Why I Haven't Prayed to God

 I've had something HIGHLY unusual happen. In fact, it's so incredibly odd that I've debated whether to write this. But my radiation oncologist called me this morning with news about my most-recent scans, and I knew I should tell you about the last four days. Say I'm crazy. Say this is what happens to people who are facing death from a terminal illness. Tell me this isn't "real" because I believe in a God who is far removed from religion. Yet, despite all of that, on Monday I started having unforgettable dreams. In fact, every time I fall asleep—which is frequent because of fatigue—I dream that I'm talking…with God.

Monday: I sat in a waiting room. The tech just finished a second mammogram and confirmed that there is a mass in my left breast. "I'm sorry for the wait," she said, "but the doctor said you need an ultrasound today. That mass is extremely suspicious, especially since you already have stage four cancer. We're experiencing delays, and you could be waiting for up to an hour. Is that okay? Do you have time to stay here that long?"

I nodded. "Yes. I can wait." They'd seen all of my imaging from April back when things had begun to look bleaker than ever. I exhibited signs of progressing cancer in my back, and a recent PET scan showed spots in my lungs. I didn't know how I would truly feel if cancer had progressed to my left breast as well. "God," I thought, "my entire body is falling apart to the point that this is insane. Not to be dramatic, but you took some of my spine and I don't want to lose my boobs too—they're my only good part that's left!"

I sat there so long, staring at the clock on the wall, freaking out. Tick. Tick. Tick. And that's when, I fell asleep….

_____

My consciousness floated in an area without gravity or sound. It hit me as ironic that I could think, yet the place felt void of ALL energy. I couldn't see my body or anything. I could simply sense an all-encompassing purity around me, but not even that used energy to exist. It just…was.

"Why did it take you so long to pray that I would heal you?" The words enveloped me, and I realized I felt them more than heard them.

"You're God," I thought, simply knowing who I conversed with. "What's the point of praying for what I want? You'll do what you need to anyway. You know a heck of a lot more than I do." I paused. "Plus, who am I to ask for something if it goes against your plan?"

Nothing happened, and I remained, waiting for a response.

"I trust you." The words finally came from my consciousness, more gently this time. I already had cancer, the last thing I needed was the wrath of God as well!

"Do you? Do you really trust me?" The words didn't seem punitive, but they did feel contrary. "You thank me for things, but you rarely ask me for what you want. Why?"

"You know why." I didn't mean for it to sound angry, but it did. "When Zeke died…. I BEGGED you to heal him. I got down on my knees and cried. I spent hours upon hours talking to you, asking you to fix my son. And then—when I took him off life support, I kept thinking that somehow, some way you'd heal him. But you didn't. Some lady even came up to me at his funeral and said my son would've lived if I'd had more faith. Well, the joke was on her! I had enough faith that it should've moved mountains. That's when I realized how futile it was to pray. You'd do what you needed to anyway—I mean, you're God! And after Zeke died, I did finally come to some sort of peace. Nothing would ever bring him back, but I could see that maybe you had a plan. That we can find good even in the most harrowing of situations. That Zeke was only meant to live a short while. That everyone—including me—became better just by knowing him for that small amount of time. And I learned to find joy despite heartache. Life is hard, there's no point in making it even harder by depriving ourselves of potential happiness that we let pass us by during the tough times."

"But you finally asked me to heal you. After all of this time. Why?"

"Maybe there's power in surrender."

"In surrender? Or in acknowledging pride? Elisa, be honest with yourself; you didn't want to ask me, in case you aren't healed. You're worried that you'll finally put faith into this and that you'll be let down again—like you were with Zeke."

"Okay, fine! I didn't want you to know that I'm finally breaking down, that maybe life is getting the best of me."

"And you thought that your actions showed strength. That it would somehow impress me. There are so many humans, so many creatures, so much creation—"

"You're right. And compared to everything, God, I'm almost nothing. And so, yes, I got to the point that my pride didn't matter anymore. I don't care if you think I'm weak. I begged you to heal me because this is hard. Because I want to see my kids grow up. Because I'm tried of seeing everyone who cares about me struggle because they hate seeing me so damn sick all the time. And because…I can feel myself breaking on some days. Constant suffering seemed doable the first several months, even the first year. But almost two years of this—without an end in sight except death—to think that life will never ever be the same as it was before my diagnosis. Yes, I prayed for you to heal me."

"You need to stop trying to win my love."

"But, I'm not—"

"Stop trying. I know who you are. I made you. You are flawed. You're a mess. You're chaos. BUT you are also joy. I made you to be joy."

A strange kind of love washed over me. I felt such truth in those words. I've always wondered who I am, what my root is, but to get this confirmation, even in such an odd venue. It just rang true.

"That's why you see joy in so much—it's a reflection of your true nature. The good people see around them, that's who they are. The good you see, is JOY! But it's time to see strength in unexpected places as well. Where you make joy out of hardships, strength can be found too. In weakness there can be strength."

"Everyone's heard that, but what exactly does that mean?"

"It took strength to acknowledge that you're weak. It takes strength to truly admit to pride. Pride can eat people alive without their knowledge, and it can be MUCH worse than any cancer."

"Even melanoma?"

