Would You Rather?

Mike and I had been invited to a party with several well-to-do couples. The invitation had a unique request: everyone should bring a fun game idea. So, I grabbed a game our family loved, and we headed out the door.

That night, we sat around a massive table under a brilliant chandelier. We played various card games and enjoyed extravagant hors d'oeuvres. Everyone took turns choosing different games, and after a while, the hostess, Sharon, turned to me. "What game did you bring, Elisa?" she asked.

"Would You Rather," I replied, setting a small box of cards on the table. "Each person will take a turn reading a card and then explain their choice."

Mike smiled at me, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "This'll be fun," he said because we'd chosen a deck filled with philosophical questions that made for some very interesting conversations. The answers could seem obvious at first, but time would prove otherwise—especially when people promised to be honest during the game.

A man named Erik was the first to take a turn. A low chuckle escaped his lips as he read his card aloud: "Would you rather (A) go to prison for the rest of your life or (B) have to sail around the world... alone?"

"B," he declared without hesitation. "I'll figure it out. But that's a short time, compared to life in prison."

His wife, Monica, gasped dramatically. "But you could die!"

"Nah." Erik shrugged confidently. "I'll be fine." He handed the box to his wife and smirked as if he could hardly wait to hear her question.

"Would you rather," Monica read steadily, "(A) lose all of your money or (B) get killed by a bear?" She set the card down and looked at everyone around the table. "Well, that's easy. I'd rather get killed by a bear!"

A few of us, including me, didn't mean to, but our mouths fell open in shock. I knew Monica and Erik had built their business from nothing. They'd gotten married right out of high school, scrimping and saving to chase their dreams. No one had expected their business to do as well as it had, yet here we were. Yet, two decades later, my high school friends were multimillionaires.

I couldn't help but feel a pang of curiosity, and since no one else dared ask, I decided to voice the question on everyone's minds. "You'd rather die than lose all of your money?" It seemed ludicrous. Who would choose death over poverty? Silence filled the space between us, and I thought about how much my friends had changed over the years. They really seemed to have everything money could buy: the biggest house on the hill, a boat, designer clothes, luxury cars—Erik even got his pilot's license and purchased a brand-new Cessna airplane!

Monica nodded to me, and I remembered what I'd just asked her, if she'd actually meant that she'd rather get killed by a bear than lose all of her money.

"Yes," she finally said, her voice unwavering. "That money will pay for our kids to go to college. They'll be set up to have good lives. If I had to die so they could keep it, that's what I'd do."

A pang of guilt twisted in my gut. I knew what Monica and Erik had been through years before: Erik's absentee parents, Monica's single mom who battled addiction, and all the relatives who never believed they'd amount to anything. 

This wasn't about money; it was about breaking a cycle.

I'm always preaching to my kids about kindness, talking about not judging because we never know what people have been through. Yet here I was, doing the very thing I warned against.

I saw my own hypocrisy reflected in Monica's eyes and realized again that giving people the benefit of the doubt isn't just a lesson to be taught, it's a choice that needs to be made every single day.

As Monica passed the Would You Rather deck to a woman next to her, I thought of how she and Erik fought their way out of impossible circumstances. Their children are getting the childhood their parents never had, seeing an example of incredible love and the ability to rise above anything.

Two Choices

Applebee's resounded with the rhythms of upbeat '90s music and the clatter of silverware, a combination that usually filled me with excitement. That night, however, felt different, new... 

Dena had set me up with Jay, a legend on the football field. He was a year older and undeniably handsome. I'd walked in trepidatiously, shocked that Jay—the popular guy—actually seemed interested in me. This was it. My big chance to visit him, the guy who was always kind, no matter where he was or who he spoke with. I'd seen him in the hall and was always impressed by his thoughtfulness toward others.

"I'm just so happy to be here with you, Jay," I gushed, probably a little too enthusiastically.

He took a thoughtful sip of his soda. "Yeah, it's a good spot. I actually brought another girl here last week, and she really liked it too." He grinned to himself. "She was somethin' else. A real ten outta ten."

My jaw… did a freefall. Dena almost choked on her mozzarella stick, and her date, Kevin, stared at his plate as if hoping it could transport him to another universe. 

I let out a nervous laugh. This was, without a doubt, the worst date I'd ever been on.

