tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28733938377257727452024-03-18T02:12:50.273-04:00EC Stilson'sCrazy Life of a Writing MomCrazy Life of a Writing Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16064939499412649850noreply@blogger.comBlogger128213tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873393837725772745.post-13980035747158569632024-03-12T03:25:00.001-04:002024-03-12T03:25:13.103-04:00It's Okay Not to Be Okay<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSczbL6oAJ7NLCFkAiugM_r3v67Wu0etc3GpQvamyFR4K3UqeAn-zLNxCka9Qi4vbHHjuU-wo79zzUCjxN7tLT-Ep_Fl-NR9mtGO1-g6dVwyNnj9QzAZGApNcckIQH4Rm4rEiNUnrCO10LOGt3CdWDE_eoQ-8AsAAK-d3wQFegMC4bCzb7uickyEyJBjg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="986" data-original-width="798" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSczbL6oAJ7NLCFkAiugM_r3v67Wu0etc3GpQvamyFR4K3UqeAn-zLNxCka9Qi4vbHHjuU-wo79zzUCjxN7tLT-Ep_Fl-NR9mtGO1-g6dVwyNnj9QzAZGApNcckIQH4Rm4rEiNUnrCO10LOGt3CdWDE_eoQ-8AsAAK-d3wQFegMC4bCzb7uickyEyJBjg" width="194" /></span></a></div><p></p><div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":r8"><div aria-controls=":ti" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":ti" class="Am aiL Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" g_editable="true" hidefocus="true" id=":r4" itacorner="6,7:1,1,0,0" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 272px;" tabindex="1"><span style="font-size: medium;">My two oldest daughters recently moved out. I've loved seeing the apartments they've each chosen and how they've decorated—so different yet ironically the same. Although I'm extremely proud of them, this HAS been a hard transition for me as a mother. I miss seeing Ruby every morning before she goes off to tattoo clients. She'd always excitedly show me mock-up tattoos she'd worked on. Then, shortly after Ruby left, Sky would bound through the door, gushing about her morning as a barista. Occasionally, we'd sit at the table together: I would write while she worked on homework. (She's studying to get her bachelor's in anthropology). But... Sky moved out in February, and Ruby followed suit only a few weeks later. Now, my mornings—previously filled with excitement and laughter—are quiet. This IS exactly what I've been working toward (seeing my children grow up), but it is hard. <br /><br />In 2020, when doctors only gave me two years to live, I vowed to defy this prediction and fight my hardest so I could see my four kids grow up. My youngest was 10 at the time, and this felt like a Herculean task. Yet, here we are; two of my children are adults now, and it feels different than I anticipated. </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I recently told a fellow cancer patient about this. "I'm fighting cancer so hard." The thought carried much more weight than normal, making me pause. "I need to be here until my youngest turns 18, but I hope my body won't give out on me before then. When she's 18, I think at that point, I won't continue getting treatments. I'm just... tired."<br /><br />He nodded. "But by then, it'll be something else. Here I am, almost 80, wanting to see my new grandbaby be born." He broke out laughing. "I'm tellin' ya. It'll always be something. Your youngest will turn 18, and then, you'll find something else to live for: a wedding... an anniversary... a birth... a graduation... Once people realize death isn't too far away, it's natural to fight mortality."<br /><br />But I wasn't quite so sure. I keep saying that with terminal cancer, I feel like I'm tied to the tracks, and the train is coming. But now that my two oldest kids have moved out, death is somehow hurtling toward me, moving way too fast. Now, I don't just know about the train, I can see it! <br /><br />To be honest, lately, I've struggled making it to treatments. It's not that I actively want to give up; it's just that treatments are grueling. No one hopes to be so nauseous they can't keep food down or volunteers to have fevers and treatments that almost killed them in the past. People don't joyfully sign up to feel like warmed poo on a platter, knowing the only end in sight... is death. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After talking with this man, I sulked alone in my house. It was about the time of day when I'd hug Ruby goodbye and see Sky after her shift ended. This hit me like the truth of my own mortality, and I'm embarrassed to say... that I cried. <br /><br />This ugly-sobbing, red-faced self-pity continued until my eyes landed on a family picture—the bright faces of my WHY: my reason. I sat straighter, rubbed my eyes, and sniffled. