I heard today on the radio that there's a shortage of blood supply here in Gainesville, Florida. Reserves are so low there's barely enough blood to last one full day at a time. LifeSouth Community Blood Centers reports about this emergency blood shortage on their website.

"The blood supply stands at less than a one-day supply which has blood center officials very concerned," writes John David Larkin Nolen, LifeSouth's Medical Director. "All eligible residents are asked to give blood. Blood donations haven't kept pace with demand and we've had a very tight supply for the past few weeks. But today several patient situations involving children and adults facing life threatening medical conditions depleted the reserve supplies. We're worried about our overall ability to make sure the patients that need blood will receive what they need during the next few days."

I wish I could donate my blood, but I can't. Until I've been free from cancer treatment for five years, no none wants it. But maybe you can help. Try tracking down your local blood center and see what you can do to help. It may just be the gift that saves a life.

I've been thinking a lot about this quote, offered by Robert A. Emmons, Ph.D and author of Thanks! How the New Science of Gratitude Can Make You Happier:

"individuals who approach life with an attitude that all of life is a gift will be more likely to find the good in bad life circumstances. They are more likely to move forward following a catastrophe. In fact, they may be more likely to label such an event a gift."

Ever since I read these words in the August 2007 issue of The Oprah Magazine, I've been contemplating the value of finding something good in every bad life scenario. It's what I've done with cancer. I've convinced myself my disease was merely a bump in the road. Only a bump, though. I choose to focus on the joy, not the despair, that came with my cancer encounter.

This is exactly what I tried to convey in this post. And this one too.

I wrote recently about The View co-host Elisabeth Hasselbeck and the inner strength she says she acquired from helping care for her mother during a battle with breast cancer. I ended my post with this statement:

It seems a common thread -- the fact that cancer makes us all stronger in one way or another. It's one of the silver linings, I think. Cancer can be a gift. We just have to regard it as one and look hard for its hidden treasures.

Two readers have since left comments indicating I must be crazy for thinking of cancer as a gift. One reader wrote: I'm certainly glad that Elisabeth was able to take something positive away from her mother's bout with breast cancer, but I'm not sure that I can buy into the "gift" part.

We know her best as the spunky headband-wearing contestant on Survivor: The Australian Outback and most recently as the vivacious co-host on the daytime talk show The View. Elisabeth Hasselbeck is a fighter -- whether she's duking it out to win $1 million or defending herself in front of a television audience. Remember her on-screen political feud with Rosie O'Donnell just before O'Donnell's departure from The View?

Hasselbeck seems sweet and innocent. I'm sure she is, really. But she surely has the ability to stand her own ground. She owes this trait to her mom, she says.

"My senior year of high school, my mother was diagnosed with an advanced from of breast cancer," says Hasselbeck, now 30. "She was put on intensive chemotherapy and had to take time off from her job as an attorney. Suddenly, I was the grown-up: I took her to her first chemo appointment, and helped her shave her head. The experience taught me a lot about looking inside for strength."

In response to the post Thought for the Day: These Small Hours, a song by Matchbox 20's Rob Thomas, reader Mary H. shares the name of another beautiful song by artist Sarah McLachlan. The song, Ordinary Miracle, is from the Charlotte's Web movie soundtrack and for Mary -- and me too -- it evokes an inspiring live-for-the-moment type of message.

Think about this:

It's not that usual when everything is beautiful
It's just another ordinary miracle today

The sky knows when its time to snow
You don't need to teach a seed to grow
It's just another ordinary miracle today

Life is like a gift they say
Wrapped up for you everyday
Open up and find a way
To give some of your own

Isn't it remarkable?
Like every time a raindrop falls
It's just another ordinary miracle today

Birds in winter have their fling
And always make it home by spring
It's just another ordinary miracle today

When you wake up everyday
Please don't throw your dreams away
Hold them close to your heart
Cause we are all a part
Of the ordinary miracle

Ordinary miracle
Do you want to see a miracle?