After dinner, I decided to stick it out; I'd been looking forward to this for two weeks. I'd better give this guy a real chance. 

"What's next?" Kevin asked. 

We all tossed ideas around: a stroll in the park, a movie… We could go get ice cream?

"But not mini-golf," Dena said. "Mini-golf would be bad."

Jay's face contorted. "Sure—change everything for the handicapped guy," he snapped, his voice laced with a bitterness that cut through the cheerful din. "Let's make it boring and easy 'cause Jay's here."

I gasped, wishing I knew how to save the moment. Dena hadn't meant anything bad. This was an inside joke; she didn't like mini-golf because I always won. It had nothing to do with Jay.

Kevin blinked awkwardly before looking at me and Dena. He obviously didn't know what to do either. 

"We were just brainstorming," Dena finally whispered. "I didn't mean anything by it. And that thing about mini-golfing… It's an inside joke." She looked at me.

But her words hung in the air unanswered, and no one else said anything for a while. Jay's disability and his wheelchair suddenly became the elephant in the room, a living presence fueled by his insecurities. No one had given them a second thought until now.

However, as the moment progressed, no matter how much we tried to reassure him, Jay grew angrier and more inconsolable. Hoping to normalize things, I told Jay that the emotions he felt were normal but Dena hadn't meant anything bad. She just hated mini-golfing with me. 

THAT didn't land well, and I must be terrible at defusing things because everything I said made it worse. And so, the evening escalated until we all left, upset and disappointed. But the person I felt the worst for was Jay, not just because of that night but because of the hand life had dealt him.

At home, with my previous eagerness evaporated, a strange mix of sadness and frustration filled my heart. Part of me, the naïve part, wanted to try asking Jay out again, to somehow try helping him heal from the emotional pain consuming him. But the rational part of me knew better. I couldn't help Jay. He'd been in a life-changing accident his senior year of high school… lost his scholarship, his happy-go-lucky attitude, and his ability to walk. He needed to visit with a counselor, and even then, this was probably something anyone in his situation would feel, but I simply couldn't fathom that kind of loss.

Years have passed since that Applebee's date, and I still wonder how he's doing. I suppose one of the reasons this memory resurfaced is due to my dear friend Scott Hancock. Many of you know about him because he wrote for the Island Park News. I'm still shocked by how quickly he passed away. He taught me so much about life, especially when he shared stories about the things he'd been through and done. He accomplished—and learned—so much.

Despite being in a wheelchair, Scott lived every day to the absolute fullest, even retrofitting a motorcycle so he could drive it on the freeway. He once told a story about trying to jump a canal—in his wheelchair—when he was a kid! After getting to know him and hearing that story, I kind of figured it was a perfect analogy for his life; he took things head-on and didn't let people dictate what he was and wasn't capable of. But I think one of the greatest things he taught me is something he learned through experience a long time ago. Life often presents us with two choices: We can dwell on our limitations, or we can find opportunities around us. 

Reflecting on that date with Jay, I feel a great deal of empathy for him. I can't even imagine how hard that must've been. He had his entire future mapped out, so excited to play football in college. He was the most popular guy in school, but I don't think he truly realized why. It wasn't because of how fast he could run or his skills on the football field. He'd been popular because he was kind. People knew he cared. He tutored kids who needed help and offered to give rides to people who didn't have cars. He had a lot more to offer than he probably realized, and that's why I'd wanted to go out with him in the first place. It was just devastating that he momentarily lost that spark, stuck in the very understandable depression of gut-wrenching loss.

I've felt like that sometimes now, like cancer is changing me. I can't walk as far as I could before. I can't even stand very long without hurting. There are a few good hours in each day, and then I'm spent... And when people see how I stand and look at me with pity—I'm embarrassed to admit—I start feeling bad for myself. But then I remember the lesson Scott taught me and hope I'll respond the way that he did. I bet Jay is doing the same, finding the good things that life has to offer. 

Right now, I picture him conquering the world and succeeding at everything he does because if someone like him could find opportunities and a path forward, he would truly be unstoppable. That's how I'm striving to be. Sometimes I don't succeed, but I figure each day is a step forward.

Grandma's Wisdom and Scott's Legacy

One of my grandma's favorite quotes echoed in my mind: "You can do anything you put your mind to." Little did I know how profoundly those words, and the memory of a dear friend, would resonate with me in recent days.

