The Importance of Being Sincere

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

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

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

“I think so,” I said.

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

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

Photo courtesy of Unsplash.com

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

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

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

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

A Blanket Filled with Prayer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry. I'll be quick."

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

"What was on your bed?" I asked.

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

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

He raised a brow.

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

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

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

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

Hope for a Cyborg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

When Someone Believes in You

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you gave it back?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

*Pic of me and my dad* 🥰

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

Witnessing Change with Gratitude and Acceptance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More Than Coincidence

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

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

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

I blinked, unable to respond for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trey nodded.

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

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

___

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

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

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

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

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

Hindsight Shows There's a Plan

My grandma struggled with depression so much that she created what she called her "happiness file." It's basically a recipe box filled with little notes that reminded her to be grateful. I don't think she expected anyone to ever read the notes, but now that she's no longer here and I'm fighting cancer, her words have become like a lifeline from Heaven.

The other day, I opened her happiness file and read words she'd written on an index card: “Hindsight shows G-d's plan.” This felt ironic since I'd recently been thinking about an experience that proved this exact notion.

At one point, before moving to Idaho, I had a really terrible job where my boss was having a blatant affair. (I honestly shouldn't judge because no one is perfect—especially me. But, despite that, this situation made me feel physically sick and became too much, almost all encompassing...) Many of the other employees could turn a blind eye, but I just could not look past it. In fact, I became so negative that I'd come home and repeatedly tell my family about it. "Their spouse comes into the office, and I can't stand knowing what's going on behind their back. It breaks my heart. It really does."

"Elisa, this is all you've talked about for the last few weeks. What are you gonna DO about it?" Mike asked.

As the truth of this sunk in, I felt extremely embarrassed that I'd let the situation consume my life. “Well, it's already been reported by another employee,” I finally responded, “and administration isn't doing anything." 

So, I ended up requesting to move to another department, but on my last day—before making my transfer—something unfortunate happened. My boss got flowers from her husband and, sounding proud, asked me, "What does the card say?" She’d asked this from the other side of the office, obviously expecting his greeting to be sweet, per usual.

"Oh," I gasped after reading the card silently. "I don't think I should read this out loud." Other employees and even customers stood nearby and turned to watch this interaction.

“Elisa!” Her voice grew cold, and she appeared visibly agitated. Everyone knew not to disagree with her because she was sleeping with HER boss. And crossing her meant crossing him. “Just. Read. It!"

“Okay.” Everyone continued staring curiously, so I took a deep breath and finally whispered. "It says, 'I know… about the affair.'"

Time passed and even though I'd transferred to a completely different department, my previous boss had it out for me. She'd report me to HR, saying my clothes weren't appropriate or my hair wasn't "natural looking."

An HR employee finally grew frustrated and said, “There’s nothing wrong with your clothes or hair, and frankly, I’m getting tired of these allegations because they’re wasting my time. She even checks to see when you’re parking in the morning to make sure you’re on time. That’s what the time clocks are for!”

Eventually, the HR manager called both of us in and gave her a warning: “You're spending so much time following Elisa that you're neglecting your own duties."

Anyway, looking back at that horrendous work experience, I remembered something surprising—an incredibly good thing that happened!

Basically, each time I'd get called in to the HR office, I'd walk by a receptionist who always seemed sad. She was so kind to everyone and such a hard worker, but I couldn’t imagine what made her so dismal-looking. It didn’t take long to hear her story: Her ex-husband had used his money to hire a fancy lawyer. And even though she was an amazing mom, he told lies, took the kids away, and completely broke her heart. I couldn't fathom how she felt, so I did the only thing I could; I started anonymously leaving notes on her desk whenever I got called in. The notes would be simple: "You Matter." "Have a nice day." "You're a hard worker." "You make a difference."

Although seemingly inconsequential, this gave me a purpose—a distraction—and transformed the negativity of visiting HR into something positive.

Anyway, after being diagnosed with stage 4 melanoma in 2020 and announcing on Facebook that doctors only gave me two years to live, I got a message from the receptionist I’d known so many years before.

"Elisa, I just wanted you to know… I had thought about ending my life. That's around the time I started getting those notes on my desk. I didn't even know where they were coming from or who would leave them, but then I found out it was you. Those words saved my life. I have my kids back now. I have custody. My life, well, it's all different from where it was. I'm really glad I didn't commit suicide. I needed you to know that you changed my life."