Its seems so exceptional
Things just work out after all
It's just another ordinary miracle today

The sun comes up and shines so bright
It disappears again at night
It's just another ordinary miracle today

It's just another ordinary miracle today

Tomorrow, the second issue of Beyond: Live & Thrive After Breast Cancer hits newsstands. And I, for one, can't wait to pick up a copy of the Spring/Summer edition of this positively powerful publication.

If you read the first issue -- the Fall/Winter magazine released in October -- you know what this glossy book has to offer. There are personal stories and interviews, shared wisdom and sound advice. There are exercise tips and health tips and survival tips. There are stories about chemo brain and fertility and relationships. There is information about breast cancer research and resources and products that are tried and true.

I want to tell you so much more -- but really, I want you find out for yourself just how moving and soothing this magazine can be.

So plan to get your copy -- tomorrow -- and tell all your friends to do the same. If you need a gift for a loved one newly diagnosed or someone who has long survived this disease, try this on for size. Buy a few copies and donate them to your favorite doctors' offices -- a fresh magazine can do wonders for any waiting room. Share one with a neighbor, a relative, a new acquaintance.

Do what you can, will you -- to both reap the benefits of this solid source of inspiration and help sustain the life of this magazine? Because magazines are only as strong as the readers who embrace them. And trust me, this is one catch we cannot afford to lose.

My friend -- who has a friend newly diagnosed with brain cancer -- greeted me at the door the other day and asked with a sense of urgency, "How can I help?"

"Help your friend?" I asked.

"Yes, she said, unsure of what she might say or do in this time of great difficulty for everyone involved.

I told her a few things. And then I thought of some more. It wasn't terribly easy to come up with these ideas. Because even though I myself was on the receiving end of help during my cancer journey, it's still hard to imagine what an individual wants or needs -- or doesn't want or need. But here's what I've got to offer.

I hope this helps my friend.

I hope it helps you too.

• Allow your loved one to take the lead. If you sense this person wants to talk, then talk. If you sense talk is not welcomed, then don't talk. To determine whether or not your friend or family member wants to discuss cancer, approach the topic and judge the response you get. I know I can usually tell if someone is willing to open up -- typically the conversation just flows -- and when someone is putting the brakes on chit-chat -- typically the conversation falls flat.

• If talk is not in the cards, then consider an offer of food. Sometimes actions speak much louder than words. So think about calling a restaurant in your friend's town and ordering a meal to be delivered right to the door. Most eating establishments accept credit card numbers over the phone so location should be a non-issue. Even those deep in despair need to eat, and taking away the chore of cooking and cleaning up can be quite a gift.

• If the gift of food is not up your alley, how about sending a small gift, like a candle, a pair of cozy socks, a grocery store gift card, a music CD, a gift certificate for a spa. You name it, your special something might brighten the day.

• If you live near your loved one and have some free time, offer to drive to appointments, visit during treatments, pick up kids and entertain them for the day, clean house, cook, and clean up dinner. Try to be very specific with your offers. Say, "I'd like to pick up your kids tomorrow at lunch so you can take a nap" or "I'm coming over on Sunday to rake leaves." These offers are easier to accept than the "call me if you need anything" kind.
  

• If a quick stop at your loved one's house is possible, drop off a book on the front porch or set some pretty potted flowers by the door. Or do both. Then walk away without saying a word. Let your help take your friend by surprise.

• When you do have the chance to talk, avoid guiding the conversation with your own thoughts and advice, unless requested. Saying, "Everything will be OK," for example, may not be true. Assuring your friend she will sail right through chemotherapy may backfire if nausea and fatigue are just down the road. Stating, "it's OK, your hair will grow back," doesn't really help those living with the horror of hair loss. So stay away from promises and predictions and stick to the present. Ask questions, listen, and paraphrase back what your friend has shared. These are basic counseling techniques. The premise is that allowing the person to work through the issues is more important than what we can do to directly help.
  

