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.

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.

Seven sweet, simple words were hurled at me last night by my oldest child, Joey -- the boy who makes me as crazy as he does happy.

Joey, six, was all snuggled in bed, cozy with his soft blankets, squishy pillows, and three favorite stuffed puppies. I gave him my usual speech -- Sweet dreams. I love you. Now don't get out of bed -- and then made my usual trek to another room for some me-time. My trip was stopped short, though, because a strong urge inspired me to reverse my steps and return to Joey.

"What are you doing, mommy?" Joey asked as I walked back into the room.

"I thought I'd come rest with you for a little bit," I told him. "Is that OK?" I asked, knowing full well any excuse to avoid sleep is just fine with him

Joey sat straight up, pure joy coloring his tired face. I took this to mean he welcomed my return. And so I crawled into bed and hugged Joey tight. And that's when he spoke the seven words that caused tears to pour from my eyes -- the kind of tears that spill out when the human body can no longer harness its emotion.

The words:

"Mommy, I love you so, so much."

Ever since Joey blessed me with these words, I can't seem to get one thought out of my head.

The thought:

God, I hope I survive cancer long enough to hold this boy in my arms until he is all grown up, until he is wrapping his arms around his own loving child.

I really hope this is not too much to ask.

Today I offer you not so much a Thought for the Day but a Question for the Day. Before I ask my pressing question, though, I want you to consider this story.

Diagnosed with a rare malignant melanoma on her retina in 2001, Ann Guthrie, a South Carolina wife and mother of two grown sons, endured radiation and chemotherapy. The treatments shrunk Guthrie's tumor, but another mass appeared two years later, forcing the removal of her right eye.

At about the same time Guthrie lost her eye, cancer was discovered in her lungs. It was inoperable. Then cancer landed in her brain. And now, without any approved treatment avenues, Guthrie is out of options.

Like many people with terminal illnesses, this woman is willing to try just about anything -- a clinical trial, experimental drugs, risky treatments -- to extend her life. If she's going to die anyway, why not? She just might live longer. And if she doesn't, she could at least help advance science by offering herself up as a sort of guinea pig.

While the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) has proposed changes that would make it easier for patients to access options like these, it's just not that simple right now.

There are ethical issues -- like weighing the needs of people who think anything is better than death against the need of society to prove drugs and treatments work safely. The only way to ensure a sort of balance is through clinical trials -- and letting anyone participate in clinical trials, for example, would make the results harder to interpret.

And there are medical and legal risks. What if terminally ill patients end up in worse shape after a treatment with an experimental drug, for example? What if the FDA or a physician is considered responsible for adverse drug reactions?

Denying terminal patients their last bits of hope is difficult. "It's a hard discussion to have with a patient and his family," says one doctor. "There's a lot of tears. We all would love to be able to get them access to some form of therapy."

And now for my question:

What do you think about terminally ill cancer patients and their access to anything that might extend -- or save -- their lives?

Tears are streaming down my face. I can't stop them, and I'm not sure I want to. In a way, I want to feel the tragedy of life lost to cancer because it makes it all real. It makes it personal. It makes me realize the same tragedy could happen to me, my family members, my friends. It makes me want to make a difference even more now that I've seen the chilling pictures of a young woman dying of cervical cancer than moments earlier when I was moved mostly by my own breast cancer journey.

I first read about Heather Lyn Martin on the JANE magazine website, home of a beautifully-written story -- I Hate Tumors -- by Sara Lyle, long-time friend of Heather and senior editor for JANE, a publication for 20-something women. Sara's words powerfully depict the life and death of her friend, stricken with a disease she was sure she would beat. So sure, in fact, she asked Sara to help tell her success story.

Sadly, Heather never got to tell much. Because she died much too soon, at the age of 28. So Sara told the story through her own words and photos -- the same ones responsible for my tears -- and has just recently written a second essay, one year after her first story started reaching young people everywhere.

Sara wrote Why I Still Hate Tumors after inspiring many young women to open their eyes to the realities of a deadly disease. Her words serve to raise awareness about the dangers of cervical cancer -- and the HPV virus that causes it -- and to point women in the direction of resources critical for preventing and conquering the disease.

Sara, because of the death of her dear friend, is saving lives with her message. And she just may save yours.

To see all that Sara has to offer in the fight against cervical cancer and other hated tumors, visit her I Hate Tumors website.

The build-up to 2006 was a bit uncertain for me. At the end of 2004, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and set my sights on short-term survival, moment by moment, day by day. I wasn't sure 2005 -- in its entirety -- was a guarantee so I tried not to look too far ahead. I focused on the completion of each of the year's cancer steps -- surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, the beginning of a year-long Herceptin therapy, and so much more -- and somehow, I survived the whole ordeal. And the whole year.

