Withstanding the Test of Time

It all started in middle school. B.H. and I had talked numerous times, and honestly I thought he was one of the most intelligent and insightful people I’d ever met. Later, in high school, we joked during ceramics and woodshop. He even jumped in to help when I cut my thumb in half on a table saw and my blood splattered most of the class. 

It wasn’t until an assembly that I turned into a bad friend and said something I’d regret forever.

“I had sex,” he confided. “Do you think I’ll go to Hell?”

Instead of really listening or showing empathy, I regurgitated something I’d heard about unbelievers in church. “Yes…. You’ll go to Hell.”

His face fell in disappointment and so much sadness rested there, as if he’d expected far more from me. And I cried later—when no one could see my tears. I couldn’t stand the memory of hurting someone I respected so much.

Time passed. Some kids started calling me “Bible Girl,” a condescending term because I carried my Bible everywhere and read it until the cover fell off. 

Not long before I graduated, my life spiraled out of control. One Monday morning people talked as if I couldn’t hear. “Did you hear about Bible Girl? … Elisa lost her virginity.”

I put my hand by my neck and tried to calm my breathing. Their judgement stayed behind me, though, as I deliberated over what I’d done. Hot tears split across my cheek as I heard another kid. “So, you aren’t a virgin,” he said, then winked at me.

I could hardly see anything. The ceilings and walls pulsed closer. I couldn’t find a way out. I had irrevocably ruined my own life….

I’m still not sure at what point I saw B.H. after this, but I’ll never forget his words. “When you find yourself,” he’d said, “it’ll be a beautiful thing. There’s so much inside to be proud of. Who cares what you’ve done? Who cares what people think? The real you, beyond those stupid mistakes, that person is beautiful and that’s the person I hope you’ll become.”

I didn’t deserve kindness—especially from him—despite that, he showed compassion when no one else did.

My twenty-year reunion is in a couple of weeks, and it’s brought back a lot of memories. I’ve honestly been terrified to attend until something amazing happened on Saturday…. B.H. came to Idaho from back East! 

In 2020 he discovered that I have cancer. His gorgeous mom has even helped me at the hospital. I never imagined all of this would transpire or that my dear childhood friend would come and visit!

We talked like no time had passed. And after over 20 years, I was finally able to apologize for the cruel words I said so long ago.

“Elisa, even back then I didn’t take it to heart. I knew you too well.” And then he went on to explain how happy he was to see me—to see how I’ve turned out. And instead of saying, “When you find yourself,” he said how great it IS to see the person he hoped I would become.

“And you’re everything I always knew you’d be!” I said, pride in my voice. Sure he’s married a gorgeous woman and become incredibly educated and successful…but that wasn’t what I meant. B.H. never lost sight of what really matters: showing kindness and compassion when people need it most. Even now when I’m struggling not to die from cancer, he decided to come visit, entertain my family, and give us an unforgettable day.

I’m so grateful for friendships that withstand the test of time and for people who are so fiercely good at heart that they always stay themselves, unhindered by experiences…and regrets.

I’m actually looking forward to the reunion now. I’ll have to let you know how it goes. It’s time to forget about the hurts of the past and just move forward to a hopeful future.

For more about this time in my life and how I ran away to be a street musician in Hawaii, check out “Bible Girl.”

Photo by Sarah Chai from Pexels

What Does It Feel Like Having Cancer?

 What does it feel like having stage 4 cancer? 

People are curious and even scared, maybe that’s why I hear this question so much.

 

Three years ago, doctors removed a purple mole from my wrist, taking muscle and a little bone too. But many times stage 2B melanoma returns within five years—and that’s what happened to me two years later.

I first had an odd pain that shot from my lower back down my right leg; the doctors thought it was sciatic-related. But from June-October of 2020 I began losing the use of my leg and could only fall asleep in the bathtub, surrounded by scalding water. It also felt as if a massive festering wound stretched across my back—in need of a vat of Neosporin.

After surgeons discovered that tumors had begun growing inside of my bones, and changing the basic flexibility of my spine, they decided to remove an entire vertebrae and fuse my L1-5. A new pain started then, when I walked, rolled over, and stood for too long. 

Then the infusions (immunotherapy) started. This, coupled with the cancer, has caused flulike symptoms, aches, fatigue, and fogginess. This starts for me around 2-3 p.m. with some regularity, but can begin earlier when I’ve physical exerted myself too much.

The liver failure, from the immunotherapy caused diarrhea and vomiting so extreme that I began throwing up an alarming amount of blood. (I’m on blood thinners because of blood clots I got during two surgeries—probably why I needed a blood transfusion in 2020 and why it’s easy to throw up blood.)

All of this came to mind because I got the second COVID shot yesterday. My oncologist hadn’t been overly eager for me to get it since I’m “already going through so much.” I’ve had a fever on and off all day, but what’s intriguing is how much these vaccination side effects feel like cancer! I’m talking about the chills, flulike symptoms (or rigors as a NP at Huntsman says), nausea, aches, and fatigue.

This isn’t political, but for me, I’m grateful to have gotten vaccinated. My oncologist’s nurse told me today, “That’s why we’ve wanted you to stay home. An exposure to COVID could have been fatal.”

I blinked hard, so shocked with the reality. An hour ago I still had a low-grade fever, but I honestly felt compelled to ask Mike to help me write this post. I feel so bad for anyone who’s had COVID. I’m hoping I’ll be feeling my “regular” cancer stuff tomorrow. It’s astounding what we can get used to living with; I guess that’s what I’ve done. This new baseline required some adjustments, but this fever makes me grateful for the “normal” moments.

Cancer isn’t something to be scared of—people simply find the strength to carry on. But it is something to be proactive about. I wish I would’ve had that mole removed when my mom first told me to. My life would be completely different right now if I had.

Hope

 The nausea and vomiting have returned, along with a fear that I’ll start throwing up blood like I did when my liver failed—and that things will get worse. “I don’t want to lose my ability to talk and sing,” I finally told Mike while waiting for scan results. The results would determine if I needed radiation on my neck and throat.

“You just need to stay positive,” Mike said even though I’ve caught him crying when the kids weren’t around and he thought I’d fallen asleep. My chest physically hurt as I listened to him, knowing he needed anything but for me to acknowledge that I’d heard him—my larger than life man—in the throes of despair. I knew then that the fear had finally gotten to him. It’s the same thing that’ll eat me faster than cancer if I let it.

To combat this, I’ve been attending three different churches that aren’t even the same religion. Thanks to Zoom one is in Hollywood, New York, and Pocatello, Idaho. Each initial service shocked me because (thanks to friends) they’re praying for me. My name runs across display screens, and it lines bulletins. It’s so humbling—this absolute kindness—hard to fathom. And I figure, why not “up my chances,” right?! The more prayers the better. Last December, I even sent a letter to some Brazilian monks! They didn’t respond, but hey, at least I tried.

“I feel like I’m breaking,” I told Mike that night. “When is it too much? I just don’t know if I can do radiation again. Plus, if I lose my voice, I can’t nag you.”

Mike broke out laughing and smiled. “Elisa, you should see what’s on your nightstand.”

So I went into our bedroom and found a letter with international stamps on it. With anxious hands, I opened the envelope. After eight months, the monks had actually written back—in Portuguese! 

It took forever, but I finally typed most of the words into Google Translate. They explained that the monks had done a remote spiritual “operation” on me in July and that I would see the results soon.

“You will win,” the translation read. “Do not be discouraged, persist a little longer. Do not cultivate pessimism. Focus on doing good. Forget the suggestions of destructive fear. Keep going even while avoiding the shadow of your own mistakes. Advance even through tears.”

My phone dinged, interrupting my thoughts; the scan results were in. I could read the virtual report or wait to hear directly from the doctor at my next appointment. I clicked “review test results”—because patience is a virtue I lack. And as I waited for the file to load, I thought of all the prayers and support from so many people….

Mike entered the room. “The results are in,” I said, and he sat down by me.

I read as soon as the words surfaced on my phone. “The tumors remain the same—stable except for the tumor in my neck…” My voice shook, not even sounding like my own.

“Yeah?” Mike implored.

I dropped my phone on the bed and started sobbing. “The tumor in my neck…is shrinking.”