Scott Hancock, a beloved contributor to the Island Park News, touched countless lives with his words and his spirit. So when stomach troubles began plaguing him this past spring, a quiet worry settled over us. That concern quickly turned to devastation a few months later when doctors diagnosed him with cancer.

I stood by his hospital bed one day, searching for words, any words, to offer a glimmer of hope. 

"I've had a good life," he replied to my clumsy attempts at comfort. "But I don't think I should fight this, not at my age anyway." 

Tears welled in my eyes, and I turned, not wanting him or his family to see my grief.

"Elisa," he said, always thinking of others. "I don't want this to affect your journey. You need to keep fighting for Mike and the kids. You're much younger than I am, and I believe in you. You're strong and you can do this. You can beat cancer; I just know it."

"But so can you," I practically whimpered. "People need you," I managed, my voice thick with emotion. "All of us need you."

He offered a sad smile. "It's my time."

Scott passed away a few weeks later.

————

It feels ridiculous to dwell on my own struggles when Scott faced so much worse.... Yet, this month I forgot how lucky I am to still be alive when so many others—much better people than I am—have passed away from this horrific disease. Just last week, instead of feeling grateful that I'm alive, my thoughts shifted to how my capabilities have undeniably changed: Sometimes a profound fatigue will descend and keep me in bed for too many hours each day. I can't walk far without feeling weak and exhausted. I can't even stand for very long anymore....

Luckily, Scott's celebration of life shook me back into reality and ended my self-pity. 

Colleen, Scott's widow, is one of the most amazing you could ever meet, and she did an incredible job setting up Scott's celebration of life. Colleen had asked me to play "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" on my violin, and I was honored beyond words. But on the morning of the event, I didn't feel the greatest, so I rallied my inner strength and prayed for help. Anyway, my body actually hurt less and things seemed better! It's a good thing because Colleen's words that day changed my outlook just as much as Scott's memory did.

"Scott always loved eagles," Colleen shared with the gathering, her voice a testament to her own remarkable strength. "This morning, my neighbors saw a fledgling eagle not too far from where we're gathered right now." A shiver ran down my arm because the timing felt too uncanny, too significant to be mere coincidence.

Then, after speaking about the eagle, Colleen read "The Men That Don't Fit In," a Robert Service poem that Scott cherished. The words visibly impacted the crowd, and several people wiped tears from their eyes.

Colleen then generously opened the microphone to others. "Does anyone else have something they'd like to share about Scott?"

A woman walked to the mic, her chestnut hair swaying as she moved forward. "A long time ago," she began, "my uncle applied to work at a grocery store, but when the owner saw him, he shook his head sadly. 'You can't be in a wheelchair and work as a box boy,' the man said. But Uncle Scott begged for a chance, even offering to work an entire shift for free. So, they reluctantly gave him the opportunity, and at the end of the day, Uncle Scott had finished faster than anyone else!" A smile lit her face as she recalled the story. "The owner called to him, 'Hey! You're hired.' 'No,' Uncle Scott said. 'I just wanted to prove to you that people who are disabled can actually do stuff too.'" She paused, stepping back briefly from the microphone. "That's something he gave me... No matter where we are in life or what we're going through, we can still do things."

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks, and I instantly knew they would positively change my outlook forever,

After that, people continued sharing incredible stories about my friend, but it was the grocery store memory that lingered with me, a powerful example of Scott's last words to me: "You can do this."

A sudden conviction stirred in my heart. What's the point of being alive if I'm not truly living? It's true, there are many things I can't do now, BUT there are a multitude of things that I can do. If Scott, despite his struggles and "limitations," could achieve so much and inspire countless others, then I, too, can pull myself together and strive to be more like him.

Remembering his unwavering belief in me has completely inspired me to reclaim the "I cans" in my life. It's time to shift my focus to capabilities instead of limitations. 

That quote my grandma loved rings truer than ever: "You can do anything you put your mind to." I need to believe that I can. I need to believe that we ALL can.

Proud of Her Independence

 During the late '90s and early 2000s, my grandma filled her Happiness File with things that made her smile (quotes, inspirational ideas, and even advice)—so that even on her toughest days, she'd find something good to focus on. Now that she's gone and I'm fighting cancer, her words have become lifelines from Heaven.