"Yes." I could almost hear the mirth. "Even melanoma. Acknowledging faults is not weakness or a sign or brokenness. That's finding room to grow as a person. You found strength in admitting that you feel weak. Your body might seem like it's failing you, but as it fails, you are growing in the ways that truly matter."

"But…God. Is it too much to ask for both? Can't you heal my body too?"

_____

"Elisa? Elisa," the nurse's voice woke me. My head had slumped to the side, and my neck throbbed from where doctors have said the tumor is located in my thoracic spine. "It's time for the ultrasound."

"Okay." I straightened my hospital gown—which I'd cinched in certain places to make it much more flattering around my fake boobs, what was I just saying about pride?—then I followed her through the doorway. But no matter how much I tried focusing on the ultrasound, I couldn't stop thinking about the strange dream I'd just had. So much truth laced that conversation; illusion or not, I hoped I'd never forget those words.

Interview on a Podcast: Excelsior Journeys

Some days I feel like I’m living in a sci-fi novel. I had several more appointments yesterday, and then got to come back to Idaho. Yay!

Thanks to Sky for all of her help going to Utah and back this week. 🥰

Oh! And I shared this in another post, but a podcast about my journey with cancer went live yesterday. You can find that here: EC Stilson Gives Us ‘Two More Years’

She Reignited My Passion for Life—Last Week

One of the people who has changed my life the most is Dee Ready. If you’ve read my memoir, “Two More Years,” you know some of the story: how we met over a decade ago through blogging, how she edited my novel (for free) after I paid another editor who never did the work, and how she somehow—through it all—became like family. 

I still can’t explain how or why certain miracles happen, but I can say I’ve experienced them frequently. Meeting Dee has been one of those experiences in my life. 

In her early years, she joined a convent and became a nun. (That story here: https://www.amazon.com/Prayer-Wasnt-Enough-Convent-Memoir/dp/1948793008/ref=nodl_ ) but because of that, she never dated much, never got married, and never had children. Instead, she became an expert on etymology and Latin, taught at prestigious schools, wrote a bestselling book published by Crown (a subsidiary of Random House), spent time abroad, AND amassed a wealth of knowledge that’s truly rare to find. In fact, we play Bladerdash and it isn’t fun because she already knows ALL of the words that the rest of us are trying to lie about. Leave it to an ex-nun!

Anyway, Dee decided she would come out and see us this May for two weeks, the longest she’s ever come. We’ve made a habit of seeing each other twice every year. Usually I go out there with one of the kids, and she’ll also come out here. But this time was different. I’m so sick with cancer…and tired. I’m just not my bouncy, Energizer Bunny self, and I discerned so much concern in Dee’s 86-year-old eyes. 

We played games and had hilarious conversations—like usual—but then something strange happened. I saw an excitement spark; Dee had an idea. “I’m excited to get that tattoo,” Dee said, and I almost swallowed a grape without chewing it!

My oldest daughter, Ruby, works at Mad Ink Studios and has garnered quite a list of clients. “Are you serious?” I asked. “Ruby will be stoked.”

“Yes!” 

I studied Dee. I didn’t want to be a “stick in the mud,” but I don’t even have a tattoo—for crying out loud. And sometimes older skin is thinner than it used to be. I just didn’t want her to get hurt. But I didn’t say anything, and that following Saturday I actually brought Dee to get a tattoo of a lion!

“Does it hurt?” a girl asked after finding out Dee had been a nun. 

“Actually, not at all,” Dee—that literary legend—said. 

Everyone else paled because some people would be crying on the ground while getting a tattoo. Then Dee told stories about the ‘60s and her time in the convent. It was the strangest, most wonderful conversation I could possibly imagine EVER happening at a tattoo parlor!

The excitement of the week didn’t stop there. Dee got that tattoo, went on a motorcycle ride with a handsome young biker, went on her first date in 50 years, and reignited my passion for life. 

I’m still not sure why God decided to let me meet Dee, but I am so thankful. It’s honestly some sort of miracle.

She sat writing her morning pages the other day, and I couldn’t help studying her. Our dogs and cats ran around the house. Our kids asked her to look at this and that and told her all sorts of stories. Our house is somewhat of a disaster because we have so much going on, but Dee practically glowed—just loving every bit of it. And I thought about all of that joy she obviously felt, she’s brought that same feeling to us, 10-fold. It’s because of her that I’m in editor. Not only did I get a friend—she taught me an entire profession. She showed me the ropes. And she never asked for anything in return….

So, the tumor board is reviewing my case today, and many things are up in the air. Remember how they found that growth in my boob? It’s benign—so THAT’S something good. (I’m soooo glad God‘s letting me keep my good part.) The team canceled femur radiation (12 hours before my mapping/prep appointment—Ug!), just saying it’s too much at this time and that the risks don’t outweigh the benefits. An MRI came back from yesterday, and my back isn’t looking stellar. My lower back muscles have “severely atrophied” and the cancer continues to persist. 

But none of that seems to matter.

I had just seen one of the dearest people get a tattoo, drive off in a Mustang for a date, and completely shine with more life than some 20-year-olds I know!

The point is that we’re all getting older. We’re all facing some type of hardship. We all have good days and bad days. Some of us, like me, even have cancer. But like my adopted family member, Dee, we can make the best of things—and brighten other people’s lives along the way. Dee is back home now, but she’s already planning her next visit. I can only imagine what that woman has up her sleeve.

What an adventurer!

