The Key to Happiness

I couldn’t help thinking that despite cancer, I truly have everything. But the brunette who vented at the table across from mine felt far differently. "I'm just soooo miserable," she said to the woman with her.

I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but Sky had gone to the bathroom, and I couldn't stop myself from listening. "We don't have ANYTHING.” The brunette pouted. Her beautiful sweater glistened under the restaurant's lights.

I shoved some fettuccini into my mouth and chewed. Maybe this would keep me on track. It’s not nice to eavesdrop.

"If he worked harder, we'd have a bigger house." 

"I know, honey. He promised you so much," the gray-haired woman responded.

"Check!" I waved down the waitress.

Later that day, Trey and Indy asked if we could visit the music store. I agreed, thinking maybe it would banish the brunette’s words from my thoughts. Maybe there was more to her than what met the eye? But she’d complained about everything: the food, her friends, that her husband didn’t make more than 100-grand a year…

I couldn’t stop thinking about it or why it flummoxed me. That’s when my nausea peaked and the fettuccine almost made a comeback. See! That’s what eavesdroppin’ will do to ya! 

“I'm gonna step outside,” I told Trey and Indy.

So, I stood on the curb, hoping the cold air would cure me. Then I noticed something; a few feet away, three rough-looking men stood talking. "God is so good," the tallest man said. He wore a hat, a scarf, fingerless gloves, and a massive beard. "Being homeless was the worst experience of my life, but now I see that it’s happened for a reason."

I took in a big breath, grateful that the sickness had momentarily passed. Then I dug through my pockets and found a $5 bill. "Um..." I walked up to the men. "Maybe you can use this?"

The tallest man nodded, and I couldn't help smiling. His skin crinkled with age, but his eyes shone, and I bet his grin could've lit a thousand fireplaces. 

“How's your day been?” I asked, leaving my previous worries behind. Who can worry about nausea when they're talking to a Jack Sparrow lookalike?!

"It's cold," he said, "but God's in it. And He makes it beautiful." He seemed so happy, not just feigning contentment but genuinely grateful. 

"You have a wonderful day, Miss," his first mate said, little clouds billowing from his mouth as he spoke into the freezing air.

When the kids and I got home, I had to mull over the day. What was the difference between the disconsolate brunette and the joyful pirate? How could someone with nothing be happier than someone who had everything? 

I decided the difference is gratitude.

___

I hope you'll remember this as you enjoy your family and friends over the holidays. Whether you're experiencing grief, loss, sickness, financial trials, or any other hardships, I think it's important to realize that true joy comes from gratitude.

Today I might be sick and life might be a bit scary because I know how I'll die (I just don't know when). Despite that, I'm grateful to spend any second that I can with my family. Looking back at my life, and after thinking about the brunette and her plight, I'd much rather be like the homeless man.

Desite Cancer, It's Rooted in Gratitude

 "Aren't you ready to give up?" Jessica asked over the phone.

The appropriate response eluded me.

"I mean…," she continued. "Do you even have a quality of life? Maybe it's time to stop getting treatments and bow out gracefully."

My mouth hung open, and I suddenly felt so grateful we weren't in person. This friend from childhood isn't sick. She doesn't know how difficult it can be dragging myself to the cancer center. That's why she wouldn't understand why her words are literally the last thing I need to hear. "I do have a quality of life. And I want to see all of my children grow up. I can't stop now. I've made it so much longer than doctors expected. And I will know when it's the right time to quit. That time is not right now."

I woke up at 4:40 the next morning, and as I hurriedly donned my clothes and slapped on some makeup, Jessica's words pulsed through my brain. Is this journey something I should've lied about? Like when you're at the grocery store and the cashier asks how you're doing… You invariably say, "Good." "Great." "F'ing fantastic!" Even if you just had a lobotomy and your husband left you for your uncle… I shook my head. But this isn't something to politely fib about. God made me someone who likes to share. And I want people to know they aren't alone. Fighting health issues sucks. I have good and bad days. But that doesn't mean it's my time. Not yet, anyway.

I packed my fiddle into the backseat of our dilapidated car and prepared for a grueling day of driving to another state and getting cancer treatments. Some people feel bad about this, but they don't realize it's by choice. I love going alone and having time to think, listen to audiobooks, and make new friends. But this day felt exceptional because the customer service supervisor actually approved my request to play for fellow patients. Neither of us probably knew at the time, but his kindness became my lifeline. After the call from Jessica, I felt my resolve fading. Was it time to quit treatments? Did she see things more clearly? Does she have some sort of knowledge I've been missing since my diagnosis?

After driving three hours and getting my labs done, I sat in the lobby at the cancer center. They'd slated for me to play my violin in between appointments, after the guitarist finished.

Glen doesn't know me, but a lot of the patients know about him. He plays at the center every Wednesday and that's generally when I get treatments. I wonder if he realizes how much his playing means to most of us. I've spent many of those days alone on the second floor, reading as his music wraps around, giving me peace while I wait for my next appointments. I sat up at that moment and shuffled my violin next to me. It sounded crazy, but I suddenly had an idea. Sometimes while he's playing, I imagine joining in, riding high above the guitar's somber chords.

After a song ended, I gingerly walked forward. This took forever because I felt nervous and I don't walk as straight as I used to before surgeries. "I… I play the violin," my voice escaped weakly. "I'm scheduled to play right after you, but I just have prerecorded songs to play with. Would you want to…" I cleared my throat, hoping to evict the fear. "Can I play with you instead?"

He seemed really surprised. 

"I play by ear," I pleaded, "and I hear you play all the time. I'm confident it'll sound amazing."

At first, he played a few chords away from the mic, wanting to see how it sounded. "Wow! You follow me really well," he admitted.

"I told you. I've been listening when you play here."

So we started an official song for everyone to hear through the mic. At first, I played gingerly, tenderly cradling my violin like a newborn, but then my fiddle took over. I felt notes rise above the sickness and the heartache. The music became a string connecting me to God, filling me with resolve, hope, and even joy. None of life's hardships mattered. It seemed so finite to worry about cancer and pain, especially when so much gratitude soared through my body and out of my violin. When we finished the song, dozens of patients had gathered with family members and friends in the lobby. Tears filled my eyes, and everyone clapped. The moment after we played, well, that was beautiful.

After I got home, I called Jessica. "I do have a quality of life," I said. "Every day I find something to be grateful for—to be happy about. I'm not ready to be done. Life is too much of a miracle. Yes, I experience pain every day, but life is pain. It's simply a reminder that I'm still alive."

I could hear tears lacing her voice. "Elisa…" She paused. "I'm so sorry I asked you that. You're living more than some people I know. Sometimes I think you're living more… than I am…"

We ended the call, and after I'd hugged my children good night, I sat by my husband and shook my head, a bit amazed by the entire day.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"Just how surprising life is. I think it's a glorified act of letting go, but as we let go, we learn." 

Then, I slowly took my violin out of its case and stared. So strange a collection of wood, glue, horsehair, plastic, and metal has so drastically changed my life. We've traveled around the world together and met an inordinate number of unforgettable people. The next time someone asks if I have a good quality of life, I need to remember my family, friends, and my violin. Of course, I do. Is my life great? No. It's f'ing fantastic. And that perspective is completely rooted in gratitude. 

