Cancer goes on. So does life. Just ask Mary Ann O'Rourke, author of a beautiful essay about her two sons, a baseball game, a redecorating project, and a little thing called breast cancer.

The essay, titled My cancer, and me, go on, will warm your heart.

Think about this:

About boys:

On a misty June morning I tell the boys.

"Guys, I have some bad news," I say, as we walk down Valley Road.

They stop, wait for me to catch up.

"I have breast cancer," I say.

Jack flashes me a steely look. He's the mathematician, the calculating one who likes order. Things aren't adding up.

"It's OK, though." I say. "I have good doctors taking care of me. I'll have to get sick to get better, but I'll be fine after that."

With lowered heads, the boys hold a polite and deferential silence. We continue our walk.

"Jack, you wanna build a fort?" Joe asks.

"No, Joe," Jack replies. "We're playing baseball, remember?"

About baseball:

Sunny and 70 degrees, a gentle breeze is blowing in from Lake Michigan as we settle into our bleacher seats. My husband, Leo, passes down two Cokes, a beer and a Wrigley Field visor to protect me from the sun.

The Cubs lead in the ninth inning when Milwaukee's left fielder cranks one over our heads onto Sheffield Avenue to bring in the winning run for the Brewers. Jack and Joe lean over the railing and watch Sammy Sosa shake his head in disgust.

The beer tastes bitter. I had started chemotherapy a week earlier.

About redecorating:

I'm drawn to a loose seam of wallpaper in the corner of the room. I peel off a long, satisfying swath. I move from panel to panel, stripping all that comes easy. I feel the wall, scrape with my fingernails, yank hard and viscously, over and over.

I'm learning the sad truth about wallpaper. The battle is not so much with the paper, as it is with the glue underneath. Even with DIF, the paste comes off slowly, in tiny wads of goo. I scrape feverishly, angrily at one stubborn patch. As I gouge the wall, the razor pops out of my hand, flips upside down and slices my right wrist.

About breast cancer:

It's been 31⁄2 years since my diagnosis.

On a frigid February morning, with a cup of coffee in one hand, I climb the ladder to Joe's bunk bed.

"C'mon honey," I nudge. "We gotta work on those spelling words."

I place a soft pillow behind my moppy morning hair.

Joe slowly comes to life.

"PROCEED," he mumbles. "P-R-O-C-E-E-D."

As he rattles off words, I sip my coffee and bask in the warmth of his room.

Frost outside the window sparkles in the morning sun. A pirate ship poster wilts from the vapors of Joe's fish tank. My carefully planned navy-amber-white color scheme clashes with his Civil War map and his Kansas City Chiefs pennant.

The gouge in the wall warms my heart, and I reach under the blanket to squeeze Joe's toes.

There's this guy. His name is Matthew Zachary. He's a cancer survivor, a motivational speaker, a concert pianist, and the founder of a resource portal for young adults surviving cancer.

Steps for Living, Inc. -- also known as I'm too young for this -- was created by Zachary because he wants us all to know there are awesome cancer support services out there for adolescents and young adults. He means really awesome opportunities -- like spa retreats, online forums and blogs, social networking, camping excursions, fertility education, peer counseling, financial scholarships, and more.

You may be too young for cancer, but you are not alone, says Zachary whose mantra is Get Busy Living. And this is exactly what he is doing, despite challenges and setbacks in his own cancer recovery.

Think about this, an e-mail written by Zachary for those near and dear to his heart:

I am writing to share that I have suddenly gone deaf in my left ear. The condition is called Sudden Sensory Neural Hearing Loss.

After consulting with the country's best hearing experts as well as my oncologist, it has been determined that this is unequivocally a latent, long-term side effect of my post-operative cancer treatments from eleven years ago. Evidently, the excessive radiation dosages to the left hemisphere of my brain have caused irreparable neurological damage to my cochlea, which has ceased functioning.

There may be options (cochlear implants) but I will not know more for several weeks. As you can imagine, this is a devastating blow to my personal life and music career, especially since I remember fighting so hard to regain dexterity and muscle control in my left hand when it ceased functioning prior to my initial diagnosis in 1995.