Abortion, a Personal Experience

Abortion, a personal experience 

I had the privilege of watching the movie “Unplanned,” the story of Abby Johnson who was the youngest director (in history) of a Planned Parenthood clinic.

Basically, the movie details the experience of a woman who worked in an abortion clinic. My stomach clenched in knots for over half of the movie, partially because of my own experiences and also from seeing the completely believable emotions of the people on-screen. Although this did have the feel of a cross between a Christian and (almost) Hallmark movie at times, I did find it quite compelling despite the aforementioned details. In short: this is not a movie people will easily forget. 

One scene in particular stuck with me, where a family pleads with a woman, begging her to not have an abortion; watch the movie and you’ll know which scene I’m referring to. I literally felt the pain in my own heart, just listening to their words.

I’ll admit, I was terrified to watch this since I’ve experienced the death of a child, who died at two-and-a-half months at Primary Children’s Hospital. 

This might not make sense to other people, but subjects like this – especially movies – sometimes bring back memories I’m not always strong enough to face.

My experience

I got pregnant at 18. It wasn’t glamorous. I’d actually broken up with the man before it happened. I still remember the night I got pregnant because I’d been drinking. Later, the guy had no idea I was pregnant and I had no intention of telling him.

I still remember going to the doctor and the first thing they said was, “You can have an abortion.”

It’s scary being pregnant that young and single, feeling completely alone. Plus, I’d heard about childbirth and that didn’t sound like something I ever wanted to sign up for. But abortion...now that was something completely different. It brought me to this dark place, somewhere beyond scary. They urged me to do what was best for myself, calling my baby a  “fetus.” 

It was scary being pregnant so young, embarrassing too. For some reason the doctor’s words terrified me more than childbirth, embarrassment and even stretch-marks. 

I looked at them and said slowly, “I’m old enough to have sex, I’m old enough to deal with the consequences.”

I got a job at a bowling alley. Imagine my surprise when my ex showed up and asked me to marry him.

Like I wrote before, it isn’t a glamorous story, but it’s what happened. Working pregnant, unmarried at a bowling alley, now that’s what dreams are made of.

Fast forward to a time when I was pregnant with our second child. I had a feeling something was wrong and I put the ultrasound off for longer than normal. 

After the ultrasound, I got a call from the doctor. The thing is, when a doctor calls you at home, it’s not a good call.

I listened to his vinegar words and felt my body nearly crumbling beneath me as I learned that my baby had birth defects and would probably die.

I had an amniocentesis after that, to test my baby for trisomy. The whole time the doctor called my baby a fetus like he wasn’t real. I heard the word “viable” too. Viable and fetus were practically joined at the hip for that doctor.

Family members urged me to think about an abortion. The doctor said I was young, but that I needed to think beyond my years, think about the child I already had and how a sibling with birth defects could affect her. 

I refused to have an abortion. It’s difficult when people you love and doctors try pressuring you into having an abortion.

I had a dream that I gave birth to a fish. Worries plagued me. 

My son was born and although he didn’t live a long life, he impacted me more than anyone. The day I finally got to hold him, I remember how he held my finger with his tiny hand. He had the softest hair and this amazing strength to him. He snuggled into me, with so much love.  I knew then that even if he died nothing could break our bond, not regret or pain, not even death. 

I had to take him off of life support, making a choice no mother should ever have to make. When he suffocated in my arms, I wished I could die too.... We’d given him every chance to live, and it still wasn’t enough. Yet, for the time I had to fall in love with my baby...to see his beautiful eyes and feel the love of holding him in my arms. I would never trade that...for anything.

And now as I think about abortion and remember the two times I was urged to make that choice, I’m so grateful I didn’t. My first baby is now 18 and one of the most amazing people I know. I hugged her the other day after she looked at different colleges.

“You know, you and God got me through when your brother died. You’ve been my strength through everything. I became stronger, for you.”

(I wrote this for a newspaper in 2019.)

You can read more about that story here: “The Golden Sky” by EC Stilson

A Ride in a Mustang

 I met Ralph several years ago at the Homestead. Mayor Marc Carroll had told me about an amazing group that met nearly every day for coffee. So, I simply showed up uninvited! I wore my best dress, pulled up a chair, and sat by them. "How the hell are ya?" I asked.

The men—most of them in their 70s and 80s—looked at each other and broke out laughing.

I became fast friends with all of them, but especially Ralph. We traded stories and writings. I helped him publish his book, "Skarr." And then when I got cancer in 2020, he started coming over to our house quite a bit just to make sure my whole family was okay—especially Mike, Trey, and Indiana. Since his family is from Ohio, and we don't have family in the area, this felt like a Godsend. Between Ralph, Colleen and Scott Hancock, Harry and Patsy Sherman, and many other friends, I feel like we DO have family in the area now.

Anyway, in 2020, Ralph said, "When you get better, I'll let you drive my Mustang."

"Whaaa? Yaaass!” Incentive.

But almost two years later though, despite my positive attitude and desire to live for my young children, I have not gotten better. And last week when Ralph came over, I told him that I'm getting worse. "I go back Tuesday to talk about getting this tumor in my back removed. And...they're starting radiation again." Radiation. I dislike that word so much. Radiation IS the worst thing ever. It’s hell on earth.

"I'll be back Thursday," he said.