I cried after reading her message. Those notes were so simple—a good distraction for me. But to have something so easily done change her life, well, that meant everything.

That’s what I contemplated when I read my grandma's words. I think she was right; maybe hindsight does show that G-d has a plan. So many things had to go “wrong” for them to go right. I thought that was a hard time in my career, but if all those moments culminated into something that even minutely helped that woman… then I'm grateful everything panned out the way it did.

No matter what hardships you’re experiencing today, please don’t forget how quickly life can change. You never know what miracles might be right around the corner. Life is so beautiful from the outside looking in. 

A picture of me holding my grandma’s happiness file 🥰

The Mighty Oak Tree

I opened my grandma's happiness file, a little box where she'd put her most treasured thoughts, and read words she'd written not long before she died: "Remember the oak tree." 

I racked my brain for what this could possibly mean. Was there some story about oak trees that explained this? My grandma always had so many stories to share: blue birds represent happiness, love is just like a flowing river, bear tracks mean the past will catch up to us… But I couldn't remember anything about oak trees except for what I’ve learned myself. Their roots can be massive—up to three times the size of the trees we see above the ground.

I didn't think about my grandma’s words again until a friend called. She’s in her 40s like I am, and when we talk, the topics range from etymology to daily struggles. Despite that, we rarely talk about her marriage, so when she brought it up, that surprised me.

“We aren’t doing well,” she said. “He keeps saying I can’t relax and enjoy life. He thinks I’m a workaholic. Even when I AM at home though, I guess I do end up pulling out my laptop and trying to finish projects.” She paused momentarily. "I wanted to call you because when you first got diagnosed… When that doctor said you have…” Her voice got much quieter. “Terminal cancer… You said something I'll never forget."

"Oh?"

"You said you wished you would've enjoyed life more and relaxed. You spent so much time climbing the corporate ladder and trying to get raises. All you did was work, Elisa. Everyone knew that.”

"And... I regret it," I said. "I can never get that time back with my family. The best I can do now is appreciate the time I do have." We stayed silent for a moment, and for some reason, I remembered a story she’d told me about her father. At the age of 8, he’d called her “lazy, just like her mother." I didn’t know how to broach this, and the words came out much quieter than I’d anticipated, but I finally said, “I think one of the reasons you work so hard has to do with something your dad said… when you were young?”

“When he called me lazy?”

“Yes." I could hardly believe she'd known exactly what I referred to. "I think that single comment has plagued you for years. But," I sighed, "you have to know it’s the exact opposite of who you are. Everyone can see what a hard worker you are."

“Yet, no matter how much I do, it’s never enough—for me. I’m driving myself crazy.”

As I remembered her father’s words, I started picturing an oak tree. They can be beautiful and impressive—mighty even—but, if unwanted, they can be hard to eradicate because their root systems are so invasive.

I shared these thoughts with her. "We've all heard that warning about negative things taking root in our lives, but really picturing it... wow."

"I agree. But how can we stop letting negative thoughts take control?”

"You know that doctors are still saying melanoma will be the thing to kill me?”

She nodded.

“On some days it can be really hard not getting stuck in negative thought patterns, so I try distracting myself with things that make me happy." I thought for a moment. "For example, my parents recently went to Europe—that’s something my mom wanted her whole life. Anyway, the other day I got scared about my situation, but instead of ruminating, I pulled up pictures of my parents on vacation. After a minute, I couldn't help smiling, just seeing them so happy in front of castles and other landmarks. And before long, I was completely distracted."

"So,” she said after a long while, “we'll both continue to work on this?"

"Absolutely. But… I just want you to know that you ARE enough. Yes, you ARE a hard worker, but more than that you’re an incredible person, and you make other people better just by being around them. That means a lot more than you might realize.”

Her eyes softened, and I knew she’d accepted my words and taken them to heart.

“But as far as I go,” I said. “I need to stop being so scared of death.” I bit my lip and internally vowed to really work on this. “I just hope we'll both be able to appreciate our lives and live in the present."

So, that's what I’ll focus on right now: not letting negativity take hold because simply being alive is such an incredible gift. I guess oak trees can be both good and bad; I should let positivity root itself in my life instead.