That said, it has only reinvigorated me to stay the course and continue to advocate on behalf of the more than 500,000 young adults living with, through and beyond cancer each and every year. Now more than ever, I stress the importance of recognizing that remission is not a cure and that public awareness and adequate funding for adolescent and young adult cancer survivorship programming is tantamount to that of cancer research.

This is what it means to be a cancer survivor.

To read more about Zachary's powerful journey, click here for an unbelievably moving essay -- titled The Cost Of Living: No Cure For Cancer -- written by this unbelievably grounded guy.

Tears are streaming down my face. I can't stop them, and I'm not sure I want to. In a way, I want to feel the tragedy of life lost to cancer because it makes it all real. It makes it personal. It makes me realize the same tragedy could happen to me, my family members, my friends. It makes me want to make a difference even more now that I've seen the chilling pictures of a young woman dying of cervical cancer than moments earlier when I was moved mostly by my own breast cancer journey.

I first read about Heather Lyn Martin on the JANE magazine website, home of a beautifully-written story -- I Hate Tumors -- by Sara Lyle, long-time friend of Heather and senior editor for JANE, a publication for 20-something women. Sara's words powerfully depict the life and death of her friend, stricken with a disease she was sure she would beat. So sure, in fact, she asked Sara to help tell her success story.

Sadly, Heather never got to tell much. Because she died much too soon, at the age of 28. So Sara told the story through her own words and photos -- the same ones responsible for my tears -- and has just recently written a second essay, one year after her first story started reaching young people everywhere.

Sara wrote Why I Still Hate Tumors after inspiring many young women to open their eyes to the realities of a deadly disease. Her words serve to raise awareness about the dangers of cervical cancer -- and the HPV virus that causes it -- and to point women in the direction of resources critical for preventing and conquering the disease.

Sara, because of the death of her dear friend, is saving lives with her message. And she just may save yours.

To see all that Sara has to offer in the fight against cervical cancer and other hated tumors, visit her I Hate Tumors website.

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

Photographs tell powerful stories. They depict people and objects and landscapes and emotions in deep, meaningful ways. They capture permanent visual representations of moments in life. They paint pictures that even the most well-crafted words could not reproduce.

When Mary Ann Nilan was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2004 at the age of 40, she knew her story must be told -- through pictures. So she asked a photographer to record it all, stating, "I hope the pictures make the road easier for other women." The rest is history.

She calls it a photo essay and titles it The Diary of Healing. For 17 frames -- with photographs dominating each space and text kept to a minimum -- Nilan shares her journey that began with the discovery of breast cancer in both breasts and several lymph nodes, the journey that took her through chemotherapy, a double mastectomy, and reconstruction with implants.

Her photographs document significant stops on her physical and emotional trek. They show her bald head, the wig she wore only once and then let hang on a hook, the scars that crossed her flat chest after surgery, an injection of saline that painfully pierced the skin of her new breasts, her children measuring her hair as it grows in after chemotherapy. The photographs are both hopeful and chilling. They are breast cancer. They are more than words could ever capture.

Shannon Harken wrote an essay to nominate her mother, Sue Myers of Pleasantville, Iowa, as the most amazing mother in the world because of her mother's zest for life and the positive example she set while battling breast cancer. Of the more than 14,000 Mom's the Word essay submissions, Kohl's unveiled the ten most amazing role model mom finalists of the contest and Harken's essay about her mother placed Myers in the top ten moms of the year. Ultimately, America will vote to decide who will be this year's number one amazing mom. All ten essays are featured at Kohl's, where you can vote for the essay and mother you feel best deserves to win.

The role model with the most votes will earn a $5,000 shopping spree, a style transformation, and will be escorted by Daisy Fuentes on a trip to Fashion Week in Los Angeles. In addition, Kohl's and Fuentes will honor the grand prize winner during a ceremony in her hometown on May 13. All mothers are amazing, but I went and voted for Myers. Knowing what she has been through by way of the fact I am a breast cancer survivor and I know what I went through -- I would like to see her win and enjoy a day of special recognition, pampering and fun. Voting ends May 8. Shannon's essay about her mother Sue is cute. It's number #2. Go here to vote.