We hugged each other so tightly. We’re still not free and clear, but this is a start. Other than my brain tumor’s response to radiation, this is the first sign that the infusions are working. For me, this is the first tangible sign of hope.

The Good Ones

 “My name is Jay.” The tan man smiled. I could picture what he probably looked like years ago as a surfer…before cancer got to him.

“What are you in for?” I asked. Sometimes this question doesn’t go over well—it’s how I test people. Luckily, Jay proved to be one of the good ones.

“Stage four bladder cancer. You?”

“Stage four melanoma.” This show-and-tell session made the waiting room actually fun!

“You look pretty good for having cancer,” he said.

“So do you! What can we say,” I grinned, “we’re awesome!”

He chuckled then started talking about his tumors, referring to them as “these guys,” and I instantly knew I liked Jay. “Look at this rash and all these scabs I keep getting! It’s crazy what we go through to keep on livin’. And the whole time ‘these guys’ just keep eating away at my body. I’ve been fighting this dang thing for 8 years—“

“Seriously?! I can’t imagine 8 years. I’ve been dealing with mine for a year, and I’m already tired!”

“You’re so strong though,” he said. “I can see it! And you’re positive. You have exactly what you need to get through this!” Then he told me about all of the drugs and trials he’s been on. “It’s amazing I’m still here. They told me I was gonna die when they first diagnosed me. So don’t lose hope, kid.”

“What are you fighting so hard for? What’s your reason?” I asked.

“I want to see my granddaughter grow up.”

I nodded. “I want to see my kids grow up too.”  We stayed quiet for a moment. “You know…” I sighed, “I had the strangest dream that I bargained with death. I always wanted five more years, and then—just five more years. Until it had been decades and my body was sick beyond repair.”

“Ain’t that the truth. Your dream was right; w always want more.”

A nurse came around the corner and said it was almost time to go back.

“Wait,” Jay said, “I need to tell you something important!”

“Okay?” I responded.

“I thought I beat this thing.” His eyes pleaded with me as the words left his mouth. “I had three good years when I knew I should travel and do all the things I’d always wanted. But I put it off, and now the cancer is back. I worry I’m getting really close to the end.”

I wanted to hug him, tell him he could still take those trips. But his elbows were far too bony, and his legs looked frail beyond comprehension. Maybe after 8 years of fighting…his fight is almost over.

“I’m just saying if you ever feel up to it, do those things! Take those trips! Don’t let anyone hold you back. Don’t have those regrets…like I do. When you feel good, just live.”

After that I went back to an hour-long MRI, and the whole time I thought about the spunky man I’d met in the waiting room. I sure hope I’ll see him again.

A New Way of Speaking

 It felt selfish keeping his broken body alive. But still, as the nurse wheeled my son into the room, I asked: What if I changed my mind? What if I could no longer take him off of life support? She shook her head sadly and explained that it was too late. No matter how much I wanted my baby to live, the process for him to die…had already begun.

I remember holding him. He had the strongest little hands and such soft brown hair. My poor, sick baby—he was so perfect to me. 

I didn’t want to watch, but my eyes stayed glued to each detail of him as he suffocated in my arms, breathing oddly, gasping for air…like a godd*mn fish. He snuggled into me then, asking for help, but I couldn’t do anything to save him! In fact, his death had been my decision—my fault. And now I had to watch him die.

I naively thought a miracle would happen THEN. God knew I had enough faith. This could be like John 4 when Jesus heals someone’s son from afar. But this wasn’t some story in the New Testament. This was life. Where if it’s time for someone to die, no one can tempt fate’s hand. And so, after an eternity of labored, sporadic breathing…my son turned blue despite all of my hopes… And my baby boy died. 

I shook myself from the memory and turned to the nurse, “I feel like I always have the flu,” I said.

“And you might feel like that for a long time. It’s just part of this journey with cancer,” the nurse said. “At least we have pain medicine.”

“I really don’t like medicine,” I countered, but this is the ‘new normal’ they keep talking about. I sighed. “And now I might need radiation on my neck and throat?”

“Right.”

“And there’s a chance it could affect my ability to talk ‘normally’ and to sing?”

“Yes, but like the doctor said, it will most likely shrink that tumor. That’s the good news.”

I didn’t mean to, but I let out a little laugh. I’ve been working so hard to “speak no evil—lashon hara” according to the Jews. Apparently more radiation could make that easier. 

“But I love to sing…” I finally said, trying to keep from crying right in front of a stranger. I couldn’t imagine not being able to sing in concerts like I used to…or staying silent during worship at church.

And then I return to that memory with my son: I’m thinking about how I want to change everything and keep him on life support. I WANT to be selfish and keep him alive not because he should live in pain, because I NEED him.

“Elisa. Elisa?” the nurse steps closer. “Are you okay? I know this news about the radiation must be hard.”

“You know, if I didn’t have a young family, I don’t think I’d continue with treatments. There are just so many things I’m losing to stay alive. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know other people have it so much worse, but right now—for me—this is hard.”

She left the room after a moment and the door shut. I stayed even though I should have packed up. And despite everything, an odd peace enveloped me. I suddenly understood the situation with my son. I knew—beyond doubt—that I did the right thing by letting him go. This pain I’ve been suffering through is only a taste of what he endured.

I thought then about how continuing treatments is the hardest thing I’ve ever physically done. And as I closed my eyes in that room, clarity came and joined the peace I’d previously felt.

I know that no matter the outcome of this situation, everything will be okay. There is true beauty in the good and the “bad.” Even when my son died, at least he could feel my love wrapped around him as his soul prepared to enter Heaven. An autopsy later discovered he would have died soon after we let him go. I’m just so grateful I got to be with him before he embarked on a new journey without me.

Anyway, I have the opportunity to find a strength in myself that I never knew I had. Plus, I really think my son is rooting for me—all the way from Heaven. 

Despite maybe losing the ability to sing and talk well, at least I’ll still be able to write. See, there’s ALWAYS a silver lining. Even if it robs me of everything else, I hope cancer will never take my ability to find the good—and right now, that’s the best I can hope for.

Letters of Love

“She never went to Europe.”

“She didn’t take a long trip on a train or go canyoneering.”

“She never finished learning Italian.”

Then these people—the critics of my life—turn brutal.

“She never saw her kids grow up.”

“Or got to watch them graduate from college.”

“She didn’t see them get married.”

“And…she never…grew old with Mike.”

I want to tell these people to shut up. Be quiet! But I’m stuck. I know I’m in an open casket, with satin and flowers all around. They’ve tried to make death beautiful so it’s less scary. But that “death-box” isn’t even what’s holding me back from telling them off. The fact that I’m dead, still trapped inside my decaying, inadequate body, THAT is what holds me back.

“Sweetheart…? Sweetheart!” My husband shakes me, and I throw my arms around him.

“I’m having that dream again—where I’m stuck in my body. And everyone is making me remember the things I never did. I didn’t see the kids grow up, Mike.” I sob so hard. “I didn’t get to see it!”

He holds me for the longest time. Then he whispers, “I found something awesome in the hotel room, and I want to show it to you.”

I open my eyes, wipe away my tears, and look around. We’re in a fancy bed and breakfast that Dee paid for. Mike and I should be enjoying how beautiful it is. I don’t have time for nightmares and dumb reminders that I have cancer. This is supposed to be…fun.

Mike points to a vase. “Look inside.”

“I can’t! Don’t you remember? I said it looks like an urn. No more reminders of death.”

He shakes his head. “Come on, Elisa.”

So, I open the lid and am shocked to find a note inside. “What kind of person would leave a note like this in a hotel vase? Do you think there are more?”

Mike excitedly rifles through various items in the room. 

“I don’t think you should be—“ I begin to say, but then he finds more notes and leaves them in a pile on the floor.

I gingerly lower my body to the ground, and Mike pulls a pillow from the bed. He cradles me right there on the floor, and we read note after note, discovering stories from people who had been married for decades to couples who’d spent their wedding night in that very room. We read three letters written to a man named “Scott” from three different women.

“Do you think ‘Scott’ is bringing different women here?” Mike asks me. “Are they all talking about the same guy?”

“Maybe so…” I completely forget about my dream then and smile as we read the letters addressed to Scott again. “We have to write a letter and leave it in the room!”