I do wonder what my grandma thought as she wrote those words “remember the oak tree.” The cards in her happiness file really have become like notes from Heaven.

Fate and the Death in Teheran

Most of my friends are quite a bit older than me, and I'm grateful for the deep conversations we have. Just this weekend, my 89-year-old friend came over and wanted to talk about fate.

"I don't believe in destiny or fate," he said. "The primary reason G-d created us — if there even is a G-d — was to prevent boredom. Can you imagine being the divine creator and knowing everything? That must be exhausting. I don't think He knows our future either. Maybe He could find out, but I doubt He wants to know. Why not let it be a surprise to everyone — even Him?"

"That idea makes me feel better," I said. When I first got diagnosed with cancer, I hated the thought of it being "G-d's will" or that I was sick for a reason. In fact, some of the things we tell ourselves seem so trite. I don't want to be sick "because of my sins" or think "G-d only gives us what we can handle." I've seen people get way more than they can handle, like my poor cousin who took his own life because of the cruelty of others who acted out of their own right to free will. (And then, when my son died, some people said he was born with defects to help others. That thought devastated me because he deserved to have a long, happy life too...)

"It's much easier thinking I'm sick because G-d refuses to interfere," I said. "I guess it's less personal. If that makes sense." That's the only way I can reconcile why bad things happen to anyone.

He nodded.

And as we sat there in silence, a story suddenly came to me. "Have you heard about the 'Death in Teheran'? It's a really thought-provoking story."

"No," he responded, "can't say that I have."

"Basically," I replied, "a king's servant comes up to the king, frantic because he was just visited by Death. 'Please give me your fastest horse so I can elude Death,' the servant said to the king. 'I'll ride all the way to Teheran and hide there.'" I paused at this point and took a sip of my coffee. "The king thought about the servant's kindness and hard work over the years and immediately gave him his best horse, but the moment the servant and horse galloped away, Death appeared in front of the king!"

My friend's eyes widened, surprised at the twist in the story.

"'Why did you threaten my servant?' the king asked Death. 'I didn't threaten him,' Death said, 'I simply expressed my surprise at seeing him here! It seemed odd because I have an appointment to take his life tonight — far from here — in Teheran.'"

My friend loved the story, and we talked for a while about fate possibly being inescapable.

"I will never understand myself," I said. "Some days I find peace in thinking I'll die at the exact moment I'm supposed to. Other days, I don't want G-d to have a plan because everyone's hardships are less personal."

My friend nodded. "I guess we'll know everything after we die."

"Everything?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I think so."

"But what about boredom? You said G-d doesn't even want to know everything." I swallowed, really pondering it. "That... sounds like my version of Hell." And in that moment, I couldn't help imaging a bunch of beings floating around completely bored in the afterlife, playing chess for the trillionth time and waxing poetic. Maybe just ceasing to exist after this life doesn't seem that bad? But what do I know!

"Well, maybe we won't know everything." He laughed. "There's one thing that's for sure though; I really hope you'll get better and that I'll die before you. When you were really, really sick, back in 2021, I hated not knowing which one of us would die first. I'm older. You're too young right now. And..." He paused. "What I learned in the second half of my life... the things I got to experience... I want that for you."

He's 48 years older than me. That's longer than I've even lived so far. "I want you to live forever and ever," I said.

"Awe... I don't think we should wish that on anyone." He smiled with such a wealth of knowledge that I can only pretend to understand.

"I'm already experiencing so much though," I said, "and I'm starting to have hope." I told him then how in my most-recent MRI, the cancer hasn't grown! This is huge news because it means that maybe something is actually working — and in the least — these current cancer treatments are giving me a bit more time. "My new oncologist said I probably will die from melanoma, but he believes there IS actually a chance that I might beat this!"

I remember where everyone had stood in the room when my oncologist said this. It felt like time stopped and the wind had been knocked from my chest. Had he really just said I have a chance? I might beat this? After so many doctors keep saying this is terminal...

After he said all of this, he expressed the importance of hope, and I felt like he'd thrown me a lifeline. Maybe... just maybe it's NOT time for my trip to Teheran just yet. Sometimes that's how cancer treatments feel, like I'm doing this to buy more time and hide from death. But like the story says, can we even evade death at all? Or is there a time set in stone for each of us? Like so many people say, that's why we should appreciate each day and be grateful for the journey. For example: what could the servant have done during his last day, instead of letting fear overshadow the final moments of his life as he rushed to Teheran?