My Angel Baby Brings Resolve

 We're walking along a beach, and I find myself holding his hand even though we haven't seen each other in years. “I've dreamed about this," I say, tears in my eyes.

“So have I."

We continue like this for miles with bits of sand gathering between my toes. It’s so chilly then that I use my free hand to pull a shawl closer to my shoulders. I should fasten it with both hands, but I'd rather die than lose contact with him now.

After a time, we both turn to the sunset. “Once,” I say, “when I was very young, I said a prayer."

He smiles. “And what did you pray?"

“For God to give me a sign that He still loved me."

“Did you doubt His love that much?” he asks.

 “I guess I did." I pause, wondering over the small moments that make up our lives. “I expected something huge to happen after I prayed, but almost the entire day passed without anything. Finally, I knelt next to a rock and cried, begging God for an answer.” I took a big breath, just remembering the power of the moment. “I didn't hear His voice at first because it felt… like silence. Then, after a long while, I looked at the sunset. The clouds stretched orange—my favorite color.” 

“And you knew God loved you because of the orange sky?” He still gently holds my hand as he looks down at me. “You thought He answered your prayer?"

“I knew He answered it. I realized how He painted the sky for me—for each of us—every single day. His love shines everywhere, through almost everything."

“And that's what you hold onto whenever bad things happen?” He studies a shell by our feet, and I don't say a word. “You remembered that, even when I died?”

I don't want to talk about his death, not when he's standing beside me. I need to answer his question though; he deserves the truth. "Not at first, but yes. I remembered that sky. I couldn't lose sight of His answer to my prayer or the gifts God has given me each day of my life."

Zeke—MY son—just nods. I can tell he's thinking hard about something before he breaks the silence. “I'm glad God picked you to be my mom."

His words hit me like a hot iron, shaking the core of my being; they're something I always longed for and never thought I'd hear, even in my dreams.

“But we’ll see each other again," he continues. “Orange is my favorite color now, too, a reminder…”

Tears fill my eyes. He's so strong and healthy, much different from the infant who died after two and a half months in the hospital. 

He did love me. He WAS proud, although I had to take him off of life support. I remember how hard he fought to live, even as he took his last breath in my arms. 

“I'm so proud you're my son. You never gave up on life. You never would have given up on me." I try acting brave in that moment, so my pain, guilt, and regrets can't hurt him. "I've done everything I can so people will know you; your life won't be forgotten." 

My eyes close and a deep part of me starts fading. A heart once full, seems a bit empty, and my fingers close on themselves because HE is no longer holding my hand. 

I breathe slowly. It's okay, though. Peace remains because the warmth of his touch stays on my skin like perfume, and somehow it will never leave. "Please know I won't forget you," my voice drifts away just like my son did. 

When I’m just about to leave, I feel something. It’s just a nudge at first, then a word surfaces through the silence: “Look."

My eyes turn toward the sunset. Those colors wrap around me, giving me new reasons to live. I no longer simply long for eternity because I realize the truth in its meaning: Eternity is part of right now.

My spirit wakes up with an unflappable resolve. Someday we'll see each other again, someday beneath a golden sky.

 

Happy 21st birthday Zeke. You are not forgotten.

To learn more about my oldest son and his story, you can find that memoir here: https://a.co/d/e8GFSP1

The Inside Doesn’t Always Match the Outside

Trying so hard to look nice, I “usually” get out of my pajamas and strive to create a semblance of normalcy for my family. So, no matter how tough it is, I cover my pale skin and dark eyes with foundation. I try avoiding clothes that make me look too skinny, since I just lost 15 more pounds. I cook and smile, but the second I’m alone at the house, I crawl into bed (fake eyelashes and all), and I pray we won’t have ANY visitors that day… because I. Am. Exhausted.

But since I don’t “always” look sick, this should be a very important reminder:

*You never know what someone else might be facing…* Just because someone smiles, that doesn’t mean they’re okay. And just because “Jill” wears makeup and “tries,” that doesn’t mean she no longer has Parkinson’s, COPD, or cancer.

It’s embarrassing, but when I was a teenager—before my dad had cancer—I thought cancer made people bald and that they always looked sick. Now that I’m going through this myself, I always tell my kids, “Sometimes with sickness and tumors, the inside doesn’t match the outside.” If I were bald again, people would know I have cancer. But now that I have hair, well… my terminal diagnosis shocks the crap outta people. How can I have hair, wear makeup, AND have cancer All. At. Once? What an enigma 🤯

Anyway, it makes me want to be extra nice to everyone because some of the people in my cancer support group don’t look sick AT ALL!🥺 I would’ve never known why “Brad” seemed a bit more tired than usual or why “Brenda” has a shorter fuse… 

There they are, looking “normal” and carrying the weight of mortality.

Anyway, we’re all battling something. Lumped into this beautiful mystery called life… You remember that saying, “God doesn’t give us what we can’t handle”? Well! God must think we’re a bunch o’ badasses. So, it’s time to rise to the occasion.

Sure, some days I cave and want to stay in bed all morning, BUT for today, I refuse to let cancer rob me of my moxie AND my fake eyelashes 😉

Let’s do this! Just because doctors have said I’m slowly dying’, that’s NOT an excuse to quit livin’. 🦋

Having a Future

 Mike pushed me in the wheelchair as we perused odd clearance items. “They have snowmen!” he suddenly gushed, looking like a four-year-old during the holidays. “Mind if I check out the next aisle while you’re looking here?” His sprit animal MUST be a golden Lab.

I nodded. It seemed like a great idea; I could peruse clearance games until he came back. That’s when a man approached me. “Why are you using a wheelchair?” he asked.

I sighed. Sometimes it’s nice just to be alone, but it rarely happens. People would be shocked how much time cancer patients spend comforting others about their own diagnoses—even strangers… like this man. “I have stage four cancer,” I said. “They replaced my L3 with a cage. Between that and the cancer still in my spine… it’s hard to walk very far.”

“But you might beat this. Doctors can be wrong. Don’t accept the world ‘terminal.’”

I’m so tired of this same conversation that I’ve had HUNDREDS of times with numerous people. So, I started telling this man something that I hadn’t told anyone. “Sometimes I wake up, terrified that I might actually beat this. It’s… horrifying, and I don’t know why. Doctors say every month that I’ll die from this. It always gets worse even if it is slowly. And…” I held a sob back. “It’s useless to worry about living, so why do I stress about something I can’t even control?” He took in a huge breath. “I don’t want it to be terminal. It’s not that I don’t want to live—I do—it’s just that…”

He leaned down, his blue eyes young despite the aging skin framing them. “I think I understand. I fought in Vietnam, and I thought I’d die for sure. Then, before I knew it, I headed home and so many others didn’t.” He paused. “I still don’t know if I’m used to having a ‘future,’ and it’s been decades.”

“I really don’t think I’ll beat this. I’m not being pessimistic, just realistic. I’m normally so upbeat and great at living in the present, but today I feel like a placeholder.”

“How so?”

“Just like I’m holding a place for my husband’s next wife. I’m a good friend right now for so-and-so. But I’ll die from this damn disease and time will march on for others… but not for me.”

