It's Father's Day. And all dads out there deserve a pat on the back, a sincere thank you, a celebration in their honor. But there's one group of dads to whom I'm giving special attention on this fine Sunday, June 17 -- dads with cancer.

Having been a mom with cancer, I know how parenting becomes doubly difficult when a life-threatening illness crowds into the picture. The usual mommy and daddy responsibilities are hard enough on their own. Add cancer and all sense of balance, control, and even joy can fly out the window.

Holding down the daddy fort while battling and surviving cancer is no small task. So let's honor some of the dads who manage this feat. Here are seven of them.

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.

It's been reported that procrastination is on the rise. Not only that, but it makes people poorer, fatter, and unhappier too.

It took 10 years of research when it was projected to take only five years -- procrastination at its best -- to come to this conclusion. And now Canadian industrial psychologist and University of Calgary professor Piers Steel is talking about his giant 30-page study that appears in this month's Psychological Bulletin.

Something must be done about this problem, says Steel, who reveals 26 percent of the American public consider themselves chronic procrastinators. This is up from five percent in 1978 and is likely due to the tempting diversions facing us in this day and age -- TVs, cell phones, video games, iPods, the Internet, and Blackberries.

It's no surprise with such temptations that a quarter of Americans say they procrastinate. When it comes to the sexes, men are worse than women -- about 54 out of 100 chronic procrastinators are men -- and the young are more like to procrastinate than the old. Three out of four college students consider themselves procrastinators. And it seems perfectionists procrastinate less because they don't like to delay.

Steel says procrastination wastes time. And it's costly too.

"The U.S. gross national product would probably rise by $50 billion if the icon and sound that notifies people of new e-mail suddenly disappear," he said.

Steel found a delay in filing taxes on average costs a person $400 a year. Last-minute Christmas shopping with credit cards was five times higher in 1999 than in 1991. Clearly, procrastination is expensive.

Procrastination also has physical and emotional costs. Procrastinators tend to be less healthy, less wealthy, and less happy. They are also harder to heal of their problems than alcoholics.

Steel, who plans to one day compare the procrastination practices in various countries and cultures, says his field has benefits. The more he knows about the problem, the less he indulges in delay tactics. He did, however, acknowledge that his study was completed five years late. But what he likes about this study is this -- "If you take a day off from it, you can always say it's field research."

I was driving down the highway today when I looked to my right and saw out of the corner of my eye a blue pick-up truck. The driver -- a man -- wore a cowboy hat and his passenger -- a woman -- wore a turban and a mask that covered her nose and mouth. It was similar to the yellow paper-like mask I wore during chemotherapy when low blood counts and fevers knocked my body all out of whack. So when I briefly glanced at this woman, I diagnosed her -- with cancer.

I guess my medical radar could be off, my diagnosis could be wrong -- but I suspect not. It was an all-too-familiar sight -- the bald head obviously disguised, the mask warding off germs and infection, the eyes the only visible marking of a face. Yet it was still a startling sight, a sad sight, a sight that never loses its power over me as I travel the highway of life.

I am thankful to still be on the highway -- to not have been tragically run off the road -- and the woman whose path I crossed today may be just fine after her journey with cancer runs its course. But it's such a dismal sight -- the ravages of cancer visibly displayed on the undeserving victims of a harsh disease.

Maybe my approach is all wrong. Perhaps it would be better if my vision today prompted thoughts of a spirited warrior bravely battling a fierce opponent with victory the likely outcome. But instead I saw sickness and sadness. Because this is how I felt -- sick and sad -- when my appearance was marked by a hat and a mask.

But now I am healthy and happy. And I am confident I will one day see my co-survivors in a more hopeful light. There is hope, after all, for each of us diagnosed with this life-threatening disease.

Perhaps after I've been on the road to recovery for a while longer, dismal will turn to dazzle. Perhaps then I will see as much shine in those wearing cancer on their sleeves as I saw today in the blue paint of the truck that passed me on the highway.

I've had the little book, with its glossy plaid cover, ever since it was released in 1991. I was 21 years old and already a fan of well-crafted, powerful words. So it was no surprise I picked up Life's Little Instruction Book: 511 suggestions, observations, and reminders on how to live a happy and rewarding life. And it's no surprise I have kept it with me for all these years, allowing it a lifetime membership on my bookshelf, where I can swiftly pluck it from its spot when I need a little inspiration.

Now in a worn, faded, and tattered state, this book is still one of my favorites. Its words are timeless, its messages are meaningful -- even more so now that I am 36 years ago. Now a college graduate, a one-time working professional, a wife, a mom, a writer, and a breast cancer survivor, the reflections printed in this book speak to me more clearly than ever before.