Anyway, the other morning, I gingerly pulled one of the many index cards from the file and quietly read my grandma's words: "Raise children who are self-sufficient and not too dependent on others." This seemed like perfect timing in my life because my 20-year-old, Sky, recently moved to Long Beach, California. Although I've been happy for her, there are days when I feel really sick and I miss just having her comforting presence here.

She's such an extraordinary, fun kid, and when she lived with us, I'd often hear her singing in the basement. Her passion for music is actually what inspired her to move to Long Beach, a perfect place to pursue a singing career. It's been pretty incredible to watch her grow, but now, during the mornings when it would normally just be me and Sky at home, my house is quiet. Lonely. Different...

I pulled up my phone, and tears filled my eyes as I scrolled through pictures of my family. I've been fighting so hard to live, wanting to watch my kids grow up, but now that I'm here—at least with my two oldest children being adults—it's bittersweet.

As I scrolled through pictures the other day, zooming in on Sky's sweet face, her bright blue eyes, and gentle smile captivated me even through the screen. That's when I suddenly heard someone's voice drifting through the house. I strained to listen and realized it was... Sky! Her perfect song echoed around me, soft and emotional, each note a delicate whisper that pulled at my heart.

"Sky?" I got out of bed, entranced by her words. "Sky?" I called, wondering if she'd come to visit.

I followed the voice until it led to where my husband sat at the kitchen table, listening to a video of Sky singing. Tears filled his eyes.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said, wiping his eyes. "Sorry. I thought you were resting."

I shook my head and placed a hand on one of his strong shoulders. "You miss her too," I whispered, watching her sing on his phone's screen. I took a deep breath and sat down next to him. "You know, I was just looking at pictures of the kids, and we must've been thinking the same thing." I paused, and he looked up at me. "When Sky lived at home, listening to her always made the day somehow better."

Mike and I stood after a moment, and we hugged each other so tightly. Not long after that, when Mike went onto the back deck, I called Sky. "I was missing you so much," I said, and then explained how Mike had been listening to one of her songs.

She thought the timing was amazing. "I needed to hear that, Mama. You two give me the courage to believe in myself." She paused, and then I realized she'd begun crying on the other end of the line. "Mama," she said, "thank you for telling me to come out here. I love it—every minute—but I miss you guys so much. Being out on my own, I've realized so much." She took a deep breath. "I hope you guys know how much I appreciate… everything. I'm so proud you're my parents."

"And we're so proud of you." Loving to see her go after her dreams.

When I got off the phone, I thought about how sometimes the hardest things are the most rewarding. Families don't need to fit into a box, and neither does love. We're all just doing what we can to get through this life together, and as long as love is in the forefront, that's what matters the most.

When One Door Closes

Last week, I went in for an MRI, but the machine “threw an error code,” so I ended up waiting for quite a while until the medical staff could figure things out. As the minutes ticked by, though, it became increasingly difficult to keep my thoughts calm. The reason for these scans, after all, was an increase in pain. My neck, specifically where a tumor is located at the base of my skull, has been hurting significantly more, accompanied by a surge in headaches. My doctor was concerned the cancer might be growing again.

In that moment, a wave of confusion washed over me. Why exactly was I so worried? Is it the pain? The future? The connotation of cancer itself? I've been going through this for years; it's not like I'm fearing the unknown… except maybe the “final adventure.” But fear of death aside, sometimes actually having firsthand knowledge about specific treatments might induce anxiety too. It’s just that the thought of a growing tumor could mean more radiation, and I don't know if I can endure THAT again. Radiation itself isn’t terrible other than being restrained—I really hate being restrained, especially when they’ve used the face cage while they’ve radiated by brain (they don’t want people to move, hoping for up to one millimeter of accuracy!)—but the aftermath of radiation is what’s much worse than the exact moment of treatment itself. Brain radiation gave me headaches. Radiation on my lower back and abdomen gave me extreme nausea and vomiting. That was horrendous, and I do not want to do any of that again because previously the symptoms lasted for months and months. Plus, they said radiating my upper neck, if it’s near my mouth and tongue… that can affect other things, like speech. We all have lines we don’t want to cross, this might be my final straw. Yet, ironically, each time I come against something I feel incapable of facing, compared with more time with my children and husband, I’ve realized I’ll do almost anything.

