will survive the madness of breast cancer treatment and will go on to enjoy a full head of hair again. And while our travels will be similar in some ways, they are also very different.  You see, Gayle had a mastectomy and I did not. So I can't relate to the emotion that comes from losing a breast and feeling lopsided and searching for a bathing suit to mask the unevenness and waiting for reconstruction that won't take place until after chemotherapy is complete. But Gayle is one strong woman and while I know she will have dark moments at times, her attitude and spirit is remarkable. I went to visit her thinking I could spread some hope her way and I walked away with a dose of hope from her -- a woman new to this journey yet full of courage and strength and bravery.

Gayle, 33 years old, a wife, and mom of two small boys, told me she will go to work tomorrow with a bald head -- she is not interested in cover-ups -- and this makes her an exceptional person in my book. I never did bare my baldness to the world and kept it covered until my new hair was growing back. I admire Gayle -- and all the women who display their heads like badges of honor -- because she is a true survivor. And one who just might teach me a thing or two.

This week, the British Medical Journal published the results of an observational study that suggests parents are unaware of the impact a cancer diagnosis has on their children. According to the very small survey involving 37 mothers who had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and the interviews with their children, the researchers recommend parents need support in thinking about how they will talk to their children. I am going to quote a statement in the report that reads, "Parents sometimes misunderstood their children's reactions and underestimated the emotional impact or did not recognize the children's need for more preparation and age appropriate information about the illness and its treatment." I did not speak to these 37 women, but this study in general reveals the need to stand back and question the results of any study before accepting its validity.

I am a cancer survivor, and I know more than a few cancer survivors. Every parent I know was extremely concerned about the devastating impact cancer would have for their children, and spent a good amount of time thinking about how to talk to their children. All the parents I know went to great lengths to do so in a way that would bring reassurance and comfort for their children. It is such an important topic for parents, I posted how do you tell your children you have cancer? back in March, sharing Family Doctor suggestions for parents in helping their children cope with a parent diagnosed with cancer. While parents may want to protect their children from worries and fear, I do not know one that isn't acutely aware and concerned for their children. Parents who sought out the resources needed to help them best discuss cancer with their kids. I am taken aback by the suggestion in the study published in the British Medical Journal that states parents are sometimes unaware of the emotional and psychological needs of their children.