After several weeks of hiding and down time, a few weeks ago I made an official announcement to the non profit organization that I founded Indie Music For Life and its two entities Laughs For Life and Indiegrrl. I dropped off of this blog page for a month and am ready to write again. I needed a break. A break to sort through things. To sort through life.

When you or a loved one are diagnosed with cancer it changes your life. Finding out you have cancer takes your breath away and from that point your breath is the most valuable thing to you in your life. Breath and time. Nothing is normal any more. Not your dreams, your nightmares, and not your waking moments.

A personal diagnosis of chronic myloid leukemia in February sent me into a whirlwind of emotions. At that point, all the fear, terror, and stomach knots from my past rounds of cancer came back. Nobody free of cancer could ever appreciate how utterly devastating the news of contracting it could be and the news that it has returned is even more devastating because you know what uphill climbs you must make again. Once you have been diagnosed with cancer you always look over your shoulder for the beast to return. He has caught up with me several times now and so I am speeding up in my race trying to see who is the best long distance runner. Every ache you feel or every little un-ordinary thing that happens with your body sends you into " What If " mode. It is extremely hard living in that mode of thinking but you can't avoid it.

My past struggles with cancer were very private. But then I was not the head of a non profit organization that raises money for cancer research and educational awareness on the powers of music and laughter as therapy for cancer patients. I wasn't the head of the largest networking group of female songwriters known as Indiegrrl that has since become a part of Indie Music for Life. Laughs For Life had not even been thought of yet and now with the direction and help of good friend and comedian Shelly Ryan it is now a reality. I hadn't even started my music career. Having cancer is what lead me to pursue my career in music and chase my dreams. It wasn't until I started working on my CDs that my cancer became really public other than with my close friends and family and then working to set up the Indie Music For Life non profit put it out there even more.

Myocet is in its last clinical trial phase prior to FDA review. The trial is enrolling patients to evaluate the investigative chemotherapy agent Myocet (liposomal encapsulated doxorubicin) in addition to standard therapy for HER2-positive breast cancer.

Myocet is a chemotherapy agent that contains the active form of doxorubicin, you might better know it as Adriamycin. This chemotherapy drug is formulated to reduce the side effects associated with Adriamycin. Myocet allows for more of the active drug to be delivered directly to cancer cells, sparing healthy cells from being damaged.

This trial will directly compare the standard option of Herceptin and Taxol to the combination of Myocet, Herceptin and Taxol. Researchers are now enrolling patients with metastatic, HER2-positive breast cancer with a goal in mind to determine if the addition of Myocet to standard therapy can increase response to therapy or regression of cancer.

Right now -- at this very moment -- my two boys have turned our living room into a mess of blankets and pillows and stuffed animals. They put on their jammies and closed all the blinds and are pretending it's bedtime. But it's actually lunch time, so they have spread out paper plates and plastic silverware and bags of chips and boxes of crackers all over the floor -- on top of all their bedding. I delivered them their lunch platters and lemonade and there they sit, in the room next to me -- chattering away, stuffing their little mouths, full of life. And I am in awe -- of the simple joy that comes from a living room camp-out and picnic, of the beauty these children bring into my life. I am mostly in awe of the fact that no matter what cancer takes from me -- my hair, moments of health, my innocence -- it cannot ever take this very moment from me. And that makes today a happy day.

I can't decide what to do about my port now that my breast cancer treatment is over. It's been an on-going internal battle. I don't know whether I should leave it in place -- tunneled underneath the skin on my collarbone where it is available and accessible should I ever need further infusions of cancer-fighting drugs -- or whether I should have it removed since there is no real purpose for it right now. There is the issue of superstition and safety -- leaving it right where it is allows for easy use if cancer returns and prevents another surgery to implant a new one. But there is also the issue of moving on -- and removing it because I don't need it, because I may never need it. One doctor told me recently that it should come out because if it remains in my body, I risk infection. And anything foreign in my body for an extended period of time is not completely safe. But a cancer survivor told me that she had hers removed immediately after treatment and had to get a new one because her cancer recurred three months later.

I am accustomed to wrestling matches like this one -- like my stand-off between treatment with Taxol or without Taxol, between anti-depressant or no anti-depressant, between vegan diets and traditional diets. Sometimes I can make a good call. Sometimes I just can't decide. Like right now.

When Amy Turner Tunick, an actress and writer who wrote The Feel Good Column for the South Florida Sun-Times, was first diagnosed with cancer she wrote:

"It doesn't seem real. There were no signs or symptoms. Maybe it's a genetic thing. But will I ever really know? I've been a very healthy active 44 year-old woman. I don't drink or smoke.  But, sometimes, unfortunate things do happen to good people. And I don't doubt I'm a good person. Actually, I believe I'm an exceptional person. I'm positive, optimistic, inspiring and enthusiastic. I try to be caring, loving and honest. So, sadly, I'm not blaming anyone, including God, that I've just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer." 

Tunick did not exaggerate when she described herself as a positive, optimistic, inspiring and enthusiastic person. Her columns reflected that, and she had a way of inspiring the reader to feel optimistic about life. She had a way of reminding you of the simple joys of life and the importance of the people in your life. In one of her last columns, she wrote, ''Cry, scream, feel sorry for yourself -- but not for long. Basically, this is all about hope. Never lose it. Never give in or give up.''

Tunick had this to say about death, "I believe that Death teaches us that the time is now. The time is now to pick up a telephone and call the person that you love. Death teaches us the joy of the moment. It teaches us we don't have forever. If teaches us that nothing is permanent. It teaches us to let go, there's nothing you can hang on to. And it tells us to give up on expectations and let tomorrow tell its own story, because nobody knows if they'll get home tonight."

Tunick won't be getting home tonight. She lost her battle to cancer and the world lost more of its light. Tunick was 47.