Always Good to be Kind

"You know what enters the room when you do?" I asked my 14-year-old, Indy, and she shook her head.

"SUNSHINE," I said. "That's what I feel when you come into a room."

Indy grinned so big that the light from it reached her eyes. "You're feeling good?" she asked, and when I nodded, her excitement surprised me.

"Whatcha wanna do?" I sounded so much like myself before this whole ordeal with cancer started.

"Go to the coffee shop?" She smiled big as if she'd been waiting for a day like this for her whole life. "A boy from school works there, and he said…" She looked down at her feet. "You know, we're just friends, but he said he'd buy me a sandwich if I came to see him at work."

"Sounds great," I said, "but there's a catch."

"Anything," she said, surprising me again. "As long as it's just the two of us."

I grabbed my purse and pulled a tiny sack from it.

"What are those?" she asked, coming closer.

"Well, they've become kind of magical because they bring happiness." Then I dumped the contents into her hand, and her eyes lit with wonder. For just a moment, I forgot that she's 14, and it seemed that a tiny six-year-old sat in front of me, wondering over fireflies again. "They're magnets," I said as her eyes took in every detail.

"All different kinds of flowers…" She flipped each one over. "Ladybugs. Mushrooms—with faces. And turtles." She actually giggled at that point. "The turtles are so cute!"

"Think hard," I finally said after she'd looked at each one, "and pick the one you think would be the very best for today."

"You give these to people?" she asked. 

"When I feel like I should." I smiled at my precious girl.

She took a while, almost picking a turtle at one point, then selected a sunflower. "This one. I'm not sure why, but I pick this one."

"While we're out today, I want you to find someone who seems like they might need a smile. You'll think of something good about them and actually tell them before giving them the sunflower. You up for it?"

"A stranger?" Her eyes had grown wider. "Mama, I don't know if I can do that."

"I understand if it's too scary. But just promise you'll try?"

"Yeah, sure! It sounds fun… except for the stranger part."

We both laughed and headed to the coffee shop where Indy's friend works.

"You see anyone?" I asked.

"I don't think so," she replied, and I didn't want to press it at all.

"No worries."

Indy got her free sandwich, and we had a wonderful date together. Then, it was about time to head back home.

"Mama, we haven't been out like this in forever," she said, and I felt more grateful for the pain pump than in previous months. "Remember how we used to go to the photo booth when I was younger… before you got sick? We'd go on dates and get our pictures taken there."

I nodded. Indy has some of those pictures still hanging on her mirror.

"You wanna go to the mall and take pictures at the photo booth?"

"Would that be okay? If you're still feeling all right?"

I nodded. Fighting cancer has changed a lot in our lives and somehow catapulted our teenagers through the tough years and made them appreciative and extremely helpful.

Indy has her learner's permit (since kids can drive at 15 in Idaho), but she still has a lot to learn, and when she drives, I feel closer to G-d—because I pray so much for Him to spare our lives.

Anyway, after we walked into the mall, a rush of people skirted past us. I wondered if they returned holiday gifts or just wanted to go shopping for 2025 sales. Regardless, the number of people seemed unusual.

"You okay?" Indy asked because I went toward the wall and held onto it.

"Yeah," I said. "That was just a lot of people. I'm glad it's calmer now."

We looked over and must've seen her at the exact same time. A woman used a walker to inch toward the exit. People passed her—not even noticing her struggles. And with a sinking heart, I wondered if that's what true loneliness looks like. 

"That's her!" Indy suddenly said. "That's who the sunflower is for."

"But you said you were nervous about going up to a stranger?"

"I'm not nervous anymore." She straightened up. "She needs this."

Indy walked over, almost matching speed with the woman. Then, she finally stood in front of her, and the woman peered up, shocked. Mall customers continued passing by, too busy to notice a miracle unfolding right next to them. 

Few words were exchanged, but Indy stood there, looking kindly at the woman. After a few moments more, Indy walked back toward me, and the woman's eyes never left her, even as she clutched the simple sunflower magnet to her chest.

"Are you okay?" I asked because tears filled Indy's eyes.

"You won't believe what she said."

"What?" I asked.

"Well, I told her how beautiful she is and that I wanted to give her something special to remember. Then she told me she's 85 and hasn't heard something like that about herself in decades!"

"That's… I'm so glad you said that to her, Indy. Is that why you're crying?"

"No, Mama," she said. "I'm crying because when she first saw me, she said, "Oh, my goodness. SUNSHINE!" Indy swallowed hard. "Like I was SUNSHINE. Actual sunshine... Just like you said." She shook her head in wonder. "She did more for me than I did for her. You were right. Those are magic. Where did you get them, Mama?" she joked.

"The dollar store," I replied, and we both laughed.

"Wow. She made my heart feel so warm." Then, more tears filled Indy's eyes as we walked toward the photo booth to finish off the perfect date.

 "It's always good to be kind," Indy said, and I knew in that moment that I couldn't be any prouder of Indy and all of my kids. 

Happy Holidays and Happy New Year

 We’ve had so much fun celebrating Hanukkah. Trey even gave me and Mike a poncho. So thoughtful.🥰 We’ve played a ton of games, AND I even won… once. 😂 But we’ve had the best time, and I’m really grateful for the time. 🕎 ✡️ ✨

Even though Indy and I are the only people in our family who are converting to Judaism, we’re so thankful for our family and friends’ support 🥰

The ‘I Cans’ in Life

We recently went to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and had the most incredible time. But despite how fun it was, at one point, I found myself getting a little bit sad because there’s so much I can’t do. I knew the kids wanted to go skiing—and I brought my laptop so I could stay busy at the room while they were gone—but I guess they wanted me to be involved.

Unfortunately, since there’s no way I can do something like skiing, they ended up scheduling some family pictures. 😮

Anyway, our family did sooo many incredible things there: tried new restaurants, went shopping, saw museums, moose, and elk… Who knew these western pictures would end up being the kids’ favorite part?!