While I sat waiting for my scans, teetering on the edge of a complete meltdown, something surprisingly shifted as I suddenly thought about my last visit to the synagogue.

Several of us had clustered around a table, preparing for a Torah study. Being quite hot earlier, the building still felt warm that evening, and several people opened windows to try cooling things down. A gentle breeze danced across my skin definitely adding to the ambiance as we talked about the afterlife and how things can change as we get closer to the end. 

“We shouldn't call them disabilities," Dale, a man who often assists our rabbi, said, "they're just ‘different’ abilities because when one thing is taken away, our other attributes become enhanced." 

I continued pondering his words even as we discussed the well-known saying, "When one door closes, another door will open."

"We need to have faith in G-d," a woman commented. (Note: Many Jews spell G-d with a dash out of respect for Him; there’s some great commentary about this practice online.) After her words about faith, ironically—at that exact moment—a huge gust of wind swept through the open synagogue windows, whooshing around us and dramatically slamming two doors shut in the kitchen! The noise resounded, making all of us pause with shock and awe. 

When doors close… that’s what we’d JUST been discussing!

Chills ran down my spine. "That was pretty amazing," I whispered, feeling as though G-d had been an active part of our Torah study. 

Anyway, while awaiting scans, even remembering that moment brought me immense peace. I find comfort in the idea of G-d being in control; for me, it adds a profound sense of meaning to our chaotic world. It's truly amazing how trust can simplify things so much. 

So, after I went for my scans and then infusions over the next two days, I found myself filled with faith in the nurses and my oncologist, too. I realized that faith truly does make this challenging process a lot easier to navigate. It’s like putting on a seatbelt and feeling a sense of safety even though you know something bad still might happen.

“The tumor in your neck hasn’t grown since the last scans,” my oncologist said after he reviewed the results of my scans after I finally got them done. I felt a rush of relief. This was such incredible news. Thank goodness for small miracles AND big ones too, like the godwink we witnessed at the synagogue when the doors closed and reminded me that no matter what it’ll all be okay because G-d is in control and there must be a reason this is happening.

Be Honest with Yourself and Others

Before my grandma died, she struggled with depression. To battle this emotional rollercoaster, she took out dozens of cards and wrote uplifting quotes, questions, and advice…. Then, she placed these notes in a plastic recipe box and called it her Happiness File. She'd pull out a card whenever life seemed too overwhelming, and her own words would reframe nearly any situation. Ironically, now that she's gone—and I'm fighting cancer—these notes have become lifelines from Heaven. 

The other day, I gingerly pulled a card from the mock recipe box and read my grandma's words: "Be honest with yourself and others."

You know when people ask how you're doing and you say "good" even though you might feel awful? During a conversation this week, I responded honestly rather than with the cultural norm.

One of my friends (let's call her "Sandy") came over with her son. We sat, ready to visit in the front room, and they had only been there a minute when Sandy's cellphone rang.

"This is really important," she said before answering the phone and slipping out the front door.

Her son and I watched her through the window. He's probably in sixth grade, and I wracked my brain for something interesting to ask him. "So… how's your summer going?"

"Good," he said.

"Good? That's great."

Then, out of nowhere, he shifted the conversation as if he'd been thinking about something since they first walked into my house. "My mom told me you have cancer… and that you've been fighting really hard. But that… you'll probably die from this."

"Yeah," I said slowly, surprised. "That's what doctors are saying." But I have to admit that despite my initial shock over his blunt words, I found them refreshing. We were simply putting the facts out there. 

It's strange with cancer how a lot of times I feel like I'm trying to make this situation better for other people. There have even been moments when visitors come over, and I end up comforting them—or at least trying to—because they're having such a tough time with mortality. 

"Are you scared?" the boy asked, bringing me back from my thoughts.

"Yeah, I am scared. When you think about dying, it's about time… It's about less time with my husband and kids." At that moment, a new thought hit me about fear. Lately, my neck and head have been hurting so much that I can hardly sleep. The last time I hurt like this, doctors ordered an MRI, and they found a new brain tumor! Luckily, the tumor in my neck hadn't grown because if it had, they'd planned to radiate it, and that could've affected my ability to talk normally. I explained a little bit of this to my friend's son.