When Ralph arrived on Thursday, I had no idea what adventure that rascal had planned. He immediately informed me that I needed to put my shoes on because he'd finally let me drive—the Mustang. I've never driven a 6-speed stick, and I could hardly wait! 

We drove around and talked about music, life, and fishing. But it wasn't until Ralph let me go 80 on the freeway that I felt like death will never catch me!

After we got back to my house, Ralph said how excited he is to bring my family fly-fishing later this month. "It'll be great," he said.

"Hey, Ralph, why did you let me drive the Mustang today?" I asked. "I'm not getting better...yet."

"Well..." We both knew he didn't want to say that things are looking bleak. Since the tumor in my back is growing, now I can't feel several more sections of my right leg. The doctors said that if it keeps progressing, at some point I might not be able to walk at all. "Your...your book came out this week," he said, donning a smile. "We had to do something!" Then he paused. "When...do you go back for radiation?"

"In a week and a half." He seemed worried. It'll all be okay though." I said and gave him a huge hug. "My family just loves you, Ralph. I hope you know how grateful we are to have you in our lives."

He looked away fast (as if something got in his eye), sat down in his car, and drove away.

"I'm scared," I told Mike that night. "Even though so much good is going on...my book got published and there are so many miracles in my life...like our amazing family and friends. But I still get scared sometimes. My leg and back are just hurting so much. They found that lump in my breast and little growths in my lungs."

"I'm scared, too," Mike said. We remained quiet. "Tell you what, close your eyes, and try to imagine something really awesome, something so great it will get your mind off things."

"Okay,” I said.

And after a few minutes, I heard Mike's voice again. "Do you feel any better?" he asked.

I grinned. "Actually, yes! Apparently, all I needed was to remember speeding down the interstate with Ralph!” 

Mike laughed and hugged me. “He’s a character.”

“Yeah, he is. I still can't believe I got to drive an actual Mustang.”

Mike and I both talked about Ralph, that kind legend of Blackfoot, and all of the goodness he’s brought into our lives.

Life… Well, despite cancer and hardships, there are so many good things like family, friends, and going 80 on the freeway. Life is such a miracle.

Timing Is Everything

Last week I got some pretty devastating news.

“Elisa,” my doctor said, “we’ve done so much radiation on your back that if we do any more one of your vertebrate could fracture.” You see, they think the cancer in my back is growing—encroaching on my spinal cord. And so it’s sending nerve pain and problems through my legs. “We’ll still do radiation on the tumor in your left femur. But for your back, you most likely need another surgery. They’ll remove as much cancer as they can and reposition the cage where your L3 used to be….”

Her words struck me and tears filled my eyes to the point that I had to bite my lip under my mask just to avoid falling apart right there in the office. My mother-in-law—who is an absolute legend—sat by me. The last thing she needed was to watch me cry. 

I told myself to be strong and play the glad game. I could be glad because even though I have to get radiation on my femur, my parents are coming up in their RV to be by me. (I swear those two have people in RV parks across the nation praying for me!) I could be glad about surgery because… because… I thought of the brutal 6-inch scar on my back and the 5-inch scar on my stomach where they’d pulled my L3 cancer-ridden vertebrae out. Then, for some reason my thoughts turned to Mother’s Day, and I thought of my four kids. How much longer will I be with them? The surgery could lengthen my life, give me more time with my husband and kids. But my choices are between having a serious surgery (where I initially almost died on the operating table in 2020–thank God for a blood transfusion) or letting the cancer take me. 

After I got home from my treatments that night, I snuggled into my bed and cried. It’s not that I WANT to feel bad for myself, it’s just that another surgery sounds almost unbearable. (I had six surgeries in five years—you think I’d be used to it, but I guess everyone has their breaking point.)

I prayed this week that God would help me. It’s just surreal how sometimes God sends angels on earth to answer our prayers. I felt so alone, then, a woman who reads my weekly newspaper column, Pamela White, sent me the most encouraging message saying she’d asked people at church if they knew about me from the newspaper. I guess people did—and she said so many people prayed for me in that town! Just her message and that knowledge wrapped me in so much hope. 

Then, on Monday, my memoir, “Two More Years” came out. My post about that got thousands of views, and in a single day, my book hit No. 4 on a bestseller list. I also received the most encouraging messages from so many people on Facebook. I just can’t describe how much this means to me, truly.

That night, I snuggled back into bed, but this time I didn’t cry. Instead I thanked God for His blessings. I can’t believe how many wonderful people I’ve met through the Island Park News, my blog, and Facebook—even as I’ve battled cancer. You’ve watched me fight, prayed, and even battled beside me. Through this, we’ve forged a bond that I believe is absolutely humbling. I’m so grateful that I didn’t die in a car accident or have my life snuffed quickly out. Even though this is a laborious, tiring journey, I’m so fortunate to be making more valuable memories than I did for years before my diagnosis!

I can’t believe how kind people have been. I can’t fathom that my cancer memoir became a bestseller! I’m stunned with the good fortune I’ve had—despite cancer. So, if I must get another surgery, I’m ready to fight once more. I guess it just took some prayers from my family and friends, the amazing people I’ve met online, and local church members in Island Park. Plus, Mike said if I need surgery again that I can go on a $30 Goodwill shopping spree on him—that’s worth at least six dresses!!!

