A Buck and a Story

*When we help others, we often help ourselves too.*

As Josselyn, Indy, and I rode along the path—me on my scooter, the girls on a bike and longboard—I kept trying to think of the right words to say. Josselyn, at 23, has experienced more than her share of tough times, and I wanted to reaffirm that G-d sees her. Even in the midst of her pain, she isn't alone. Suddenly, a thought came to me: I could share a memory about one of the biggest "Godwinks" I’ve seen.

The moment felt perfect, too, because we planned to stroll right by where this memory actually happened years before. 

So, I started telling Josselyn about my baby, Zeke, who passed away. I sunk into sorrow after he died, not knowing how to move on. Then, out of nowhere, a neighbor expressed her sadness over my loss, especially voicing her grief over never meeting or seeing my baby who passed away. That same day, she gave me a statue, and I could hardly believe it because the statue’s face looked exactly like my angel baby. This alone felt like a huge sign from G-d that Zeke was watching out for us.

I cherished that statue for years, but then, something terrible happened one day. Right before we moved to Idaho, the statue broke, and I sobbed, feeling like if we moved, we'd be leaving a piece of Zeke far away, alone and lost.

Shortly after we bought our house in Pocatello, I went for a walk to a beautiful nature preserve near our home and prayed for a sign that we’d done the right thing, that we were where we needed to be. Right after this prayer, I went up the hill near our house and spotted something in my neighbor’s yard. My eyes squinted, shocked because the neighbors had a statue EXACTLY like the one of Zeke that had broken in Utah. The details shone so perfect—the small, precious hands, the soft, round face, the little bird he held gently in his stone hands. It felt like a direct message from G-d.

Just as I finished telling Josselyn this story, we passed the very spot where I'd seen the statue in the neighbor’s yard.

Josselyn suddenly cried out, “There's a baby buck! You see him?” And there he was, standing just across from Zeke’s statue. I’ve seen plenty of does in that yard, but never a buck, and especially not a little one! He stayed looking at us for a while, perfectly placed.

 

Josselyn’s eyes filled with wonder as she said, "That's another Godwink. It's like G-d is telling you that Zeke’s okay." Her words filled my heart with such peace. I’d asked Josselyn over, hoping to brighten her day, but she’d ended up helping me, bringing such joy into my life. I'm so grateful she took the time to go for a ride with me and Indy. She made that day unforgettable.

Unrealistic Expectations

One of the greatest pieces of wisdom my grandmother left behind is this: We should let people live their own lives. 

It recently brought back a memory.

 

My oldest daughter, Ruby, is a gifted tattoo artist. When I say gifted, I mean her talent is nothing short of incredible. She creates living masterpieces. The fact that she makes an exceptional living from this is simply a bonus.

 

BUT I have to admit, this career path was initially a tough pill for me to swallow. I'd always envisioned a different future for her—one with a traditional college degree, a stable 9-to-5 job, and all the security that comes with it. I had a lifetime of preconceived notions about what a successful, happy life would look like for my children, and when she told me she wanted to become a tattoo artist, a huge part of me felt terrified. She'd been perusing colleges in California; what happened to that plan? Why didn't she want to get a college degree?

 

One day, I found myself trapped in a massive wait at the DMV. The air hung thick with the scent of stale coffee and frustration as loads of people listened for their number to be called. The clock on the wall seemed to mock me, its hands moving slower than a snail taking sleeping pills. That's when my mind fixated on the very issue that had been bothering me for months: my struggle to accept Ruby's career choice. I replayed conversations in my head, imagined futures that would never be, and felt the familiar knot of disappointment tighten in my stomach. 

 

A man nearby looked just as bored as I was, so after a while, I decided to talk with him. I introduced myself, and before long, we covered everything from the weather to the mundane details of our lives. As the conversation deepened, though, I found myself confiding in him, the words tumbling out before I could second-guess myself. I explained my inner turmoil—the pride I felt for Ruby's talent while still fearing for her future.

 

He listened intently, his expression one of deep empathy. When I finished, he paused for a moment, his gaze distant, as if sifting through his own memories. "You're telling me this for a reason," he said, his voice soft but firm. Then, he shared his own story, one that mirrored my fears in a way that felt almost surreal. 