“I’ll leave that up to you,” Mike says.

“I can’t wait to start it with ‘Dear Scott.’”

Mike laughs, and afterward we put all of the notes back where he’d found them.

It’s not until the afternoon, when Mike busily packs, that I write a note. But it’s not about what I didn’t accomplish in life; it’s about the things I did. I write about my amazing children and family—who fill my life with such joy. I write about being an author and playing the violin; I describe what it’s like finally knowing what makes me tick. And then…I write about Mike. “As a single mom of four kids, I prayed God would send me a miracle. Then, He sent Mike, the kindest person I’ve ever met. We spent the night in this hotel because I needed a momentary escape from stage four cancer. Some days are good and some days are terribly bad. The point is that if you’re reading this, I hope you’ll appreciate every moment. At the end of your life, don’t regret what you didn’t do. Instead appreciate the memories you’ve made and the people you’re lucky enough to have known. That’s it really: It’s all about doing the best you can and being grateful.”

After signing my first name, I go to hide the note in a large box on the mantle, and I notice Mike has left one there too. 

I open it, read the words, and smile. He’s written a note that closely mirrors my own. I love the idea that someday someone else will be reading our words of love—surprised to find notes at a special bed and breakfast in Lava Hot Springs.

Below are pictures of the mantle and some of the notes we found in the hotel. 💕 What a neat experience!

Poor Beautiful Soul

 We’d planned a fancy girls’ trip to a resort town, so when Dee called the night before and canceled for health reasons, although I understood, I felt pretty devastated.

“It’s…non-refundable, Dee. I don’t know what to do.” I delivered the bad news. “But Mike and I can pay you for the hotel…. That way you’re not out the money.” We’re strapped for cash because of cancer treatments, but she didn’t need to house the cost, especially after dealing with her own health issues.

“Elisa, why don’t you and Mike just go and enjoy it. You’ve both been under so much stress, and I know you don’t get much time alone. This is on me.”

“But…”

“Elisa. This is what I want.”

“I still wish you could be here,” I said. Dee is one of my favorite people in the whole world. We’d planned to eat cheese pizza and talk about philosophy and religion! We’d watch movies and play old games together. I’d even planned to let her win a few times! (Insert sarcasm—that woman is a card shark.)

“You’ll have fun. And you’ll also get that fancy dinner I paid for. One of you will have to eat the vegetarian meal, but what the heck!” A bit of excitement laced her voice, and I wondered if she’d actually planned this whole thing!

So, Mike and I entered the rustic hotel and prepared for dinner. I put on smoky eyes and falsies, then slipped into the tub to shave my legs—a battle since both cancer and surgeries left part of my right leg numb.

I finished up, then donned a dress I’d found at Goodwill and some pearls from Walmart.

Mike—that giver—had me model in front of the restaurant, and I smiled because despite everything, he makes me feel like I’m worth something. “Tilt this way… That’s it. Look down.” It wasn’t until we entered the restaurant that things flew south for the winter.

Mike peered around, appreciating the antique decor and delicious food. That’s when ladies at the table to our left began gossiping. (Of all the things God’s gifted me with, my kids hate my super-hearing.)

“Look at that dress. It must have cost a fortune. And that hair—the latest ‘fad.’”

“And those pearls!” 

“Some of the people who come here,” another woman said. “They know how to make money and how to spend it. But few of them appreciate what really matters in life.”

“Cheers to that.”

My hand nonchalantly went to the $3 imitation pearls around my neck. My dress had cost $5. And my hair was short, because it finally started growing out after radiation. Were they seriously talking about me?

“What do you think he does for a living?” a woman in a blue dress asked.

“Who knows. He was probably born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I bet they’re from California.”

“I’m from California,” another woman said, and they broke out laughing.

I turned to Mike, wondering if he’d heard any of it. But he has a skill I need to harness: blocking out the bad (aka gossipy people) and only taking in the good (antique decor).

I felt small and dirty after that. Then, as I looked down at my shoes, I noticed hair gleaming in the candlelight. I’d missed a large section of hair BY MY RIGHT ANKLE! Feeling like a hairy Essau, I sighed in disgust. I couldn’t even shave my legs right—or go into a restaurant without people gossiping about me!

“Oh, my God!” Mike suddenly said. “You look pale, Elisa. How are you feeling?”

Like Essau! “Honestly, I’m struggling,” I whispered, hoping he wouldn’t see the forest on my right leg.

He gave me some medicine which I swallowed after drinking water from a wine glass—classy. 

“What happened?”

“Nothing at all,” I lied. But stress exacerbates everything. And while listening to those loose-lipped women, my spine tensed until the pain became almost unbearable. “I’ll be fine.”

Mike pulled out a deck of cards after that and we played a few games. As I won, I forgot about judgment and cruel words. 

Our waitress came out, her eyes scanned the cards that DID NOT belong in a place like that. And after she grinned, I don’t know how, but we ended up telling her the story about Dee paying for our hotel and dinner. “I have stage four cancer,” I finally said so loudly that the women next to us stopped talking and one of them dropped a fork. “We’re here—at this fancy place—because she did something so nice for us.”

“We’ve been through some hard times,” Mike said “and I didn’t even realize how much we needed a break.”

When the meal ended, Mike helped me from my seat. I hunched more than normal from the pain and the hard antique chair. 

“I would’ve never known,” a woman said as I limped forward.

“Poor. Poor…beautiful soul. She’s so young.”

I looked at them sadly. “Knowledge changes perspectives, doesn’t it?” I said to Mike, but the women suddenly knew I’d said it for their benefit—and each of them turned blood red.

“Thank you, Mike,” I said as he continued helping me walk toward the door.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked.

“The best! The food was amazing! And the dinner itself was unforgettable. How did you know to pull out those cards when you did?”

“You just looked—like you needed to lose at something!”

I laughed so hard, wondering if he had actually heard the women.

And as we went back to our hotel room, I thought of Dee and how grateful I am for the good people in this world.

Meeting in a Synagogue

 I sat, honestly stunned. The Hebrew words wrapped around me like a balm, and I faintly heard the haunting harmonies my violin could play on top of the alluring music. And like a child running to the pied piper, I felt myself closing my eyes…yearning for the glory of God.

The music ended and the rabbi gave a few people cards—of course I’d somehow been one of them. I turned it over curiously to read a single word: forgiveness. Why had I been given THAT card? I wanted a redo. Forgiveness and patience aren’t things I excel at. I strained to look at a card someone got in front of me. Patience? Well THAT wasn’t much better. Good luck, buddy!

“I’ve given a few of you a card,” the rabbi said. “Please, one at a time, tell us of an example when you’ve embodied the word on the card.”

I quickly handed the “forgiveness card” to my husband. “Looks like you’re up,” I whispered.

“Ummm…” Mike’s eyes bulged.

“Mike, I have cancer. Please.”

“Oh, my gosh. Don’t use that again. That’s not even fair!”

As he studied me, I suppressed my laughter. “Fine!” I whispered.

At that point a man who looked like Jesus walked into the synagogue and sat by me! We looked at each other awkwardly. He knew this was a synagogue, right? Then…I broke eye contact and stood.

“Oh, yes! Thank you!” the rabbi said, clearly relieved that someone had decided to talk about their card.

“My card is forgiveness.”

“Is there a time when you’ve shown forgiveness?” he asked.

“Well…I hope it’s not too much to share, but I have stage 4 cancer. Melanoma. The doctors initially gave me two years to live, and now I might have more. But death…. Well, even though it faces all of us, when you’ve been told you’ll die soon, you have to make peace with a lot of things. There are people I’ve wronged and people who have wronged me. I’ve been forgiven and offered forgiveness, but it’s not always in the ways I’ve expected. Sometimes it’s through giving time and rebuilding relationships to what they should’ve always been. In that way, cancer has been a gift. I have the chance to make peace—which comes from forgiveness—before I die.” Then I sat down. Someone else talked about their card: positivity. Another person stood and shared a story about love.

After that, the modern-day Jesus kept staring at me. I felt uncomfortable until the service ended and it was time to mingle. But the guy followed me after a moment, even as another congregant showed me the Torah scroll at the front of the church and made Mike hold the heavy thing over his head just so he could “get a feel for it.”

