ABCs Good Morning America co-anchor Robin Roberts has heart. You can read all about it in her article titled A Heart in the Right Place in the July 2007 issue of Ladies' Home Journal -- and her book From the Heart. She writes about her job, about how she was never the most brilliant person to work alongside Charles Gibson and Diane Sawyer but how she tends to put herself in the position for things to happen.

"Often, the person who catches the break is the one standing there with her arms outstretched at the right moment," she says. There she was, arms outstretched. And here she is, high atop her career ladder.

Roberts also writes about her strong military family, her athletic nature -- she played basketball in high school and college -- and about facing her fears.

Seventy year old Ronald Baker says that "its hard to think about cancer on a growling bulldozer". He was diagnosed with prostate cancer and receives radiation daily, where he says is the only time during the day he thinks about having cancer.

Baker enjoys driving the two ton bulldozer and feels that staying busy is keeping his mind off of his cancer diagnosis and treatments. When he isn't working Ronald stays at Jack's Place, a temporary home for people needing long-term cancer treatments.

Ronald lives with his wife on a secluded ranch in Colorado where he rides horses and takes people on guided hunting trips in the winter. There wasn't a good treatment center available where he lives so he was referred to Jack's Place, a place he could live and find a job to keep busy during his radiation treatments.

Way to go Ronald!

My gut hasn't always guided me through life's most difficult decisions and dilemmas. It wasn't until I felt a lump in my breast more than two years ago that my gut kicked into gear and told me something very important.

"It's cancer," my insides told me one week before the surgeon who did my biopsy called.

"It's cancer," the surgeon said. I didn't tell him, but I thought it: "I know."

I also knew prior to surgery that my cancer had not spread to my lymph nodes. My gut told me this too. It also told me the chemotherapy drug Taxol was not right for me -- since my cancer had not spread -- despite the urging of one oncologist that I accept this treatment. I would have gone on gut instinct alone in my rejection of this medication but another doctor weighed in and agreed with my gut, so I had solid backing on this decision.

Many have dismissed hunches like these and have written off those who believe in them as screwballs, says writer Chip Brown in the March 2007 issue of The Oprah Magazine. But as Brown shares after peering into the world of gut instinct, there are 100 million nerve cells in the gut. They run on autopilot, regulate digestion, play a critical role in the body's immune system, and control mood-altering neurotransmitters identical to those in the brain.

The gut is essentially a second brain. It was a "gut feeling" that led Fred Smith, founder of Federal Express, to begin exploring the possibilities of overnight delivery and Howard Schultz, founder of Starbucks, to begin mass marketing coffee. Wall Street professionals make millions on their gut feelings, sportscasters make startling predictions based on gut guidance, and entrepreneurs launch thriving businesses because of the inklings that rumble in their tummies.

You may or may not be a gut thinker yourself. But I've stumbled upon a gut exercise -- thanks to psychotherapist Nancy Napier --and I'd like for you to consider it the next time you find yourself stuck at a crossroads, unsure of where to turn. You never know, the direction you seek may be swirling around in your midsection, just waiting for a call to action.

Think about this:

You are wavering between two choices. Find yourself a quiet, serene place where there will be no disruptions. Now sit down. Take a moment to settle and focus on the issue you want to explore. Then choose one side. Think about this side and notice what happens in your gut. Do you feel a tightening and gripping or a softening and warming? Are the sensations pleasant or uncomfortable? Notice your thoughts. Are they positive or negative? Give yourself some time to feel your gut and your mind responding.

Now shift to the other side. Think about the previous questions, and try to chart what your body gut is saying.

While you may not get a gut answer at first, if you come back with the question several times, you'll likely hear just what your gut wants you to know.

Eight-year-old Luis Carranza, whose mother slipped him from Mexico into the United States for live-saving cancer treatment, has died of leukemia after the same treatment that once offered him remission attacked his central nervous system, and caused seizures and terminal, irreversible brain damage.

Luis' story, first featured in a September 18 post, is a powerful one, riddled with struggle and hardship and love and commitment.

The story began less than two years ago when Guadalupe Carranza smuggled her young, sick son into the United States for treatment. Luis was welcomed into a Texas hospital and was showered with an abundance of love from staff and volunteers. Guadalupe did not receive the same warm welcome, however, and was deported back to Mexico. And while she battled to return to her son's bedside, Guadalupe was met with continued defeat -- until her son fell into a coma and border and consulate officials allowed the mother to cross back into the United States where she stayed until her son passed away on Thursday at his grandparent's house in El Paso.