I made it through 2005, and I have almost made it through 2006 -- a year marked by a cancer slow-down, a more normal existence. Moment by moment, day by day, the burden of cancer loosened it's grip on me. And as I begin to reflect on the year that has all but passed before my eyes, I realize it turned out just fine. Here are seven reasons why.

• On May 19, 2006, my very first post published on The Cancer Blog. What a thrill it was -- and still is -- to find myself engaged in a useful pursuit as a result of my own cancer experience.
  

• On June 28, 2006, the last drops of Herceptin made their way through my body, marking the conclusion of 17 doses of this hopefully life-saving potion.

• On September 15, 2006, my port came out, signaling my acceptance of a life without drug treatment, my faith that I will never again need a foreign object sewn under my skin.

• On December 6, 2006, 18 months of counseling came to a close. Armed with skills to cope with all sorts of emotional issues, I am marching forward, free of the disabling anxiety and free-flowing tears that first landed me in the counseling chair.

• For much of 2006, I have been a student of fitness training, pushing myself physically in search of better health. It's not always easy, I'm not always motivated, and I am known to whine a bit -- but still, I am happier just knowing I am working toward sustained health.
  

• Throughout the entire year, I have walked away from every medical check-up and follow-up with a clean bill of health. I hear the longer someone survives cancer, the less likely the disease is to return. Happily, I have two years of survival under my belt.

• Ever since my diagnosis, I have been reaching for others with journeys similar to mine. First, I reached for support and guidance and reassurance. Then, I reached to offer my own version of support and guidance and reassurance. The year 2006 has been full of rich connections, found only because of cancer. Reaching makes me feel good.

Yes, the year 2006 turned out just fine.

I spend 10.5 hours every weekday on my own with some combination of my two little boys. My day starts each morning and extends through meals and playtime and laughs and tears and fights and struggles and snuggles -- but never a nap -- and even a part-time preschool job where one or two boys always tag along. Sometimes I try to write during the day while my boys are happy and occupied. Typically, I don't accomplish much. Interruptions are endless -- as they should be for a mostly stay-at-home mom who chooses to devote her daytime hours to raising children.

And so I go it alone until dinner time when my husband returns from work and selflessly takes over and sets me free. He cooks, serves, and cleans up dinner. He plays and entertains and wrestles and heads up bath and book time. And then he transports each boy on his back to their respective beds.

During my moments of freedom each evening, I lose myself in my thoughts -- and I begin to write. I love my mommy job -- and wouldn't trade it for any other full-time job -- but I also love being alone. And I love writing.

Helen Keller said, "I must have something besides husband and children, something I can devote myself to! I want to go on living even after my death! And therefore, I am grateful to God for giving me this gift, this possibility of developing myself, and of writing, of expressing all that is within me."

Writing -- mostly about cancer -- helps me develop my surviving self. It helps me express all that is within me. And maybe it's fitting that I don't get too much time to dwell on the disease that consumed me for two years. If I had to choose between two busy boys and a life busy with cancer, I'd take two boys in an instant. At the end of the day, a little bit of writing about a little of cancer suits me just fine.

Dear Lindsay,

I had no idea what awaited me the day I arrived at the Psychology Clinic nearly 18 months ago. Fresh out of the hospital, deeply distressed about my existence, and wanting so badly to stop the tears that poured from my eyes at the slightest mention of cancer, I landed in your care. How lucky for me.

I arrived fragile -- perhaps already broken -- with emotions that were wildly unmanageable. I was anxious, worried, consumed by panic. In search of peace, I told you I wanted more than anything to acquire an easy state of mind, to survive the cancer that faced me, to live without fear that I may once again encounter this disease.

You told me my search could be successful and with a healthy dose of your guided therapy -- and a whole lot more than our intended eight to 10 sessions -- I happened upon the gift of serenity. And my mind is now easy. And I have you to thank.

Thank you, Lindsay, for tending to my wilting spirit, for bracing my fall, for helping me reshape my thoughts and visions, for offering me an abundance of coping tools, for coaching me back into a world where I can bloom.

Your work may be done -- officially. But you will always be at work in my mind. You will always be the one who saved me from a lifetime of darkness. And for that, I am honored to have been your client.

Forever grateful,

Jacki

When I cry, I write. It makes me feel better to do something productive with my emotions, to channel my tears into something meaningful, to share my on-going journey with cancer so others may somehow benefit.

My tears started to flow after I dialed Amy's phone number this morning -- with the intention of speaking to her husband, almost two months after Amy died of breast cancer. No one answered my call, so voice mail picked up. And Amy's voice spoke to me in words something like you have reached the Wilson's. We cannot take your call. I wonder if her family has chosen to keep Amy's voice as the one that greets all callers. Or have they forgotten to change the message. Or are they stuck, unsure of what to do about this permanent reminder of Amy. Regardless, it must take time to deal with such as issue.