“Well,” he said, resting his hand on mine, “I’ll tell you one thing, I will NEVER forget you.”

“I found one!” Mike hollered from the other aisle and then rushed over. As soon as he face crested a large display, I couldn’t help bursting into laughter because he hadn’t found “one”—that man found the snowman village!

“Mike, I want to introduce you. But I didn’t catch your name,” I turned, and then my face paled with complete surprise. “He’s… gone. The man I met. He… left.”

“Who?”

“He’s… the most amazing man. He said the sweetest thing when I needed it most.” But the man with the beautiful blue eyes wasn’t there anymore. 

So, after Mike set the snowman in my lap and pushed me around, I told him all about the man who fought in Vietnam—the man who made me feel like I mattered.

Who taught you the most?

When you get to the end of your life and realize you're tied to the tracks... (Not just you, all of us really...) When you get there, some of you could be unfortunate like I am, and you might actually see the train coming. In that situation, it's impossible to ignore your situation. How many seconds do you have? At 80 mph, what will the moments right before impact feel like? 

Everything gets too fast for words at first, and then, it slows to this incredibly odd reversal. 

"Who was it?" the grief counselor asked me in front of our terminal cancer group.

"Excuse me, but can you repeat the full question?" I asked. "This is some heavy stuff, and I got lost."

"Looking back at your life, who's the person who taught you the very most?"

"I'm sorry," I paused, thinking really hard, "but I can't narrow it down. I really don't know."

Other group members readily answered, eager to show off and relay stories of the people who had changed their lives. I heard about piano teachers and basketball coaches. A woman talked about her boss, and a man spoke about a doctor at the cancer center. I envied them. How could they narrow it down with such absolute surety? 

Yet, even after the meeting, that question plagued me. In fact, it's been months since the counselor asked this, and I've thought about it often.

I didn't find the answer until a couple of weeks ago when I talked with my brother on the phone. I cried and laughed. We discussed all sorts of things, from my ongoing fight against terminal cancer to a book we'd both read. We jumped from topic to topic never losing pace, and—like I do so often with Shane—when I hung up the phone, we were both laughing pretty hard. 

Yes, I'm tied to the tracks, and since doctors have told me cancer will kill me, I do see the train coming. It's a superpower in some ways because it makes thoughts extremely reflective and powerful. And as I sat on my porch, enjoying the fall weather, I thought about all of the things my brother has done for me. He's nine years older but still took time out of his busy school schedule to hang out with me. As a kid, when I did anything even remotely impressive—to me—I wanted Shane to know, so he'd be proud. He read books to me; played hacky sack, tether ball, and card games; helped me with homework; and always saw the best in me.

When I grew up, he encouraged me to go back to school, and I somehow found the strength even as a single mom. And later, when someone said terrible things to me, I battled depression. I sat on my bed one day, sinking into those words... thinking he was right, and suddenly I thought of my brother. Some of his words surfaced to me, making me feel worth something. Even when he wasn't talking to me or physically there, his kindness knows no bounds.

It's such an incredible gift to look back at my life and realize the person who taught me the most wasn't a piano teacher, a basketball coach, a boss, or a doctor. The person who believed in me despite reason and always saw the good even when it was dimmed, that person is my brother. He taught me to stay strong when I feel weak, to keep going when life is hard, and to fight like hell even when doctors have said I'm dying.

Life is such an odd thing. Yes, we all have certain constraints: We're all born, and we will all die. But I'm just trying to find peace while I'm still somewhere in the middle. 

I'm grateful for the people in my life who made me feel like I mattered, especially when they're as exceptional as my brother. I'm so fortunate God let me be in his life. Maybe God knew I'd have hard experiences, and I needed someone extraordinary to help me along the way. Despite terminal cancer, hardships, and pain, I am the luckiest.

Love you so much, Shane! Happy 50th birthday!

Picture below: Shane, pushing me in my wheelchair 💓

When Beauty Meets Heartache

I’ve had battle scars on my left hand and arm for as long as I can remember. It started as a kid when I fell on some ice and scraped my elbow so badly the scar has remained for decades. Injuries progressed to high school when I cut my thumb in half on a table saw. Years later, a knife pierced completely through my hand in a cooking accident. Oddly, the stories go on and on.

Then cancer came.

Doctors had to cut a 5-inch by 1-inch area to remove melanoma from the backside of my forearm. A doctor even said it would “disfigure” me. (Little did that young surgeon know what my future held—cancer that ate at my spine—OR what true disfiguration entails.) They also removed a lymph node from my armpit, leaving another decent scar. 

All on my left side.

A New Age friend said, “This isn’t coincidence. Every injury we have holds meaning. The left arm and hand...,” she paused, flipping through a book. “That means you should stop being a doormat. Learn to stand up for yourself.”

“Wow! Don’t sugarcoat it for me,” I said sarcastically and laughed. 

And as much as I try being proud of my scars and my experiences, over the years, I’ve been embarrassed by them too. My thumb, for example, has some serious issues, and people used to ask me about it all the time after watching me fiddle. My left hand would grace the fingerboard during “Orange Blossom Special,” and then the questions would come.

“So… what happened… to your…”

“To my thumb?” I’d finally help them. “Tablesaw. Highschool woodshop. I got an ‘A.’ Most of the others kids failed. Guess they weren’t willing to go the extra mile.”

Years later, my oldest daughter, Ruby, had an idea. “You should get tattoos over the scars. Turn them into something good.”

I smiled at her because she is the most incredible artist—and now her art is on people across the world. “I’m proud of what you do, but I don’t want a tattoo,” I said. “I’m the only 40-year-old I know who doesn’t have a tattoo. I’m kind of proud of that.”

She looked a bit dejected, and I realized how much it might mean if I got some of her artwork on me. I’d been thinking about it around the time my cousin died. On May 2nd, I read a post about him on Facebook. His mother felt like the last message from her son was actually a hand tattoo. Although she doesn’t condone that type of body art, these words somehow became his last message to her: “Walk by faith, not by sight.” And in the days after his death, that tattoo gave her peace. 

A couple of weeks following his funeral, I had a dream that I asked Ruby to write something on the delicate skin between my thumb and forefinger. It’s the one message I’d like to carry on long after I’m gone.

“I want you to write ‘I love you.’”

“That’s it?” she asked, not knowing the greater meaning those three words might hold someday.

“In your handwriting. Yes, just ‘I love you.’ When I’m at cancer treatments, getting ready for surgeries or radiation… I can look down at my hand and remember all of you and why I’m fighting so hard to live.”

She did the tattoo today and ended up adding a leaf that connects the melanoma scar to my mutilated thumb and a couple of other scars. Leaves symbolize hope. Although I might not beat what doctors are calling terminal cancer, “hope” will help me stay the course until my time comes. 

So, as I looked at her artwork tonight, I couldn’t help crying. “Are you regretting it?” a family member asked.

“Not at all,” I responded. “I’m just thinking, she took some hard memories and made them beautiful.” I sniffled. “It’s one of the things I hope my life will embody: finding the good—the beauty—in otherwise terrible experiences. And that’s what this tattoo means to me now.”