"Not being able to communicate with my family," I said, "it would be such a loss. I shouldn't think about the what-ifs, though. I need to appreciate right now, like getting to see your mom." We looked out the window where she stood, still talking on the phone. "And I got to visit with you."

My thoughts turned to cancer treatments again and the people I know who had radiation on their necks and mouths. Some of them struggle to communicate, and it's devastating to see those losses. Just knowing what people endure for even another moment with those they love…

My friend came back in at that point. "Sorry. Work is apparently crazy today." 

They didn't stay much longer, but before they left, the little boy turned to me and smiled. "You made me realize something," he said. "I'm so lucky to have the life that I do."

"Sounds like you two had a good visit?" Sandy asked me.

"We really did," I told her. "You have one smart kid!"

After they left, I thought about the cliché, how we aren't promised tomorrow. I know that all of us have thought about mortality, but what about the abilities we could lose? 

A lot has changed physically for me since I got sick. I can't walk very far, let alone hike, rock climb, and enjoy many of the things I used to do. I would have appreciated them so much more if I'd known what my future held. But, as another great cliché says, hindsight is 20/20. 

It just goes to show that we need to cherish what we have right now. Take that trip. Ask your special someone out to dinner. Tell loved ones how much they mean to you. Start your dream business. Get that long-coveted degree. Just LIVE to the fullest of your current capabilities. For me, I'm grateful for the ability to write this article. After all, I'm lucky to even be alive; that alone is pretty incredible.

A Stranger’s Funeral

 I opened my grandma‘s happiness file and read the words she’d written on an index card not long before she died. “If you can be anything to anyone, be kind.”

…

 

A man I initially met online came to our yard sale, and I felt somewhat self-conscious. I was still recovering from a recent hospital stay and feeling quite under the weather from various medications and steroids. Plus, I know I look different in person than I do on the computer—especially how I walk. But I told myself to stop worrying about such trivial, superficial things. And as soon as I let my insecurities go, Mike, the man, and I had the most powerful conversation. He even shared that one of his best friends recently died from a heart attack. “It was so sudden,” he admitted, beyond devastated.

I’m not sure why, but I felt it on my heart to offer to play the violin for the funeral service. “This would just give me something positive to do with my time. And something good to look forward to.”

“Really?” he asked. “You really want to do this?”

I nodded.

“Okay. I’ll talk to the family and get back to you.”

I found out later that the guitarist they’d wanted to hire couldn’t come. So, they had me come to the cemetery to play as people visited before and after the graveside service.

It’s always strange, attending funerals when you’ve never met the person. I’ve done this quite often because I’ve played at so many funerals. But you really do get a glimpse of who the deceased was and how much they were loved. It’s quite humbling actually. 

But this service was different from any other one I’ve attended. They melded both Catholic and LDS beliefs, having a bishop and a priest, tag-team the service and add various elements from both religions. 

At one point, the priest got up and asked for people to yell out one word that described the man. 

“Friend,” someone said.

“Caring,” a couple of people said at the same time.

“Selfless.”

And for about a minute, people continued, saying the most wonderful words about this man I’ve never met. 

I held my violin at my side and nestled down into the chair under a blue canopy. I could hardly wait to play my violin again because I could feel the power of emotion building in my soul. Sometimes it seems like the only way to get my feelings out is on the fingerboard of a fiddle.

“He was an incredible man,” the priest said. “Did you notice how many similar words were used?” He paused, studying the crowd. “I really want you to think about this today: Which words would describe YOU? You are still alive. You’re still living. Who do you want to be to the people in your life?”

After he finished speaking, I played a couple of songs as people reminisced about the good times with their brother, son, father, cousin, and friend….

I finally went and found the man who’d come to my yard sale. I wished him well, and thanked him for setting the entire thing up. 

“I needed to hear that message today,” I said. “That was powerful.”

As I drove home, I mulled over all the words I want to emulate. That’s when I thought again about my grandma and the card from her happiness file: “If you can be anything to anyone, be kind.”

It sounds so simple, but that's part of its beautiful dichotomy. Being kind can take immense strength. It can stop wars, change lives, alter everything in its path… Being truly kind is far more impactful than one might understand,  but it has a ripple effect that brings growth and joy.

So, I played at a stranger’s funeral, learned about a man days after his death, and had an epiphany about kindness. All in all, I think it was a pretty beautiful day.