 

He had two incredible sons. They were his pride and joy, but like me, he had his own expectations for their lives. He wanted them to get degrees, get married, and have children. But he put so much pressure on his younger son, that the boy ended up taking his own life... "He just couldn't..." the man's voice broke on the words, "live up to my expectations." The sorrow in his voice filled me with sadness as well, and tears came to my eyes. I couldn't imagine what it must've been like to experience that.

 

He took a moment, trying to calm the emotion that had welled up during the conversation. "If I could offer any advice," he said, his voice now a quiet plea, "I think you should simply show your children unconditional love. If I could go back in time, that's what I'd do. I'd trade every one of my expectations for a chance to just tell my son that I was proud of him for being himself."

 

His words hit me so hard, a jolt of recognition that went straight to my heart. It was a simple truth; one I had somehow forgotten in my quest to "help" my daughter. I instantly knew I'd never forget this man or his story. I left the DMV with a new sense of clarity. I now had a single, all-consuming goal: I wanted to show Ruby that my love for her was not tied to her career path, her life choices, or anything other than the simple fact that she is perfect just the way she is. 

 

Today, my daughter's reputation has grown immensely. Clients have come from all over the world to get tattoos from Ruby, and I even got one from her—an olive branch that matches a tattoo she has on her own hand as well. I've watched, amazed and humbled, as she has built a life that is so entirely her own, and I am grateful to be free from the burden of my old expectations.

 

I think my grandma showed a lot of wisdom when she wrote that we should let people live their own lives. It's a simple piece of advice that has had a profoundly positive impact.

Finding a Way

I pulled out my grandmother's "happiness file," a collection of things she saved to cheer herself up, and the famous words on one of the index cards resonated with me more than ever before. “When there’s a will, there’s a way.” I sat, quietly contemplating how my life has turned out. 

I used to accomplish so much. When I decided to do something, I would almost ALWAYS find a way to get it done. But then in 2020, doctors diagnosed me with stage 4 melanoma and everything changed. They initially gave me two years to live, and although I've lived much longer, every day has been a battle for my life. 

I had a serious back surgery where surgeons removed my L3 and put a cage in my spine; I've endured several separate rounds of radiation, and years of cancer treatments. This has affected my ability to stand up straight and walk for long periods. 

These changes have been especially tough because before I got sick, the kids and I loved hiking and taking walks together. "Mama, can we walk to the gas station, like we used to?" Indy asked the other day.

"I would love to," I said, but I'm not sure if I can. How about I try working up to it?"

She nodded, so excited. 

The next day while Indy was at work, I tried walking to the end of the block and got so winded that I had to crouch down until my breath came regularly and my legs and back didn't hurt so badly. That night, with tears in my eyes, I asked Indy if we could drive to the gas station instead.

"It's okay, Mama," she said, and even though I knew she meant it, that was hard, another reminder of how this has negatively affected my family.

Anyway, a few weeks later, my dad called out of no where. "Hon," he said, "Mom and I bought you a big surprise. Be looking for it in the mail. Okay?"

I sat down, forgetting my previous self-pity and wondering what in the world my parents had gotten. "Mike, do you know what it is?"

He shook his head thoughtfully. "I'm as curious as you are."

The following week, I looked out on the porch to see a huge box on a massive pallet. "What in the heck?" 

The kids and I opened it, so excited to see that my parents bought me a riding scooter! It's can travel up to 18 miles in one charge and can zip around at 5 miles an hour.

Mike unhooked the scooter from its charger the next day. "Are you gonna take it out today?" he asked.

"Yep." I smiled. "I just need to get Indy.

"We're going on a date," I said after walking into Indy's room. 

“Just like old times?"

"What are we gonna do?" she asked.

"Walk to the gas station."

Tears filled her eyes, and I realized just how much this meant to her. I suddenly felt extra grateful to my parents, for all of their kindness and love over the years. I also remembered the quote my grandmother wrote down: When there’s a will, there’s a way. 

For years, I’ve subconsciously begun setting limitations for myself, believing many experiences were forever out of reach now. But my family helped me see that where I saw insurmountable barriers, incredible opportunities waited instead. They helped me find new ways of still doing things that I love. Life isn’t bad, it’s just a little bit different, and my family’s love and support has meant the world to me. I am so lucky to have them in my life.

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.