When you're knee deep in the mess of stress, anxiety, disappointment, panic, fear -- you name it -- isn't it nice to escape for a moment, to feel relief from the burden of heavy emotion? I think so. And I happen to know from personal experience a few techniques that have a calming effect on the most overworked of minds. I'll make it brief, because I know reading volumes of self-help advice is not what's on your worried mind.

• Listen to a favorite song, or any song. It will shift your focus and put your mind in the context of the song. You may even feel recharged and motivated.

• Write down your thoughts. Just write. Don't worry about grammar, spelling, or sentence formation. Just jot down what's on your mind. Transfer your emotion to paper -- or the computer screen -- and see how relieved you can feel.

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.

Tom Keilty of San Dimas, California lost his wife Ruth to breast cancer in 2005, 12 years after she was first diagnosed with the disease. From the very first day cancer entered their lives until the very last day of Ruth's life, the Keilty family received hundreds of hand-written notes for Ruth, filled with encouragement and support.

The notes are still arriving, this time for Keilty and his three children. The notes help strengthen this family's faith and help them grieve. The Keiltys are grateful for the trail of mail that has come their way -- and they ask others to consider writing their own their own notes of hope.

It's simple.

Just drop by a local retailer and pick up a special edition PaperMate Pink Ribbon Pen and Pink Pearl City of Hope Eraser. For each item sold through December 31, 2008, PaperMate will make a donation -- up to $200,000 -- to City of Hope for breast cancer research, education, and treatment.

Then sit down and Write for Hope in honor of someone battling breast cancer. Not only will you warm someone's heart, you will also earn the chance to win a $500 donation made in your honor to City of Hope Cancer Center.

Click here to enter.

Someone asked me the other day how I continue to come up with topics for my posts. I wish I could say it was a chore to find material on cancer, but it isn't. There is always something to write about -- so much to write about, in fact, that if I had the time and energy, I could write volumes each day.

I find my topics in newspapers, in magazines, and in books. I spot them on television, on the radio, on the internet. I draw from personal experience and from others' experiences. I write and write and write because cancer just keeps on appearing in my life. I wish it didn't.

Cancer is everywhere. And it offers me an endless reserve of material that just keeps stacking up. So how do I come up with topics for my posts? I don't. The topics come to me.

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.

I love it when seven of something lands before me, offering me potential material for the Sunday Seven series. In fact, it just happened. And I can't wait to start writing about the Seven Levels of Healing common to cancer patients and those who love them.

I have a new book. It's called The Journey Through Cancer: Healing and Transforming the Whole Person by Jeremy Geffen, MD.

Dr. Geffen knows cancer. He lost his father just three months after a stomach cancer diagnosis. He became an oncologist. He founded a cancer research center. He travels and speaks and writes about health and wellness. And inside the pages of his newly revised and updated paperback, he details the Seven Levels of Healing -- a blend of conventional and complementary principles-- and the true stories of cancer patients who have directly experienced them.

It occurred to me while first flipping through this book that I might read it in its entirety and then write a review of the material. Then I determined it would take much too long for this approach. With two small children, a few jobs, an exercise routine I must revisit, and all the other bits and pieces of life that keep me occupied, this would be quite an undertaking -- the actual reading, the remembering, the writing. Somehow, this would be too much to manage. But small steps. I think I can handle small steps. So this is how it's going to work.

I will present to you in this post the Seven Levels of Healing. I don't know much about them yet -- although by title alone, I am sure I have lived most of them in my own cancer journey. So I will simply lay the groundwork. And then I will start reading. And as I read, I will write. This will be my own one-woman book club -- with an open invitation for new members. Read my posts and reflect on them. Agree. Disagree. Leave comments. Buy your own book. Read with me. Apply what you learn to your own life. Share what you learn with others. The possibilities are endless as I journey my way through this new book in search of peace, clarity, and comfort -- all of which flow from these seven levels.

Level One: Education & Information
Level Two: Connection with Others
Level Three: The Body as Garden
Level Four: Emotional Healing
Level Five: The Nature of Mind
Level Six: Life Assessment
Level Seven: The Nature of Spirit

And so that's what I have to offer for now. I'm sorry to keep you hanging. But rest assured, I am hanging right along with you, eager to find a moment to dive into this book. To sink my teeth into the words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters. To relay it all to you. I can't wait -- to really understand the Seven Levels of Healing.