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Sure, it IS okay not to be okay—as long as we don't get mired in it forever. But I'd had my moment, and now I needed to pull myself together, cast off my own worries, and think about others. If this transition felt hard for me, maybe it was also hard for everyone else. I spoke with Mike (my husband) and our two youngest kids. It turns out they were missing Ruby and Sky terribly, too! Then, when I called to check on my adult daughters, they asked for something surprising. "I WOULD like... to have a cooking day," Ruby admitted. "Just to have some frozen meals." Sky quickly agreed. And I could hear it in their voices... My oldest daughters missed me just as much as I missed them! Those beautiful babies still needed me, just in a different capacity.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">"You know, this is such a big change for me. I lived with you for 22 years," I said to Ruby. "That's the longest I've lived with anyone. And Sky, I lived with you for 19 years! That a looong time. I really... I miss you two." There. I'd said it.<br /><br />So, the rest of the week, I thought about recipe ideas and bought extra groceries. Instead of dwelling on my failing health and everything that seemed "wrong," I started focusing on everything that's right. On Sunday, everyone convened at Ruby's eclectic apartment, where she has dinosaur and mushroom-themed decor. She even tipped an LED mushroom upside down and screwed it under a cupboard so it can cleverly hold various things like keys, bottle openers, and jewelry. After Mike and I taught all four of our kids various recipes and froze enough meals to last a month, I rested in Ruby's front room on a gigantic beanbag. Everyone's laughter echoed from the kitchen as Sky relayed a story and then said she'd had a wonderful morning cooking with us. "I'm just so happy with life right now," she said. "Really, really happy."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Ruby's voice lit with so much joy. "I do miss everyone, and it can be stressful right now because there's still so much to do. But.. it's nice to be on my own."<br /><br />Gratitude suddenly filled every bit of me, and I beamed. Instead of dwelling on how hard life can be, I simply basked in the present moment, so fortunate I'm even alive to see my oldest daughters be self-sufficient and happy.<br /><br />That night, I snuggled into Mike. "We're halfway there," I said.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">"Halfway?" Mike held me so tenderly, waiting for me to continue.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">"We're raising amazing kids, and they're doing so well. Now, two of them are fully on their way. We just have two to go."<br /><br />"You know, I'm really proud of them," Mike said. " And, Elisa... I'm proud of you, too."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I breathed deeply. I'd been unaware of how much I needed to hear those words. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">"I know this isn't always easy," he continued. "Thank you for fighting so we can have more time with you. We need you. I need you."<br /><br />I hugged him so hard. "There will always be reasons to keep fighting to be with you and the kids." I realized my friend—the fellow cancer patient—had been right. "You make my life wonderful, Mike. Thank you for making me feel like I still matter."<br /><br />After Mike kissed me on the forehead, I fell asleep with a fresh perspective and renewed strength. That week, going to treatments didn't seem quite so unbearable. Sure, cancer can be tough, but I suddenly felt tougher. Change is scary, but from the right vantage point, it's also absolutely beautiful. I'm eager to keep fighting to see whatever the future might hold. </span></div></div></div>Crazy Life of a Writing Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16064939499412649850noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873393837725772745.post-82875549527089961872024-03-05T00:27:00.003-05:002024-03-05T00:27:14.043-05:00My Friend, Jerry Russell<p><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Sometimes we meet people and instantly know that they will change our lives. It can be a lasting friendship or a simple exchange, but from the get-go we immediately feel different. That’s how I felt with Jerry Russell.