My aunt Joan was warm and vivacious, the type of lady you either wanted to be or to be around constantly. Her daughters and grandchildren were her life, and when she wasn't with them, she was working hard to build the ideal retirement -- a house on the lake with a boat and a view as big as her heart, near a ski hill that she planned on hitting up every day in the winter. Her life was healthy and active, full of family and laughter. Yet in one of those typical 'Life's not Fair' twists, she was diagnosed with brain cancer right around her retirement years. She already had the house on the lake, but she only lived there for a couple of years before she was checked into a care facility, where she become a mere shell of her former self before passing away. We don't remember that part though -- over wine and campfires, we talk about the woman she was before cancer. The real her. Her ashes were scattered in places she loved, but her final resting place is in the heart of her children and family.

I don't watch music videos much anymore. My two little boys keep me too busy with all sorts of activities. Watching TV is not one of them.

This morning I had a moment to flip through the TV stations while my boys were splashing in puddles in the back yard. And I landed on the perfect station, playing the perfect song and video by Rob Thomas -- the guru behind the band Matchbox 20.

The music was uplifting. The words were inspiring. And as always, I interpreted my own version of reality from what I heard. Of course, it involved cancer.

What a perfect start to a rainy Florida day.

Think about this:

let it go,
let it roll right off your shoulder
don't you know
the hardest part is over
let it in,
let your clarity define you
in the end
we will only just remember how it feels

our lives are made
in these small hours
these little wonders,
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away,
but these small hours,
these small hours still remain

let it slide,
let your troubles fall behind you
let it shine
until you feel it all around you
and i don't mind
if it's me you need to turn to
we'll get by,
it's the heart that really matters in the end

our lives are made
in these small hours
these little wonders,
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away,
but these small hours,
these small hours still remain

all of my regret
will wash away some how
but i can not forget
the way i feel right now

in these small hours
these little wonders
these twists & turns of fate
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away but these small hours
these small hours, still remain,
still remain
these little wonders
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away
but these small hours
these little wonders still remain

Visit iTunes to listen to a 30-second clip of this song -- called Little Wonders, from the Meet The Robinson's movie soundtrack.

I have a new friend who is a new breast cancer survivor. She is surviving a new diagnosis, a recent lumpectomy, and the moments leading up to another surgery to further investigate the margins surrounding the tumor removed from her breast. She is surviving the first phase of her breast cancer journey. A phase full of uncertainty and fear and panic. A phase so new and so fresh and so raw, her mind is whirling. A phase that has her grasping for any bit of direction she can find as she navigates a terrifying, unfamiliar road.

My friend is a young wife and mother whose worries are consuming her. She e-mailed me today and asked if I ever have moments when I look at my young children and worry that cancer will take me from them while they are young. She asked if I have always been so sure I will be okay. And so I replied with this candid cancer confession.

I confess. I was once a sun worshiper. I grew up in Ohio where a really sunny day was rare -- so on the occasion when the sun was bright and hot, I was in my back yard or at a swimming pool or at a lake soaking up the warmth and comfort of the rays that mostly burned my skin but gave me a glow that eventually turned the slightest shade of tan and made me feel healthy. It's ironic really -- that I felt healthy when the act of sunbathing is so completely damaging. And I knew this at the time and for the many years that followed -- and I still basked in the sun and vacationed in Florida and sometimes actually drove in the direction of the sun on a overcast day, in search of a tan that was never fully achieved because my skin is pale and fair and was never meant for any amount of sun exposure.

In an interview to promote her new book, Bad Childhood Good Life, Dr. Laura Schlessinger shares a poignant story about the last year of her father's life as he was dying of stomach cancer. She recalls him making a comment about the large number of people who had attended the funeral of a friend and wondered how many people would be at his funeral. She remembers it as an unusually candid moment for her father. She wondered if he had regrets for not having nurtured relationships. She describes her father as a very difficult, compulsive, critical and argumentative guy -- who could also be very charming.

During the last day he was coherent, she asked him the question she had waited her whole life to ask. "Do you love me and have you ever been proud of what I've done with my life?" She thought his answer would change a lifetime of anguish and transform her into a more peaceful and happy person. Her father answered with a simple yes. She waited, she said, as one does for the thunder after the lightening strike, for something magical to happen. She felt she should have been happy or satisfied or something. But absolutely nothing happened. To read more of the interview, go here.

This is not a book review blog post. I have not read Dr. Schlessinger's new book, and so I can not recommend it. The story she tells, and that I share with you, is the familiar ending to a childhood many more have experienced than are willing to admit. Whether you are a fan of the author -- or not -- her recollection is a personally painful one shared between a grown child and parent, and the conversation that never seems to happen until the bitter end. Her father died within a short time after the diagnosis of stomach cancer. The two had a conversation they should have had years earlier. Perhaps, if they had spoken openly years before -- the ending could have been better for both of them. Cancer affects people in so many different ways, with realizations about life and relationships with those close to them. Some have time to change things, some do not.