This was so much fun 🥰

P. S. I wish our two oldest girls could’ve come (they had to work), but we’re already trying to pick a time to visit Jackson again when they can come too 💓 This was just too great; we need to do it again. 

#ecstilson #butchcassidyandthesundancekid #butchcassidylookalike #sundancekid #sundancekidlookalike #thesundancekid #paulnewmanlookalike #fyp #foryoupage

Word to Live By?

 If you could pick a single word to live by for 2025, which word would you pick? I’m thinking about maybe potential, capable, or open. I looked up the etymology of each word, and they’re all pretty neat. How about you? 

P.S. Happy New Year! 🥰🥰🥰🎉🎉🎉 I hope it’ll be incredible for you. 

#ecstilsonfaith #ecstilsonfindingpeace #elisabethmagagna #elisamagagna #ecstilson #stage4cancer

Kindness Is the Best Teacher

Before meeting with an HR team, Trey asked for me to do a mock interview. "I'm extremely hard working,” he said, “and that’s why I'll be the best decision you ever made here—because I won't let you down." Then he thoughtfully tapped his fingers on his knee. “This apprenticeship, well… it’ll change the course of my life. I just need a chance.

I hadn't realized exactly HOW much he’d wanted this, and I couldn’t help staring at him. 

That next week, Trey landed the years-long welding apprenticeship AND a scholarship paid by the state. Now, half a year later, he’s worked hard and appreciated every minute. He's showed enthusiasm even when he’s tired and never called in sick even when he could have. There was only one hiccup—last month.

“Your car broke down?” Mike asked Trey on the phone. “I’ll be right there, but this might cost a bit to fix.”

We’ve asked Trey to pay for half of his car parts, and although he and Mike do the labor, it can still get expensive. “Trey, they’re paying you at this apprenticeship.” I sighed. “Why don’t you have any money?” We had this conversation after I logged into our joint checking account and saw some larger purchases.

“There’s a reason for all of it,” he said. “But if it’s okay, I don’t feel like it’s my place to say.”

"You’re not in danger?" I asked, suddenly worried. High school is a different place than when I was a kid.

Trey actually laughed. “No! It’s nothing like that.” Then he added, “I’ll make sure to save money in the future—and I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

Time passed, and eventually the holidays came. Not knowing what to get Trey, I noticed him perusing, video games and instruments (not surprising), but then he googled uncharacteristic things too like cameras, art supplies, and clothes.

“Mom, people have shown me so much kindness since you got sick,” he said one day. “I still can’t believe I got Borah!” His cat looked up at the mention of his name and took the opportunity to meow at us. “But I don’t want you worrying about the holidays. I make my own money. Just worry about going to your cancer treatments and getting better.”

This brought tears to my eyes, making me vow to give him something extra special. 

Ironically, it wasn’t long after Trey opened his big gift—a new woodwind instrument—that I started receiving a few unexpected calls and texts.

“He bought our son the nicest gift!” The first woman cried. “Money has been so tight since my husband lost his job. We didn’t know what to do this year. But it all worked out. It’s gonna be okay.”

I didn’t know what to say. And when I finally understood what Trey had done, I could hardly believe it. “I’m… I’m stunned,” I said.

“Me too! This is like a miracle.”

The day ended with three sets of parents calling or texting, just wanting Mike and I to know what Trey had done for their kids—all classmates he thought might be struggling this year.

We hugged our boy that night. “You’re a pretty great guy,” Mike said.

“It’s nothing. Really. I could help, so I did! What kind of person wouldn’t help if they knew they could do something?”

I didn’t respond and instead really studied Trey as he spoke. This seemed like a pivotal moment in his life. “You know,” he paused to pick up Borah, his gigantic Maine coon, “all the people who’ve been kind to our family after your diagnosis, they were good examples. This whole situation has changed all of us, and we’ll never forget the kind people who’ve come into our lives. They’ve made the hard times somehow bearable.” He hugged Borah and started walking down the hall to their bedroom. “Kind people are good teachers.” And with that, the duo disappeared into their room, and Mike and I listened as Trey cooed to Borah, begging him to go to sleep.

“What are you thinking?” Mike asked.

“Just that I never expected cancer to affect everyone the way it has. I’m glad something good has come from it, but I do worry for the kids.” I walked over to Mike and rested my head on his arm. “Things like this make me so proud of them, and it gives me peace that when it’s my time to go, the kids will be okay. They’re kind and hardworking. What more could we ask for?”

“They were always gonna be good kids,” Mike said. “I’m proud of them.”

So, we stayed like that for a long time, snuggling into each other as we looked out the window where multicolored lights illuminated the winter wonderland in our front yard. Flakes of snow twirled from Heaven, leaving paradise so we could momentarily appreciate their beauty; I guess even gravity has its perks. That reminded me of my own situation: Amid surgeries, treatments, infusions, and other appointments, Trey helped me find a huge pocket of goodness this holiday season. He didn’t just bring a miracle to those families, he brought one to me and Mike as well.

A Memory that Still Gives Me Peace

In 2020, not long after a big surgery, I went shopping with Mike. Several minutes into the trip, a huge wave of weakness descended until I needed to sit down.

It took me a while to hobble to the front of the store with my walker, and once I finally got there and found a chair, I noticed someone staring at me!

“You use this thing?” he asked, moving closer to my walker.

Who was this guy? “Yes,” I said, trying to be extra polite. “I use this thing.” I’d been using a walker since doctors removed my tumorous L3, and—at that point—I couldn’t imagine life without the device.

“Well then, what’s wrong with you? You’re not that old.”

“I’m in my thirties,” I said, and despite his delivery, I felt grateful for the bluntness. It seemed a nice departure from people who always tiptoed around me. “I have cancer... Stage four.”

The man leaned forward then, as if imparting some great gift. “The reason I’m here is to tell you that prayer works.”

“That’s the reason you’re here?”

“Yep. That’s the reason I’m here!” And he smiled, this bright smile that could light up a city.