<p></p><div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><div><br /></div><div>I first heard about Jerry from a mutual friend, Scott Hancock. He described Jerry to be a larger than life legend with otherworldly kindness and charisma. I knew Jerry would be at a book signing, and I thought I knew what to expect. But when we finally did meet, he was much more than Scott could’ve ever described. Jerry—as the saying goes—was truly larger than life itself.</div><div><br /></div><div>He shook my hand with such warmth and kindness. I remember him holding my hand and looking into his eyes. I wondered, “Did he see into my soul? Probably!” And yet he still wanted to be my friend. Soon after meeting him, Jerry explained that he was twice my age, and I balked because he skipped around like Tigger and seemed far more spry than I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>We talked about how quickly life can go, and change, and throw unexpected obstacles our way. “You just have to keep going and trying to make the best of things. You’re a bright light, Elisa. You really are. I see that in you.”</div><div><br /></div><div>Tears filled my eyes because Jerry seemed like the bright light to me. I couldn’t be around that man without smiling. A month later when my liver started failing from cancer treatments and doctors said I would die unless they got things under control, I thought of Jerry’s words, and I tried to be a light in that hospital. I asked the nurses how they were doing and commiserated with them about their long shifts. “You’re the one who’s having liver problems,” one nurse said.</div><div><br /></div><div>“That doesn’t make what you’re going through easier. But at least we can smile together. That lightens everyone’s loads.” Because that’s exactly what Jerry would do.</div><div><br /></div><div>I first heard about Jerry in 2020, but I finally met him in person in 2021. After that, he’d email me quite frequently, telling me about his days, sending me beautiful pictures, or trying to make me smile with something inspirational. I’m not sure at what point it happened, but he began ending his emails with “Your friend forever.”</div><div><br /></div><div>At one point, I wondered if Jerry either previously had cancer or knew someone who had it. He just worked so hard to make sure I wouldn’t give up until it’s my time. “You’re so strong,” he said when I saw him again. And he really did make me feel like I could keep fighting. Despite how hard cancer can be and how tough it is to repeatedly drag myself to cancer treatments, Jerry made me feel like I could overcome.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, I got the gumption to ask, “Did you have cancer? Or… did you know someone who had it?”</div><div><br /></div><div>That’s when Jerry told me a story that filled him with both joy and sorrow. He talked about his daughter, Lana, and how much he loved her. “You would’ve liked her,” he said. “I see so much of her in you. The moment I met you… You reminded me of her. She was a wonderful daughter with your courage.” He wiped a tear from his eyes. “She died at the age of 59 from liver cancer.”</div><div><br /></div><div>I didn’t know what to say. You could feel the pride Jerry felt for his daughter, but you could also feel the tragic sadness. Jerry had that gift. He broke your heart down to its core, and made you really “feel” the life around you.</div><div><br /></div><div>Being like his daughter, well, that was one of the best compliments I’ve ever received. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not long ago, Jerry sent me a picture of a rainbow that he’d spotted in town. “I’d like to bring you here this spring,” he wrote.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the spring of 2024, my husband, kids, and I would go with Jerry to see this special spot where he’d found the rainbow. I could hardly wait. But life had other plans, and Jerry passed away this February. It broke my heart knowing I wouldn’t get to see his bright eyes again or read one of his wonderful emails. But as I looked out my window today, wind blew the snow at just the right angle and I swear I saw a snow rainbow from Jerry. </div><div><br /></div><div>I opened my email and read the last lines Jerry ever wrote to me: “Elisa, you are a special entry in my memory book never to be forgotten.” I cried as I read his final words.