So, I got a hand tattoo. It didn’t hurt as bad as I expected, and it even made me more proud of my scars. Instead of covering them up, Ruby did something she’s perfected since childhood: She’s always brought out the beauty in life because SHE is exceptional.

Pulling out all the stops

 "That was the hardest year of my life," my 15-year-old son said a couple of months ago, "the year you got diagnosed. I wasn't a kid anymore after that. I realized that sometimes the people we love have to leave." I thought about Trey's older brother who died at the hospital as a baby. Trey had it right; sometimes people do need to leave us, but that doesn't make it easy. 

Trey works to get good grades and helps with everything I need (including cooking—even if some of the concoctions are… exotic?—mowing the lawn, going with me to treatments, and more), but things have gotten harder again. Although I've lived longer than doctors expected, they recently found a new mass in my brain this April. Trey took this news especially hard but it worsened when our Doberman, Trey's favorite "person" on earth, passed away. 

"I'm so sorry," I said because Abby slept in his room and always seemed to make things better even when Trey was tired from helping out or really worried for me.

"I just want… I just want you to get better." Then he tried brightening up. "But I don't want you to worry about me. You have enough to worry about." 

Later that day, I called a friend. "Trey wants a Maine Coon," I said. "I don't know how, but I've gotta make this happen for him."

"You'll never afford one," she said. 

"I know, but maybe I'll find one at a shelter. Our Doberman just died. Trey has talked about Maine Coons. This would be something unforgettable; I at least need to try."

I heard a sob in her voice. "Elisa, this whole thing with cancer sucks," she finally said. She knows as well as I do because she's also fighting terminal cancer. "We're in the desert."

"You and me?" I asked.

"All of us—everyone this is affecting. You, me, our families—your poor son. He doesn't need a Maine Coon. He has what he needs: the best damn mom in the world."

I told her how much that meant to me, and we hung up, but hours after I'd spoken to her, those words kept coming back: "We're in the desert… You, me, our families." Natalie is not a religious woman. I'm used to that term "desert" somehow relating to God, but I knew she hadn't meant that in a spiritual way. So, what had she meant?

I found a place in Idaho that gives away one free Maine Coon yearly. I know it's a long shot because they normally donate to retired vets who really need a companion—and I don't want to take a special cat away from someone like that—but I did decide to try for my son. So, I called the owner, and we ended up on the phone for quite a while. What I can tell is this: I don't know if Trey is meant to have a Maine Coon, but I DO know I was meant to speak with that woman. She talked about hardships and overcoming tragedy. She explained how she and her husband were in a harrowing accident where they could've died and left their five kids behind. YET, they miraculously survived. And before we hung up, she said something about the desert.

That word again?! What could I possibly garner from Natalie's words and now this woman? It wasn't until this afternoon that I understood. I'd just filled out the application and applied for Trey to be considered for the Maine Coon—among so many other applicants. I'd opened a book, and the author wrote about the desert. David J. Wolpe talked about hardship and said, "… make oneself open like the desert … [knowledge] must seep into the soul." 

I've been in the desert, camped there, LIVED there (in Price, Utah). I remember going day camping with my brother; we ended up exhausted and thirsty. I appreciated water more that night than I ever had, feeling the taste of it and the healing power it offers. What's surreal is, that's what cancer is like. I'm so damn worried about dying that I'm doing everything I can to devour information before I'm gone: I'm speeding through books I had on my shelf but never read. I'm writing songs and books that I'd always left for later! And not just that, I'm trying to do anything and everything I can to leave something behind that will remind my kids and husband how much I love them. That's why I got stuck on the idea of a Maine Coon because it would be around and Trey might think, "Mom tried so hard. She got this for me. She... loved me."

But reading about the desert after hearing Natalie's words and then that beautiful woman on the phone, I realized I'm already doing what I need to and so is my family. Even in the face of mortality, hardships, and things far worse than death, we're still creating memories, somehow dancing through the fire, and showing that death doesn't have to be something to fear; it's as natural as being born.

I know God has a plan, but sometimes, seeing how tough this can be on my family breaks my heart. But I guess the point is that we're doing the best we can with what we have. Maybe we ARE in the desert, but it's giving us a thirst for the things that matter most: time with each other. 

Maybe the desert isn't such a bad thing after all.

The Gift of Letting Go

In 2020, doctors discovered that the melanoma, which started as a mole on my wrist, had spread up my spine and into my brain. Doctors removed the large tumor eating my L3, and afterward, a spine surgeon entered my hospital room to promptly say he gave me two years to live—IF I was lucky. I stared out the window, completely in shock and devastated, wondering if I would ever see all of my children become adults.

Shortly after this conversation, I faced a barrage of appointments: radiation, infusions, planning meetings at the melanoma clinic... I waited to meet my main oncologist but felt quite self-conscious because brain radiation had left me bald. It might sound shallow, but this was tough at first. I'd had such long hair before; some people even said it was beautiful.
 
While I sat all by myself in the waiting room, a lady plopped down right next to me. For some reason, she started telling me about herself, and before we knew it, she'd shared secrets about her childhood and years as a young adult. 

Kids had bullied her—all the way from kindergarten to 12th grade. She'd grown up in an unhappy home and married at the age of 18 just to get away from her parents. But, as so many stories go, her spouse was abusive and she ended up getting divorced at the age of 21.

I turned to her sadly and suddenly couldn't help studying how she'd dressed. She wore the most gorgeous clothes. Her hair caught the light, perfectly curled, and her nails seemed immaculate. Something came to me then, that sometimes we wear old memories—and hurtful things people have said—we don them just like clothes! Wouldn't it be so much better if we accepted the helpful, encouraging things people say instead of the comments that hurt us?

I shared this analogy with her, hoping it would help. She thought hard and finally said, "That really struck a chord with me... I don't want to relive all of this over and over. In fact, I actually hate talking about these things. I want to let them go."
 
Well, last week, as I sat in the melanoma clinic—nearly 3 years later—I saw this woman again. She didn't recognize me, probably because my hair has finally grown back after brain radiation. She sat talking to another stranger, telling her the exact same stories she had told me!
 
After I left the clinic, I couldn't stop thinking about this woman, wondering, "Am I like that?" "Do I ever hold onto the past so fiercely, not wanting to let the painful memories go?" I thought then about donning an old, moldy, moth-eaten coat... Putting it on just because I think the pain will protect me from getting hurt again. 

I opened my grandma's happiness file. After she passed away, my aunt found a strange little box my grandma had titled her "happiness file." She'd struggled with depression and had stuffed the box full of little ideas that seemed to help her feel better.

As I thought about the woman from the clinic, I remembered something my grandma had written about forgiveness. The papers rustled while I searched and finally found the words I'd hoped for: Let's remember some less conspicuous gifts, like the gift of letting go. It seemed strange to think of this as a gift, strange until I actually understood.

There are certain things I've been holding onto, just like that woman—memories I relay to others that I should've let go a long time ago... How people hurt me. Even memories from my first marriage. But as my grandma's words sunk in, I realized my life is hard enough just fighting terminal cancer and death. I don't want to dwell on terrible memories from over a decade ago or wear the identity of negative statements people have made about me.