Shortly after that, Mike came up to a register, and I went to stand by him while he checked out.

I looked back to where I’d been sitting, but the chairs were already gone! So was the man I’d spoken with moments before.

“Who was that?” Mike asked.

“I have no idea. But that was one of the weirdest things I’ve had happen in weeks.”

“What did he say?” Mike asked.

“That prayer works.”

This past weekend, I found myself unable to stop thinking about that strange man and his timely message. Who knew it would help me even years later as I continue to battle cancer?

Sure I don’t know how long I have, but no one knows when it’ll be their time to pass on. It doesn’t help to dwell on an uncertain future. The best thing I can do is appreciate the time I have, let fear go, and keep faith that G-d has a plan. And yes, I have to believe what the stranger said years ago: that prayer works... or at least that G-d can hear me. It’s nice to think He’s up there listening on the good days, the bad ones, and all the moments in between. #ecstilson #heartwarming #storytime #happyholidays #holidaystory #fyp #stage4cancer

When Limitations Help Us Grow

 Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about thriving in different situations. Whether it be health, unfulfilled dreams, or poor circumstances, sometimes we don’t feel like we’re living up to our potential. 

I’m a free spirit, and I like to do things in my time, my way, but I’ve definitely hit some foul balls. And, as much as I hate to admit it, looking back at “mistakes” and learning opportunities, I’ve seen beauty in the aftermath, through obedience and living under constraints.

Let me explain….

When I first started playing the violin in elementary school, my bow arm would fly sporadically as I learned to fiddle and “Bile Them Cabbage Down.” I thought I excelled until my teacher said I needed to start playing the violin in a corner—with both elbows against the wall where they couldn’t be free!

Fiddling in a corner is… uncomfortable. I played like that for months, even when I practiced for hours each week at home. Slowly though, I learned to move my right arm fluidly, so the bow would stay on the “string highway.” My left arm gained proper form too, and the violin’s sound changed.

One day, my teacher smiled during my lesson and said, “Elisa, your elbow didn’t smack the wall at all! You’re playing perfectly!”

“Really?” I stepped from the corner and played. At that moment, the sound emanating from my fiddle completely captivated my soul, and my violin became an extension of myself. The sheer power and volume, the rich sound... the way the notes cried out with each emotion I felt, all because I’d learned to perfect small things while living under constraints.

It seems that we all value quick progress and rapid growth; that’s fine, but there’s also something to be said for long-suffering obedience and fully understanding the basics so we can build on a firm foundation.

Maybe this sickness is a moment for me to focus on small things so I can excel with the bigger stuff.

I can hardly wait for the day when I can look back and revel in what I’ve learned! In the meantime, I’m grateful I have my violin. Even on the worst days, that instrument brings me joy.

Pic from when I fiddled with Ryan Boyce, opening for Cracker.

(Original post 2022) #ecstilson #fyp #heartwarming #foryoupage #violin #fiddle #fiddler #musician #technique #techniquematters #growth #FirmFoundation #limitations #mentalhealth #growth #growthmindset

A Family Grows

 Trey has three best friends: Robert, Jack, and Wyatt. They’re like “The Sandlot” movie, and it cracks me up seeing them together, but this story isn’t about their friend group; it’s about Jack.

In August, Jack’s mom called, asking if he could live with us for a while. We agreed because Jack is like family—but I did get calls from people concerned that I’m doing too much while fighting cancer. “It’ll be okay,” I said. “He’s a good kid.”

It’s been almost 4 months since he moved in, and I’ve seen changes in all of us. While I make breakfast for the kids, we’ve had some deep conversations. Jack and Trey laugh about how they met in second grade and then reminisce over what a small world it is. (For example: My oldest daughter, Ruby, is a tattoo artist who learned vital skills from her mentor. And guess who trained her mentor decades before? Jack’s grandfather! Now, his legacy is living on in her AND his grandson lives with us.)

On Tuesday, we went out for Ruby’s birthday. At one point, Jack whispered to me and Trey, “I didn’t know this was for her birthday. I didn’t get her a gift.”

We told him not to worry, but he still seemed concerned. Dinner went past quickly, and nothing exciting happened; it was just another birthday.

“Here’s the check,” the waiter said. “You guys sure you want to leave? Why not sing a song?” He pointed to a small stage that boasted a microphone. 

“Thursday only!” I read the stage’s sign. “Karaoke!” No wonder the waiter joked about it. It wasn’t Thursday.

Jack paled, then pushed his chair back and stood. “I’ll do it,” he said boldly, but despite that resolve, his hands visibly shook. “I’ll sing a song. For Ruby. For her 23rd birthday.”

So he went up onstage and started looking at all the  customers throughout the restaurant. Trey and I glanced at each other, both worried. 

Jack’s voice wafted out soft at first, so our table began cheering for him. He gaped as if somehow realizing—in that exact moment—how much he means to us… That’s when his voice grew in power. Cooks stopped cooking momentarily to see who was singing—and even rapping! A few waiters set down trays and stared. Some woman in a festive red dress came and DANCED in front of Jack. Afterward, Trey and Jack even sang together, and Ruby said it was one of the best birthdays she’s ever had.

After we got home, I sat on the couch alone, thinking what a blessing Jack is. He brings a sort of magic to our family—even on Ruby’s birthday, he breathed life into the moment and made it unforgettable. “I feel like,” I suddenly heard Jack talking to Trey in the other room, “I feel like part of your family. I feel… like you guys actually care about me.”

“You’re my brother now. And, Jack… I always wanted a brother,” Trey said.

I thought about my baby who died. My little baby boy who would’ve been older than Trey. I wish Trey could’ve grown up with him. “Zeke Jackson,” I whispered his first and middle name. Zeke would’ve been an amazing big brother, just how Jack is. And as a thought came to me, I gasped: Zeke Jackson. One of his grandma’s called him “Jack”! 