“Some people hold this over their heads while other people  pray. It’s heavy enough that you hope it’ll be a quick prayer!” the congregant said.

“Wow! That IS pretty heavy!” Mike laughed.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. The modern-day “Jesus” stood there. Then he asked to talk with both me and Mike, but his voice strained as if he’d lost part of his tongue or been born with a severe oral defect.

“Hello,” I forcibly shoved my concerns aside. “My name is Elisa. It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?” I smiled brightly as I shook his hand. “It’s my first time being in a physical service like this…not just on Zoom.”

“Y…y…yes, it was ni….ce,” he slurred the words. Then he slowly explained how he wanted to speak with me after he heard what I said about cancer and forgiveness.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” I asked, then Mike and the man made a space so I could sit next to them. “My back and leg always give me trouble if I stand too long.  Sorry about that! What would you like to talk about?” I asked.

Then he told us the most amazing story. He’d been such a dynamic speaker that he’d decided to become a Christian pastor. “I w…wwwww…went to Texas.” He’d gone to school and almost had his PhD in Texas when he was diagnosed with cancer. It first appeared as a tumor in the roof of his mouth. A surgeon removed it, but this man would never talk the same again. Tears filled his eyes. “I didn’t ev…ev…even finish getting my PhD. What was the point?”

“But why?” I asked. “You have such a story to share. You have so much to say.”

“I ju….st don’t kn—know. Who w…wants to listen to someone like this?” He held the back of a pew so tightly that his knuckles whitened. “Anyway, I don’t know exactly what you…what you are go…going through, but I do know it…it’s hard.” He said they got all of the cancer and he’s in remission now. “But this is how I’ll…I’ll live now.” 

He’d come to a Jewish synagogue in Idaho while visiting family. Something “inspired” him to attend the service that night. And he’d felt like he needed to hear my story about forgiveness and perseverance as much as I’d needed to hear his story about remission. “Don’t…don’t lose hope,” he said.

Tears filled my eyes, and Mike held my hand as the man continued looking at us. 

“I’m glad you’re in remission,” Mike said. 

After a moment, silence rested among us like an old friend, and oddly enough, a type of peace descended as well. 

“Th—thank you for let…letting me talk with you.”

“I hope you’ll finish getting your PhD,” I said. “You’d make an amazing pastor. Who knows the lives you might change! I know we’ll never forget you.” Mike nodded in agreement and before the man left, a huge smile lit his face.

“Thank you,” he said before he walked out.

“No, thank YOU,” I said. And I thought about his words. How strange…maybe we really were meant to hear each other’s stories.

It All Works Out

 “Today just isn’t working for me,” I told Mike.

He looked a bit worried because normally every day works for me—every day is “the best day ever.”

“Today I’m worn down,” I said. “It’s just hard not seeing an end to being sick, ya know? It’s so daunting. I just don’t know when the pain will stop.”

“That’s it. We’re doing something fun.”

“Like what?”

“I’m bringing you to Goodwill.” He waited for me to smile—because I love a bargain—then he went on. “I’ll pick out an outfit for you and you’ll pick one for me. But it has to be some sort of theme. Like a profession. A doctor or a teacher or…something. And then we’ll go out like that.”

Even though it was a rough day, I broke out laughing. “I’m exhausted, but who could pass up a date like that?! It’s a deal!”

At Goodwill I honestly had no idea what to get for Mike until I passed by some suspenders. “Yes!” I whispered under my breath. I could dress Mike like an old man! So, I grabbed the suspenders, a plaid shirt, some faded jeans that came in tight at the ankles, glasses, and a hat.

When we got back to the house, so we could change before going out, I could hardly wait for our “outfit exchange.”

“Oh, my gosh!” he said. “You’re dressing me like…an old man! I should’ve known.”

“And what am I supposed to be?” I asked holding up a studious jean dress.

“A teacher’s assistant.”

After we donned the clothes, we immediately got into character. Mike even talked like an old man—a bit exaggerated if you ask me—he even called me “Sonny.” And I seriously had the best time.

At the end of the night, I realized I hadn’t thought about the pain or the cancer. I hadn’t felt self-conscious as I walked or inadequate. Instead, I’d felt so happy to simply be with the person I love.

“Mike,” I turned to him. “I just want you to know how thankful I am for you and everything you’ve done for me and the kids this last year. I don’t know anyone who would handle this as well as you have.” After all, he’s cooked, taken care of the kids, taken care of me—and made sure all of us were happy. “I’m just so lucky. It’s hard being sick, but you make it all better somehow. I can’t imagine if our roles were reversed. I don’t think I would’ve handled it half as well.” Then the thought was too much. “I can’t stand the thought of you suffering. I hope you’ll always stay healthy, and carefree, and young.”

He peered over at me, his eyes squinting. “What are ya talkin’ ‘bout, darlin’. I’m a hun-dred yeeeears old.”

I giggled through my tears and hugged him. “Whatever you are…you sure are the best at it.”

And that night as I fell asleep in my “old man’s” arms, I couldn’t get over how incredibly lucky I am. Life might be hard, but it seems like there’s always something equally wonderful that balances it out.

Signs

Another friend died totally unexpectedly. This is the third death since doctors told me I would be the one to die soon. It’s so devastating—and shocking; this person has been supportive, worried about my death. Now he’s gone and ironically I’m still here…staring at the hawks who live in my tree. 

Did I tell you they’ve started building a nest? I thought it was a sign of hope until Saturday. “Maybe it's a sign. Or maybe it isn't. What do you think?" I asked my husband.

Mike looked at me seriously. “I’m the wrong person to ask, Elisa,” he said. “You know what I believe.”

He’s a hilarious, life-of-the-party guy who doesn’t like labels--especially the word "atheist." People hear it and don’t quite grasp what it encompasses—or they hear it and judge negatively.

I pried further despite knowing the answer.

“No, sweetheart. I’m so sorry, but I don't think it's a sign,” he said.

A strange fear overtook me as a new pain ran the length of my body. The pains have been getting worse again lately—a fact which is extremely sobering. And in that moment, feeling those pains again, my legs weakened. 

I sat to look at the hawks once more and whispered, "Maybe Mike is right. Maybe this isn't a sign. I just want some confirmation that I’ll get better.” I sighed. These signs-- Godwinks--are what I hold on to. Mike is so strong that he doesn't look for confirmation, but I do. I need some type of reminder that despite the suffering and pain of life, God is looking out for all of us. A sign that everything will be okay and God will protect me even in life...even in death.

As I continued gazing out the back window, rain splattered the glass, a final collision after its long descent through the sky. I watched as the water scattered, tendrils fighting to reach the dignity—and rest—of the ground. Then my thoughts turned to the hawks. How would they fare in the rain?

Four hawks had quickly flown right next to the nest. They made a circle, held their wings out, and bent over the formation of twigs and sticks. The winds rocked the birds. The rains beat against them. And instead of leaving, the majestic creatures practically weaved themselves together and leaned farther over the nest. They would do anything to provide protection.

I anxiously grabbed a cup of coffee and continued watching this show—far better than anything on Netflix. The storm ended shortly after it had started. The hawks didn’t leave until the rains and wind stopped. I exhaled. 

Seeing that they'd saved the nest, well, it brought me a renewed sense of peace. I've never seen something like it. Ever.

"You okay, sweetheart? You want more coffee?" Mike asked after walking in and seeing my empty mug.

"I'm good. I'm just thinking about signs and how I think those hawks do symbolize protection."

"They very possibly could," he said, conceding to the hope I needed to hear. Then he smiled down at me kindly. He’s the most wonderful man, really.

I talked with a dear, beautiful friend about this not long after the hawks saved their nest. "Do you believe in signs?" I asked her.

"Absolutely," she said. 

I nodded, thinking about the hawks’ nest. “Me too.” And within moments a song blared over the speakers. “I can’t believe it!”

The singer’s voice resonated perfectly. “Signs, signs, everywhere there are signs…”

We laughed, listening to a song that is literally called… “Signs.”

The Scale of Good and Bad

 When someone says you might die soon, you start thinking about all the things you’ve accomplished and those you didn’t, everything you were brave enough to try and what you put aside for a later date, you think about relationships—new and old—and how you either helped or hurt people. You revel, reminiscent, and regret…. 

