The seven cancer thoughts I present to you today are purely random. They are not linked by theme or category. There is no rhyme or reason for my choosing them. And they do not belong with one another for any other reason than this: they all come directly from my very own head and are somehow related to the disease that lingers in my thoughts for most minutes of most days. Here they are:

1. Vanity is merely a six-letter word. It's certainly not as important after cancer as it is before. I admit vanity played a role in my life prior to my breast cancer diagnosis and still, it's with me to some degree. But more important than vanity now is waking each morning and realizing I'm alive. I don't want to lose weight to look ultra thin. I choose to reach an ideal weight because I want to be healthy. I don't want a tan. I want skin that is free from damage. My clothes? I want them to fit and feel comfortable. That's it.

2. Normal is a thing of the past. It's funny how I worked so hard to look normal after cancer struck (note: here's vanity rearing its head). Prior to losing my hair to chemotherapy, I worked hard at matching my long, straight, blond hair to a wig that would become my disguise for five months. I found the perfect replica of what would eventually tumble from my scalp, and I wore it proudly. A neighbor who knew I was receiving chemotherapy once told my sister, "That's so great Jacki didn't lose her hair." I looked that much like normal, people didn't know anything had changed. Little did I know change was right around the corner. When my hair grew in, it was dark and curly. Not even close to normal.

CNN's Todd Leopold has reviewed a new book of doubt, humor, hope and motherhood -- the passions of Marjorie Williams. A collection of Williams essays and profiles, The Woman at the Washington Zoo, is being timed for release on Mother's Day. Edited by her husband Noah, Williams, who once worked as a journalist for publications such as the Washington Post, Vanity Fair and Slate, and who lost her life to liver cancer, was known for her honesty and unflinching gaze into the complexities, conflict and truth about people and life. In the last section of the book, she writes about the shock of being diagnosed with liver cancer and how she coped with telling her children the truth about her cancer. Marjorie Williams died on January 16, 2005. She was 47. To read the entire book review and discover a book that makes for good reading, go here.