Here are seven of my current favorites from Life's Little Instruction Book -- written by H. Jackson Brown, Jr. for his college-bound son at a time when he had no idea the road map he provided for his child would come to serve so many others.

• Always have something beautiful in sight, even if it's just a daisy in a jelly glass.

• Don't forget, a person's greatest emotional need is to feel appreciated.

• Choose work that is in harmony with your values.

• Don't be intimidated by doctors and nurses. Even when you're in the hospital, it's still your body.

• Don't use time or words carelessly. Neither can be retrieved.

• Live so that when your children think of fairness, caring, and integrity, they think of you.

• Keep it simple.
  

From houseplants to raised beds, to plant a seed, tend the soil, and watch a plant grow is one of the most inspiringly hopeful of activities. In hopefulness is found a kind of healing. According to the American Horticultural Therapy Association, horticulture therapy is defined as "a process utilizing plants and horticultural activities to improve social, educational, psychological and physical adjustment of persons thus improving their body, mind, and spirit." The American Cancer Society offers a list of some of horticulture therapy benefits one can expect from gardening that include:

• Feelings of hope.
• Stress reduction.
• Social interaction.
• Pain relief.
• Improved muscle tone, flexibility, and cardiopulmonary capability.
• Creativity and self-expression.
• Enhanced self-esteem and improved mood.
• Motor skill development.
  

As the New Year arrives, so do the gardening catalogs in the mail. Interested in receiving gardening catalogs but not certain where to start? Cyndi's Catalog of Garden Catalogs lists over 2,000 mail-order gardening catalogs for the home gardener.

Two of my favorite gardening websites and online catalogs are found at Seeds of Change and Seed Savers Exchange.

At Seeds of Change, you can find garden seeds, seed collections, cover crops, seedlings, fruit trees, garden tools, kitchen items, and a bookstore. All organic. In addition, Seeds of Change publishes a newsletter.

Seed Savers Exchange is a nonprofit organization that saves and shares heirloom seeds. According to Seed Savers Exchange, "Our organization is saving the world's diverse, but endangered, garden heritage for future generations by building a network of people committed to collecting, conserving and sharing heirloom seeds and plants, while educating people about the value of genetic and cultural diversity."

But, wherever you start, once you catch the gardening bug, you will understand why horticulture therapy is becoming an integrated part in healing programs adopted at some of the medical centers across the country.

When I cry, I write. It makes me feel better to do something productive with my emotions, to channel my tears into something meaningful, to share my on-going journey with cancer so others may somehow benefit.

My tears started to flow after I dialed Amy's phone number this morning -- with the intention of speaking to her husband, almost two months after Amy died of breast cancer. No one answered my call, so voice mail picked up. And Amy's voice spoke to me in words something like you have reached the Wilson's. We cannot take your call. I wonder if her family has chosen to keep Amy's voice as the one that greets all callers. Or have they forgotten to change the message. Or are they stuck, unsure of what to do about this permanent reminder of Amy. Regardless, it must take time to deal with such as issue.

I left a message after Amy's voice became quiet. I recorded my own voice for her husband, told him I've been meaning to call but wanted to give him some time, that I hope he is doing alright, that he is in my thoughts every day. I wished him a Happy Thanksgiving and told him I'd try to call another day.

It was the end of my message that really choked me up -- the saying goodbye to a man I've never met who recently, suddenly had to say goodbye to his 35-year-old wife, the mother of his two small children. My goodbye was so much easier than his, and I think this is why I feel sad.

It made me happy to hear Amy's voice today, to remember her when she was alive and well and swearing she would not let cancer take her before Christmas. And it makes me happy that no one answered my call today -- because maybe it means everyone who lives in Amy's house is moving on with life, shocked as they may be that cancer took Amy weeks before Halloween.

I had no idea my one phone call would churn up so many tears. Thankfully, I have a tried and true method for dealing with them. Writing.

I've never had a problem with crying. My tears of joy and sorrow have always flowed easily, and I have never regretted shedding any one of them. I once told a college student I mentored who was hesitant to cry over a work-related scenario that I cry all the time. She later told me my confession sticks in her mind -- my ability and willingness to cry freely, without reservation. I told her I consider crying a cleansing, therapeutic process. I told her that I always feel replenished after a good cry. And I still believe this, years and years after my encounter with this student.