Chills ran the length of my body and tears came to my eyes. I somehow felt like Zeke was watching, smiling from Heaven about how beautiful our lives can be. Even though he couldn’t grow up, I still think he’s with us somehow in spirit, cheering every one of us on. It seems like despite distance and sadness, grief and death, nothing can diminish a mother’s love. I went into the kitchen and hugged both the boys. “What was that for?” Trey asked.

I looked at them. “I’m just grateful for both of you.” And when I left the room, my heart felt full to the brim.

Struggling with Negative Body Image

Before (left) 6 weeks after the surgery (right)

 You know how I recently had a surgery? There’s some good news and some superficial news: 

(1) The pain pump device IS helping sooo much with the pain (yay!), but 

(2) I am working through some other issues, simply acknowledging that it IS an adjustment having this new contraption in my body and I would be lying to myself if I denied that. I AM struggling a bit with negative body image. 

I probably sound so ungrateful because I wasn’t even supposed to live this long—and this is such a superficial thing. But today, I woke up feeling really worried, hoping Mike will always love me and that we’ll make it through all of this crap with cancer and changes… and heartache. 

Fear, well, it can be a crippling thing. 

It’s just that without Mike, I don’t know how I’d get through this. And by “get through this,” I mean: Doctors say cancer is most likely what I’ll die from, so I’m not fighting to necessarily beat this; I’m just fighting for more time, even a sliver of extra moments with my family. 

Anyway, I do *not* want pity; that’s one of the worst things in the world. It’s embarrassing and maddening…. That being said, MOST people have responded with the best thing possible: kindness. (And I don’t mean to sound unappreciative.) 

But when it gets quiet, and I’m left with my own thoughts, it can be hard grieving over what used to be and how I could do so many things. 

I’m 41… Seeing other people my age, people who don’t have cancer, I’m amazed by all the things they can do: skiing, dancing, running... I MISS those things so much. Now, a good portion of my time is spent resting, and I feel bad for Mike. He’s like a golden Lab, running circles around me; and I just have to… watch. People say he’ll always love me and he’ll always stay. I think that’s true, but I still feel bad for him.

Okay. Enough whining 😅 I know I’ll pull myself out of this and be doing better in a few hours—after a STRONG cup of coffee lol—but I was wondering… How do YOU deal with setbacks?

#painpump #ecstilson #changeishard #stage4cancer #fyp #melanoma #foryoupage #advice #loss #grief #cancerjourney #stage4melanoma #change #counseling

A Friend Who Changed Her Mindset

My friend got married really young. I knew things were difficult but didn’t realize how bad until the divorce. After that, I watched as that sweet woman struggled with serious health issues until she needed a hysterectomy…

We’ve spoken on and off for years. I knew she regretted the divorce but didn’t realize it stemmed from her desire for children. “I should’ve had them when I could,” she finally admitted 20 years later. Over the conversation, I found out she’d been looking at her ex-husband’s social media accounts. 

"You've gotta stop," I practically begged, knowing this was torturous for her.

“He has kids and looks happy,” she nearly sobbed, continuing on. "Maybe we were perfect for each other, and I was too young to know.” She paused. "And now... maybe the grass IS greener on the other side?"

"I can't remember who said it, but the grass is greener by the septic tank."

She scoffed, relaying that the remark wasn't particularly funny at the moment. After a few minutes, she finally spoke again. “I missed the boat. I should’ve had children with him when I had the chance. I never should’ve gotten divorced. Now I’m alone… in my forties. I’m lost and suffering.” 

In the past, I’ve actually looked up the root of suffering. At various points in my life, I’ve struggled and now with cancer, it can be tough doubting things and—at times—wondering if it’s worth it to continue treatments. But the thing I’ve truly realized about suffering is that King Solomon’s words are true: This too shall pass.”

So I spoke with my friend about the etymology of the word “suffer.” It actually means “to endure.” When I told her all of this, she thought of something and must've had some type of epiphany. 

“Well,” she said firmly, “I don’t want to just endure.”

She booked an appointment with a counselor after that. And over a period of time, I felt grateful to realize that she’d begun to enjoy life, see good things around her, and embrace the present. I didn’t think about it prior to all of this, but before seeing the counselor, she’d usually say “no” a lot. The counselor must’ve encouraged her to start saying “yes.” One day she even called to tell me she’d gone out dancing! And now, she’s made so many new friends, and I love seeing her embracing the present, even if it’s not the life she expected. That takes true strength and courage. Through it all, she’s finally let go of the past. 

I really wanted her to know that she’s inspired me; no matter what might be going on, there’s always something to make life worth it. For me, that might be playing board games with my family or simply trying to brighten their days—seeing their happiness erases any amount of worry, fear, or sadness I might’ve felt prior. I'm so grateful for this "reset." My friend brought me back to my “why.” My reason for moving forward is my family. 

So today, if you’re having a hard time and feel like you’re just enduring, I hope you’ll find something good around you—something that helps you enjoy! If this is our one life to live, why not find the good around us, enjoy the moment, and appreciate what we have? 

Being Grateful for Everything

I tried to be grateful—'tis the season—but an appointment last week left me reeling. My parents came up to help after my pain pump surgery, and they brought me (along with my oldest daughter) to this month's appointment and cancer treatment. Although we got some good news (the cancer hasn't grown since August—wow!), they still think this will kill me. "Whenever we take you off of treatments," the provider said, "the cancer grows. And since your body can't handle being on these treatments forever..." I've heard things like this about a million times over the past four years. I know this is probably what I'll die from, and I thought my family understood too, but when I glanced at my parents and daughter... When I saw the pain in their eyes... There are things worse than death, and seeing that desperation, well, that was horrific.

I knew I'd never shake that memory.

"Hello, Elisa," the woman said during a Zoom call. "How was your week?"

"I couldn't wait to talk with you," I said, and then I spilled the entire story, telling my counselor about how out of control I feel. "I'm such a failure," I finally said, deflated. "Why can't I just beat this?! For my family. People keep saying if I'm positive enough or if I pray enough. But they don't understand melanoma."

