The following post is one of a series of posts appearing Monday through Friday on The Cancer Blog. This feature -- Today, I am grateful -- allows me to share with readers my appreciation for all the treasures in my life, both big and small. In my post-cancer world, I find It healing for my soul to be mindful of the good in my life. It is my pleasure to share my gratitude with you.

I'm sick of talking about this sickness of mine. But there's one more thing I need to say in regards to how it's disrupted my life -- and how one person has helped me pick up the pieces I've left scattered around as a result.

The one more thing: Sickness always throws me for a loop. I'm an organized, planned, on-the-ball sort of person and I don't like how sickness takes me out of the game. I'm not good at sitting around, resting, putting my feet up for extended periods of time. I hate how life passes me by and my responsibilities begin to stack up. I try my best to stay on top of everything but all it really does is keep me sick. It seems the more I try to do, the longer it takes for my body to heal.

Lance Armstrong, champion of both cycling and cancer, wrote a commentary recently for CNN. His message was loud and clear -- he is losing patience with Washington politicians set on cutting funds for cancer research -- and while his words have not yet spurred positive change for cancer initiatives, they have inspired cancer survivors from all over the world who are responding with their own commentaries on sickness and survival.

The outpouring of sentiment inspired by Armstrong's commentary is overwhelming. Today, I offer just a glimpse into what survivors -- seven of them -- are expressing in the spirited e-mails they are sending to CNN.

Jerry Kelly of Birmingham, Alabama
My dad died of cancer 10 years ago, almost the same time Lance was diagnosed and subsequently founded the Lance Armstrong Foundation. My wife and I met Lance a few years later after I was diagnosed and we went to Austin for the LAF Ride for the Roses (fundraising bike ride). Lance's story had been very inspirational when I found it just minutes after my diagnosis with testicular cancer. What we didn't realize was how much inspiration we would get from other survivors and caregivers as we shared stories. Lance also spoke of something his doctor told him about, the Obligation of the Cured. The important thing to remember is that we can all make a difference if we are willing to give the effort. You don't have to win the Tour de France to join the LiveStrong Army!

Brian D. of Austin, Texas
The costs of this disease even for folks that have good insurance are well beyond reach. Depending on when you discover the cancer and what type of cancer you have, the out-of-pocket costs are far beyond the average person's ability to pay. This is of course assuming that you want to extend your quality of life and you want access to the latest advancements in cancer treatment. We are called society's "catastrophic cases." I am a 4½-year survivor of primary brain cancer. The technical name for my disease is anaplastic astrocytoma grade III. It is basically a slow-growing glioblastoma multiforme -- a death sentence. But I am young and up to the challenge. I am a card-carrying member of the LAF organization. I think what Lance is doing is great ... I think this article is great and I think our Congress should give more tax credits to those of us trying to live a normal life. Shame on them for not acting!

Anne Hawkins of Douglasville, Georgia
I was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 36. I am now 42½ and I have been diagnosed with breast cancer again -- a different type than the first time. I caught it in time thanks to my diligence in screening. However I am going through chemo for a second time in my life since it was an aggressive cancer and I'm so young. I am appalled that none of our politicians consider this a running topic! And the funding has been cut? That's unbelievable.

Marianna Costa, Melbourne, Australia
While I am writing from Australia, unfortunately the experiences of others sound all too familiar in our world. My wonderful father died in 2005 from cancer. The devastation to lives infested by cancer could never be measured in dollars. My conclusion is that cancer treatment is a global business. While I have faith in people of science to rid us from this world catastrophe, there is a global lack of resolve in governments, the corporate sector and medical institutions.

Casey Cronin of Austin, Texas
I'm 19 years old and I was diagnosed with cancer on December 3. I had my first surgery on December 7 and the second surgery on December 22. The pain I experienced was beyond belief. I had to accept the fact that I had cancer, go through with these surgeries, and sit in a hospital on Christmas. The second surgery was to remove my lymph nodes on my back and the nodes came back negative. Without cancer research I might not have been so lucky. I'm outraged that Congress has cut funding towards cancer research but continue to spend an arm and a leg on defense spending. I have a friend with Hodgkins lymphoma and unfortunately he doesn't have insurance. He's 23 and scraping by trying to make sure he might live past his 30s. Cancer is real threat to our health.

