The Good Stuff

The world shrank to the size of the sterile tube around me. The machine’s clamoring thump-thump-thump resounded, a loud drumbeat against my skull. Its cold, impersonal surface became my only companion as it scanned my body, searching for more melanoma. Every three months, I “get” to spend a few hours in that tube, being reduced to a simple gown and my soul. It’s probably bizarre, but MRIs always remind me of how we’ll leave this world. As I take off my jewelry, magnetic eyelashes, and hair clips, I soberly remember that we will all—at some point—leave EVERYTHING behind. 

You'd think I’d be used to scans by now, but sometimes I still get so afraid, thinking about how the same device that's supposed to keep me above ground is ironically similar to a coffin. In these moments of terror, the only thing that saves me is my imagination. And I've come to appreciate the power of good memories. It’s a game I play, a mental escape. One moment I’m trapped in the MRI machine; the next, I’m back on a pier in Jamaica during my honeymoon. The salty air brings my senses to life, and the gentle lap of waves against the wooden planks tames my soul. I sit with Mike, planning our perfect future filled with happiness...and health... How precious that word sounds now that so much has changed.

The machine continues its tha-whumping, but my mind can’t bear to focus on that. Instead, I’m lost in a highlight reel of my life, a dance through the past that I’ve been ridiculously lucky to live. I see myself in a hospital room, holding my newborn babies for the first time, staring at them with a wonder that felt bigger than the universe. I remember the magical moments of getting old-fashioned photos in Jackson Hole and playing card games in a cramped cabin with our kids. I think of traipsing across Italy while Mike pushed me in my wheelchair, and the kids pointed out beauty in everything as they ate gelato. I recall our family playing tag in Goblin Valley, as the kids ran here and there, living to the fullest. Each memory is a unique stone in a mosaic of my life, and as I piece them together in that awful machine, a surreal picture forms.

The fear and anxiety have left. Regrets and mistakes fade, nowhere to be found, replaced by a gratitude so fierce my chest aches. I’m not defined by this disease or the hardships I’ve endured. I'm a wife, a mother, a daughter, and a friend. I’ve lived a full, beautiful life, and all I have to do is close my eyes to remember. It really is in the darkness that the best moments of life truly shine.

Extra Mile

 With the resolve of a man twice his age, my son prepared for his senior year. As a junior, Trey survived a brutal breakup after dating a girl (on and off) for two years, and I know that weighs heavy on his mind.

“I’m done,” he said before his first day of school in August. “No dating until I get my degree.”

That vow lasted about as long as my phone's battery, and in the afternoon, when I asked about Trey’s first day back, he didn't mention classes, friends, or even lunch. Instead, he talked about "the new girl," and I couldn’t help but smile. Around here, a new student is basically front-page news.

"She could probably use some friends," I said, trying to subtly nudge him in the right direction.

"Yeah," he nodded, “I think she's had a hard life. I heard she's in foster care."

So, Trey considered approaching the girl for the next two days but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Then, in a moment straight out of a movie, she actually approached HIM and struck up a conversation.

“She’s so hilarious and fun, Mom. I think I’m gonna ask her to homecoming,” Trey said as he paced in our kitchen the following weekend. 

After hearing his words, my mind went to my grandma’s infamous "happiness file.” It’s a collection of life advice so wholesome it’s brilliant. She scrawled on one faded index card, “It’s worthwhile to go the extra mile to make people feel valued.” And that sentiment seemed perfectly apt for Trey’s current dilemma. 

"It sounds like this girl has been through so much," I finally said. “You should do something romantic to ask her to the dance."

Trey just stood there, gaping. “But what if she says no?”

“So?” I said, shrugging. “What do you really have to lose?”

“That’s just...embarrassing.”

Within seconds, I donned my serious-mom face. "Is the objective to get a ‘yes’ or to make her feel special?”

Trey paused for a while, thinking hard. “I just want her to be happy.”

Although Trey never met my grandma, he took her advice that day. For the next few hours, he meticulously wrote out ideas, got candy, and arranged it into cryptic messages on a posterboard. (A couple of the lines were pure gold: “Going to the dance with you would feel like ‘100 Grand.’ I'm falling to ‘Reese’s Pieces.’”)

Trey left for school the next morning, looking more nervous than I’d seen him in years. The day dragged for me because this was super exciting!  I could just picture my tall, strong son, holding up the romantic posterboard that he’d crafted for the new girl. I hoped it would make her day.

When Trey finally got home, I bombarded him. “So, how’d it go?”

“Mom! She said it's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for her. She said…’yes’!”

I gave him the biggest hug, and a rush of pure joy flooded through me.

“Mom,” Trey said after a second, “even if she’d said ‘no,’ it would’ve been worth it just to see how happy she was. Grandma was right.” 

And there it was—perfectly understood, the core of Grandma's wisdom, passed down through two generations. 

Making people feel special, valued, and loved is always worth the extra effort. Like Grandma used to say, it really does pay to be kind. 

Little by Little, We're Making Progress

My fight with stage four melanoma is exhausting, but this journey has really sorted out what truly matters. It might not look like it, but I am making progress.

My greatest wish now isn't for a miracle cure—though let's be honest, if one were sitting on my nightstand, I'd take it without a second thought. But instead, my greatest wish is to see the people I love find happiness. I want to watch my kids chase their dreams until they're breathless and fulfilled. I want to see the spark in Mike's eyes when he talks about his job and our life together. I just want my family to truly live and enjoy life.

My second-oldest daughter, Sky, has a voice that can twist any melody into something beautiful yet heart-wrenching at the same time. As a little girl, she dreamed of being a singer, of packing up her whole life and heading to Los Angeles to start her career. But when I was diagnosed with cancer, I watched her set that dream on a shelf, and the sight of it broke my heart. I told her not to put her life on hold for me, but she didn't want to leave.

"Life is short," I finally told her again, trying to sound wise and not completely terrified of losing her. "Trust me. If you really want to do this, you should go for it. California isn't that far away, and we can do video calls as much as you want."

So she moved, and our video calls are the highlight of my days—a chaotic, beautiful window into her new world. I see sunlight and ocean breeze on her face as she talks about living by the beach, writing new songs, and meeting people who actually understand her musical inclinations. Plus, her growth is incredible to witness. In fact, she recently shared a story that resonated with me more than anything I've heard in a while.

So basically, when Sky gets lonely, she'll sit in her car and watch the monks at a Buddhist temple across the street from her apartment. During the springtime, the temple had a single, featureless statue. The monks worked on it for about an hour every single day. They'd never speak, but instead, they worked tirelessly, their slow, rhythmic chipping a meditative sound even from across the street. 

Anyway, time passed, and Sky didn't realize how much progress the monks had made until a second, faceless statue arrived last week. They set it next to the old one, and when they unveiled it, Sky stared in shock. Seeing the two statues side by side stunned her. The first piece was no longer a rough block of stone, but a masterpiece of intricate detail, a patiently carved visage of serene contemplation, standing in stark contrast to the bland, rough form that had yet to be refined.

"I just knew you'd understand," Sky told me, excited to share about the epiphany she'd had. "I know sometimes you don't feel like you're making progress, Mom, but you are. We all are." Sky went on to say that she told me this, knowing how much I dreaded my next round of cancer treatments. And it was the perfect reminder that we get through life one step at a time.

When we're in the middle of a struggle, it's easy to become discouraged because progress can seem invisible, but just as the monks slowly sculpted a masterpiece from rough stone, we are also making headway. Each small act of courage—waking up, facing another day, just trying to do your best—is a chisel stroke, chipping away at the stone of who you were to reveal the masterpiece of who you're meant to be.

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.