Staff Sgt. Elizabeth Cowie's dream almost ended when she was diagnosed with breast cancer in May. She was told earlier in the year that she would deploy to Iraq this summer.

The forty-two year old mother is ready for duty after her aggressive treatment plan. She had two surgeries and a five day targeted radiation treatment called MammoSite. Elizabeth will leave later this month with the 1113th Transportation Company of San Jose, California, for at least a year transporting supplies in Iraq.

Elizabeth's mother Pearl said she "isn't surprised that her daughter still wants to deploy. I knew this would not deter her. She was just determined to go. That is the kind of person she is."

I couldn't help but leave Canyon Ranch a few months back without a fresh take on healthy living. I'd spent four days healing myself from the inside out. I'd eaten the freshest and most nutritious foods, energized my muscles with twice-daily exercise, and invited therapists to fine-tune my chakras and balance my out-of-whack cancer body. I had my hair cut, my make-up done, my mind cleansed. I was massaged, scrubbed, pedicured, and pampered. I'd become relaxed, refreshed, recharged, revitalized. There's no way I could throw all that away.

Now back in Florida, I'm trying to live like I'm at Canyon Ranch's Tucson oasis. I've changed my diet, committed to exercise, and perhaps most important in the whole scheme of lifestyle change, I'm letting go.

I've identified three priorities in my life -- my family, my health, and my sanity. Any extraneous stuff, I'm tossing it. Commitments that take me away from my kids: no. Jobs that cause me stress: gone. Responsibilities I don't wish to tackle: I won't. A jam-packed calendar: never again. I tend to go with my gut. If something comes up and I feel a sick little feeling inside, I pass that something right up. I simply let it go.

Letting go makes me feel happier, healthier, more in charge of the joy in my life. It's good for my health, good for my soul. It's just plain good. And there's just no way I'm letting go of that.

Thanks Canyon Ranch for the inspiration.

I'm sharing seven bits of wisdom this Sunday that are not my own. I am borrowing them from Pat McRee who has collected all sorts of survivor stories, affirmations, quotations, poetry, lyrics, and resources, has wrapped them with a bunch of hope and humor, and has packaged them in a box she calls Support to Go, The Unbook for the Journey through Breast Cancer.

McRee's colorful, lively box contains 80 cards. And on each card is some type of tip, idea, recipe, myth, truth, and essay that makes the breast cancer road easier to travel.

Live it. Learn it. Pass it on. That's what McRee says -- and exactly what she did when she stacked her deck of cards with such meaningful and magical material.

There is no way I could easily choose seven cards from my own box of support -- there's just too much good stuff, and it all deserves equal attention. So I drew seven random cards from the pile that sits before me, and this is what I got.

Queasy Made Easy
This card lists menu items targeted for the chemo tummy. A registered oncology nurse for 20 years, Betty Dozier shares what she has learned about what to eat -- clear, cool drinks, fruit juice, plain baked potatoes, Cold canned or fresh fruit, saltines, rice, toast, clear broths, sherbet, Popsicles -- and what not to eat -- gravy, sauces, potato chips, sour cream, heavy creamed soups.

Safety in Numbers
McRee doesn't put much stock in statistics and numbers generated by calculators that have nothing to do with real people. But she does believe in numbers when it comes to survival. On this card, she lists the names of genuine survivors with real numbers. She lists Shirley Weinman, a 20-year-survivor, Janice Johnston, an eight-year survivor, Linda Beebe, a 15-year survivor -- and so on.

No Smile Left Behind
McRee offers a prescription for play, an invitation to smile and laugh and rejoice in the face of cancer. "Cut eye holes in a paper bag and wear it to treatment," she says. "Tell 'em you just couldn't face another day." Another idea -- "Pass the word that everyone who enters the waiting room will get a Standing Ovation. They all deserve 'em just for showing up."

Fuzzy Logic
Check out this oh-so-true poem:

Too gray, too wavy, too doggone thick,
Smack in the front ... a big 'ol cowlick!
Split-ends and frizzies whenever it rained,
Now it's hard to believe I ever complained;
So, Lord, let's grow something! I'll nevermore whine ...
Gray, thick and wavy will suit me just fine.

Postcards
McRee provides a few postcards intended for mailing to surviving friends. One says, I hear you're patched, retreaded and approved for the road. Another says, U are not alone.

Hair Tomorrow
McRee offers a souvenir keeper for a lock of pre-chemo hair. Why not save it, says McRee, who shares that what grows back might be as different as your new life will be.

Buttoned-Up
Make your own buttons -- and wear them proudly. This card gives button wording ideas -- like Symmetry is so yesterday, Cancer: Been There, Beat That, and Stamp Out False Hopelessness.

Seven down -- 73 to go. I can't wait to read more.

I like to exercise. I like the challenge, the sweat, the mental release, the physical results, the time to myself. I like everything about it -- practically.

What I don't like about exercise is the pressure to accomplish the feat over and over again for the rest of my life. For years, the pressure I put on myself was palpable. I thought about exercise all the time. I stressed about what to do and when to do it. I fought to convince my kids to climb into a double stroller long after they were too big to sit comfortably in the wobbly contraption and when I found time to exercise all by myself, I struggled with an overwhelming desire to spend quality time with my little boys. I felt rushed to complete my workouts -- because my kids were waiting, dinner was waiting, work was waiting.