Guadalupe had been with her son since May 8, 2006. And an attorney involved in Luis' case says he believes the boy, despite his serious condition, could sense his mother's presence. And everyone involved believes the boy, who was clearly suffering, is now in a much better place.

Six-year-old Joey told his doctor the other day about my cancer. The topic came up because Joey wore a pink tie-dye t-shirt in anticipation of a gymnastics meet we would attend later that day. The meet was dedicated to breast cancer awareness, and fans were encouraged to pack the place pink. Joey was ready.

Joey told the doctor all about his shirt. And all about me.

"My mom had cancer," he said. "But she survived."

He talked about everything I had to endure, about his surprise that I had to go through so much. He spoke lovingly, his doctor told me. She said he seemed proud.

Joey's doctor told me his eyes were full of emotion when he spoke about me and my cancer. She said he wasn't on the verge of tears, but he was surely passionate about his mom's victory over a disease he just barely comprehends.

And I am proud of Joey. I am proud of his loyalty, his support, his ability to express his emotions, his unwavering enthusiasm for all things pink.

Yes, I survived. Joey did too. And we are both tickled pink.

I told my six-year-old son today that on Friday, we will attend a University of Florida gymnastics meet. Not such a big deal in and of itself but the fact that the entire meet is dedicated to the battle against breast cancer is what makes my announcement to Joey so important. You see, Joey has been my faithful companion ever since I was diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago. He has been my link to all things simple. He has been my rock, my inspiration, my motivation to fight for my life.

I told Joey this sports event is a celebration of people with breast cancer, like me. And I told him everyone must wear pink, a color he knows well when it's twisted in ribbon formation. I eagerly awaited Joey's reaction to the whole pink thing, not because he has an aversion to pink but because his absolute favorite color is orange and he tends to choose this fabric selection whenever possible. But without hesitation, Joey was completely accepting of making a pink fashion statement.

I told Joey we would make shirts so we could be as pink as possible on Friday. So we bought white t-shirts and two shades of pink dye, and we will soon tie-dye our shirts for the festive occasion where both University of Florida and University of Kentucky gymnasts will wear pink leotards -- in different shades -- and where the fans will make donations to the local American Cancer Society.

Joey asked me while we shopped for our t-shirt supplies if lots of people have cancer.

"Yes," I told him, recalling a fact I had just learned -- 8.9 million Americans alive today have a history of cancer. "Lots of people have cancer."

I am not sure what this means to Joey. But I suspect his comprehension of the disease is limited to pink ribbons, bald heads, and periodic celebrations. If only cancer were that simple.

Cancer is not simple. But Joey helps me face each day with simplicity. And I can't wait to simply make a few t-shirts with him and then pack the place pink in honor of all the women who every day face the complexities of a fierce opponent.

Former contestant Elliott Yamin was the third runner-up on the most recent season of American Idol. But he comes in first place for 19-year-old fan Amanda Jones whose dream after her diagnosis with leukemia was was to meet Yamin. Her dream came true this weekend when she got the chance to meet Yamin backstage at the "American Idols Live" tour in Richmond, Virgina -- Yamin's hometown.

Jones, from Jonesboro, Arkansas, is such a fan of Yamin's that in May she camped out at Graceland in Memphis just to catch a glimpse of him when the top Idol contestants were visiting the former home of Elvis. Now that she knows Yamin a bit better, Jones feels a real connection with him. "He's my hero. He went through so much in his childhood, struggled through so much, and in the end, he came out on top. That's what I pray and hope I can do," she said.

Yamin, 28, is no stranger to health concerns. He suffers from Type 1 diabetes and is also deaf in one ear -- as a result of repeated childhood ear infections and an ear-drum replacement surgery at the age of 13 that just didn't work out right. Still, he overcame his obstacles and has made a name for himself as a talented singer. Jones wants to overcome her obstacles too. For now, though, she is just happy Yamin helped her forget for a moment that she is a kid with leukemia.