I cried just a few days ago while talking to my doctor and then my mom about how cancer may prevent me from having another child, if not physically, then emotionally. I just don't know if I could peacefully experience a pregnancy with the fear of cancer recurrence. And this makes me cry. Because I want another child. But I don't think I will have one. I cried at my oncologist appointment the other day while talking about the death of a friend. I cry while reading certain books and while watching sad movies and television shows. Two nights ago, I cried while watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, about a breast cancer survivor. I cry when recalling the births of my babies and while marveling at my little growing boys. And I know I will cry when I read a journal a friend just shared with me, written by his uncle who lost a daughter to brain cancer.

Tears cleanse my soul. And sometimes, they complicate matters. They make me wonder how well I am, two years after my cancer diagnosis. I interpret my tears now more than ever, in an effort to determine how well I am coping with life in survival mode. I wonder if the tears that frequently well up in my eyes are normal or if they are indicative of the depression that prompted my oncologist to prescribe an anti-depressant. I consider that perhaps I should be better able to handle some topics, some situations, some tough experiences without becoming weepy. And I also realize that perhaps my tears are completely normal, that I could be ultra sensitive to my every emotion, that as long as I feel happy and function easily, I am just fine.

I plan to iron all this out at my next and final counseling session that I need to schedule. This closing session will allow me to wrap up two year's worth of cancer issues, to close one chapter of my life and begin another. I just need to make the appointment. Which I have yet to do. Because contemplating the end of something so healing seems so daunting. And for better or for worse, this makes me cry.

The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation wants help fighting breast cancer. So forget about fighting crowds this holiday season -- help fight cancer instead.

The Komen Marketplace is offering two specially designed holiday greeting cards this year, available for purchase on-line through December 8.

Prices for cards, that can be personalized with an individual name, a company name, and a special message, range depending on the card. One option costs $1.30 to $1.40 per card, plus nominal printing fees. Another option costs $5.00 per card, with no printing fees. For this option, The Komen Foundation will also print envelopes with mailing and return addresses. They will even stamp envelopes and drop the cards in the mail too.

Fifty to 100 percent of sales will benefit the fight against breast cancer. And 100 percent of the cards will spread hope and promise through messages like this -- The best gifts are wrapped in the joy we give to others. Happy Holidays. This card has been given to you as a special tribute in support of the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation.

I just read a breast cancer survivor's commentary about the color pink -- about how she hates pink, is sick of seeing pink, is tired of companies capitalizing on the breast cancer color in order to sell products. She calls the color wimpy and too feminine -- and while she accepts that she may just be grumpy about this topic, she is not too happy that pink is the color that symbolizes a serious disease. She would have preferred red or purple, colors that signify strength and power. But pink is what we've got -- and I happen to be okay with it.

I'm okay with pink because I like the color. I'm okay with it because it's recognizable -- and there can't be too many people out there who don't know that pink and breast cancer go hand in hand. To me, the color itself raises awareness. If I buy a pink vacuum cleaner and am reminded of the words breast and cancer each time I suck up dirt from my carpet, then I'm in the loop -- even if minimally. And if it prompts me to check my own breasts or schedule a screening appointment, then I benefit. I'm not sure a green vacuum cleaner would have the same effect. And when I wear my new Key to the Cure t-shirt -- with a pink ribbon gracing the front -- and someone inquires about the shirt, I will have an opportunity to spread some words about breast cancer. Pink doesn't have to be wimpy. It can be powerful.

There are surely companies out there taking advantage of the color pink because it sells. But if sales truly benefit breast cancer research, then it's a win-win situation in my opinion. I am happy that $31 of my $35 t-shirt goes directly to breast cancer initiatives. Sure, the shirt was a bit expensive. But so is breast cancer -- and I have the bills to prove it -- so if simply buying a pink ribbon t-shirt allows me to walk around as a billboard and allows breast cancer research some more momentum, then I am game.

I will wear my new shirt when I run in the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer 5K event in two weeks. And I will wear a bright pink ribbon in my hair. And I may even wear pink shorts. Because I think pink is empowering. And I'm happy it's everywhere -- because it illustrates that breast cancer is everywhere. And that is not okay.

Today marks the beginning of National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. And today, I realize how aware I am of breast cancer -- how much more aware I am than ever before, compliments of a personal encounter with a disease that snuck up on me with no warning and thrust me into a two-year battle that physically, has just ended. Emotionally, the trek continues. But it's not horrible and it's not disabling -- anymore. On most days, it's enlightening, empowering, strengthening.

I think it's the brush with mortality that woke me up to the privileged life I live. Cancer allows me to wake in the morning feeling alive. It allows me to fall asleep at night feeling thankful. And every day, I am totally, completely, acutely aware of how absolutely lucky I am to be living.