I was faithful about exercising -- even through treatment for cancer -- because of my self-induced pressure and despite the stress and worry it caused me. And then something happened.

It was probably a combination of cancer and my relentless push for physical fitness that caused my body to crash. I became tired and exhausted and could barely lift my legs to walk up the neighborhood hills I typically conquered with ease. My oncologist told me to stop, to give my body a break, to let go of my high expectations. He advised me to exercise two to three times per week -- and that's it.

It took some time but I have finally embraced this approach. I have abandoned schedules and routines and plans and I now exercise when I can, when it fits into my day, when I really want to do it. My fitness trainer friend Fitz, a new blogger on That's Fit, wrote in one of her first posts that we should all stop trying to get fit -- and we should just do it. "Don't wake up tomorrow with the idea of trying to go for a jog," she says." "Get up and go for a jog! Put it in your planner and make it happen."

Fitz might not like my approach, but I have stopped putting exercise on my planner. For me, this works. It takes away the pressure, the stress, the worry. It gives me peace to confront each day free of exercise anxiety. It makes me happy to tackle exercise on my own terms, without some preconceived notion of what I should be doing.

I should share something else about myself. I am a perfectionist. I want everything to be just right. As child, I tore up drawings that may have had one stray mark. I wouldn't leave my house for school until my ponytails were flawless. My house is clean and neat, my toenails are pedicured and painted, my hair is styled just so. Perfectionism, sometimes just a step away from obsession, can be an unhealthy practice. And for me, exercise was becoming an emotionally unhealthy endeavor.

I am confident my perfectionist tendencies will keep me in the exercise loop for all of time. Just knowing I need exercise will propel me to conform. But I must say that I am so relieved to have let go of some of my exercise burden.

I like exercise. I really like it. And today, when I ran three miles -- because I had the time and felt up for the task -- it was refreshing, empowering, cleansing. I think it's the lack of pressure that allowed me to lose myself in the moment today. For me, letting go of exercise has lightened the load.

My nose was buried in books just after my breast cancer diagnosis. I craved information and thought the pursuit and acquisition of it would somehow help me gain control over a seemingly uncontrollable disease.

For the most part, reading helps me. But sometimes, I read too much -- "Stop reading", my oncologist instructed me one day after I rambled off a bunch of worries I'd gathered from research -- and I've been known to get overwhelmed by statistics and numbers and theories and clinical jargon. When this happens, I usually find refuge in the personal stories of women living with breast cancer. Those who have weathered the cancer storm are often the real experts on cancer and know how to sift through the details, offering just what's important to all who follow.

For more than a decade, two-time breast cancer survivor Pat McRee searched for the perfect guide she could recommend for women she saw at the Flying Colors cancer resource and support center she directs.

"Too long," "Too detailed," "Overwhelming," "Just plain scary," were the responses she heard about the books she had found.

So she decided to think outside the book, to create her own support guide. An unbook is what she calls it. And it's not too long, too detailed, too overwhelming, or too scary.

Support to Go, The Unbook for the Journey through Breast Cancer is instead a compilation of survivor secrets, affirmations, inspiring quotations, poetry, song lyrics, attitude buttons, funny anecdotes, and referrals to expert resources in oncology, radiology, surgery, psychology, and complementary therapies.

McRee considers her book a support group of sorts, a place where survivors can turn their wild rides into unforgettable journeys.

I was present for death only one time in my 36 years of life. I consider this both a bad and a good thing. It's bad because I did not want my grandmother to die -- and watching it happen made it so real, so vivid, so painful. I don't think I would have ever chosen to watch my grandma die -- to watch her slip from consciousness to coma, to observe her altered body once death arrived, to witness the movement of her body on a stretcher as it was wheeled out of the house from the bedroom I still see every time I visit my mom's house. But I think I am lucky really -- and this is the good part -- because I got to be with her during her final moments. I got to watch her body as it lay still, peaceful and calm and still breathing. I got to talk to her and although she could not respond, I believe she could hear my words. And it makes me happy to know my grandma may have known I was with just prior to her flight to heaven. And after her flight, I got to touch her cool hands. I got to feel the power of the passing of one life -- a long life -- and I got to feel the comfort of a death that was not ugly or painful or difficult. It was sad -- it's still sad -- that my grandma died three years ago. But what a privilege it was to be part of the day she left this world.

Susan DeWilde left this world in much the same way -- with loved ones by her side. She was a fighter and had conquered several rounds of breast cancer, a tumor in her spinal cord, uterine cancer, lymphatic cancer, and then leukemia, which took her life at the age of 53. I don't know this from Susan herself but from her friend, Christy Mack -- who helped her accept her death and guided her into her own final moments so that she could escape her pain and die peacefully. Christy writes about her beautiful friend and her empowering death in an article that appears in the August 2006 Oprah Magazine. Titled Friends to the End, Christy's story details how she soothed her friend, cradled her hand, and talked her through her last breaths. She helped her on her way during a time her friend feared most. Christy writes, "What she and I shared the night she died was a precious gift of friendship, emotionally profound and sacred in its perfection. It broke my heart. It strengthened my soul."

This I understand.