A Kiss at the Fair

The man stared as I peddled newspapers, but instead of coming over to my booth at the fair, he thoughtfully paced back and forth. I studied his kind demeanor, wondering if most people with Down syndrome are like him: honest and unassuming. 

As the day continued, I questioned why life is unfair. Why did this man, who continued watching me, face such hardships when other people don't appreciate their lives? 

After a while, my thoughts turned to my son who died. He had birth defects, and the doctors dubbed him "mentally handicapped." They even said that if he grew into adulthood, he wouldn't have a quality of life. 

 During the pregnancy, doctors claimed he'd have Down syndrome, but when that proved wrong, they tested for trisomy. More results came back negative, and experts never could label the strange mix of birth defects he had. 

My world fractured when he died at 2 1/2 months. And I'd never know what he would've been like—if he'd be gentle like this young man at the fair. Or inquisitive? Would his eyes have held that deep kindness too? 

I could've cried at the newspaper booth, surrounded by articles about births and deaths, murders and other serious crimes... 

I wished for a second that I could feel the arms of G-d wrap around me to remind me that everything will be okay and He somehow has a plan. 

In that moment, when I’d totally descended into sadness, the man who had Down syndrome left the person next to him and gracefully zig-zagged toward me. 

 

“I like you,” he said. “I just do.” 

“Well... Thank you.” I blinked. "And, I like you!”

“Hug?” He kicked a rock by his shoe.

“Um. Sure.” 

So I held out my arms wide, and he placed his head softly on my shoulder as I hugged him. We remained momentarily, and it truly felt like the presence of G-d surrounded both of us, wrapping us in complete warmth. 

The man turned, then lightly kissed my shoulder before darting away. Tears filled my eyes, not because I felt sad anymore, but because I knew that I'd just met an angel.

Here are some pictures of that week during that fair. That was such an incredible time.

I absolutely loved running that newspaper. 

Some of the best adventures of my life happened there.

Kissed by an Angel at the Fair

Since the Eastern Idaho State Fair just wrapped up, I've been remembering several moments from when I had a booth at the fair in 2019. I thought my job would be pretty straightforward: I'd meet new people at the fair, talk about the newspaper I worked for, and try to get new subscribers. But at one point, something surprising happened.

The man stared at me from across the way as I sat peddling newspapers, but instead of coming over, like many other people did, he simply paced back and forth, watching.  

At one point, I must have looked thoughtfully at him because he returned the action. Sometimes I wonder if people with Down syndrome are like that: honest and unassuming. 

As the day continued, he kept glancing over, and I really wondered what he was thinking. The man must have been in his early twenties, inquisitive, and determined. I'm still unsure why, but I started wondering about things like Down syndrome and how life is so unfair. Why did this man face such hardships when other people don't even appreciate their good fortune? I'd just read an article in the newspaper about how suicide rates are rising. Why can't everyone be happy and healthy? Mentally and physically okay too?

Of course, the more I pondered this, my thoughts suddenly turned to my son who died. He’d had birth defects, and the doctors dubbed him "mentally handicapped." They kept saying, "If he even grows into adulthood, he won't have a quality of life."

A part of me wondered if they’d been right. Although he died as a baby, it was hard to stop imagining what he really would have been like as an adult. After all, I'd been shocked by how much doctors hadn't known.... And it made me doubt everything.

During the pregnancy, my main OBGYN thought my son would have Down syndrome, and when that proved wrong, they said he must have trisomy. They performed all sorts of tests before he was born AND after, but they never discovered a reason for the combination of birth defects he had: a cleft lip and palate, a diaphragmatic hernia, an extra half a pinky... This mix baffled all of us, but (as doctors said) it's a miracle any of us are born healthy at all.

If my boy had grown into adulthood, would he have been gentle and inquisitive like this young man who studied me at the fair? Would his eyes have held such kindness too?

I’m normally so happy, but I suddenly descended into sadness about the unfairness of life. And as I sat there, I could've cried surrounded by newspapers that boasted births and deaths; scholarships and petty thefts; traffic accidents, suicide rates, murders and other serious crimes...  