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jerry, YOU are a special entry in my memory book too. Thank you for giving me the courage to keep fighting like Lana. Please tell her “hello” for me. </div><div>Until we meet again,</div><div>Elisa</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyEVHtKS4qwacbtg35IxvmnVQJkAHv1v2afpXIp6Qk1Yu5MwEmF7SPoybeczoWoqSFXjOgsfaRPmtNt0VZ9Dx3cooxWDYoEXu0yDKe04EsutPB8zDBbsH69w-_QDrsD1ZmAjyU-0xrc-Ohw_yagBx54AUGghreDt5zhZqox-yht9IwNjP1HrZOkl0Jh6Y/s828/D77FC5DF-D3CE-4D8F-BFFC-C9B0FC9E18E6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="609" data-original-width="828" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyEVHtKS4qwacbtg35IxvmnVQJkAHv1v2afpXIp6Qk1Yu5MwEmF7SPoybeczoWoqSFXjOgsfaRPmtNt0VZ9Dx3cooxWDYoEXu0yDKe04EsutPB8zDBbsH69w-_QDrsD1ZmAjyU-0xrc-Ohw_yagBx54AUGghreDt5zhZqox-yht9IwNjP1HrZOkl0Jh6Y/s320/D77FC5DF-D3CE-4D8F-BFFC-C9B0FC9E18E6.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>(Left to Right: Scott Hancock, Jerry Russell, and me)</p></div></div>Crazy Life of a Writing Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16064939499412649850noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873393837725772745.post-16780107571893831372024-02-26T21:37:00.000-05:002024-02-26T21:37:54.034-05:00An Opportunity All of Us Should Have<p> </p><p><br /></p><p>"Of course you're strong," the woman at the party persisted. "But HOW do you do it, Elisa? We ALL want to know?" Several people clustered around, and I wished we could leave. The woman asking the question, Lynn, doesn't really like me. Quite a while ago, we applied for the same job, and I ended up getting it. After I took the role, she treated me with distain. But maybe she meant well this time? I couldn't fathom someone being so unkind to someone who’s fighting terminal cancer. That would be amoral and unconscionable. </p><p> </p><p>"I don't feel particularly strong," I replied, then glanced from the fireplace to Mike. "But Mike and the kids... They're my reason to keep fighting. Other than that, I think it's the Godwinks. They're like breadcrumbs from G-d, miracles along the way... I even had one happen last week. It seemed like the neatest—" I paused, suddenly wishing I hadn't said anything. In hindsight, that particular story would sound ridiculous to someone like Lynn.</p><p> </p><p>Jessica, the host, smiled with pure joy, her luminous eyes lighting. “I love your Godwink stories, Elisa.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” I felt my face flushing, “it's gonna sound stupid, but this Godwink... is about my eyebrows. I got my eyebrows tattooed on last week."</p><p> </p><p>In that instant, a few women in the room admitted to having their eyebrows tattooed on as well, and this confession astonished me and Mike.</p><p> </p><p>"I hate spending money on myself," I went on when it had grown quiet. “What cash we have should be used for the kids, car repairs, Mike, or our house. But an esthetician gave me a really great deal since brain radiation messed up my left eyebrow.” Part of that brow still refuses to grow in; I've tried to fix it every morning, but this is not a skill I boast. Mike never knows if I'll look perpetually surprised, or angry, like Bert or Ernie. </p><p> </p><p>Everyone shared stories about their own eyebrows, and I remembered what the appointment had felt like. I drove to Precision Line Beauty in Idaho Fall, and before starting, the esthetician said it would probably hurt. </p><p><br /></p><p>It really didn't at all though.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, I guess you HAVE been through a lot. It makes sense that you're not in pain. You know, I had cancer too."</p><p> </p><p>Her words shocked me. She knew how tough treatments can be. She'd given me a good deal because she'd been there too. We shared stories from both of our journeys, and I found hope that maybe someday I'll be in remission like she is. After her diagnosis years ago, she decided to travel and live to the fullest. "How about you?" she asked at one point.</p><p> </p><p>"I've done the same. We went skydiving together and then to Italy as a family. I can hardly believe I've played my violin all over the world now."