Someone recently told me that when we die God has a scale where He weighs our good deeds on one side and our bad on the other. (This conversation isn’t about grace—it’s about justice.) If the good deeds weigh out, we get to spend eternity with God. But if they don’t, we’ll face an eternity without our creator.

I’m not sure where my scales would rest, truly. I thought about all the good and bad things in my life, and I’m still not sure why, but, I remembered something from grade school. The first bad thing I remember doing.

“You can have a birthday party,” my mom said, and we made invitations for the whole class of over 20. I could hardly wait to attend school that day, and I remember passing Nathan on the way through the doors. He always wore pants that clung too small and shoes that flopped, overly big. Some kids made fun of him, but I always sort of liked Nathan. He had curious, big eyes—and I felt like he saw things the other kids didn’t. 

“You have an invitation for everyone?” my teacher asked when I told her about my party. I nodded. “Keep these in your desk,” my teacher said about the invitations. “We’ll pass them out after second recess.” So I placed them in my pencil box and smiled at a couple of girls who had heard the conversation.

Anyway, after lunch, the teacher called my name. “Elisa, you’re having a birthday party, aren’t you?” she said.

I smiled so big. “Yes, I am.” Then she let me hand out all of the invitations. I gave one to every student, everyone except Nathan. “I had one for you, I swear,” I said. But no matter how many times I looked through my backpack or the pencil box, I couldn’t find it. Then the kids were laughing at him—especially two popular girls—and it broke my heart. They’d laughed at him too many times.

“Please come to my party,” I begged. “I think you’re one of the coolest kids in class.”

I wrote down all of the information on a piece of paper, but the damage was done. He didn’t have a “real” invitation and the kids thought it was hilarious. 

Nathan had to call his mom after that because he started crying. When the final bell rang, his mom marched into the room as all of the students left. I heard her yelling at my teacher from where I perched in the hallway. “How could you hand out those invitations knowing every kid got one but my son?”

Nathan didn’t come to my party. He didn’t even talk to me after that, not even a few years later. I always felt bad, and I sort of wondered if the popular girls got into my desk and took Nathan’s invitation. 

I know it wasn’t intentional, but I feel bad for moments like this and the slew of others where I’ve caused pain whether intentional or not. And I wonder how all of these moments weigh out for or against us, making us better or worse. I just so wish I could’ve helped Nathan instead of hurting him at such a young age.

You see, it wasn’t just the invitation incident that I feel bad about…it’s all the times before. I saw an interesting, wonderful person who I knew was lonely. I should’ve tried to make a positive impact on his life long before. I didn’t truly realize that he didn’t have any friends until the incident with the invitation…. How could I miss something like that?

I guess what I’m trying to say is, don’t miss your chance to do good—to make life better for those around you. Sometimes we can get so wrapped up in our own lives that it’s hard to imagine what other people might be going through. That’s what I learned from Nathan. I’m not sure if he even remembers, but to me, he is unforgettable.

Four Hawks and a Reminder

 “You can keep the feather or release into the wind with a prayer. It will find the Grandfathers.” Mato-Uste had given me the feather, but every time I tried releasing it, the winds brought it back. 

“Maybe the Grandfathers are rejecting my prayer. Maybe God is rejecting my prayer….” I’d honestly begun wondering if cancer really is a punishment for sins I’ve committed in the past. I’ve definitely done some bad things, but what makes my “bad” acts worse is that I genuinely knew better. 

A bit concerned, I brought the feather home from the cliffs of Arizona and placed it safely on my desk. Mato-Uste had smiled while telling me about the feather. “The Grandfathers are watching out for you, Elisa. That is why the feather stayed.”

Some strange things happened in the months that followed. My cancer progressed and the doctors prescribed more radiation. That’s around the time a hawk showed up in my backyard. He’d stare at me while I sat working. The two of us would gauge one another: I’d study his beauty and I’m unsure what he thought of me.

I underwent yet another round of radiation along with grueling sets of immunotherapy that made me lose over 15 pounds. My liver began failing after that. 

“The treatments are trying to kill the cancer and your liver,” the doctor said as I sat in the hospital, enduring steroids and more testing. And the whole time I wondered how my family had handled the news. Maybe the hawk looked after them while I could not.

After being released from the hospital, the doctors halted all treatments. “You need your liver,” one specialist said. “We can’t continue treatments unless your liver heals. Even then, it will be a balancing act. Unfortunately you’re living through a very uncertain time right now.”

When I got home, I didn’t see my hawk. Instead the summer heat became almost unbearable with deadly dry winds. That’s when the hawk’s tree fell over. Somehow this made me feel like all hope was lost. The hawk had somehow been a sign that someone looked out for me. But where would he perch now with his favorite branch gone?

I worked facing the deck last week, wondering if I’d ever see my hawk again, when something extraordinary happened. One…then two hawks landed on another branch in my backyard. Then three…and four hawks!

(Can you see all four of them? Look at the bottom of this article to see all four circled!)

I went outside and instead of flying away, each of them turned to meet my gaze. That night, they began building a huge nest. And once again, they landed on separate branches so they could turn and look at me. We cocked our heads and studied one another. And then after a while, they went back to building.

This might sound completely silly, but those birds gave me so much peace. Whether it’s just because they like our yard or because they are actually looking out for me…I’m grateful they’re here. It’s strange that they came back shortly after I started treatments again when the doctors said they’re hopeful that we’re on the right path for fighting this cancer.

I guess this is just a reminder that sometimes it can seem as if all hope is lost. Your “hawk” might not stick around when you expected or something as stable as a “tree” might come crashing down in your life, but that’s simply leaving room for greater miracles. Some of the best things can happen when we rise from the ashes instead of staying stuck in the mire. Be brave! And look for the possibilities around you. Life, well, it’s a miracle any of us were even born.

The Most Ungrateful Person Ever

 “The steroids may have given me diabetes. But if I have a shot at life—even with diabetes—it’s better than the alternative.”

“And you’re grateful? Your liver has been failing, you’re on the verge of having diabetes, and you still have stage 4 cancer?” the man asked.

“Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

"You really think you can find the good in anything?"

"Or course!" I said without having to think about it.

"Okay.... Our food is taking forever. What could possibly be good about that?"

"Well, I got to meet someone new and have a great conversation, didn't I? And I got to sit and rest for a minute."

The man stared at me. “I’m sorry, but this is making me a bit a speechless. It’s just that I met the most ungrateful person yesterday—and now I’m meeting the most grateful woman ever.”

I broke out laughing. "You’re just catching me on a good day.” I looked at a picture on the wall. “But I do have a lot to be grateful for. If this is my one chance to live, I better make it count.”

We stayed quiet, both of us thinking quite deeply as we waited for our to-go orders at the bustling pizzeria. 

"This man I met yesterday," he finally said, "he had it all: a beautiful wife, a fancy car, tons of cash. But when I talked with him everything was the worst. His wife talks too much. His friend has a more expensive car. He doesn't work because he doesn't need to, and now he's bored out of his mind."

"Really? This guy was for real?"

"Yes! He stayed at a hotel in town, and he couldn’t believe the stairs hadn’t been vacuumed yet that day."

I tried so hard not to say anything bad because I'm trying this new thing called "keeping my d*mn mouth shut": no lashon hara (as the Jews call it).

"He asked me if I thought he should float the river with his wife. You know what I told him?"

I shook my head. I was beginning to like this stranger. I'm trying not to gossip, but nothing ventured nothing gained!

"I told him he'd hate floating the river."

"But everyone loves the river--once they get out there," I said.

"Are you kidding? Not him. He could find something wrong with Mother Theresa. He'd hate the river."

The lobby's door opened and Mike walked in. "You feeling okay, sweetheart?" He'd gone to look at stores with the kids while I sat in the pizzeria, waiting for food, catching my breath, and hearing about ungrateful strangers.

Right after that our order was up, and we paid for our food.

"Your enthusiasm for life is catching," the man said before we could leave. "I'm so glad I got to hear how grateful you are for everything. It makes me feel sort of thankful for all the good things I have too."

"I'm glad." I smiled so big, and after that Mike and I left.

"Who was that?" Mike asked.