I left a message after Amy's voice became quiet. I recorded my own voice for her husband, told him I've been meaning to call but wanted to give him some time, that I hope he is doing alright, that he is in my thoughts every day. I wished him a Happy Thanksgiving and told him I'd try to call another day.

It was the end of my message that really choked me up -- the saying goodbye to a man I've never met who recently, suddenly had to say goodbye to his 35-year-old wife, the mother of his two small children. My goodbye was so much easier than his, and I think this is why I feel sad.

It made me happy to hear Amy's voice today, to remember her when she was alive and well and swearing she would not let cancer take her before Christmas. And it makes me happy that no one answered my call today -- because maybe it means everyone who lives in Amy's house is moving on with life, shocked as they may be that cancer took Amy weeks before Halloween.

I had no idea my one phone call would churn up so many tears. Thankfully, I have a tried and true method for dealing with them. Writing.

I've never had a problem with crying. My tears of joy and sorrow have always flowed easily, and I have never regretted shedding any one of them. I once told a college student I mentored who was hesitant to cry over a work-related scenario that I cry all the time. She later told me my confession sticks in her mind -- my ability and willingness to cry freely, without reservation. I told her I consider crying a cleansing, therapeutic process. I told her that I always feel replenished after a good cry. And I still believe this, years and years after my encounter with this student.

I cried just a few days ago while talking to my doctor and then my mom about how cancer may prevent me from having another child, if not physically, then emotionally. I just don't know if I could peacefully experience a pregnancy with the fear of cancer recurrence. And this makes me cry. Because I want another child. But I don't think I will have one. I cried at my oncologist appointment the other day while talking about the death of a friend. I cry while reading certain books and while watching sad movies and television shows. Two nights ago, I cried while watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, about a breast cancer survivor. I cry when recalling the births of my babies and while marveling at my little growing boys. And I know I will cry when I read a journal a friend just shared with me, written by his uncle who lost a daughter to brain cancer.

Tears cleanse my soul. And sometimes, they complicate matters. They make me wonder how well I am, two years after my cancer diagnosis. I interpret my tears now more than ever, in an effort to determine how well I am coping with life in survival mode. I wonder if the tears that frequently well up in my eyes are normal or if they are indicative of the depression that prompted my oncologist to prescribe an anti-depressant. I consider that perhaps I should be better able to handle some topics, some situations, some tough experiences without becoming weepy. And I also realize that perhaps my tears are completely normal, that I could be ultra sensitive to my every emotion, that as long as I feel happy and function easily, I am just fine.

I plan to iron all this out at my next and final counseling session that I need to schedule. This closing session will allow me to wrap up two year's worth of cancer issues, to close one chapter of my life and begin another. I just need to make the appointment. Which I have yet to do. Because contemplating the end of something so healing seems so daunting. And for better or for worse, this makes me cry.

I was doing fine at my every-three-month oncologist appointment yesterday. I kept my composure while telling my doctor all about my friend Amy who passed away just one month ago, after a short 15-month battle with breast cancer, at the tender age of 35.

As I detailed the story about how Amy's cancer spread to her brain and lungs, how she was given just two to 12 months to live, how she didn't even survive for two months, I saw in his eyes that he knew exactly why I had hand-picked this story just for him. He knew I was trying to determine my own risk for this same outcome -- and so he was understanding and compassionate and comforting in a medical sort of way. And he was convincing -- when he told me he predicts I will absolutely not follow Amy's same path.

I did just fine for our whole exchange. Until this same man shifted from medical speak and asked me the four simple words that never fail to trigger a trail of unstoppable tears.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

He caught me off guard. I'm not sure I was prepared to dive beyond the surface of my emotions, to reveal my true fear of death from the same disease Amy was sure would not kill her. So I cried. And cried. A medical student fetched me a tissue, my doctor stood and touched my shoulder, and my three-year-old Danny watched with concern. I told everyone I was fine -- mostly, I am -- and I dried my tears. Before departing, my doctor hugged me and told me he'd send in a nurse to give me a flu shot.

Danny thought I cried because I was scared of the flu shot. Had it not been for his own appointment later in the day for the same flu shot, I would have let him believe this was the cause of my tears. Instead, I told him I was sad for a friend who was sick. And he was happy -- until a sharp needle pierced the skin of his little leg hours later.

Danny is happy once again. And I am happy too. My appointment revealed nothing suspicious, nothing worrisome, nothing except the fact that my oncologist thinks of me not just as a case, a statistic, a body that once harbored a disease. He thinks of me as a whole person. And that -- more than anything -- is what makes me cry.