She sighed, then whispered, "We often forget that we can't control the outcome. We can only control the amount of effort that we put in."

I nodded. "And no matter how hard I try, I just don't know if I can beat this. At some point we have to realize that no amount of positivity or cancer treatments—or even prayers—will work if it's my time to go. But it's still hard to see pain in the eyes of people who care about me. I just don't think I'm doing enough."

"You don't give yourself enough credit." She took a sip of her drink, and I wondered if she holds these remote sessions at a home office or in a work building. "Tell you what," she finally said, "I'll email a lesson to you. It might seem kooky but promise me you'll give it a chance?"

I nodded.

"I think we should work on your self-worth. If you're at least feeling emotionally stronger, maybe it'll help with everything else."

The lesson came to my email a few minutes after the call ended. I watched as a woman chastised herself for getting mediocre sales numbers and when she forgot to pick her kid up from daycare. "I'm a failure," she told her friend, Margaret. Of course, Margaret disagreed, saying that everyone makes mistakes. The video ended, and a new screen popped up.

"Think about your exact situation," the prompt read. "If someone you care about were in your shoes, what would you say to them?"

Reading the questions, I felt struck by a memory. Throughout this journey, I've met many terminal patients. It's been devastating to hear when some of them have passed and miraculous when others lived longer than expected. Despite human nature's desire to hope, I have become a bit cautionary about death, truly knowing that life is unexpected. In a quagmire of thoughts a while ago, I emailed a dear friend a lengthy letter, telling her how proud she made me. She'd felt how I do now: like a failure, scared to leave this world too soon, and worried for the people she loved. When she died a few months later, the fact that she knew how much I cared gave me peace.

So, with tears in my eyes, I pulled up the email and decided to see if any of it could be used for this exercise. After all, she'd been experiencing the same emotions and concerns about mortality that I am right now. What better way to heed my own advice than by reading a real example?

"If someone you care about were in your shoes, what would you say to them?" I read the first prompt again. "Answer the three following questions:

"1. Without judgment/criticism/blame what makes this situation hard? 

"2. Without minimizing, explain that no one is alone in suffering because others have experienced similar things.  

"3. Offer words of kindness/encouragement without trying to 'fix' the situation."  

The letter I'd written had elements of all three questions, and after I copied and pasted sections into the exercise, I felt stunned by the result.

"You have a lot on your plate," I'd written, "and I really admire how hard you're fighting despite setbacks and struggles. A lot of people would've given up by now, but you haven't. That must make your family so proud." It was the last line that got me, and I suddenly realized that my entire heartwish with all of this—the damn thing I want almost more than anything—is to be remembered well by my family. When my life is winnowed down to what mattered and what didn't, this is the desire that matters most. THIS is the point of my life.

As I sat at the computer, thinking about Thanksgiving and this huge realization, I suddenly felt an overwhelming peace that everything will be okay. Reading words I'd written to a friend—and trying to apply them to my own life—maybe I have been too hard on myself and it's time to conserve some energy so I can have more time with the people I love.

So, this is a very special Thanksgiving, a time when I'll stop being so hard on myself and let go of perfectionism and control. Just over four years ago, doctors said I only had two years to live. I've lived double what they thought. 

Free Pic from UnSplash (Megan Watson)

Despite fear over the future, I'm bound and determined to be grateful for today. None of us knows what tomorrow might bring. This holiday, we should hold our loved ones a little closer, enjoy each second we can, and be grateful for the opportunity to be alive. After all, every one of us is lucky to even be here.

The Importance of Being Sincere

 In Latin, sincere means without wax. It comes from a tradition of broken statues being repaired with wax so that imperfections could be hidden and painted. To be without wax is to be real, to be original. People see what they get.

A while back, I went to lunch with my family, and we talked about sincerity. My husband immediately said, “It’s not as beautiful as the statue analogy, but it makes me think of apples in the store. I once bought the reddest apple I could find, but when I bit into it, the inside had completely bruised. The only thing that made it look so wonderful, was the wax.”

My son also piped in. “Don’t they fix imperfections with gold in Japan? Broken bowls end up having gold streaks?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said.

“Well,” Trey responded, “wax could be when we try to fix ourselves, but gold is when G-d does.”

One of my oldest daughters smiled. “The statues that are worth the very most now aren’t the kind fixed with wax. They’re the kind with broken arms and missing pieces. People want to see what’s real, and what time did.”

Photo courtesy of Unsplash.com

I thought of how I’ve written memoirs about my life, memoirs that have been like ripping open my chest, just to see what makes me tick. There have been times when I wanted to act like my life is perfect—fill in all the imperfections with wax. I really felt like that at my high school reunion. Everyone had such great jobs and wonderful stories to share. Right before the reunion I looked at their profiles online, and their glamorous lives floored me. But then I had to stop and give myself grace. I’m fighting cancer, and things are so obviously wrong. I can’t even pretend my life is perfect.

So, I’ve set the wax and paint aside, and the result has amazed me. People who I thought were perfect, have been able to share real struggles with me because of what I’m experiencing. We’ve cried and built new friendships. It’s honestly incredible.

So, although I might be more battered than people realize, I’m still standing—lucky to be alive—and that makes me worth far more than a cheap fix or something any amount of “repairs” can do.

Despite health struggles, I’m proud of who I am. Because when people see my flaws, maybe they’ll realize their scars make them more precious, too.

A Blanket Filled with Prayer

Almost a year ago, I received the sweetest package in the mail. A mother and daughter duo sent me a card explaining that they follow me on social media. "We feel like we know you." 

Honestly, I grew a bit teary-eyed reading their words because it was really touching, but also, just seeing the little girl's handwriting, you could tell she was young and had thought hard about what to write. "I'm sorry you're sick," she'd shared. "We pray for you and your family. And I love your cat, Borah." Then she relayed how she'd made me something, and it had taken a long time. 