"A stranger," I said. "Isn't it amazing how you can walk into a building not even knowing what exciting thing might happen, then you meet somebody new and have a great conversation?!" Mike just chuckled as I beamed. "Life is SUCH an adventure!"

“Yes, it is!” he said, and then that wonderful man held my hand.

Strangers that Mean Well

The thing about the water is that it doesn’t matter if your legs don’t work quite right or if you’ve had your third vertebrae removed. You can get in there and feel like a completely normal person.

We’ve been in Bear Lake for the last few days. My amazing in-laws let us stay at their cabin, so Mike and I could get some time alone and relax.

I could hardly wait to visit the beach today—the Caribbean of the Rockies. It took quite a bit of effort to get me into the water, but once there, I practically became a fish. We swam around, laughed, and joked.

Some people arrived not long after we did. I noticed them grinning at me and Mike as we splashed around. It wasn’t until I got out of the water that things changed. An older woman (probably in her 80s) looked at me with such pity as I limped out of the water. My back pulled with intense pain from the cancer, and the sand made my gait appear even worse. 

She approached me after Mike left to get my towel.

“Let me help you,” she said.

“I’m all right,” I said. “I’m really okay.”

“But you look like you’re in so much pain.”

Mike got back to me at about that time, and I pleaded with my eyes, silently saying, “Get me out of here.” 

Mike ended up explaining to the woman and her husband (who came up after that) about my cancer and my surgeries.

“I’m so sorry you might be dying soon,” the woman said.

I knew she meant well, but seriously??? We hadn’t said anything about dying, but this woman seemed willing to dig my grave.

“We better head out,” Mike said, seeing my dwindling pride. “Nice to meet both of you.” But the woman kept talking. 

And even after I walked away to our beach chairs, I heard her telling Mike, “I can’t imagine how hard it must be for her. She’s so young. I remember when I had to get my handicapped sticker…that was embarrassing. And to think, I never would’ve known something was wrong with her until she got out of the water.”

I slid my sunglasses on so no one would see my tears. After that, Mike came over. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. It was hard to get away. She just kept talking."

“I know she meant well,” I said after we made it to the car, “but I feel terrible. The pity in her eyes. She didn’t even know how to talk to me. And I felt so normal and happy in the water….”

When we returned to the cabin, Mike and I sat on the front porch. “I just need to find the good—that always makes things better,” I said. “On the bright side, isn't it wonderful how even strangers want to help us?”

We stayed quiet for a while, and as we sat there I remembered a moment for a couple of years ago. I’d gone to the grocery store and stood scanning items at the self-checkout. A man practically gaped at me. I instantly wondered if something was in my teeth, if my clothes looked wrinkled...if I stood oddly. So many thoughts raced rough my mind as I worried something appeared “wrong” with me. Then suddenly, the man who'd been staring at me came up and asked me out on a date!

“I’m married,” I said, “but thank you.” And to think, I’d been so self-conscious, paranoid that he’d judged me poorly. Yet now, look at me—now that something is actually “wrong”—it’s taken some getting used to. I felt self-conscious before; imagine what I’ll do if things get worse.

“I need to be grateful that things aren’t worse,” I suddenly told Mike. “I just need to embrace this. So what that people pity me. So what that I don’t walk the same as I used to. At least I don’t need a wheelchair! I don’t want some insignificant conversation to ruin my day, especially when that woman meant well. She really tried to be kind, didn’t she?”

Mike nodded then came over and held my hand. “I'm so proud of you. It must be hard to deal with all of this. And to admit when things are tough.”

So, the two of us eventually decided to get dressed up and go to dinner. “I love you so much,” Mike said after we'd changed our clothes.

“I love you back.” I smiled. “Thank you for making today so special. I had fun swimming with you."

Moments later we walked out the door, so excited for a night out on the town, grateful for each other, thankful for strangers who mean well, and happy to have positive perspectives that can change lives.

 

A Dress and a Few Simple Words

 “She just knows things. I’d really like for you to meet her,” a friend said, and that’s how I found myself at a little dress shop in downtown Pocatello.

I sneaked inside, making sure to be quiet as I peered at vintage dresses and jewelry. A few women and a young boy sat on classic velvet chairs in the middle of the room. “You need to find that within yourself,” a lady with gray hair said and then pounded her first on an eclectic table. “This is your son. You need to do what’s right for HIM.”

I studied the entire scene as the woman captivated everyone with her unusual insight. 

That’s when I decided the woman reminded me of a wise owl. “Oh!” she suddenly said, eying me, and I almost worried she’d heard what I’d been thinking about her spirit animal! “Can I help you? You’d look lovely in that dress!” She pointed to a blue ‘50s dress on the wall.

“Oh, thank you. It’s absolutely beautiful, but not quite what I’m looking for.” I’d seen the prices, and I knew I couldn’t afford it. “I’d love to get these earrings though.” Then I paid for the $10 earrings and left.

The whole experience spiked such a curiosity. Who was this woman and why did people seek her advice? I’d asked around and heard intriguing stories from various people who’d met her. 

And so, weeks later, I returned to Annie Hall’s—with my husband this time. We looked at shoes and listened to conversations. A skinny girl came into the store. She didn’t appear to have much confidence by the way she slouched and how her eyes darted around the shop. “Oh, my! Look at you…. YOU are beautiful!” Anne said to the girl.

“Me?” She almost stumbled backward, then stared at Anne.

“Who else? Of course, you! Now get over here; I have a dress for you to try on.” 

And within minutes the girl wore a gorgeous flapper-girl dress and hat. Anne had her standing straight and smiling. She started glowing as she donned a necklace and appraised herself in the mirror. 

“Now, just pull your hair back. That’s it! You’re gonna model in my fashion show. You know that?”

“Me…but…nobody will want to look at me.”

“Oh, yes they do—and they will!”

The girl stared at herself with tear-glistening eyes and stood even straighter. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it.” Then she hugged Anne before she could even get away.

I’m still not sure if the girl paid a dime, but Anne made sure she left with one of the most stunning dresses in the shop.

I kept visiting Anne. It inspired me to watch her size people up and then change their lives. I loved hearing about her family (her strong husband and brilliant daughter, Merrillee).

And over years of visiting her store, purchasing earrings and shoes, our banter changed.

“Anne, well, how the hell are ya?”

“I knew I’d see you today!” She’d smile and laugh. 

I started running a local newspaper and vowed to somehow help Anne. When she put on a huge fashion show fundraiser, I got my chance. 

I stayed up late editing photos and paginating so it would look just perfect. I’ll never forget Anne’s bewilderment when I brought her a copy of the newspaper and she saw one of her dresses on the front page. “Next year, YOU’LL be one of my models,” she said. 

I laughed because I’m so old. “Oh, Anne!”

Then she grabbed a black velvet coat someone had just brought in. “I want you to try this on! Sometimes I just know what people are supposed to wear!” Then she practically vanished and reappeared with a black velvet dress that matched it. “Wear this dress with it.”

It was an order. So I didn’t argue; no one argued with Anne. When I touched the dress, it felt like pure magic. But when I put it on—it felt like Heaven. I practically floated to the three-fold mirror, and my breath stopped as I caught my reflection. I felt so special as Anne told me such nice things. I’d never worn something so elaborate and expensive in all my life. 

“Elisa!” she said. “That was made for you!”

But both the dress and cape were worth a fortune, so I gently took them off, and donned my Goodwill clothes.

“Anne, you are something! Thanks for letting me try that on!” Then I left.

Months later, I received terrible news. I had the kind of cancer that terrifies everyone—stage four, in my spine and brain. After surgeries I used a walker to walk and stand. I rested at home, a bit sad just before Christmas when my husband strutted into the room and beamed. “Anne has a surprise for you!” Then I FaceTimed Anne, and Mike revealed the black velvet dress he held in his hand—the same one I’d loved months before but could never afford. I cried, so shocked and happy because she’d given me far more than the dress…she’d given me an unforgettable friendship and memories I’d hold dear forever.

Yesterday, I heard that Anne died. We’d spoken on the phone a few weeks ago, sharing our own hopes and fears. We laughed and cried. I just had no idea that would be the our last conversation. I felt like calling her last week, and now I’m so sad I didn’t. Life…can be so unpredictable.