Yes, I want to accept constructive criticism and become the best person that I can, but as far as the destructive, condemning comments, they don't need to take root in my life ANY longer. 

It's just like my grandma wrote, "Let's remember the less conspicuous gifts, like the gift of letting go."

A Lifeline in an Unlikely Place

 In 2011, I wanted to be a published author more than anything. One company did send a contract, but they believed my memoir needed to be "toned down."

"Instead of 'damn it, my son died,' we prefer 'dang it.' Does that make sense?" their managing editor asked one day. I sat with his critique for a long time before rejecting their proposal. When we took Zeke off of life support, I felt a lot more than a… "dang" or a "darn."

Another editor said they'd be interested if I could build an audience. At the time, that felt like a Herculean task. I still remember visiting my blog and seeing that I had a follower. I practically glowed with happiness, before realizing I'd accidentally followed myself. It's ironic that I have over 150,000 followers across social media now. Although this number is not impressive to some authors, it's huge compared to where I came from 12 years ago.

Anyway, trying to make connections and reach people, I pulled up Facebook and discovered the site would let users have 5,000 friends. So, I found some authors I adored and sent them requests. Soon some of my heroes actually accepted, and it snowballed until I almost had 5,000 friends—most of them authors and strangers but all of them quite interesting.

"What are you doing?" my brother asked one day.

"Requesting to be friends with Tomie dePaola?"

"Elisa!"

"He accepted," I said, completely flummoxing my brother.

One of the first people I sent a friend request to intrigued me. He was a friend of a friend, had written comedic books, yet had nothing to tie himself to the outside world. I couldn't see an actual picture of him or a true bio. Nothing. But I figured he had his reasons. And many other accounts were similar, with people only sharing scant details while I posted nearly everything.

A couple of years passed, and in 2013 one of the hardest moments of my life happened: I got divorced. One day, I sat thinking about how nice it would be to have a penpal, someone I could talk with and not be judged. I'd never want to know what they looked like or anything because how cool would it be to know someone—man or woman—for what their soul is? You wouldn't have any preconceived notions. You could just recognize them for who they are at the core. I looked through a newspaper and saw an ad for someone seeking a penpal. Although I didn't respond, part of me wanted to. I just knew I wasn't in a good place to actually be part of something like that. Not yet anyway.

Years passed with so many ups and downs. I got remarried to the perfect man, landed my dream job as a publisher at a newspaper, got a book deal, and even joined a successful band that performed in different states every month. Everything seemed almost… miraculous until it started hurting to walk—and doctors diagnosed me with terminal cancer. It's like when you give your dog a steak dinner the day before you put him down. Yeah… That's what it felt like to me.

I really needed someone to talk with, but the counselors at the hospital didn't understand and I worried about burdening my family.

One day, when I felt at my very worst, I curled into a ball on my bed and cried. With everything in me, I wished God would send some type of lifeline. Where was that person who needed a penpal now? How great would it be to mail letters to a stranger, just to get my feelings out? That same day, I received a message on Facebook. "If I could trade places with you, I would." I clicked on the account and realized it was the comedic writer who shared nothing that could connect themselves to the outside world. I responded, and the conversation continued every single week for almost two years. Now, my whole family knows about this person. We've read their books and discussed their philosophical ideas together.

I'm honestly unsure how exactly this happened, but I found my penpal, some type of angel who reached out from the darkness and selflessly listened as I've shared my fears and triumphs with having a terminal illness. At first, it felt like sending messages into a void, but then my family and I really began knowing this person for the quality of their soul.

As I messaged them today, explaining how I really feel about my diagnosis, tears filled my eyes. If doctors are right, this is what I'll die from, but I still consider myself the luckiest person in the world. I have the most incredible family and friends—even a penpal I can reach out to and know they'll respond with kindness because their soul shines. Isn't it surreal how many miracles dot the path of life, even when we're going through the most difficult of hardships.

It really is true that the future doesn't always hold what we hope for; instead, it offers experiences that can help us grow.

Two Trees in the Storm

 As I sat here today thinking about my terminal cancer diagnosis, I remembered something that happened in 2014 on the anniversary of my first son's death. Isn't it strange how miracles can dot the path of life, so we can overcome future obstacles?

Two trees stood at the back of my old house, guarding it through the days and nights. One, a massive willow, felt like the heart of my world, strong and everything I hoped to be. The second tree grew to be a wisp of a thing, always struggling to live. It might sound bizarre, but it somehow began reminding me of Zeke—my boy who died at the children's hospital.

A knot formed in my stomach. I'd had to take my son off of life support, and it hurt more than anyone will ever know. The moments flashed through my mind, and I struggled for breath. I could see him fighting so hard to live even as life finally left his little body. Why did the memories still hurt after so many years?

I got my four kids to bed that night and knelt next to the couch. "God," I prayed, trying to find the good, "thank you… for everything you've given me, even if you had to take some things away."

 

My gaze turned to the back window. Darkness blanketed the outside world, but the porch lights shone on my special trees, and I watched as they jerked back and forth in a vigorous wind. Local news stations warned residents that "the worst windstorm of the century" would hit us that night and winds would reach 85 mph.

 

I worried for the tree that reminded me of Zeke as thunder boomed, shaking the entire house. I almost wished it would've woken my four kids up—I needed the distraction—but they could probably sleep through the apocalypse. My eyes remained glued to our backyard where the little tree's branches wept in the wind. The trunk bent so far that the upper branches touched the ground, and I couldn't take it anymore.

The back door swung so hard when I opened it, and I had to clutch the doorframe just to pull myself outside. It felt strange, having nature push me straight against the house, reminding me of sky diving, when I'd fallen through the skies and the air carved my face into a jackal's smile. But I wasn't falling this time, I was watching my baby tree… die. 

I tried running forward to hold my tree strong, but the wind slammed me into the house, pinning me there. Couldn't the large weeping willow do something—anything? Hadn't it always protected the baby tree just like I'd protected my son? Maybe both of us were helpless against nature and God's control.  

 

My baby tree cracked, and when one of its limbs flew against the house, the wind stole my tears. The tree cracked again, and another branch twirled oddly, barely hanging on. That's when I couldn't take it anymore.

 

"God," I screamed, praying into the night, "don't let it die. Please don't. It reminds me of Zeke, like part of him is still with us as long as this tree's here. Please save it, God! You had to take MY son, but don't take this symbol of his life too!"

I waited a moment, held my breath… and the wind actually changed. Although it rushed harder than before, it came from a different direction.

 

The strong, peaceful willow bent over and wrapped its branches around Zeke's tree. I sobbed harder, watching as the bigger tree, got the brunt of the attack. Willow branches flew around the yard. It took a harder beating than the baby tree ever had because the new winds sought death. 

  

The baby's branches swayed, then tilted up to a regular position. It danced slightly but remained unscathed as the willow continued whipping about, fighting with everything it had. I turned my attention to the huge tree. It was a painful sight, something I'll never forget. Because the willow started dying... just so the baby could live.

  

Something profound struck my heart. The willow hadn't represented me. The whole time, the willow had represented God. And the little tree, the one who had such a hard time standing alone, had been… me. 