Betty Hoffmeister of Taylorville, Illinois
A year ago, October 2005, my daughter was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer of colon and liver. Not given much hope, but she is a fighter and a real sweet person. She takes chemo every other week on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and then is so sick she has to stay in bed for a day or two. But then she gets up and does what ever her little body will let her do. They just say keep doing what you are doing, but we are really worried. I would like for her to hear some real encouraging news soon before she loses the will to keep fighting. God is very good. But we need help.

Scott Joy of Portsmouth, New Hampshire
I'm a 3½-year testicular cancer survivor, and an administrator for an Internet support forum for other survivors. As the Lance Armstrong Foundation sagely notes, "Cancer may leave your body, but it never leaves your life." Dealing with cancer is life-changing. I was blind to it before it hit me, but now I see cancer -- and its effect on individuals, families, and society -- every day. I am forever grateful for the LIVESTRONG movement, and the passion and power of the community of cancer survivors.

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.

Those of us diagnosed with cancer are not the only survivors of our diseases. Our families and friends and caregivers and even employers and co-workers survive right along with us. Sure, the facets of our survivorship vary tremendously -- but we all survive the wrath of cancer in our own unique ways.

My two little boys have spent the past two years surviving breast cancer -- my breast cancer. And while they still don't fully comprehend the magnitude of such a disease, they do understand cancer is a sickness. They understand it took my hair, made me feel sick, left me with scars, and they religiously comment on every pink ribbon they see. They call the ribbons cancer.

I am often asked how my children handled my diagnosis, my treatment, my emotions. They handled it all well, I think, and as time passes, they do better and better. In fact, cancer seems to have vanished into thin air for Joey, who will turn six on Wednesday, and Danny, who is three and a half years old. I know this because of their answers to a few questions I asked them last night, on the eve of 2007.

What was the best thing you did this year?

Joey: Swimming in the pool.
Danny: Being at school.

What was the worst thing that happened this year?

Joey: Getting that boo-boo on my foot, when it scraped on the driveway.
Danny: The cheetah that was chasing me.

What could you have done better this year?

Joey: Learning to ride my bike without training wheels.
Danny: Watching Ice Age.

What would you like to work on during this new year?

Joey: Building a better stick house.
Danny: Drinking milk.

What was the scariest thing that happened this year?

Joey: When I thought there were monsters in my room.
Danny: When there was a cheetah in my room.

What was the funniest thing that happened to you this year?

Joey: When Jack (uncle) and Bud (grandpa) tickled me.
Danny: When the cheetah was chasing me.

When I say the word Daddy, what do you think about?

Joey: Someone who makes me laugh.
Danny: no reply -- he was distracted by the movie Ice Age.

When I say the word Mommy, what do you think about?

Joey: I don't know.
Danny: no reply -- still distracted by the movie Ice Age.

What do you wish for 2007?

Joey: I wish I could fly.
Danny: I wish I could slide on a sleigh.

And that's a wrap. Not one mention of cancer. Not one response concerning endless medical appointments, my drastically different hair, or the port -- they called it a stone -- that was removed from my body in September.

There truly are more important things in life than cancer for two little boys whose memories of a horrible disease will hopefully fade with each passing year -- until not even a pink ribbon catches their attention.

Happy 2007, Joey and Danny. May all your wishes come true!

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.

Kids can be so positive and encouraging, even in the face of sickness. Now today my kids have just a simple sickness -- nothing life-threatening -- that I'm sure will pass in a day or so. They are throwing up every content of their little tummies -- even sips of water -- and they are pale and lethargic and run-down. But still, they have hope for a brighter tomorrow. This morning, five-year-old Joey said to me while resting in my bed and just after he threw up , "this is just the good getting rid of the bad." He went on to explain how the good in our bodies knows when to push the bad out. And this is what is happening to him today, he said. He is throwing up the bad so the good can take over. Simple. Easy. Makes sense.