So, completely filled with curiosity, I pulled something from the box and realized she'd crocheted a huge blanket!

Months passed and I used that blanket every time I needed to feel hope. I brought it to the cancer center to keep my legs warm during treatments. I even used it when we drove in the car during winter. 

"Why do you use that blanket so much?" Trey asked one day.

"Someone prayed for our family while crocheting it," I said. "They filled it with prayers and shipped it across the country."

But when summer came, everything grew warm and we placed the blanket into the back of the closet.

"Mom," Trey said, months later, "I think I should get a counselor. I'm having a tough time, worrying too much about the future and what might happen." A close friend's brother recently died, and I think his death left a big mark on everyone. He was only in his 20s and had so much life to live. I'll never understand why people die young. "It's sad watching Beau grieve over his brother," Trey said, taking a deep breath. "And it's hard knowing someday..." He met my eyes and then looked away. "Someone close to me... will pass away."

Although doctors keep saying cancer will probably kill me, I've recently entertained the hope that I might beat this. After all, I've lived two years longer than oncologists expected. So, I told Trey about my recent thoughts because hope can be the anchor that gets us through the storm.

"If you beat this, Mom, it would be amazing." But the light didn't meet his eyes, and late that night, Trey still hadn't gone to sleep.

"Trey?" I whispered after finding him digging around in the closet. "It's the middle of the night. You need to go to sleep, and Mike and I need to get some rest too." I'm still recovering from the pain pump surgery, and Mike works really early. 

"Sorry. I'll be quick."

The next day, I set up counseling for Trey, but they were booked out a couple of weeks. Despite that, every morning Trey seemed better—other than hiding something from me in his room.

"What was on your bed?" I asked.

"Oh... that was nothin'." I went to leave, but Trey stopped me. "Mom, do you think prayer works?" he finally asked. "I mean, do you really believe in it?"

"I hope it does," I said. "Sometimes I want to think that G-d hears us, and other times I hope He doesn't interfere. That means everything would happen randomly, and none of the bad things are personal."

He raised a brow.

"Maybe G-d winds a gigantic clock but doesn't mess with it or choose when it will stop running. He just sets it in motion. Maybe that's what life is." I paused. "Do you believe in prayer?"

"Well, lately I actually think I do." He sighed. "I'm feeling a lot better than I was." 

After he left for school, I decided to see what he'd shoved to the side of his bed... The fabric felt soft against my fingers, and it came as a big surprise when I pulled the pink and blue crocheted blanket from the side of his bed. I shook my head with wonder because the only thing Trey knew about the blanket is that someone from across the country filled it with prayer. Did the little girl who made it have any idea how much her actions would help us? Her prayers have become our anchor in the storm...

I'm still really glad we have counseling set up for Trey, but I'm also grateful for the kindness of others. Whether G-d interferes in our lives or not, life can be exceedingly hard, but today I find myself so humbled by a little girl and her mother—strangers whose prayers show the type of love that can buoy us through nearly anything.

Hope for a Cyborg

The pain pump has been life changing. It hasn't been very long since I got that surgery, and I'm amazed. It's odd to think it's been four years since doctors gave me two years to live. All of the things that have happened since feel like a lifetime: radiation, numerous infusions and cancer treatments, as well as several surgeries and hospitalizations, decreases in the tumors and then more growths... Yet, I'm still here twice as long as they predicted, just like a cockroach after the apocalypse.

My main oncologist recently said I'm probably alive because of my positivity, but I think it's just stubbornness and doing what the doctors say.

When the doctor first told me it was terminal, my initial thought went to my kids. I just want to see them grow up. Then, I thought about Mike, my incredible husband. We'd only been married for five years and had so many dreams. It's surreal to think that I've almost been sick for half of our marriage.

It IS strange how we try to control and rationalize. Maybe that's why people use the line about cancer and positivity: "If you're positive, it can help you beat cancer." It's probably an unpopular opinion, but I respectfully disagree. I've known plenty of positive people—fellow patients who saw the world in an even brighter light than I do—but they passed far sooner than anyone would've hoped. One in particular quit getting treatments and said it was her time. I miss her, but all of us knew we had to respect her choice. And her bravery.

 
It's hard explaining what this feels like to fight cancer, and when all of my kids are adults, if I'm still alive and facing this, it might be tougher to continue treatments. They are truly THAT horrendous, especially radiation! But... I guess we never know where life might go or what we're willing to endure for a glimpse at the next bend in the road. After all, right before being diagnosed with stage 4 melanoma, I thought I had life by the tail. I felt so excited about my career, future travels with the family, and what adventures awaited. Then, in an instant everything changed, and I wished I would've taken advantage of my previous health, instead of being a... workaholic.

Anyway, the pain pump... It's about the size of a cat dish, and the surgeon implanted it inside of my stomach. There's a catheter that reaches through my abdomen and into my spine (that catheter goes from my T7 to my L2/L3, where the cancer has eaten away at my vertebrae). The pump sends a steady drip of medicine to help with that pain, as well as the pain from the cancer in my hips and pelvis. But this is where it gets extra amazing. It has a remote! And if I'm in additional pain, I can actually send medicine to my spine. I'm an actual cyborg!—not even 42 yet, and they're turning me into a robotic woman. Wow!

Seriously though, I was scared. There are A LOT of stats out there, but I heard people say these electronic pumps have a 32% fail rate. Sure, that's nothin' compared to America's divorce rate, but it's still not good.

A friend encouraged me to try anyway. "What do you have to lose?" Luckily, everything went well. I don't think I realized how much pain I was in. I must've kind of acclimated to it because now that I have the pump, well, the pain has lessened so much that I feel ready to fight for another day. My doctor said I can have an occasional glass of wine, get into hot pools, maybe even go bowling! I just got my life back. If I can simply get over this fatigue... well, and cancer... I'll be set.

It shows that life can be incredibly scary, but if the possibility of hope outweighs the fear of failure, we should push onward. That and stubbornness might not be so bad after all, not when it can help you fight to see another day with your husband and kids—even as a cyborg. 