• Don't forget about the good old greeting card or short note that lets your loved know how much you care. Let the card say it if you wish to avoid writing and then add an address, a stamp, and send your support on its way.
  

• This makes eight -- so much for sticking to my Sunday plan -- but I must share this too: Don't forget about your loved one after months and even years pass by. Initial diagnoses are tough and treatments are tough too. But as your friend survives each day, remember to check in. Cancer is a life-long battle for many. Support and assistance may be just as valuable a year down the road as it is on day one.

I tend to think of cancer as a gift. I think it helps me prioritize life's details. I believe it has taught me to stress less. I know it's made me more sensitive to others sharing this planet with me. Yes, cancer has made me a better person. And I consider that a gift.

This is not how writer Lauren Terrazzano describes her dance with cancer.

"The truth is, having cancer just pisses me off," says Terrazzano.

"I wish I could be one of those people who has had the epiphany, who believes the disease has given me valuable insight into life. OK, I occasionally feel that way, but it might just be the pain medication."

Neither of us is right. We just have different takes on living with a deadly disease. And our opposite viewpoints make for a rather enlightening study on how cancer affects us all so differently.

I regularly write about the blessings I've found in the midst of cancer. So for today's Thought for the Day, I present to you some thoughts from Terrazzano about how cancer is not always a gift.

Think about this:

On cancer making her a better person

I don't really remember what kind of person I was before cancer. While I may not be better, I am definitely blunter.

I often say whatever I want to whomever I want, whenever the moment strikes me. These flashes can be toxic to those around me. I once yelled at a homeless man who asked me for a dollar. I yell at my husband sometimes, arguing about stupid things like how to shove a brisket into the freezer, above the peas and spinach.

And I sometimes wish bad things on bad people. Mostly the high-octane evil people, like Osama bin Laden (Why can't he have to go through chemotherapy? Why can't he have a good dose of radiation?). Are these really the musings of a better person?

On living each day as if it's your last

Nope. Can't do it.

While sometimes I am the carpe diem sort of girl, I want to live each day like just another day. I want to watch When Harry Met Sally for the 17th time or surf the Internet for new pictures of Britney Spears' bald head. Then I want to cap it off by several hours of reading. Forget Tolstoy, though. I'd rather read People magazine. Why do I have to cram life into 20 seconds, while other people have the luxury of doing it over the span of 20 years?

On why she is not so brave

Firefighters and police officers who plunge head first into dangerous situations are brave. A child protective worker who gets paid next to nothing and tries to be a mother to as many as 50 dysfunctional families is brave. Those people chose their positions in life. Cancer chose me. It's not bravery that gets me up every morning to try to beat back the monster. It's a survival instinct that kicks in, pure Darwinism.

The fact is, most of the time I am scared to death. I wear Band-Aids far too long because I can't take the agony of pulling them off. I hate needles (though I don't know anyone who likes them). Why is it that people who hate getting blood drawn are the ones who usually end up with serious illnesses that require getting stuck often? It's a mystery of the universe, much like why tornadoes seem to seek out trailer parks to do their damage.

I just heard someone say that time doesn't heal all wounds -- it just makes them worse. I guess it depends on the wound. I imagine losing a child is one wound that never really heals. But I've found that my cancer wounds -- both physical and emotional -- have healed with time. And a trip down memory lane proves it.

Two years ago I wrote about my wounds, fresh and raw and painful, on my Breast Cancer blog.

Confession
Wednesday, February 23rd, 2005

I'm just waiting for the call -- the call that prompts my first visit with any number of newly-diagnosed breast cancer patients who want someone to lend an ear, a shoulder, and a few good tips for steering through a scary journey.