  

An overwhelming truth hit me: Some things happen for a reason to strengthen people, to give us thankfulness and gratefulness for things we still have. 

 

The battle raged on, but I found lasting peace through that storm.

 

God saved my tree that night. He saved both trees, and I realized He'd been looking after them the whole time, just like He's looking out for me—and for all of us.

Make Mistakes

 My grandma was an incredible woman. We got extremely close after my first son passed away. This happened because she started calling me on the phone every single day after his funeral, and although it seemed excessive at first, we somehow became the best of friends. 

Sure, we had our differences. She liked pecan pie; I enjoy banana cream. She liked baking while I prefer sewing. She lived a devout life as a Mormon while I was raised born-again Christian and later left Christianity altogether. Despite that, love bound us tightly together, and every Saturday I’d call to relay a terribly crude joke (which she’d politely laugh at) and then we’d talk about whatever lessons she could impart about life.

It’s been quite a while since she died—over 16 years—and I thought I knew almost everything about that woman. Yet, I’ve been recently surprised after reading through something my cousin gave me…

After my grandma passed away, family members found what she’d called her “happiness file.” This is basically a recipe box she’d repurposed to cheer her up when things felt bleak. I never—in all of our conversations—suspected she’d suffered from depression, but she did. It’s true that many of the most congenial people can hide crippling emotional struggles under a veneer of happiness. Maybe that’s how my sweet grandma could be at times. Maybe…

It does seem that my grandmother understood the huge difference between happiness and joy. Happiness is something that comes and goes. It is as fleeting as the wind. But JOY is a mindset. Joy—at its root—is synonymous with the word persevere. We decide to seek out joy even amongst the hardships. We CHOOSE to find the good even in dire situations like cruelty, death, and untreatable illnesses… While happiness is kindling to get the fire going, JOY works as the coals and oxygen to keep it ablaze.

My grandma’s “happiness file” worked as this kindling, leading to more sustaining lessons. But as I’ve lifted index cards out when I need a lifeline from Heaven, I’ve been shocked by how timely some of her messages have been.

Last week, I’d been dealing a lot with regret and guilt. It’s ironic that these feelings came right before Rosh Hashanah. The past few years, the week before Rosh Hashanah, our family has pulled out a loaf of bread and symbolically placed all of our sins into it. I know it might sound ridiculous, but the loaf seemed to go bad even faster than normal—I must sin A LOT! This year, we gathered with some Jewish friends and fed pieces of this “sinful bread” to the fish. I did feel a lot lighter, sending these sins away. 

I couldn’t help pondering over the rabbi’s words about how we know we’re asking for forgiveness during Rosh Hashanah but God isn’t asking us to be perfect. We aren’t even meant to be perfect—and that’s okay. God KNOWS we’ll sin again and again.

“I just feel so bad about certain mistakes—bad things I’ve done,” I told a friend.

“Did they make you who you are?”

“Well… Yes.” It’s odd that each bad choice, each twist of circumstances led to exactly where I’m at today. And although sometimes I desperately wish I had never gone to tanning salons or gotten burned in the sun—because that ultimately led to my ongoing fight against terminal cancer—I have learned so much from my predicament. In fact, I’m not sure if I would take a trade if it meant losing who I am today.

Anyway, that night after the kids had gone to bed and everyone seemed much lighter after discarding that “sinful bread,” I decided to pull out my grandmother’s happiness file.

With shaking hands, I eagerly opened the box and pulled out a card she must’ve written on over 30 years ago.

“Make Mistakes,” I read the words and scoffed. I couldn’t imagine my sweet little grandmother making mistakes OR encouraging people to do the same. But somehow it did make my feel better. I guess we are all human, and these “bad” choices helped us become the people we are today. 

I guess my realization for today is that knowledge can cost a high price, and—in the end—I paid with experience. I don’t want to be the oblivious person I was before my fight with cancer. In some odd way, I’m glad for the mistakes and glad I’m here. I’ve learned enough to make different choices and that knowledge is worth more money than I can imagine.

Undergoing Radiation Again

 "I can't do radiation again," I told my oncologist last month.

"The melanoma is growing. You have new tumors in your pelvis, and we're concerned about the mass in your brain."

I nodded. "But I've done radiation so many times. It doesn't seem to be getting easier."

She turned somberly. "I'm sorry you're going through this, but right now, this is your reality. Think about it. Okay?" She opened the door before leaving the exam room. "It's your choice."

I ended up agreeing to undergo radiation, but after my first session last week, I felt unbearably ill.

"Are you okay?" Trey asked after I'd woken him up for school at 6 a.m. "You're going back to Utah this morning?"

I nodded. "I have to leave for my appointment if I'm gonna get there at 10. You're okay to get Indy up?"

He's the sweetest kid, bringing his little sister to school when I get treatments in Utah. He hasn't complained once.

I gave him a hug and walked toward the door. "Mom?" he said. "I know it's hard, but I... I wanted to thank you for fighting so hard. I don't say it enough, but I love you, and I'm proud you're my mom. If I know how to be strong, well, it's because of you."

Hours later, even after I arrived at the cancer center, tears filled my eyes as I thought about what Trey had said. I changed into a hospital gown and other words drifted into my mind. "If you're ever having a really hard day," a friend named Jeanette had explained, "please open this." She'd mailed me a tiny gift (about an inch and a half long by an inch wide). I brought it with me into the radiation waiting room and stared at it. Maybe this truly was a "really hard day." And before I unwrapped the tiny gift, I remembered my first experience with radiation. 

***

“I’ll be right here in the waiting room,” Mike had said.

I feigned strength as techs led me into a room with all sorts of large whirring machines and flashing screens. After I rested in something they called a "nest" for my back radiation, they placed a mask over my face and said they'd need to bolt it to the table.

Horrified, I listened as something whirred near my ear—something which sounded suspiciously like a screwdriver.

That’s when my mind went wild. I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. I freaked out so badly that a tech barked urgent orders before more whirring began, and the radiation team removed the mask.

My lips quivered. “I can’t do this! I can’t!” My voice rose to a ridiculous level.

“Listen, Elisa. You have no chance without radiation. No. Chance. Don’t you want more time with your kids and your husband?”

I bawled. “I know I need to do this, but—I feel like I’m getting buried alive or something.”

“Wait,” a tech said. “You heard her talking about her husband. We need to go get him.”

Mike rushed in mere moments later. “Hey. Hey. You’re okay,” he said. Although his face betrayed shock at seeing what radiation entailed, he gently placed a hand on me. “You’re gonna be okay. Don’t worry. I have an idea.”

I nodded and bit my lip.

“Close your eyes, Elisa.” I breathed in, shut my eyes, and listened to his voice.

“Okay. I need you to imagine you’re a violin... ”

I hung onto his every word. As his deep voice relayed minute details about what I should visualize, his love encased me instead of the body mold.

“You’re getting fixed up right now. They’re going to shine up your wooden surfaces. Work on each part.”

The techs gently pressed the mask against my face.

“They’re polishing and refining you, tuning your strings, adjusting your bridge.”

I breathed strong, steady breaths.

“You’re just going to get fixed up a bit. You’re a violin.”

“We need to step out now,” a tech said after screwing the mask back in place. “She’s quiet this time. She seems okay.”