Thank you for everything—especially to Inger, Jo-Anne, and Melanie. Your kindness means far more than you know 💓

To find out more about my memoir, please go to: TwoMoreYears.Net

Two More Years—Update

An awesome update. Yay!!! 

More info here: “Two More Years” 

The Power of Perseverance

 Audition day came, and people sat expectantly in chairs that lined both sides of the hallway. Cellists stood with their large instruments. Violists talked about their craft.... And everyone looked just as serious as I did. That’s when I realized that no matter how much I had practiced, I needed something special to stand out. 

But the wait lasted forever, and after a time, I overheard some of the parents talking to their kids. 

“What if I don’t make it in?” a girl whispered to her mother.

“You have to! There’s no other option. Our family always gets what we want.” The mom wore a fancy creme-colored dress and a look of complete pride. My skin heated. Her poor daughter. 

“You’ll do great,” I whispered to the girl, who also held a violin. 

She went to respond, but the mother grabbed her wrist, then glanced at me condescendingly; apparently “their family” gets what they want AND never fraternizes with the competition.

I remained quiet after that, thinking how they probably had more money than I could fathom, yet I had what really mattered: a mom who cared more about ME than my ability to win. After all, she’d only brought me, since this was my dream. 

At the age of 15, I practiced the violin for three hours a day. The notes began resinating with emotion—the accents became incredible. Sometimes my fingers would bleed, and I’d feel like I couldn’t do it anymore. But still…I continued. One of my violin teachers—a symphony violinist herself—began taping a thumbtack to the neck of my instrument, just so I wouldn’t rest my wrist against it. “Try harder!” she’d say. “Do you want this or not?” And so I learned despite the pain and struggling.... Because that violin had somehow gotten into my soul—and no one could tear us apart.

A youth symphony representative finally called my name. I stood up and gave my mother a hug. “You’ll do great, Elisa,” she said. “Just do your best.” I looked into her eyes, knowing I could never truly thank her or my father enough—for scrimping and saving so I could take lessons that cost a small fortune. I could never explain how much their love and support meant to me.

During the audition, the conductor of the youth symphony scribbled into a gigantic notebook.

“You’re excused,” the conductor said with hardly more than a nod when I’d finished.

I trudged to the door, but something rose up inside of me, and just before I left, I set my violin on a nearby table and faced the conductor.

“Listen,” I said. “I want this with EVERYTHING in me. I don’t pray much, but I even prayed for this! I’ve been practicing for three hours every day—and I’m willing to practice more. My heart and soul are in this. If you pick me for the symphony orchestra, I promise you won’t regret it. You want a group who can make a difference. You need members who play with their souls! That’s why you need me.”

The air hung thick. I didn’t really know if she “needed” me—but I told her that anyway!

I picked up my violin and turned toward the door. That’s when the woman’s voice stopped me.

“You’re in,” she said sternly. “You are in.”

I tried not jumping.... I tried not crying—or yelling out in excitement. Instead, I told her she wouldn’t regret it. And I don’t think she ever did.

I’m not sure why, but I thought about this during my last round of scans at the cancer center. I’m stuck in that machine anywhere from 45 minutes to two hours per MRI. Lights, plastic, and metal whir so close to my face that I often get sick. Sometimes I think about life. Sometimes I think about death. But this time I thought about perseverance. 

At this point in my life, I’m not sitting in an audition hall trying to earn a place on a symphony orchestra, instead I’m fighting JUST to stay alive. 

All of the tenacity, the moxie, the initiative I had at the age of 15—I need to remember that passion now. 

Who knew a conductor’s actions could so vastly impact my life? 

For my last performance with that group, I played with the actual Utah Symphony. The woman I sat next to spoke about passion and how the best melodies could change the world. I told her how I made it on the youth symphony not because I was the most talented violinist who auditioned but because I had a lot of heart.

“You know,” she said, “you can be the most talented person ever, but if you’re not willing to put in the work—and you don’t have the heart for it—it won’t matter at all. In the end, people with passion will pass you by. Do you have what it takes to not just be good, but to be excellent? I think you do.”

Her words made me cry.

It’s strange looking back, because now that I’m in my late 30s, I’ve played for thousands upon thousands of listeners in various venues where the lights shone so bright I couldn't see anyone in the crowd. I would pretend to play for God alone, at the end of all time. Where no mistakes mattered and the light cleansed my soul.

Maybe that’s what brought back these memories, the whirring machines with their loud noises and bright lights…. It’s just a reminder to persevere and stay strong. I think that’s a good thing for all of us to remember no matter what our struggles may be.

This photo was taken in August of 2020. Doctors diagnosed me with stage four cancer two months later….

A Renewed Passion for Life

 She came up to me, right in the grocery’s soup section. “I’m sorry you have cancer.”

I stared at the woman’s soft features, yet I swore I’d never seen her in my life. “I have so much going on. I’m sorry if I forgot, but do I know you?”

She turned a very bright red. “I must sound so creepy. Gosh, no—you don’t know me. But my friend’s cousin follows your story on Facebook. I’ve been reading every post you write for almost a year. We talked about your story at a family dinner! It was after you wrote something about your baby who died. I just couldn’t stop reading your stuff. Oh, God—I sound like a stalker.”

I broke out laughing and gave her the biggest smile. “Are you kidding? YOU just made my whole day. It’s not all the time I walk into the grocery store and make a new friend!”