It’s hard fighting cancer and then seeing the struggles other people have. It’s hard to understand why I’m still here and life-changers like Anne had to leave too early. I had another friend just die of cancer and two more go on hospice. The pain of seeing that…is worse than the cancer.

I already miss Anne. I loved visiting her shop and talking with her on the phone. It’s astounding that she could drastically change people’s lives with a dress and a few simply words. 

Anne, thank you for helping me see the strength inside of myself. You amaze me.

A Little Wider

 I’ve been sick for over a year now. That reality is hard to digest. Sure they diagnosed it as cancer in October, but I kept telling them something was wrong—practically begging them to believe me back in June of 2020. And by the time they caught it months later, the corrosive melanoma eating at my bones had reached stage 4. 

I cried yesterday—these weak, embarrassing sobs. It’s just that the feverish feelings are coming back, the swelling in my gut (from a still failing liver), and the nausea and vomiting…. Sure I’ve had worse—like when the docs removed an entire vertebrae, but although the cancer isn’t progressing, it’s not getting better either, and some days it’s hard to face the insurmountability of it all—I just don’t see an end to this fight.

I’ve been studying Judaism as a way of coping, reading three books at a time, just devouring everything I can. And although I’m just studying, through its tapestry I’ve begun to sense a beautiful meaning in life. And as I cried yesterday, what got me to stop was a strange memory that came to me as I studied, a memory from years ago when I ran a newspaper.

A lady burst through the dilapidated front door. She wore a fur coat to befit a queen.  This really stuck out in Blackfoot, Idaho which houses The Potato Museum, some excellent Idaho farmers, and various industry workers like welders, food production experts, and much more.

“Where’s the publisher?” she boomed.

A couple of employees pointed to me—and the woman seemed shocked that I didn’t sit in the big office designated for the publisher. Instead I insisted on sitting in the main area with everyone else, because we all worked hard; we were ALL equal on that team.

“Hello,” I said, standing to shake her hand.

“I do not shake hands. Don’t you know who I am?”

“I’m sorry if I don’t remember…. Have we met before?”

Come to find out, we’d never met, but the woman had starred in numerous Hollywood films decades before.

I wanted to recognize her. She looked to be in her late 80s, and I could tell she needed for someone to know who she was. But although I scribbled down her name, I knew I’d never heard it.

“I stopped by so you could write a story about me. We were passing through. But since you have NO idea who I am…!”

“I can still write the—“

Then she stormed from the office and left as quickly as she’d come.

I sat down, completely stunned. Everyone else had gone back to work, but the whole interlude shocked me. I googled her name and sure enough found her in some “song and dance” kinds of films. Granted, she wasn’t a Ginger Rogers, Debbie Reynolds, or Doris Day, but she’d been famous, beautiful, captivating…once. Now she seemed so forgotten in a world where younger generations had no idea who she’d been. Her whole sense of self-worth had been wrapped up in everything that she’d lost. And suddenly that memory seemed so close to home. Not that I was a famous movie star (I wish!), but rather that so much of my worth was wrapped up in my health. Who am I now that I take old-lady naps in my 30s?! I can’t walk normally. I feel sick constantly. Things have drastically changed for me. BUT that doesn’t give me the right to feel bad for myself, or become so wrapped up in my past that it mars my future.

It’s strange because I actually read a book by Kirk Douglas, on how he found his way back to Judaism. I wondered if he ever met that woman who came into the newspaper. Who knows?

It stunned me to read that in the end what made life worth living for him (other than his family) was simply giving to others. And that we should keep striving to live as long as we have the capacity to give. I so wished the woman with the fancy fur could read those sentiments. Maybe she could finally move on from the stardom that “made” her and later began destroying her from the inside.

So, yesterday after I rested for most of the day, I got up and tried to do an act of kindness for someone; albeit small, I wrote a note that I knew would make someone smile.

For a moment the pain and everything abated. I thought about how I wouldn’t trade anything for what I have right now: a chance at life, a chance to overcome and find good even in the pain, and finally, a chance to give. There’s beauty in the journey, sometimes we just have to open our eyes a little bit wider.

Cleaning a Synagogue

We went to “diner church.” This is basically when we bring the kids to breakfast and talk about a story from the Old Testament. “I like Noah,” Indy said. “Can we talk about the flood?”

But Trey had zoned off, so Mike and I mischievously told a story that directly involved Trey and Indy.

“I want you to imagine that God told Trey to take woodshop class so he could build a huge submarine at the middle school.”

“What?” Trey suddenly started laughing. “A submarine?”

“But all of the other kids thought it was crazy! And then two kinds of each animal started coming to the school! And all of the kids were like…whaaaa?”

The story went about like that until Mike made the pipes burst in the school—and it flooded while Trey and Indy stayed safely in the sub with thousands of fluffy animals (which Indy loved).

After Mike read the real story, I asked, “What did you learn?”

“That God does stuff to actually help people. He doesn’t just watch when we’re having a hard time,” Indy said. 

“Not to give into peer pressure,” Trey said, almost rolling his eyes. “But…I did sorta like the part about the submarine.”

“Elisa,” Mike said, shutting the Bible, “you’ve wanted to see the synagogue. Why don’t we go?”

It’s been a running joke now. Since I announced to friends and family that I don’t believe Jesus was the son of God, I’ve often said, “I believe in the Old Testament: I’d probably make a pretty good Jew.” Even if I do regret announcing my beliefs to the world, because it made me a sitting target, like advertising, “Hey, I’m the weak one in the herd,” I guess it’s helped me sort SOME things out.

“They have services on Fridays. Today isn’t a Friday,” I said.

But we ended up finding their schedule online, and can you believe it was their annual cleaning day—at that very moment—and the rabbi would be there from out of town! “You guys want to stop and ask a couple of questions?” I asked.

“I’m staying in the car,” Trey said when we got there. He’s definitely an independent, strong teenager.

“No, you’re coming with us,” Mike said. So, all four of us nervously edged inside and realized that only a few people had shown up to their annual cleaning day.  

“God brought you here!” A jolly looking man practically appeared—out of nowhere—then handed us brooms, dustpans, and rags. “Here’s the list of what we need cleaned.” 

Trey looked at me, dumbfounded as two people herded us into a vast meeting area where the floor needed to be stripped, swept, and scrubbed.

The first man gave us our marching orders. “Wait,” I said, “we’re so happy to be here helping, but I have some questions about Judaism and your services.”

“The rabbi will come talk to you in a little while.”

And he left. So, Mike scraped plastic from the floor, Trey and I swept, and Indy scrubbed. I can’t describe what happened as we quietly worked on that massive room, but the kids must’ve been too stunned to even complain, and after a while, I felt an amazing peace rolling over me. 

It took quite a while, and I’m embarrassed to say I sat down at one point because I felt so weak from the cancer, but just being there seemed so…healing.  

The rabbi finally came in. I told him about my cancer. “We love our Baptist church. I’ll always bring the kids there on Sundays, but this…coming to find out more about Judaism…is for me.”

“The next meeting is Friday, July 9. You can come and see what you think.” 

I told him how it seems like I’ve been on a beautiful vacation that was supposed to last a month and now it’ll be over in a few days. “There’s so much left I want to do. But now I have to figure what’s most important and what I have time for.”

“Well, we’re certainly glad you made time to come here today. We really needed the help.”

As we drove home, the kids talked about how great it felt cleaning the synagogue. “They even let me paint some of the bathroom!” Indy squealed.

Trey nodded. “Yeah, they REALLY needed us. I’m glad we went.”

I just smiled. I’m grateful we showed up when we did. That feeling of peace (and even healing) as we cleaned, well, I’ll never forget it.

Sometimes things just work out the way they’re supposed to.

A Dip in the Water

 I know it’s silly, but I’m so proud of myself. We’ve been visiting this “watering hole” by our house so I can get exercise. The kids are LOVING it (especially the rope swing), and I’ve been able to do more and more each time. 💕💕💕 

I even made it INTO the water today! 🤗

#superStoked #Progress

Life is so good with these kids and my amazing husband. I’m just so stinkin’ grateful.