A Positive What-If

This week wasn’t my finest… I yelled at someone I love. Not a small blip where I explained in a heated—yet somewhat level—tone. Nope. I yelled. Emotionally charged. Probably sounding ridiculous as I cried about fate and cancer, about death and friendship. And then I talked about people staying in my life because of pity and how I hate not knowing why they're still around. "Is it pity? Or love?" I'd raised my voice then, and I'm sure the vein in my forehead bulged as I shared one of my most embarrassing fears. "I have been reduced to a freakin’ charity case. Wouldn't that embarrass YOU?"

"Well, yes… But no." And the placating look on my friend's face—as she told me her real feelings about this entire situation—THAT broke my heart. 

Everything felt like too much. I'd been too tired to hang out with her, and she'd shown up with a bowl of soup and wanted to talk for over an hour. I didn't need her soup or her pity. In fact, I'd stayed up to talk with her because that was polite. After hearing that she does ‘feel bad’ for me, my pride prickled. “I don't need this." I handed the soup back to her. "Can you please head out?”

"I'm not leaving. Not like this."

I could've fallen, beyond exhausted from fighting cancer and dealing with side effects from treatments. I wanted to escape this claustrophobic situation that felt like it suddenly couldn't get worse. "Please just go." I said. "If you're here out of obligation or because you need to feel better about yourself…" I immediately wished I'd never said it that way.

We remained quiet, staring at one another. Stunned.

"Oh, my gosh. I'm sorry." I said, sitting down and placing shaky hands up to my face. She'd tried doing something nice, and I'd flipped out for virtually no reason. Yes, she's been coming over a lot and stayed a long time, but it’s been in an effort to help. “I” was the person who hadn't set boundaries and told her I didn't need food and that these visits were getting a bit taxing.

She took a small step back. “You’re going through a lot. And I can see where you're coming from on this. I really can. But what you said…”

“I'm so sorry.” I mouthed.

“I can't imagine what this journey is like for you. But, Elisa,” she whispered, "you don't know what it’s like for the people who care about you.” Tears formed in her eyes, and my jaw slackened with shock because this woman doesn't cry. She never even seems sad. I had no idea she'd even been struggling with any of this. “It's scary seeing someone who's sick. It reminds me that I will die..."

Without anything being resolved, she finally left. And as I turned on my heated blanket and wished I could block out the world, I couldn't quiet my mind. I hated myself for this sudden anger and the way I projected fears onto an altruistic friend.

Analyzing my initial accusations and reactions, I grew frustrated that my thoughts always turn to death: What if I died and this was the last conversation she'd remember having with me? What if she's had too much of this situation—and of me—and she stops being my friend? What if...

I told her about this the next time we spoke. “I basically accused you of being my friend out of pity. Because you wanted to help someone. I am so sorry. It was a horrific thing to say—especially to someone who's been so thoughtful.”

“You're allowed to be human, Elisa. And so am I." She sighed. "I'm not here out of pity. Believe it or not, I like hanging out with you."

After a moment, I took a deep breath. "If I would've died, and that was our last conversation... I hate how my thoughts always circle back to death. But what a horrendous way to leave things."

“I think about stuff like that too." She paused. "On the way home yesterday, I worried about getting in a car accident. I didn't want that to be our last conversation either.” She sniffled, and I realized that our friendship had grown leaps and bounds in a very short period of time.

"We both think about the ‘what ifs’ a lot, but they seem to be more on the negative side. Can you make a pact with me?” she asked, her voice becoming a bit lighter.

“Sure."

“Maybe it’s time we entertain the positive ‘what-ifs’ too. What if our friendship keeps getting even better because of this? What if we have decades of meaningful conversations? And, Elisa, what if every time we think about something we're scared about, we both counter it with a ‘what-if’ that involves hope?!”

I smiled, more grateful for her than she'll ever know. “What if... this positively changes our outlook on… everything?!” 

So we agreed. 

And even after I got into bed that night, I couldn't help smiling about of the things I'd found to be hopeful about over the course of that day. Each time I worried—and it happened a lot—I countered fears with positive "what-ifs.” And it really had changed my perspective in the most meaningful way. 

So, an argument escalated, lost steam, turned into an apology, and brought growth. It was a crazy week, but one that altered how I look at the future and really appreciate the present.