She bit her lip and nodded. “So…since I ran into you. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure!” I said.

“Your son died. How did you—how did you get over it?”

That felt completely unexpected, and my eyes kind of darted around to make sure no one else might overhear our conversation. “I could tell you time heals everything. But…” I looked into her eyes and recognized a kind of grief that I have unfortunately experienced. That tragic sorrow is only birthed from the death of a child. Although I didn’t know this woman, she knew a lot about me. And she needed absolute honesty. “I used to have dreams that I’d go in my backyard, searching for something. But it’d turned into a junkyard of all these things I didn’t want and I’d thrown away. Then on some eroding bookshelf, I’d always find my little boy’s lifeless body—shelved away like some forgotten book. I’d hold him and rock him. He’d even be wearing a little ring that the doctors gave me when he died. But no amount of tears would bring him back. Nothing, especially time.”

She nodded. “You just seem so strong online. I want to be stronger.”

“It’s okay not to be strong. I’m not strong! I’ve just decided to get through this so I won’t be a shell of myself. I have to be the best that I can for my kids who are alive and for my husband.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she nodded. “Elisa, you look kind of weak. Do you need to sit down? I’m done shopping; we could find a place to talk?”

I hadn’t wanted to say anything, but I’d begun to hunch over the shopping cart because of the pain in my spine and where the muscles have atrophied in my right leg.

So, we paid for our groceries and sat on a bench at the front of the store. 

“I’m sorry you went through this, but it’s nice to know someone made it to the other side,” she said. “How did you know when you were over things—when his death didn’t hurt quite so much?” she asked after a long silence.

“Well, I don’t think you ever really get over it. I wore his tiny ring on a necklace for an extremely long time—too long. Then one day, I took it off and put it into a special box that holds little items that mean the most to me. I wasn’t saying goodbye forever. I could open that box and cry if I needed to. But there was a time and place for it. I needed a place to contain my grief. I stopped having the nightmares after that.”

“I’ve been having nightmares too,” she said. And then that beautiful woman told me her own story…about her toddler. 

It’s odd how people who are experiencing the same kind of pain can end up gravitating toward one another. I’ve met so many people who have lost children or struggled with a recent cancer diagnosis. And I have to admit that this isn’t the first time a stranger has come up to me and recognized me from my online profile—THAT seems somewhat surreal. It’s incredibly ironic how being given an expiration date after my cancer diagnosis has ignited so many miracles AND given me a renewed passion for life. Life is amazing. 

Time to Reassess My Perspective

 “This call is being recorded for quality assurance.”

His thick accent threw me off, and I almost hung up, thinking a telemarketer had called me. 

“Is this Ms. Magagna?” he asked, and my heart sank. The hospital sent us to collections for bills our insurance has finally begun paying from 2021—but they’re paying in chunks and apparently it’s not fast enough for the cancer center.

“This is she.” My voice sounded exhausted, even to my own ears.

“You’re two days late on your [xx] payment. We show you’ve never been late in nearly two years. Is everything okay?”

I know it sounds terrible, but I could’ve broken in that moment. Plus, when you’re having a hard time it’s easy to get frustrated about dumb things! Like when you hear someone with a thick accent, sometimes they can’t understand everything you’re saying. And it’s aggravating that people I know are searching for jobs, when American companies are outsourcing work to people in other countries who struggle to speak English. 

I set my feelings aside. This man tried to do a job. Who knows what he’s going through? And maybe it’s incredibly hard to find work wherever he lives. 

“I have cancer,” I said, completely deflated. “My most recent treatments were…quite frankly…horrendous. There’s just so much on my plate. I’m sorry I forgot about this. I’ll make a payment for this month and next month as well.”

I thought then about four people who’ve either called or messaged me this week saying they feel bad we don’t go out to lunch anymore or that I don’t call them enough. They made me feel like I’m on “the rack” (remember that medieval stretcher), and that they each need a piece of me to stay happy. “Life can be hard,” I whispered into the silence because either we’d gotten disconnected or the man didn’t know what to say.

“Ma’am,” he finally spoke, his voice breaking a little, “I am so sorry for what you’re going through.” Then that man, who I’d judged for absolutely no reason, had the most meaningful conversation with me. I held back tears, and I know he did too. He said such profound things to me.

“I’ll be praying for you,” he said.

“And I’ll be praying for you too.”

It reminded me of when I’ve played music with people who don’t speak the same language as me. We talk through the melodies and harmonies. It doesn’t matter what our backgrounds or beliefs are because there’s a much deeper understanding that ties us together in those musical strings. It’s sad to say that the common ground I had with this man on the phone was heartache, but we also found joy through the conversation as well.

After he took my payment, he hurried to say something before I could end the call. “Don’t lose hope, ma’am. I just know you’ll get better.”

“Th—thank you. I hope things will be great for you as well.”

I hung up the phone and cried. Who knew that this collection officer from another country could so profoundly impact my day in such a positive way. 

I guess we’re all struggling to get through life and make the best of things some days. I’m so glad I talked with that man. Thank God he has that role at work because he does one hell of a job. He deserves it more than most. And I think he needs it far more than a lot of people here who have a roof over their heads, multiple cars, and the ability to get the care they need. I’m embarrassed to share this with you, to say that I judged him; how entitled can I be?