The table slid, rocking me as it jostled. More lights bored forward, penetrating even the face cage and my closed eyelids.

I imagined that God inspected every part of a violin. The heavy encasings around my legs buffed my surfaces and stained my edges. God would come so I could be perfected, cleansed, and refined.

When the radiation machine stopped, I somehow embodied peace.

Mike’s voice echoed off the walls as he rushed into the room. “You’re done! You did it!”

When they removed the mask, a man asked Mike, “How did you think of that? How? It was brilliant, really.”

“I don’t know. It just came to me.”

***

That happened in 2020, yet here I sat in 2023, almost as terrified as the first time. I closed my eyes and prayed that God would help give me strength, and then I opened the tiny gift from my friend, Jeanette. I stared in disbelief at the miniature violin in my hand. She’d sent me a beautifully detailed charm that reminded me of Mike and his words from almost three years ago: "You’re a violin [...] They’re going to shine up your wooden surfaces. Work on each part.”

"Elisa, are you ready?" a tech asked.

With tears in my eyes, I responded. "Actually, yes. Yes, I am."

RING THE BELL Becomes No.1 Bestseller

 

I got featured in the Idaho State Journal! This is such an incredible feeling. Here's my favorite quote from the article: "It [Ring the Bell] is about my fight with terminal cancer," she said. "It's about how just because doctors have told me I'm dying, it isn't an excuse to stop living."

You can read that full article here: Local Woman's Terminal Cancer Memoir Tops Amazon Charts.

"I thought the mole on my wrist wasn't a big deal," she [Elisa Magagna] said. "If I had gotten it checked sooner, my cancer might not have been as bad."

More information about "Ring the Bell" can be found on Amazon at Ring the Bell.

A Godwink from Grandpa

No one can avoid death; maybe it's best to come to peace with mortality now. We were all born, and we will all die. But sometimes, that's a hard reality to swallow when people are young. 

My cousin Farrah's oldest son committed suicide, and we've all been devastated. Justice was a pretty incredible guy, so much like our grandfather. I guarantee at 26 years old; he had no idea what this would do to his family and friends. He was the third person I knew who committed suicide in a year. All of these people were healthy and young, while I battled even for an ounce of life. 

 

Since Justice reminded me of our grandpa, maybe that's why I started thinking about the past…

 

As a single mom, I used to frequently bring the kids fishing. I'd heard about a lake we'd never visited before. People raved about a spot where the water descended quite deep and giant fish lurked. While the kids and I walked, I thought about how unpredictable life can be. A few years before, my grandpa had gone to fix an A/C unit and had fallen off the roof and hit his head on a curb. He ended up dying a few days later.

 

After arriving at our destination on the other side of the lake, these thoughts abated. We'd just begun fishing when a man walked toward us. I thought he wouldn't come too close because there's an unspoken rule amongst fishermen that you don't go right next to people. But he did! 

 

He stayed quiet for a while, and soon, we introduced ourselves. Then his kids played with my kids, and after a bit of time passed, we talked about some pretty profound things: our hopes, dreams, and fears. At one point, Sol got extremely serious and said there was something he regretted and had even felt guilty about.

 

"What is it?" I asked.

 

"I rented a little house, but the A/C unit had something wrong with it, so I called the landlord." He sighed, struggling to get the words out. "The landlord was older, and I felt bad calling him in the first place. But… I called anyway. The landlord got up on the roof." Despair overtook Sol's face as he peered despondently into the trees. "He fell off of the roof, and he died."

 

At this point, I felt taken aback. "What… "I paused. "What was the landlord's name?"

 

"Clan."

 

It became hard for me to breathe. "Clan Stilson was my grandpa," I said. Then seeing the shock in Sol's eyes, I continued. "Sol, you have to let this go. It's incredible that I'm meeting you here while fishing today. My grandpa may have brought us together so you could have closure. He would never hold this against you. He died, but it was his time to go." 

 

Sol and I both found such peace that day and have stayed friends over the years. 

 

After Justice died, I thought about this memory and prayed for Farrah before going to sleep. Maybe that's why I had such a lifelike dream.

 

I walked around a massive apartment complex in Heaven. It loomed far into the sky, more luminous and iridescent than I could fathom. I didn't know why I was there, and finally, a few people said I should look for the maintenance man. "He can help you." As I searched, tenants explained that apartment sizes in Heaven were a direct result of people's lives on Earth. Some people owned entire floors, while others had tiny one-bedroom apartments. 

 

But a lot of time seemed to pass, and I needed to find the maintenance man. "Where the heck was I? And why was I there?"

 

I eventually spotted him. He wore blue coveralls and faced away from me. It didn't take long to rush over and tap him on the shoulder, but when he turned around, I could hardly believe it. My grandfather faced me, just much younger and happier. He'd always been dressed in fancy clothes, even down to the shiny black dress shoes, so it seemed odd for him to be in blue coveralls. The shock slowly wore off, though, and I adjusted to seeing him with hair. (I never expected it to be blond.) 

 

"My Elisa." He hugged me with such fondness. "I need to work on a few things. Do you want to come with me?"

 

"Of course I do," I said and could hardly wait. 

 

"But why would you want to do this in the afterlife?" I asked as we walked.

 

"I enjoy helping others. It makes me happy, and it makes them happy too." He paused. "I own this building, Elisa." And he appeared genuinely content to check on tenants, fix pipes, and replace hinges.

 

As the day progressed, I remembered what it had been like being with my grandpa… the most fantastic guy. "Grandpa," I said at one point, "I want to stay with my family as long as possible. Am I gonna live a long life?"

 

"Elisa," he responded, "you're gonna live—" Then he stopped. "I can't—I shouldn't say that."

 

And then I woke up. I'd had dreams about my grandma, telling me not to be scared because she waited to show me around Heaven. It felt comforting to dream about my grandpatoo.

 

A few days later, Farrah decided to meet me after treatments. I had never told her about that strange moment with Sol, and it seemed almost unshakable that I should share that memory with her and tell her about my recent dream.

 

That night, after eating ice cream, having a mini photoshoot, and trying to take our minds off hardships, I finally shared these stories about Grandpa with Farrah.

 

"I've dreamed about Grandpa too," she said. "He wore blue coveralls."

 

I gasped. "That's what he wore… in my dream too." Goosebumps ran across my arms. 

 

"My mom said," she whispered, "that's what he always used to wear when he was really young." We both remained quiet for a moment, shocked. 

 

"I don't know why, but I just had to tell you about Sol and this dream."

 

Farrah paused, holding back tears. "I wake up every morning at 6:30 a.m. It's my internal alarm clock, but this morning I felt different. When I woke up, I saw Justice and Grandpa laughing. Their arms were around each other, and they seemed to be working together. I wanted to believe—with everything in me—that Grandpa was actually with Justice, I feel like I have that confirmation now."

 

It seemed uncannily like the moment with Sol at the lake. And so, Farrah said she left that bench knowing Justice is with our grandpa, doing what they both loved: helping others.

This is an excerpt from my new book, RING THE BELL. If you're interested, you can find that here:

 

What I learned in New York

My bucket list contains some strange things, but each of them has the capability of making a great memory for myself—and, hopefully, the people around me. I thought about one of the items: play my violin on the subway and in New York.