A Seredipitous Moment

Staying in the hospital is not the best thing ever. And the last time I only had two big highlights:

#1 - I had a mock photoshoot in the bathroom—where I tried to make my hospital gown “sexy.” The nurse ended up freaking out because I’d been in the bathroom for so long (trying to hide from her honestly). Later an award-winning photographer saw the photos online and asked to take PROFESSIONAL pictures of me in my gown for cancer awareness!  Say whaaa??? Talk about awesome!

#2 - While I stayed at the hospital I had several wonderful visitors including my 16-year-old daughter.

If you’ve been reading my posts, you might recall that my 16-year-old ran away last October, a week before I was officially diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.

Honestly, her absence in our lives has been harder than the cancer. Although we kept in contact weekly, even that brief interaction seemed unexpectedly strained, and I couldn’t understand how we’d gone from extremely close to distant in a matter of moments.

But I have good news: Over the last couple of months my 16-year-old started contacting me more and even said she missed me. 

When she came to visit in the hospital, we played games and laughed. After that, Sky said something that really struck me: “I forgot how funny I could be,” she said as we giggled.

You wouldn’t believe it, but she actually decided to come home. And now that weeks have passed, I can’t tell you how full my heart finally is again. Despite nausea, having labs that still show I’m in liver failure, and currently being on probation from cancer treatments, I am the happiest! Thank God I stayed at the hospital because I think that visit is what ultimately encouraged my baby girl to come home!

It’s not easy raising teenagers. In fact, it’s hard being the one to set down rules, make sure they have chores, help with homework and job responsibilities (that 5 a.m. paper route was the worst!), and work together with your spouse to stay in lockstep. I’ve decided though that as long as we’ve shown them how much we love, appreciate, and value them—for who THEY are—it works out in the end. They’ll know they can succeed and thrive in this tough world.

I once met a man, years ago; tragically his son had committed suicide. I remember our conversation because he wanted to give me advice even though my kids were quite small at the time. “Just show them how much you unconditionally love them. That’s what I failed to do.” And I’ve held his words close to my heart. Even though the teenage years have definitely had moments I thought we’d never get through (like when Sky ran away), the best we can do is show unconditional, selfless love.

This “reunion” still hasn’t been easy. We’ve had to talk about my fight against cancer, and she’s even spoken with a counselor at the Huntsman.

“I believe she pulled away because she was so scared to lose you,” the counselor told me. “She knew you were sick when she ran away—she knew something was wrong. It’s pretty common for kids her age to withdraw. It’s their way of coping.”

“Wow. I just never thought she’d need to leave to process all of this. You’d think this would bring families closer together.”

“Sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn’t.”

I thanked her for everything, then we hung up and I walked into a fancy photography studio. Remember that award-winning photographer (and amazing friend) I told you about earlier? Dawn (of Fuzzy Love Photography) normally takes pictures of animals, yet she sent me an idea of boudoir poses for the “hospital gown shoot.” So, as I walked into the building, while still thinking about the call with my daughter’s counselor, I mentally prepared for a unique photo session.

Can you believe—after the insane year I’ve had with surgeries, hospital stays, radiation, and infusions—this woman made me feel like a real, live model!

After laughing and having the most wonderful time , I ended up telling Dawn about my daughter.

“I wish I could meet someone who went through this as a teenager—someone who knows what it’s like to be so young and have a parent with cancer...” I had JUST said the words when the owner of the photography studio peeked her head from around the corner.

“I’m so sorry for eavesdropping,” she said, “but I heard what you were saying. My mom… Well, my mom died of cancer when I was 17….” Her eyes grew quite large as she waited for my response.

My heart stopped. It became so incredibly hard to breathe. There stood this gorgeous business owner who appeared unscathed by hardship, and she was literally my answer to prayer.

Dawn and I looked at each other and both teared up. It was one of those serendipitous moments. 

The lady who owned the building talked with us about what it was like dealing with this as a teenager and how I should just be as loving and understanding as possible. “I pulled away from my mom too,” she said, then explained that she hadn’t talked much to her mom for the last month before she died.

“I don’t blame my daughter for pulling away,” I said. “This whole thing is so incredibly hard to process. I’m sure your mother felt the same. We simply love unconditionally. In the end, we just want our kids to know how much they’re loved….”

“Your daughter will be okay,” the woman said. “She has an amazingly strong mother, and she’ll look back and see that—just like I do. Give her the space she needs when she needs it. It’ll all work out.”

I wiped more tears away. This whole encounter would be etched into my mind forever.

Dawn and I walked from the building after that. I told her thank you for everything. (I had a sneaky suspicious she hadn’t done this as a cancer awareness shoot at all, but because she wanted to make me feel special.)

I gave her a huge hug and asked if she’d like to go to dinner sometime. “You’re too much fun!” I said before getting into my car. Because she IS epic!

So, that’s what I did last week after my appointments at the Huntsman in Utah. I had my pictures taken by the best animal photographer in the Western States and met a stranger who reminded me that my kids will be okay despite this harrowing situation. They’ve had a good foundation, and I need to remember that just like God has a plan for my health, He’s also looking out for my family every step of the way too. It’s astounding how serendipitous moments work; after all, when we’re open to the unexpected, that’s when miracles can happen.

For more info about Fuzzy Love Photography, please visit: Fuzzy Love Photography

For more info about this amazing head wrap, please check out Bliss Silk.

Scars and All

Once I interviewed a Vietnam veteran who told me he’d waded through swamps filled with leeches. He’d smoke cigarettes, and then use them to burn the leeches off himself just so they wouldn't keep sucking his blood. 

Now, I know stage 4 cancer isn't quite THAT bad, but there are days when I do feel like I'm wading through a swamp, just hoping to find solid ground. Yet, what happened last week gave me the anchor I’ve needed.

Someone paid for me to get a manicure for Mother’s Day. I’ve been pretty excited about it, but when I got to the salon last week, judgement practically emanated from the woman doing my nails. She impersonally motioned for me to put my hands on the counter before roughly sanding my nails and yanking on my hands. I tried talking to her, but she acted like she didn’t understand English, so we sat in silence for a while.

I’d worn fancy earrings and clothes that day (all from Goodwill *scha-bam!), and she hadn’t seen that I walk differently from regular people. I realized then that when I’m sitting, no one would know I’m sick. Regardless of the reason “why,” she didn’t act very nicely, and I just wished I could understand more about her.

(A dress I got for $5 at Goodwill.)

It wasn’t until she got to my left thumb that she studied my disfiguration and looked at me. “What happened?” she suddenly spoke bluntly—in English!

“I cut my thumb in half on a tablesaw,” I said. “It was crazy. The poor kids behind me—blood went everywhere. It was the worst accident that high school woodshop class ever had.”

“Hmmph! And what’s this?” She pulled my arm really hard and started touching the bruises on my inner elbow.

“I have stage four...cancer,” I said. “They have to draw my blood a lot and do treatments. I wanted a port, but I guess I can’t have one because I’ve had blood clots in the past.”

The air around us shifted. I swear this woman went from hating me...thinking I was some snotty person...to feeling compassion.

She showed me all of HER scars then; they ran from her hands to her arms. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed them before! Just like she’d missed so much about me, I had missed so much about her.

“I’m from Vietnam,” she said. “I fished for a living before coming here. These scars are all from fishing.” Then her eyes twinkled as she let go of my hand and stared at me. “We killed the fish—while they were still alive.”

I didn’t know how else you’d kill fish, but THAT made me smile—as if a real, live pirate sat across from me!

“You have kids?” she asked.

“Yes, I do. Four.”

“Ages?!”

“19, 16, 13, and 11.”

“19! I have a 19-year-old too,” she said.

I beamed as she showed me pictures. “She’s a real beauty!”

So we talked about our children, fishing, and even cancer. We both said how hard life can be and how strange things turn out. And oddly enough, neither one of us could fathom what the other had gone through! I couldn’t comprehend Vietnam, and she couldn’t imagine having cancer. 

And this woman—who’d pretended to not speak English—suddenly became a sort of kindred spirit.

After I gave her a tip and walked out to my car, she darted from the building and yelled across the parking lot. “Good luck! Hang in there!”

“You too,” I said.

As I drove away, I couldn’t help smiling. 

We all go through hidden struggles that no one sees on the surface. It’s just nice when we can have these transcendent moments and find such beauty along the way. I’m so glad I met that woman who felt generous enough to let down her walls to share some of her story with me. She is pretty amazing.