I've been keeping a journal ever since I was first diagnosed with breast cancer. I first wrote by hand in a pink fabric-covered book, sprinkled with multi-colored polka dots. It looked feminine -- which is why I bought it -- and it's vibrance made me feel inspired, motivated, eager to write down the dreaded details of the beginning of my journey. Then I stopped writing in this book and began typing my words in an on-line journal -- a blog. My husband designed the presentation of it, with a pink banner that serves as the backdrop for the title -- my Breast Cancer blog. My first entry was completed on December 21, 2004 and I am still chronicling my journey here. I am also writing for this site -- the Cancer Blog -- and I write whenever and wherever else I can record my words. I do it because it helps me process information in a quiet, calming, introspective way. It soothes me, helps me work through panic and anxiety, helps me heal, and helps me chart my progress. When I look back at what I've written, I realize how far I've come -- or haven't come -- and it helps me move forward. I recommend journaling for everyone, and I recommend these seven simple suggestions for getting started.

My port -- that thing that pops up from under the skin on my collarbone, that thing that by default stays in place because I can't decide whether or not to remove it -- is now officially in maintenance mode, now that my treatment for breast cancer is complete. My last Herceptin infusion was on June 28. And my first port flush was today. For as long as I keep my port -- and for as long as it has no real use -- I must have it flushed one time each month. So today, I strolled into the cancer infusion center where I've spent many hours and this time spent just a few minutes -- enough time for my usual chemo nurse to puncture the skin on top of my port, push through a rather large needle, and inject a dose of blood thinner into the lines of the port to keep clots away. The whole procedure was harmless, painless, no big deal at all. And I will return one month from today for a repeat performance.

One day these once-a-month visits may become a hassle. After all, I have to find a place for this appointment in my already-busy schedule and find childcare for my kids and find a place to park. I have to numb my port and endure a needle stick and sometimes fight traffic to get home. And the whole trip to and from the cancer center takes longer than the procedure itself. Clearly, this may be a waste of time for a port I don't even need right now. But at the moment, this visit is just what I need while I sort out the details of my post-treatment world. I need to go back to the infusion center. I need the comfort of the drive. I need to feel part of the chemo community. I need medical people swirling around me. I need a bit of hand holding. For now anyway.

It does not surprise me that the Cleveland Clinic Cancer Center is among the best in the nation -- with internationally recognized physicians -- because I have always known this hospital to be the one stop where all medical difficulties and mysteries might be best managed -- in Ohio anyway. Growing up just an hour away from this facility, I thought maybe this was just the best Ohio hospital and that people headed here when other area hospitals could not deliver the best care. But now I know that the Cleveland Clinic is a destination for people from many states and countries. U.S. News & World Reports names the Cleveland Clinic one of the nation's top three hospitals, the clinic's heart program is ranked number one, it boasts a highly successful Children's Hospital, and cancer patients travel from all over the world for leading-edge cancer care at the Cleveland Clinic Taussig Cancer Center. There is even a Cleveland Clinic location in Florida. This hospital -- that I once believed was nothing more than a local healing place -- has quite a reach. And quite a reputation.

The tunnel was long. And dark. And winding. And foggy. And ominous. It seemed to last forever -- at the time -- and at moments, time seemed to stand still. I was not sure if I'd ever pass through it and be okay -- if I'd ever see the light at the end. But I did. I tunneled through it all -- somehow -- and I came out feeling more alive than ever before. Now, some time after my escape from the fog, I am already taking for granted the fact that I am breathing, that I am healthy, that I am living. And when my fitness trainer noticed yesterday that I do not get dizzy and lightheaded anymore during my workouts -- when I once had to sit down, breathe, collect my whereabouts -- I realized that some of my progress since exiting my breast cancer tunnel is already lost on me. And I don't want to lose sight of where I was and how far I've come. I want to remember it and measure it and never forget how alive I am at this very moment. So I have started to really think about how things have changed since I felt stuck in time, in a dark place. I am thinking about my times in a hospital bed when I was barely able to stand up, barely able to walk a few steps without feeling like I would collapse. Now I can hop out of bed at a moment's notice, half asleep in response to a demanding child screaming from his bed. I am thinking about my once challenging pre-cancer exercise routine and how a time came when my legs felt so heavy I could not even contemplate walking down my street. Yesterday, I completed an hour of weight training. Today I ran for 20 minutes. Tomorrow, I go back for more weight training. And I remember feeling incoherent, unable to conjure of meaningful thoughts or sentences. And now, despite some potential chemo brain forgetfulness, I am back on track.

I have only just touched the surface. There is so much more to reflect on. So I plan to think more about my travels so I can better appreciate how I arrived at the exact place where I am right now -- where it's light and clear, where time passes at normal speed, where I feel lucky to be alive.