  

When Someone Believes in You

 If I’ve learned anything while fighting cancer, it’s that life is a glorified act of letting go. Doors AND windows close until the only option left is the final door leading from life itself.

I had a surgery last week, and it made me think about the people who’ve helped shape my life: family, friends, mentors, fiddling teachers, and coworkers. I told my dad about this, and he shared a story.

“One of my elementary teachers,” he said. “That guy changed my life.” He cleared his throat.

As the story goes, one day my dad saw that a fellow fifth grader had a fancy coin. So, during recess my dad took the collector’s coin, but instead of leaving the girl empty handed, he left a nickel in the expensive coin’s place.

The girl cried about her coin, and the teacher must’ve known who took it because he looked right at my dad.

“What we have is a packrat,” the teacher said to the class. “This isn’t someone who’s bad—they could’ve just taken the coin altogether—but this person left SOMETHING in the coin’s place.” The teacher paused. “I’m gonna give this packrat a chance to do what’s right and make a different choice. We will all go into the hallway and then take turns going back into the classroom one by one. That way the packrat can anonymously return the collector coin.”

“And you gave it back?” I asked.

“I did. I wanted to make that teacher proud. Not just that single moment, but the whole year. That teacher changed my life.”

I thought about my dad and all of the incredible things he’s accomplished with my mom. They even founded a caisson drilling company and worked across the nation. All of that made it tough to picture this memory.

“How did he change your life?” I finally asked.

“He believed in me, and when you believe in someone, you give them a pretty powerful gift.”

So, before getting surgery last week, I thought about the people who’ve changed my life and the people who impacted them before I was born—like my dad’s incredible teacher. I’m so grateful for the examples of kindness I’ve been shown in my life, continually reminding me of the person I want to be.

*Pic of me and my dad* 🥰

#storytime #gratitude #ecstilson #fyp #legacy #mentor #bestteachers #bestteacher #amazingteacher #teacher #heartwarming

Witnessing Change with Gratitude and Acceptance

One of my very first memories is of seeing—and hearing—the violin. The career musician cradled the instrument, making the full-size fiddle appear far too small in his nimble hands. But when his eyes closed and touched those strings, magic unfolded like honey being poured over my soul. That melody filled my entire being, setting a hunger in my tiny child's heart, a desire that would only be sated once I held a fiddle of my own.

"Mama, can I play the violin?" I asked, wanting to have notes exude from my soul. I could only dream of creating magic for the ears. Then I, too, could somehow offer those melodies as a gift to anyone willing to listen. I would have meaning. I would have a purpose. But I was too young, and my parents thought this desire would fade. Yet, as family members say, I asked nearly every day for over two years. And after so much persistence, my incredible parents paid for music lessons when I was only in kindergarten.

I've played the violin for 36 years now, and that instrument is an extension of my soul, an extra limb, something so coalescent that losing it would be like losing the ability to think. And it's helped me overcome so much. 

Even now, as I fight cancer, my fiddle is a saving grace where I transcend worry, pain, sadness, and regret. But, unfortunately, my stamina isn't what it used to be, and shortly after being diagnosed with what doctors are calling "terminal" cancer, I quit playing in the country band I'd been in for years.

"Rough Stock" performed as a group in various Western States at fairs, weddings, funerals, parties, and even openings for huge headliners like Shenandoah and others. But I can't stand for long, and I absolutely can't play for hours on end. 

"I miss fiddling on stage," I told a guitarist with whom I previously performed. They had to find another fiddler. She's talented and amazing, and I'm grateful I passed the baton to someone who's so sweet, but I'm also incredibly—weakly—human, and the loss stings at times like a metastasized tumor of its own.

"You'll always have the memories," the guitarist whispered, obviously wishing he could offer more. I cried after the conversation, and it honestly wasn't until this morning that I truly understood the wisdom in his words.

Every morning after my family goes to work and school, I clip Borah's harness and leash on him, sit on our front bench, and let him wander around in our front yard. I love watching Borah play with bugs and leaves. He's Trey's Maine coon, and it's unreal how big and beautiful he's gotten, weighing close to 25 pounds. (Where we got him, from Mermazing Maine Coons, they said he might even reach 35 when he's fully grown—I can't even imagine!) 

Anyway, this morning, so many bugs flew around that Borah didn't know what to do with himself; he'd follow one, then get distracted with another. He'd jump and twirl, swiping and rolling in the grass, this massive feline unaware of his powerful, majestic paws. When I wasn't marveling over our gigantic cat, I found myself staring at the bugs. The morning sun shot atop the grass, lighting strings of magic right before my eyes. Wings batted, glinting and sparkling—tiny fairies that bewitched the eyes. I didn't blame Borah for wanting to catch one all for himself. But as I sat there, marveling over the beauty of our world, the guitarist's words returned, and I remembered a gig from years ago.

A trucker let Rough Stock borrow his flatbed trailer. He parked it at a baseball field, and we moved drums, speakers, the electric piano, soundboard, and everything else onto that "stage" so we could perform for a huge "Wheat and Beet Festival."

People complained about the bugs, which had bred to excessiveness. A woman claimed she braved the "swarms" for good guitar solos and homemade root beer. But we all knew we'd suffer the next day after getting eaten alive, and I found myself fiddling and dancing in the hopes that bugs wouldn't bite me.

After the sun fell into a western mountain, something surreal happened. Multicolored stadium lights flared to life, wrapping me in a real-live rainbow… And, when I looked up, bugs darted to the lights. Their clear wings glowed, beating with anticipation. Some ignited in one final act of bravery, others flirted with death, glittering even as they weaved up and around the rainbow. I'd stepped into a Disney movie where my overalls would transform into a ball gown, and I'd meet Mike again—my prince—for the very first time.