Stay tuned for:
The Journey Through Cancer: Introduction

I don't take for granted that I am alive. I am fully aware of it, consciously grateful for it, continually amazed by it. Before I was confronted with breast cancer, I still knew I could die -- in a car accident maybe -- but I thought chances were pretty good that I would make it to a ripe old age. Death was never at the forefront of my mind. I had no reason to believe that life could be snatched from me. And because of this, I am sure some pretty important moments slipped by me, virtually unnoticed. But now -- after a breast cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, radiation therapy, and then more therapy, I realize life is not a guarantee for anyone. Me included. Even at age 36, I am not safe. I feel confident about my future -- and I believe cancer has left my body -- but my life has been threatened like never before. And that makes me wake up and take notice -- really notice -- the moments that are too important to take for granted.

My first baby boy starts kindergarten today. Before cancer, this still would have been a monumental day for us both. But now, after cancer, it's even bigger. Because I know of several moms who did not survive cancer long enough to see their children walk through their first classroom doors -- moms who thought, like me, that they would surely beat cancer and would see their kids off for every first day of school. So I am lucky to have made it to this day -- to witness the wonder of my sweet, shy, sensitive, challenging, demanding, loving boy as he leaves the comfort of home for the real world.

Two days ago, my littlest guy said, "Mommy, I love you and want to keep you forever." Joey -- the boy whose wisdom should guide him right through his first day of school -- said, "Danny, you can't have mommy forever. One day she will die, and you will never see her again." Fortunately, his harsh meaning was lost on three-year-old Danny who kept playing with whatever toy was occupying him at the time. But his meaning was not lost on me. He spoke the truth. And so I plan to soak up the kindergarten moment this morning -- and photograph it and write about it and cherish it for my days to come. And in two years, I hope to do it again with Danny as he starts off on the same path. With me by his side.

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.

Lori is driving across the country trying to raise money -- $9,490 to be exact -- for breast cancer research. One dollar for every day that her mother battled breast cancer. And she is close. She has already raised $8,629.40 through sponsors and donations and has traveled a whopping 6,874 miles since she first hit the road in May. She's been through California and Nevada and North Dakota and Utah and Wyoming -- among other places. She camps and hikes and canoes and stops to see friends along the way. Like the friend she will visit today in Minnesota -- a friend who is surviving breast cancer. She stops at roadside attractions and restaurants and charming little overnight resorts. She stops for photos and to write on her blog -- and through it all, she reflects on the mother she lost almost one year ago. And she raises hope for others fighting breast cancer by giving 100 percent of her donations to The Breast Cancer Research Foundation. I am impressed. I am honored. I am in awe of what Lori is doing. Because I know I could never do it.

I don't like to travel -- and anything more than a three-hour trek in any direction, by any mode of transportation, is too much for me. And while I have traveled in my life to faraway places -- England, France, Germany, Italy, and more -- I do not enjoy any part of the process that gets me to and from my destinations. I'm not sure why. I just don't like it. But I admire those who venture to distant lands. And those who find excitement in a spontaneous trip. And those who tackle the long road across state lines for the pure thrill of it. And those -- like Lori -- who do it so others can benefit. So others can survive the disease that takes so many lives. The disease that took Lori's mom.

The first time you hear incredulous news you might be inclined to wonder aloud in stunned amazement -- how did that happen?! -- which is exactly how I reacted when I read about John Heron in Scotland, who was diagnosed with kidney cancer and scheduled to have his cancerous tumor removed only to have his healthy kidney removed instead. The hospital apologized, his wife refused comment. Aren't there just times when saying you are sorry just does not mean what it could. I understood his wife's silence. There are events in life that just leave you speechless. What happened to Heron more than qualified.

In today's The Daily Times of Marysville Tennessee is a new report that Goldie Claude has quite a bit to say about the surgeon who removed her healthy kidney and left the cancerous kidney. The 86 year-old woman is distraught and suing her doctors over the tragic error. Before the operation she worked two 12-hour shifts every weekend taking care of patients at a small health care facility. Bless her heart, she's 86. According to Claude, who is left with one-third of one kidney, says she can't work now and is having nervous spells. I can imagine.

There is a lesson here that needs to be put forward. In the event you ever find yourself scheduled for surgery, take a permanent marker and ask a trusted family member or friend to write on your body instructions on what should be removed. With arrows if necessary. Never mind if you grew up with your mother telling you to quit writing on yourself with a ballpoint pen. Just do it. Remember what happened to John and Goldie.

One of the first recommendations I received after my cancer diagnosis was this -- write everything down. I was told to write down dates and times of appointments, results of tests, names and doses of medications, all procedures and protocols, every question that popped into my mind, and the general gist of what doctors and assistants and nurses and technicians told me.

Because the stuff that comes with a cancer diagnosis is overwhelming and confusing and disorienting -- and writing it all down can help manage the chaos of it all.