I am a new American Cancer Society Reach to Recovery volunteer, trained this past Saturday and ready to help others who are slipping into the shoes I started wearing two years ago. I was first a recipient of this program -- designed to match new breast cancer patients with veteran survivors through face-to-face visits -- and I know well the comfort that comes from the support of someone not so overwhelmed by cancer. So now it's my turn to offer the comfort. And I am oh so ready.

I am armed with literature, communication techniques, gift bags for my patients, and my own official volunteer pin. And while I am a bit anxious about how my first meeting will go, I learned on Saturday that my mere presence will be enough to calm the women whose lives I am about to touch.

There is no better vision for someone just diagnosed with breast cancer than a healthy, happy woman who happens to be surviving the same disease. And so it is hope that I will spread and my unspoken portrayal of life after cancer that will inspire these women. My words will be icing on the cake. It's me these women want to see. And it's these women I want to see as I begin to reach to recovery -- a recovery I suspect will largely be my own.

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

Baltimore region's blood supply hit an annual low. Blood donations are typically slow in January but the need picks up with surgeries back on schedule after the holidays. Types O and B seem to be particularly low.

Baltimore Health Commissioner Dr. Joshua Sharfstein called blood donation "a very thin red line that connects a lot of people in the community". He also stated that as a physician, it is a very horrible moment when you think that blood may not be available.

Blood can not be manufactured in a lab, it has to be given by people. Premature babies require blood donations in order to live, trauma victims need blood so they don't die, cancer victims require blood sometimes because of very toxic therapies, and that is only a few of the reasons blood is so desperately needed.

To schedule an appointment to donate blood, call 800-GIVE-LIFE

I am headed out the door this Christmas morning -- with my husband and two little boys -- to my sister's house where our family members will gather to celebrate the spirit of the season. There will be good food and good company and good laughs -- and good gifts too. And while I have managed to create a mini wish list -- I'm liking decorative tin stars this year and I'll always take the gift of a pedicure -- there is only one gift I really want. Time.

I have been surviving breast cancer for two years. I've seen my oldest child march off to kindergarten and my youngest son grow into an independent little soul. I've seen my hair grow, my anxiety diminish, and my writing career blossom. Time is quite a gift. And I want more of it.

I want to see my kids tackle first grade and preschool. I want to further develop my writing pursuits. And I want meet my sister's new baby, due at the end of May.

I believe in my head and my heart and my gut that I have a lot more time left on this planet. But just to be safe, I'm keeping time on my wish list for as long as I can. Because all ll I really want for Christmas -- every Christmas -- is time.

I spend 10.5 hours every weekday on my own with some combination of my two little boys. My day starts each morning and extends through meals and playtime and laughs and tears and fights and struggles and snuggles -- but never a nap -- and even a part-time preschool job where one or two boys always tag along. Sometimes I try to write during the day while my boys are happy and occupied. Typically, I don't accomplish much. Interruptions are endless -- as they should be for a mostly stay-at-home mom who chooses to devote her daytime hours to raising children.

And so I go it alone until dinner time when my husband returns from work and selflessly takes over and sets me free. He cooks, serves, and cleans up dinner. He plays and entertains and wrestles and heads up bath and book time. And then he transports each boy on his back to their respective beds.

During my moments of freedom each evening, I lose myself in my thoughts -- and I begin to write. I love my mommy job -- and wouldn't trade it for any other full-time job -- but I also love being alone. And I love writing.

Helen Keller said, "I must have something besides husband and children, something I can devote myself to! I want to go on living even after my death! And therefore, I am grateful to God for giving me this gift, this possibility of developing myself, and of writing, of expressing all that is within me."

Writing -- mostly about cancer -- helps me develop my surviving self. It helps me express all that is within me. And maybe it's fitting that I don't get too much time to dwell on the disease that consumed me for two years. If I had to choose between two busy boys and a life busy with cancer, I'd take two boys in an instant. At the end of the day, a little bit of writing about a little of cancer suits me just fine.

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.