 

A few years ago, Mike surprised me and bought airplane tickets to New York. I could hardly wait to get there and play.

 

But the subway wasn't what I'd imagined, and things didn't go as expected. Many people wore earbuds or looked at social media on their phones. I might as well have played alone in a dark alley for all I accomplished. I played a Vivaldi piece I'd once performed with an orchestra. And when I finished, pure energy pulsed from my fingers. Yet almost everyone got off at the next stop, still glued to their phones as if I didn't even exist.

 

"Oh, Elisa," Mike said. "That sounded so great. Don't feel bad."

 

Sweet Mike. He's the most fantastic guy, and after I put my violin away, I hugged him.

 

"You're still okay bringing that to Staten Island?" he asked, and I nodded.

 

"Who knows what adventure might happen there." Even though the subway thing hadn't gone like I'd dreamed, I could hardly wait to see what the future would hold.

 

Mike and I drank smooth, black coffee on Staten Island when suddenly, a guitar melody drifted from nearby.

 

 We followed the notes and ended up in the large room where droves of people waited for the return ferry to New York. Almost every person watched a guitarist playing anything from Jamaican rifts to a mix of Latino and rock harmonies.

 

 I wished more than anything that I could jam with him. So, I went and gave him a tip. But as I turned to walk away, he saw my violin case and stopped playing. "Are you pretty good?" he asked.

 

 "I've played since I was five."

 

 "You wanna jam?"

 

 "Oh, my gosh! Are you kidding? Yes, I want to jam!"

 

 I took out my fiddle, and we played—right there in front of the ever-growing crowd.

 

 After several measures, he leaned over to me and said, "You are good. Let me turn down my guitar so people can hear you." 

 

 Music is life-changing—it's math that we can hear. He played a third, so I played a fifth. Then I knew he'd drop back again, so I countered with a root note. After a few minutes, my mind stopped making predictions, and the music poured straight from my soul. Toward the end of the third song, I felt so connected with the melodies it sounded as if this man and I had played together for years. That's the thing about music, it brings out your soul, all barriers removed, and that's when we can connect, even with strangers.

 

 "Oh, shoot," I said at the end of the last song. "Our ferry is almost here. I've gotta go."

 

 "But what's your name? When will you be back? Who are you? We need to jam again—we could get a contract!"

 

 As I frantically packed up my fiddle, I felt like Cinderella leaving the ball. "I don't live around here."

 

 "I play at Staten Island every Sunday. I'm Mohammed—you have to come back... Where are you from, anyway?"

 

 "Idaho."

 

 "Idaho? Huh." His grin widened. Then as I slid my bow into my case, Mike got the guy's number. 

 Before going, I gave Mohammed a huge hug. "This moment—what you did for me... Letting me jam with you in front of all these people… I'll never forget it. You made my entire year.

 

 He lit up with happiness. "Keep in touch!"

 

 As Mike and I boarded the ferry, I asked him if that whole thing surprised him as much as it floored me. I'd traveled there to play my violin on the subway, yet playing in Staten Island had been far more memorable. Thank God life doesn't always turn out how we hope; it often plays out much better.

 

 "Typical day." Mike shrugged. "Come to a city you've never been in. Meet some guy. Get propositioned to play music with him on Staten Island every Sunday. No, Elisa, I'm done being surprised. Life with you has always been an adventure."

 

 I gazed up at my wonderful man. "You're such a good guy to stick by me through all my crazy antics. Not everyone can be as supportive as you are. I love you so much, Mike."

 

 He winked at me, and I snuggled into him as we sat on the ferry.

A Kind Rabbi

Last year, I received an unforgettable review on my memoir, TWO MORE YEARS. Instead of critiquing the book, this reader criticized me and what she dubbed my "uber-positivity." At that moment, I cried because it's hard to realize some people genuinely wish tragedy on others. Not only had she critiqued my mindset, but this woman also seemed perturbed that I hadn't died at the end of my book. "Maybe I'm missing the point," she relayed. "Maybe the point is, 'I'm living with cancer, fighting it, and buying more time with my family before I die.'"

 

Although they have lost their sting, her words have flummoxed me for over a year, and I remained deep in ponderous thoughts about this until my rabbi, Sara Goodman, messaged me.

 

"There is a wonderful Jewish folktale," she wrote, explaining that a man had a dream about the king and immediately went to tell him. 

 

"You climbed a ladder," he said, "but when you reached the middle of it, I woke up." The king felt so delighted by these words that he gave the man a bag of gold. Walking home, now rich, the man told his neighbor about his good fortune, but this neighbor became jealous and devised a plan. He could also visit the king and tell a story. 

"I had a dream too," he said to the king the next day. "But in my dream, you climbed the ladder and reached the top." To his dismay, the king didn't appear happy at all and immediately asked the guards to bring the man to the dungeon.

 

"Why?" the man pleaded.

 

"Because," the king replied, "your dream prophesied my demise. There was nowhere else to go!"

 

"Elisa," Sara wrote, after sharing this story, "your outlook on life and your commitment toward living every moment of every day to its fullest is a gift and an inspiration. For you, every moment is a rung on that ladder, and you cherish each one. Most people resolve to live life in this fashion, and we believe that we do. But in reality, our lives are simply a garage full of many small ladders we endeavor to reach the top of and then put away. Goal met, done! This is very different than living every moment to the fullest. It’s not a bad way to live, just different. And not how we tell ourselves and others to live."

 

I paused while reading this and stared at my front yard. Before receiving her message, I'd been sitting on a bench, watching Trey and Indy chase each other in the grass. Their laughter made me think about my life and hope I've made a difference for the people who mean the most to me. That's all that seems to matter now. Not the jobs I've had, the degrees I attained, the books I've written... Those paltry accomplishments seem to be dust compared to making a positive impact for my husband and children. Love is the only thing that's stronger than death—because it carries on.

 

"So, when people meet you—in person or through your books," Sara continued, "we are hit with the realization that we're not living in the way we thought we were. It takes a lot for a person to be able to say, 'Okay. I’m actually not where I thought I was, and I’m completely okay with that.' So, thank you, Elisa, for inspiring me to live my life in a fuller way."

 

A river of gratitude poured through me, and I suddenly sobbed right there in my front yard. Rabbi Sara is one of the kindest, most inspirational women I have ever known. To hear this validation from someone like her, someone who is so innately good...

 

"Are you okay, Mama?" Indy asked, and both she and Trey ran over to either side of me.

 

"This was quite possibly the nicest message I've ever received," I said.

 

In 2020, after my terminal diagnosis, I discovered peace in Judaism. But in 2021, when I found the local synagogue, I finally understood where I belong: with people like Rabbi Sara Goodman and her mother, Bayle. They're true examples of altruistic, uplifting women. I can only hope to be more like them. Even Sara's recent words have been like a light in a dark desert. Words have the power to hurt or heal. I doubt these women fully understand what they've done for me. They believe in me and have given me the roadmap to living a life that I can be proud of. I hope I can rise to the occasion and appreciate each rung in the ladder, just like Rabbi Sara said.