Anyway, it’s good to reassess my perspective and grow. I’m grateful for that at least.

Plus, I swear that I meet the most wonderful people—even if they are trying to collect on bills. God bless that man. It’s not every day I get to talk to people from all the way across the world! 😉

An Altruistic Artist and a Moment Captured in Time

“What’s been the hardest part of having cancer?” the older Jewish woman asked me. Her incredible eyes shone brightly.

I paused. This wasn’t a simple question. “It’s painful. And it’s been hard on everyone I know, not just me. Other than seeing my kids worry, someone anonymously sent me a 200-page document with scriptures from the Christian’s New Testament. They said it detailed that I’m sick because I’m not one of God’s chosen people.”

Her eyes grew wide, and I perceived a depth in them that’s quite rare. “But you ARE one of God’s chosen people!”

“I am?” the words sounded paltry on my lips.

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?!”

And as her words sunk in, I felt gratitude pouring over me. Many babies don’t get to make it out of the womb, alive. Then many children and babies don’t grow up—like my angel baby who died in the hospital after two and a half months.

So, the next day I decided to live life to the fullest. “I’m going for a bike ride,” I told my family.

“Um. Elisa, are you sure that’s smart? If you fell…” Mike looked really nervous but willing to help if I pushed the issue.

“You in?” I simply responded.

Mike pulled our bikes from the garage, always ready for adventure. We rode to Edson Fitcher, a nature preserve where the kids love using the rope swing while Mike and I sit and watch an area that seems forgotten by time. While the kids were off playing, Mike and I slowly rode past the main body of water, and I saw some movement less than ten feet from us. “Oh, my gosh!” I carefully stopped and tried staying quiet. “Mike,” I whispered, pointing to the water’s edge, “I just saw two otters!” 

Anyone who knows me well, knows that this is my spirit animal. I just couldn’t believe we spotted real ones in the wild. It seemed like the most magical moment ever—I rode a bike AND saw otters! 

So, Mike and I sat on the ground. The tumors in my back and hip had begun aching something fierce, but I wouldn’t have moved for anything in the world because the otters popped up again and put on a show for us! They jumped and played. One even stole a fish from a fisherman—that made my day but ruined his, what a dichotomy!

As I watched the otters, I suddenly just broke down and cried so hard on the edge of the water. I hung my head, wishing Mike​​ hadn’t been there to see such an intense moment of weakness. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“It’s just that one doctor this week said I’ll never get better, and I just need to face that they’re simply trying to buy me time. Another provider said she thinks I might get better. But no matter what, everything is about to change. The kids all still live with us, and they’re so darling. You’ve seen the kids at the rope swing! They’ll be old before we know it. I know I’m sick, but things are actually so good for two seconds. We’re all so happy.” I sobbed. “I just want to appreciate every moment. I wish we could freeze this entire time in our lives—keep these moments forever.”

Mike held me. I knew dirt covered both of us, but I loved being held right there by the magical otters who seemed to know that I needed them.

Not long after that, I received a message from an artist I know through Facebook. “Hi, Elisa. I hope you’re doing well. I’ve been following your story. I’m writing because I painted a photo you posted quite a while ago. I was so struck by the image… Let me know if you’d like to see it.”

I felt so much excitement, but imagine my surprise when he sent me a scene of my two youngest kids from Edson Fitcher! He’d captured a moment for us, something I’d hoped we could somehow freeze in time! 

This is the second time this week that God has shown me something amazing through art. These Godwinks are unreal! I might be sick, but life is good regardless. It’s all about perspective and appreciating the moments we wish could last forever. I am so fortunate.

Thank you so much, John Willis​​. You absolutely made Trey and Indy’s year. They are thrilled beyond words, and one of them said you’re going to “make them famous” because your art is so good!💓 

To see more of John’s artwork, please go here: https://www.artisfortheheart.com

The Moxie I Need

 “I’d like a mimosa without the alcohol,” I said.

“So you want an orange juice?” the waitress asked, a bit snarky.

“Oh, yeah.” I turned redder than the walls. “But can you throw some Sprite into it?”

The point is that I’m not the next Princess Di; I couldn’t even be Anna Delvey! I can’t spot the anise, apricot, or almond aromas in wines. And I definitely don’t frequent art galleries spouting about Surrealism or the Baroque period. BUT I have been touched by art; in fact, a specific piece has gotten me through my hardest days of fighting cancer, and it’s quite a story.

Several years ago, my brother told me that my spirit animal is an otter. Imagine my complete surprise when I discovered that it actually is according to the Native American zodiac. Otters are fun and silly, the life of any party. But the problem is, I didn’t want to be an otter; I wanted to be a fierce lion. 

Ruby, my oldest daughter loves that I’m an otter; last year, she had one tattooed on her arm, and in high school she even drew a picture that I have on my wall. The one she created looks fun yet wise. But the strangest thing is that he seems a bit perplexed by his own existence and the fact that he IS an otter. Simply put, he is me.

Around this time—when Ruby got the otter tattoo, I had finally begun to embrace parts of who I am. But something was missing, and I realized this after Dee Ready​​ came to visit from Missouri.

“I brought something for you,” she said before handing me something wrapped in tissue paper. 

After gingerly opening it, I felt surprised to find a little ceramic lion.