The bugs left everyone alone after that, levitating to the "Mother Ships," and I learned something unforgettable. We might face unbearable hardships; they may feel insurmountable like we're getting "eaten alive" by life, but if we change our point of view and focus on the light… If we push on, persistently—courageously—hoping to discover even a sliver of goodness, the most magical things might be waiting for us. 

So, instead of succumbing to sadness over the fact that I can't perform on stage with bands anymore. Instead of grieving over a season in my life that has clearly ended—something all of us go through—I took my friend's advice and felt grateful for the experience in the first place. To go from that little girl who simply wanted to hold a violin. To hone my craft for years and eventually fiddle for stadiums filled with people… Looking back, it all feels like an unbelievable dream.

Anyway, Borah and those luminescent morning wings reminded me of all that, of how lucky I am.

It might be sad to witness change, but to even see our dreams come to fruition in the first place, well, life… Every bit of it… is such a miracle. I'm so lucky to be breathing. To still be alive. I'm grateful my parents got me a violin and nurtured a little girl's dreams. Just like that stadium filled with glowing wings and the setting sun, you never know what miracle might be ready to light up on the horizon if we're just brave enough to look for it with gratitude in our hearts and minds.

More Than Coincidence

Jack's mom called, and I knew it must've been tough. "He can't keep going to the same high school," she said, "not unless he has a place to stay in town." Then she took a deep breath. "Elisa, do you think it'd be okay if... Can he live with you for a little while?"

We first met Jack when he played soccer with Trey in second grade, and over the years, he's become more like family than anything. That made it easy for us to ask him to live here.

He moved in shortly after I spoke with his mom, and that's when a lady called. "This is a terrible idea, Elisa," she said. I'd only told a few people, but news travels fast. "You have cancer!" Jan continued. "I saw how much those last treatments took it out of you. Don't you want your last memories to be with your family? Not someone else's child?"

I blinked, unable to respond for a moment.

"Plus, it'll be too much work. This—what you've agreed to—is ridiculous. I wish I could keep you in line! And I can't believe Mike agreed to this."

I knew she meant well, but her words stung. "I'm already cooking for everyone, so what's making a little extra for one more person? Plus, this could change his entire life: keeping the same friends in high school, staying in a place where he's excelling..." Then I added, "We have TWO extra rooms." I felt increasingly tired from this conversation. "Not letting him stay—when we can help—THAT would not only be ridiculous, that would be wrong." What's the point of life if we turn a blind eye when people need help?! "This'll teach the kids an important lesson, too. I know Trey will never forget that we helped his friend."

For weeks, I thought about Jan's words, and one night, as I rested on the living room couch and Trey and Jack talked after doing the dishes, I felt grateful again that Jack had come to live with us.

"One of my grandpas passed away. I have so many memories with him," Jack told Trey. "But sometimes, I feel like he's watching over me, making sure I'm doing the right thing." His voice turned even more serious. "My Tribe, they do sundances and stuff like that. And when we pray, I pray for everyone I'm thankful for. I've always prayed for you guys and your mom. I pray for her to get better." He paused. "She's like a mom to me."

"You're family to us, too," Trey said, and tears filled my eyes.

That weekend, Mike and I brought the kids around town and decided to visit Ruby where she works as a tattoo artist. "Jack," I said as we drove toward the shop, "can you tell us about your grandpa, who passed away?"

"He's one of the people who's influenced me the most," Jack said.

"I wish I could've met him," I admitted. "He sounds amazing."

We got closer to the shop, and the conversation shifted gears. Soon, everyone told Jack about Ruby's journey to becoming a tattoo artist. She had so many opportunities for different careers and even got accepted to a big art college in California. But instead of pursuing traditional routes, at the age of 17, Ruby began visiting a local tattoo shop every day. She begged the artists to train her, but they weren't taking apprentices, and she was way too young anyway. But the kid kept going. And after a while, she started cleaning the different stations, lobby, and bathrooms, just wanting to make sure the place looked nice. She filed papers, answered phones, and helped replace an old floor. It wasn't until one of the artists talked with me, that I realized they'd decided to take her on as an apprentice.

"I remember the guy who first taught me," the artist said. "I guess he's the reason I want to help Ruby. She's willing to work hard, and she's earned a chance."

We finally arrived at the shop and got out of the SUV. "It seems like Ruby always knew what she wanted to do," I said then turned to Jack, thinking about his grandpa again. "What did your grandpa do for a living?" I asked.

"You won't believe it," Jack said, "and it wasn't around here, but he was actually a tattoo artist."

We went into the shop, and not long after giving Ruby the food we'd brought for her, Jack appeared completely shocked. "Everything okay?" Trey asked him.

"It's just that..." Jack paused for a minute. "You know my grandpa who passed away and worked as a tattoo artist?"

Trey nodded.

"Well, he only really had one apprentice, one person he taught everything, and—"

At that moment, Ruby's mentor walked through the door and appeared stunned to see Jack. "Jack! What are you doing here?"

___

As we drove home, I found the situation surreal. My oldest baby worked exceedingly hard to finish her years-long apprenticeship, and now her dreams are coming to fruition. BUT the main reason a local artist even took an apprentice in the first place is because of his own mentor's example of altruism and kindness. That man was Jack's grandfather.

The next time Jan called, I guardedly told her this story.

"I've been meaning to tell you something," she finally said, stringing her words together slowly. "We're opposites in a lot of ways. And, well, about that conversation when Jack first moved in, I think I overstepped. It's just that if I were sick, I'd want time alone with my family, JUST my family." She remained momentarily quiet. "But I've felt really bad about what I said, and the truth is that I can see a lot of value in what you're showing your kids by example. I was just worried about you."

I sighed, relieved. It'd been driving me crazy to have this unresolved, especially since life with cancer can be uncertain. "Thank you. I really think Jack was meant to stay here. He's helped Trey and even stood up for Indy when she started high school. I think he's done more for us than we've done for him."

She spoke after a minute. "You know, Elisa, I think you're right. That story about Jack's grandpa is more than a coincidence. You're all exactly where you're meant to be."