I am on the verge of tears watching Danny sleep peacefully and happily in his new big-boy bed, surrounded by comfy covers and his favorite snuggly items. I am choked up by the sight of Joey's two missing front teeth, that smile that shows one big tooth struggling to emerge, the way his tongue slips through that big opening when he says his friend's name -- Catherine -- with the sweetest little lisp.

My boys' milestones have always warmed my heart. Walking behind Joey as he learned to ride his bike with training wheels was a joyous rite of passage. Watching my little boy from behind as he propelled himself forward on our neighborhood sidewalk will be forever etched in my mind. This was before breast cancer, though. Now, after breast cancer, every step my boys take hits me like a ton of bricks.

Breast cancer has turned my heart to mush. I consider it a good thing -- the depth of feeling I experience over every-day matters. I feel more grateful, thankful, and touched by life in general and by my family in particular.

I credit nearly losing everything to my increased sensitivity and softness to the world around me. Life is fragile. I know that now. And for this, I have seven simple words: I promise I will never forget it.

I often note the passage of time according to events. My husband does it with songs -- if he hears Cheap Trick's I Want You to Want Me, for example, his mind takes him back to a buddy's basement in Jersey where he played pool with a bunch of other 10-year-old boys.

Music just doesn't do it for me. It has to be some sort of happening for my mind to travel back in time -- something like the Florida Gators SEC victory over Arkansas on Sunday.

Last year, the Gators were also SEC champs. And the year before that too. And I think I'll know the status of this team at this same time every year for as many years as I survive cancer -- because two years ago, I sat cooped up in a University of Florida hospital room trying to recover from the effects of chemotherapy and the only real excitement piped into my cubicle of a room was the thrill of a big Gator win.

It was the same kind of win the team repeated the following year -- the win that marked my first year of survival. And now, the Gators win again. And so do I.

While the defending National Champions celebrate their accomplishments and head into the first round of NCAA tournament play in New Orleans, I celebrate my accomplishment -- surviving cancer for two years. And when the Gators play in whatever game comes their way next March, I will be reminded of that same hospital room, that same dark and dreary time in my life. And then I will marvel at the power of time and the unlikely collision of cancer and college basketball.

And then I will pause, reflect, and head straight into my third year of survival.

Go Gators!

A few days ago, notification of an e-mail arrived in my inbox. It popped up right in front of me, with the sender's name -- Amy Wilson -- glaring in black print right before my eyes. Amy is my friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer just after my own diagnosis. We e-mailed frequently about our cancer hopes and fears and so it was never before odd that a message would travel from her computer in Ohio to mine in Florida. But on the day this one e-mail arrived, it was odd -- because Amy died two weeks ago, after a 15-month battle with the disease we both vowed to conquer.

The e-mail was not from Amy. It was from her husband, Paul. And it was as comforting to hear from him as it was odd to see Amy's name flash in front of me. You see, I have wanted to call Paul, e-mail Paul, send a card to Paul -- something. I have wanted to reach out in some way, even though I have never met the man who thought he would spend the rest of his life raising his two children with Amy. But I never could figure out what I would write or say or send. I have been afraid that it would be hard for him to talk about Amy's death. I've been afraid that it would be hard for me to talk about her death. So I have waited, hoping the passage of time would help prepare me for some sort of action. And in the end, time was not necessary. Because Paul reached out to me. And this is what he wrote in the e-mail he sent from Amy's mailbox.


And now I can contact Paul, because he has opened the door. He -- the one suffering the greatest loss -- has comforted me. And now I need to thank him.

Laugh. Joy. Love & Respect. Choose Happiness. These are the words that appear on the heart-shaped charms on my breast cancer bracelet made by Brighton. I wear it every day because of the uplifting messages that dangle around my wrist and also because one of the charms is a watch -- a real watch, in the shape of a heart with a pink background and inscribed words that say "Live in the Moment." Just before I received this bracelet from my friend -- whose own mother lost her breast cancer battle recently -- I was in desperate need of a watch. I hadn't needed one for the past four years because as a stay-at-home mom, my schedule was dictated not by the clock but by the needs of two rowdy little boys. But I got a job at a preschool and now time is very important. I have to be at work on time. I have to attend meetings and events. I have to chart the departures of children.  I have to leave my job at a certain time. A watch became necessary and just before my job started, my bracelet arrived in the mail. A perfect gift. Perfect timing. A perfect way to stay in tune with the passage of time. A perfect way to stay motivated on my breast cancer journey.

Another charm on my bracelet reads, "Wherever you go, go with your heart." Whenever my bracelet jingles and jangles on my arm, I am reminded to do just this. To go with my heart. To follow my heart. To feel peace in my heart. This bracelet helps me.  It works like a charm.