</p><p> </p><p>"Do you ever play around here?"</p><p> </p><p>I smiled. "Well, I played at a big doctors' party over the holidays." I suddenly thought about that party. I'd charged them $94, but they never paid. It's strange how things like that can happen. People you expect to pay sometimes don’t, and those you don’t think would tip, do.</p><p> </p><p>Anyway, it took about two hours, and after she finished, I paid her a little bit of cash, and then put the rest of my card. $185. </p><p><br /></p><p>I glanced at Lynn and our friends at the party. “It was an amazing deal for brows, but that still felt like a fortune!"</p><p> </p><p>Mike broke out laughing at this point. "Once, Elisa bought a coat for $30 and nearly had a breakdown. So, you can imagine... She called me on her way home from Idaho Falls, just so worried."</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, the guilt seemed to eat me alive, and I even told Indy—our youngest daughter—all about it when I got home.”</p><p> </p><p>"You know, Mama, it's good to see you actually doing something nice for yourself because you never do. It helps me know that sometimes I should do nice things for myself too. We're all so happy you're still alive. I think you should enjoy life while you’re here." She handed me the mail, and then gave me a hug.</p><p> </p><p>I rifled through letter after letter. “But you've gotta admit... I put $185 on the card. That's a lot of money."</p><p> </p><p>I suddenly stopped speaking and stared at a letter in disbelief. The return address boasted the name of a fancy medical organization in town. I pulled a check from the envelope and gaped at it. "Indiana, you aren't gonna believe this!"</p><p> </p><p>"Woah." She pointed to the numbers. “$186. Just a dollar more than what you put on your card."</p><p> </p><p>"I'd only charged the doctors $94. Why would they pay so much? This is the weirdest thing." </p><p> </p><p>"It's one of your Godwinks, Mama. See! You shouldn't feel bad. Just enjoy."</p><p> </p><p>After setting the check on the counter, I read a note from the woman who'd paid the invoice. “You never realize how precious time is until something is threatening to take it away. We decided to pay you a higher amount because you were amazing, and you deserve it. Thanks again for playing at our holiday party."</p><p> </p><p>Once I’d finished relaying this story, Jessica beamed, Mike winked at me, and Lynn appeared irate. I didn’t understand the latter’s reaction until later that night, when I went to the bathroom. </p><p><br /></p><p>Not long after closing the door, I overheard Lynn’s voice as she waited for the bathroom. "That story Elisa told was so shallow and stupid. She spent all that money on eyebrows when doctors have told her she's dying. And she thinks it's some big sign from G-d. It's just idiotic.”</p><p> </p><p>"Lynn! She has terminal cancer. If that's what she needs to hold onto to keep fighting for her family, then let her hold onto it.” I held my breath, hoping they'd get tired of waiting for the bathroom and leave, but they didn't. And I had to walk past them.</p><p> </p><p>Although it's not worth harboring rejection, I thought about this a lot the following days, until Temple Emanuel's service. Rabbi Sara gave the timeliest speech. "You can light a candle, but it can quickly go out. At the hardest times, when we feel like it's too much, those are the times that we must go find the light and keep it alive. Even if it's a tiny, tiny thing. If you go outside and see a flower in the snow—even if it's a small thing—we must strive to find goodness in the world AND each other."</p><p> </p><p>As I rested in those words, it suddenly didn't matter that I'd splurged for once. Priorities became sparklingly clear, and I no longer cared that some woman had said cruel words outside of a bathroom door. Instead, I closed my eyes and decided to cultivate the light that dwells inside of me. I thanked G-d for breadcrumbs, expressed gratitude that I have family members who want me to have a good quality of life, and then I said a very long prayer for Lynn. </p><p><br /></p><p>I desperately hope her eyes will be opened to the miracles around her. It's like seeing colors for the first time; it’s an opportunity all of us should have.</p>Crazy Life of a Writing Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16064939499412649850noreply@blogger.com2