I never saw my own sickness like this. Instead of visualizing chemotherapy as a good agent that kills bad cells, I was repulsed by the horrific liquids that poisoned my body. I knew of people who were able to turn chemotherapy into a Pac-Man game -- with Pac Man chomping away at the cancer cells and leaving nothing but healthy cells to thrive. And I knew people who were relieved to feel sick because it meant the chemotherapy was working. I never saw it like this -- although I do know that chemotherapy may have saved me from a life with cancer. I was discouraged by chemotherapy. I had a negative attitude about it, and I had to really gear up for all of my infusions. I still -- more than one year later -- cannot eat anything I ate on my chemo days. The mere thought of these foods makes me feel ill.

A pediatrician friend of mine told me that kids with cancer tend to be positive. There are a few old souls, she said, but for the most part, they continue to tackle life with spirit and adventure and simplicity. Like my boys today who are peacefully napping at the moment so everything good in their bodies can come back with a vengeance.

During the late 1950s, Thalidomide was prescribed to pregnant women in many countries around the globe as an antiemetic to combat morning sickness. As it turns out, the drug, which had passed safety tests necessary to gain approval, was a nightmare of unimaginable proportion when it was discovered that babies born to mothers who took the drug suffered extreme birth deformities and missing limbs. Many of the babies did not survive the first year of life. If it were not for Frances Oldham Kelsey, a reviewer for the Food and Drug Administration, who refused to grant approval for a drug she knew was not safe, many babies in the United States would have suffered the same tragic fate. Thalidomide was pulled from the market when it became clear what was causing a sudden epidemic in birth deformities. The drug was later introduced in the treatment for leprosy.

Drug makers have found a new use for thalidomide, being marketed as Thalomid, in the approval for treatment of multiple myeloma -- a blood cancer. It sounds like everyone is being very cautious about this drug, and with good reason, given its history. According to reports, it will be strictly controlled to prevent pregnant women from access to the drug. Thalomid also will carry a black box warning about an increased risk of blood clots for multiple myeloma patients.

According to an attorney representing a group of 9/11 first responders who have been diagnosed with brain cancer and other illness -- out of the 7,300 sick workers and family members involved in the case -- 41 have now died. The group states that the toxic dust that filled the air immediately following the September 11 terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers is responsible for their illnesses. 

In a related post, WTC Ground Zero: FDNY paramedic dies of lung cancer, we shared the story of Debbie Reeve, a FDNY paramedic, who spent several months at Ground Zero working in the morgue. Reeve was diagnosed with mesothelioma, a rare form of lung cancer. Mesothelioma is a malignant lung cancer linked to asbestos exposure. Reeve was exposed to asbestos particles in the air caused by the collapsing Twin Towers. According to her physician and her family, her work at Ground Zero is the direct link to the cancer that took her life. She died in mid-March, leaving behind her husband, David Reeve, 45, a FDNY paramedic, and two children, a daughter Elizabeth, who is ten years old, and a son Mark, who is only six years old. Her family said she suffered greatly leading up to her death, as the cancer consumed her body.

In another news story that came out today, a survey completed by the Centers for Disease Control states that people trapped in the dust and debris cloud were nearly three times more likely to experience respiratory symptoms than other building survivors not bathed by the cloud. "That was most surprising to us - the impact of the dust cloud," noted Dr. Lorna Thorpe, deputy commissioner of the city Health Department and head of the World Trade Center Health Registry, which has been tracking the health of more than 71,000 people who worked at or were near Ground Zero on 9/11.

As a nation, we owe these brave men and women whatever they need. Government, state and city agencies should step up and do what is right for our heroes, who ran upstairs into harm's way while everyone was passing them on the way down escaping danger. Who stood in the middle of dense choking dust and debris, to help the injured. Who stayed, and sifted through the heartbreak of destruction to find the lost loved ones of others. This should never have gotten so bad for them they have to go to court to see that right is done.