“His name is Arthur,” she said. “ I feel like he’s always looked out for me. But now, it’s time for him to look out for you.”

I gave her the biggest hug. “Oh, thank you, Dee! I know how much this means to you.”

I was supposed to get more radiation, and Dee had come to help me. “You know,” I finally said, thinking about the horrors of radiation, “sometimes I feel like I just can’t do this anymore. It’s too hard to keep fighting. I’m tired.”

“Elisa,” she looked at the lion I still held in my hands, “you are an otter, but you’re a lion too. And with this journey through cancer, you’ve shown yourself to be both.”

That night after Dee had gone to sleep, I looked at the lion on my nightstand and then opened my Facebook page. I felt tired beyond words and extra skinny from constantly throwing up. It had become so exhausting to walk that sometimes I would skip my medicine because getting it meant moving, which hurt too much. That’s when I scrolled and saw a piece of art so powerful that it changed my resolve forever. 

Artist Daniel San Souci​​ had painted what I believe to be a warrior woman by a lion. They both stare ahead as if soulmates, twin flames, or somehow the same being. It seemed like a Godwink to see two lions like that in one day (the ceramic one from Dee and then Daniel’s painting as well). It had to mean something.

I studied the woman’s resolve and decided to take what Dee said to heart: I CAN be a lion. And I need to be a lion for my children and my husband. Some days it’s great to be a fun-loving otter, but on the hardest days, I decided to pull up Daniel’s painting so I’d remember to be strong like this woman and her lion.

I’ve gone back to look at the painting numerous times. In fact, I prepared to do that last Monday. Oncologists had just explained how I need an entire extra week of radiation, not only that, but there might be even more new tumors so they’re doing a full-body scan to make sure they’re radiating all of the new growths, not just one. I prepared to open my Facebook so I could study the look of determination in the woman’s eyes. “I can do this,” I said out loud. “I can do radiation.” 

But just before I could open the computer, my blonde-haired daughter, Sky​​, blithely walked into the front room. “You got a package,” she said with excitement. 

“What?” I asked. It felt like Christmas.

After I opened the enormous box, I stared in shock. Can you believe Daniel San Souci sent me a copy of his painting?! It wasn’t just that, but he signed it too and sent a card! I cried when I read the words he’d written above his signature: “For Elisa, My Hero.” That’s probably what meant the very most.

There are times in life that transcend words or even coherent thought. I fell into one of those moments as I clutched the painting and then stroked the features of the woman and the lion. 

So many miracles surround us each day; but through this experience, I’m actually convinced that the greatest miracle we have is the kindness we can give to each other.

Thank you so much, Daniel. I don’t think you’ll ever truly know what you’ve done for me. You’ve given me the beautiful gift of your art, but more than that, you’ve given me the moxie I need to continue getting through this. 

God bless you, my friend. Your picture is displayed proudly in our front room where I know it can inspire anyone who comes into our home.

Lean Think: Revolutionizing Education by Doing Less … A Review

I’m so proud of my sister! She has 5-star reviews across the board, and I’m not surprised because she brings her expertise of chemistry, teaching, and LEAN, then offers incredible insights into life itself!

Here’s the last line of my review:

I highly recommend this book, simply because in our world one of the best commodities we have is time—and Laub clearly displays the importance of efficiency, so we can enjoy more moments with the people we love.

Please check out her book if you have time. She did an excellent job.

CLICK HERE to find out more: “LEAN Think” 

She Felt Heard … That’s What Mattered

 I spotted an elderly lady sitting across from me the other day. My heart dropped as I saw how she watched those around her. A young woman passed and smiled to a middle-aged man. Others walked by, one even nodding to me, but no one acknowledged the elderly woman as if she’d been rendered invisible. And it hit me: “Why do younger generations so often discredit older generations, or worse, make them feel obsolete?” 

So, I stood and took a seat right by the woman. She looked a bit stunned that I’d gone to sit so close. But then I asked her about her day and her life. After a moment, she laughed and smiled. And I learned all sorts of things about her childhood on a farm and her husband who had passed away in his 80s. I even learned about her son with Down syndrome. 

“Elisa?” someone called. 

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” I said, and I started to stand.

“Elisa?” The elderly lady asked.

“Yes?” I turned back.

“Thank you for talking with me. I’m still not sure why you came over to visit, but being older, sometimes I feel invisible. It was nice to feel important even if it was just for a moment.”

Her frail hand came up to rest on my left wrist, the same site where doctors first discovered the melanoma and had to carve a five-inch scar into my arm. 

“You’re so young and innocent. I hope you won’t experience the hardships that I have so you can remain as happy and carefree as you are now.”

There were so many things I could’ve told her. About stage four cancer or how she literally touched the place where it all started. About my son who died or my failed marriage. But I realized, the importance of not placing my burden on someone else. This moment wasn’t about me. 

“Elisa, are you coming?” the man motioned me forward. 

“Yes.” Then I turned to the woman, and placed my other hand on top of hers. “God bless you,” I said before leaving the waiting room.

And I realized that sometimes there’s beauty in giving people much-needed perspective, but there are other times when the opposite is much more important. I didn’t tell her about my problems or hardships. I didn’t need to share how exhausted I was or how sick I felt the entire time I smiled. Instead, I let that moment be about her. She felt “heard,” and I think THAT made all the difference.