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 have had a hard time keeping my counseling appointments lately. Life keeps getting in the way, and counseling keeps getting pushed to the side. The last time I called my counselor to cancel -- due to an emergency room trip with my three-year-old -- I mentioned that my inability to keep up with sessions was perhaps a precursor to an eventual termination of our counseling relationship. My counselor -- Lindsay -- said this was maybe an accurate assessment, that we should discuss the possibility of an ending point. We haven't yet discussed it, though, because I have not made the time to contact her. I have continued to leave counseling on the back burner.

But today Lindsay sent me an e-mail to check in. She wrote that I am probably going to be okay on my own now -- in the aftermath of cancer -- and that we should have one final session to reflect on my progress over the past 16 months. I have not replied to Lindsay -- not because I am busy with other things but simply because her words made me cry. They still make me cry, hours later. I'm not exactly sure why. And I'm not exactly sure how I will follow up on scheduling my very last session.

I assume my tears -- my sadness -- are part of the healing process, part of the separation anxiety I feel each time a part of my treatment ends and a part of my life moves on. I assume I am sad at the prospect of leaving a vital part of my recovery behind, about leaving the comfort of my counseling chair, about leaving Lindsay. The possibilities are endless. And I suppose we will cover all possibilities when Lindsay and I sit down for our last, final, concluding session -- when we recall how much I have grown since the day we first met, when I could barely mutter a word about cancer without weeping uncontrollably, when I could barely manage to find pleasure in my days, when I could barely imagine that life could -- and would -- offer me peace and happiness.

Today, life is good. And it's clear that counseling is no longer necessary for my survival. But that doesn't make it any easier to make my final appointment. To contemplate saying my last goodbye. To tackle life completely on my own. Which is what I will do -- in time -- so I can continue moving on, away from breast cancer.

Numbness is wearing off, and I am beginning to feel twinges of pain surrounding the area where my port was once located. I can't see what was done to me today -- because the area is carefully bandaged -- but I know from what I feel that my skin has been cut and sewn back together. I feel the skin tightening, stretching, pulsing and while it's not terribly comfortable, it's pretty minor compared to the pain of so many other cancer procedures -- like my lumpectomy, my chemotherapy, my nausea, my neutropenia, my allergic reactions to various medications.

So I am fine, following my port removal that was predicted to last a few hours but somehow took most of the day. The actual procedure took just one hour, and the twilight drug that kept me in a peaceful funk allowed me to relax while the port that was tunneled into the tissue underneath my skin was precisely taken from my body. It was an uneventful experience -- except for a few tears that dripped from my eyes during the final moments before my surgery. I think it may have been the power of the moment -- the moment signaling the end of my active cancer journey. Or it may have been the power of support offered by my sister and my three-year-old son who accompanied me today. Or it may have been the power of the response I gave a nurse who had just seen my little guy and asked me if I planned to have more children. My response -- probably not, because of cancer -- seemed a little too final, a little too sad.

It may have been the combination of everything, all adding up over the past two years, that brought tears to my eyes today. But for now, the tears are gone. And the port is gone. For now, my cancer is gone.

On Friday, I was full of anxiety and panic and worry -- all over a lump I feel in my left breast that my oncologist says is probably just scar tissue from my lumpectomy two years ago. I don't like the word probably and the more I thought about it, the more unsettled I became. Too many young women hear that the suspicious bumps and lumps they detect in their breasts are nothing to worry about -- and too many women go on to later discover that these same bumps and lumps are in fact cancer. Sometimes it's in enough time to treat the cancer -- and sometimes it's too late.

I am a young woman -- 36 years old -- and I have already had breast cancer. I do not wish to obsess for my entire life about cancer but when I feel a lump in my breast, I want to know it is definitely nothing to worry about. Or I want to know that it is definitely something to worry about -- so I can treat it early.

So when I first got a mammogram and ultrasound appointment scheduled for a week from Friday, I accepted it and wrote it down in my calendar. And then panic set in. I realized I could not wait one week and that I should be able to demand a quicker response. So I called my doctor's office, spoke to the receptionist through uncontrollable tears, and somehow ended up with the doctor herself on the phone. "What's wrong?" she said. "I'm freaking out," I told her. "What do you want to do?" she asked. "Do you want to come in right now?" She told me she had a busy day, had a biopsy to perform that would take a while, but that I could come hang out in her office until she could get to me. Or I could come in on Monday, she said. I let myself calm down a bit and told her Monday would be good. She asked me what time I wanted to come -- she offered me any time that fit my schedule. I chose 9:00 AM.

So tomorrow morning, I will find out what exactly sits underneath the skin on my left breast, near my armpit -- what exactly it is that feels to me like a little mound of tissue that just doesn't seem right. Maybe it's scar tissue -- and I hope it is -- and maybe it's something else. I can only hope that at the end of my appointment I look foolish for pursuing something that doesn't deserve the attention I'm giving it. But if it does deserve attention, I will know I've done the right thing by vigorously pursuing an appointment I just couldn't wait one week for.