There was a time when October was nothing more than another month to me -- a month that stood out only for the onset of autumn and falling leaves and halloween and trick-or-treat. Now I know October for Breast Cancer Awareness Month -- the month belonging to millions of women living with breast cancer and the millions who need to prepare for a possible breast cancer strike. It's a powerful month, jam-packed with events and activities and promotions and media attention. It's a sad month, marking the loss of life for so many who could not conquer an evil disease. It's a happy month, symbolic of life that goes on despite this same evil disease. It's a month that allows me a lifetime membership. A month that will always be on my radar. A month I can call my own -- a month I am proud to call my own.

I just ran three miles on my treadmill. I have never been the athletic one in my family. My sister is the one who was born with the athletic streak -- she played softball and lettered in tennis after giving the sport a try with no previous experience and may have helped her high school basketball team win a state championship if it weren't for the major knee injury she suffered just before the big game. I, on the other hand, was born with a streak that has something to do with hair, nails, and lots of shoes. I was never interested in sports, gym shorts, or sweating -- which is what makes running three miles a big deal for me.

I wish I had started running long ago -- because I really like it. I like the loud music that pumps through my MP3 player and the change in my cadence as each new song begins. I like the motivation of knowing I'm pushing my body and accomplishing a physical challenge. I like that my endurance improves with each mile I travel. I like the mental release and the thoughts that run through my head and the cleansing effect I get from running. And I like sweating.

It's possible running would not have appealed to me long ago, even if I had given it a try -- because times were different long ago. I was healthy. I was happy. And I had no reason to marvel at the possibilities of my body. Without a natural impulse for physical fitness and challenge, I was completely satisfied with the status quo. But now I have an acquired impulse -- because cancer has threatened the very body I once took for granted. And I want it to be strong. I want it to be healthy. I want it to stand up to any possible threat. So I run. And when I am not running, I look forward to running.

In just a few weeks, I will run in the 5K Making Strides for Breast Cancer event with my athletic sister. I will run by her side. With my loud music for motivation. With the inspiration that I am making a difference for my body and for women everywhere. With my gym shorts on. And a ball cap covering my hair. With sweat dripping down my face. I can't imagine a better feeling.

For me, it's the small things that matter most as I heal from breast cancer. Like a hand on my shoulder, a note in the mail, a phone call to see how I'm doing -- and a happy boobie card my friend and fitness trainer gave me the other day. I went to her house for a training session, and she greeted me at the door with a purple piece of paper cut into the shape of breasts. Butterfly stickers marked the nipple areas and the words Good Luck, Jacki were written happily in red marker. Just the day before I received this cheery gift, we had spoken about my upcoming mammogram and ultrasound for a suspicious lump I had discovered in my breast. We have spoken about my whole cancer journey over the course of my whole training journey -- so she knows all about the ups and downs. And when she sensed my dip in spirits, she reached out, with love and concern -- and with happy boobies.

My mammogram and ultrasound turned out just fine. Nothing is wrong. What I felt is just normal tissue. My cancer is not back. So my spirits are back up -- and my happy boobies are hanging on my refrigerator as a reminder of the support that still surrounds me every day.

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!

Our days start early now that Joey is in kindergarten and school begins promptly at 7:45 AM. His daddy gets him out of bed at 6:30 AM so he can have some time to wake to the world before shuffling out the door, and we've happily found that Mister Rogers' Neighborhood comes on at just this time. The same Mister Rogers that first appeared on television in Canada in 1963 and then in the United States in 1967 -- with a gentle man, Mister Rogers himself, spreading his calm but uplifting messages to children and nurturing personalities of kids everywhere.

The last original episode of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood was aired in 2001. And in 2003, Fred McFeeley Rogers died at the age of 74 after a brief bout with stomach cancer. But his legacy lives on as his show -- the longest-running PBS program ever -- still graces the television screen. I remember watching this show with my grandmother when I was a little girl. And now I get to watch it with my little boy -- who can also visit Mister Rogers on the PBS website.

Today, Joey and I started our day with a cheery little song, sung by the man who hated television and joined it only to bring about change -- to use this fabulous instrument to guide children in a positive direction. And here is what he sang this morning -- the song that is still playing in my head as I take on the day ahead of me.

It's such a good feeling to know you're alive.
It's such a happy feeling: You're growing inside.
And when you wake up ready to say,
"I think I'll make a snappy new day."
It's such a good feeling, a very good feeling,
The feeling you know that we're friends.

I hope it's a good day in your neighborhood.