I wished for a second that I could feel the arms of G-d wrap around me to remind me that everything will be okay. In that moment, I whispered all of these things to G-d. It seemed like when my son died, he left a hole that'd never be filled--not unless G-d decided to take the pain away.

Suddenly, when I’d descended into the very worst of this feeling, the man with Down syndrome gracefully zig-zagged toward me.

“I like you,” he said. “I just do.”

“Well... Thank you.” I blinked, and then brightened, for his sake. "And, I like you!”

“Hug?” He looked down and kicked a rock by his shoe.

“Ummm. Sure.” So I held out my arms extremely wide, and he placed his head softly on my shoulder as I hugged him. I swear that somehow it felt like the presence of G-d surrounded both of us, wrapping us in this beautiful, strong warmth.  

The man turned, then lightly kissed my shoulder before darting away. "I love you, k!” he yelled from a short distance.

Tears filled my eyes, not because I felt sad, but because I’d witnessed something amazing.  

“Thank you for that,” his caregiver quickly said, still keeping an eye on the young man.

“He’s pretty special isn’t he?” I said, and as his caregiver nodded, I felt like I'd just met an angel.

*Note: I'm in the process of converting to Judaism. "G-d" is spelled with a dash here out of respect. It's actually such a beautiful tradition if you have the time (or inclination) to look it up.

The Power of Vulnerability

The man stared, probably wondering why I sat RIGHT next to him when dozens of seats rested vacant around us.

“Hi,” he said, choosing direct contact as the anecdote for awkwardness.

“I’m Elisa.” I beamed, and he reluctantly shook my hand. 

Thin skin framed his blue eyes, and I knew something scary brought him to the hospital. 

I remembered a recent conversation then, when someone asked why I have exceptional occurrences with strangers. “It’s because I’m vulnerable, and I put myself out there,” I said. Honestly, I’d love to sit away from people because that’s comfortable. But sometimes people look lonely.

Step #1: Be brave. 

Now, for step #2: Be vulnerable.

“My husband went to get our car,” I blurted. “I have stage 4 cancer. It’s hard adjusting. I can’t walk as far as I used to.” 

He remained quiet, digesting the quick string of words. I probably sounded like a squirrel—an espresso-loving squirrel who had cancer.

After a while, he squinted toward the cloudy sky. “Yeah, I have a hard time walking too far too.”

“I don’t know your situation, but I found something that helps me.”

“Really?” he asked, more eager than I expected.

“The opposite of fear can be a lot of things, right? Peace, hope, knowledge… But what I’ve found takes the fear away the fastest for ME is trust. If I can somehow trust that there’s a plan, cancer loses its sting.”

“You must get so scared,” he said. “I just found out that I… I have a heart condition. And I’ve been embarrassed to be scared. Men aren’t supposed to be afraid.” He looked exhausted from carrying all that responsibility.

“But we all get scared. I just hope you’ll find what the opposite of fear is for you.” I paused. “For me, I just want to see my kids grow up. It’s peaceful realizing everything will be okay no matter what because G-d is looking out for everyone. Even me.”

A quiet understanding settled between us, and we didn’t say much more. Instead, we gazed at the luminous sky. Cirrus clouds spread to the edges of the mountaintops, framing the sun perfectly, and I thought how ironic it is that my love of the sunshine is still what doctors say will kill me. I’ll never fully understand melanoma.

(Picture taken earlier this year.)

Who's Dirk?

I won't lie; Wednesday was an incredibly rough day. I battled my insurance (it's crazy fighting cancer AND my insurance) and found out I needed two surgeries instead of one.

 

My doctor called to say he could do the first surgery in two days, and although I acted tough on the phone, I cried after we hung up. It's just that sometimes this whole journey feels like a never-ending rollercoaster. I'm buckled in tight, and—when I'm at my weakest—I just want to get off the ride. 

 

I received another call shortly after this. "Elisa, you have appointments in Utah over the next couple days. We have a room available if you'd like to take it." 

 

"This is the best news!" I dried my eyes. "You have no idea how much this makes people's lives easier."

 

"Ma'am," she said, "are you doing okay today?"

 

It seemed like such a long time since someone genuinely asked how I'm doing. "Well, today was my kids' first day of school. I got to send them off, but I won't be there when they get home. It honestly breaks my heart, and sometimes… this journey with cancer just feels undoable." I sighed. "I hope that you're having a nice day?" I asked.

 

"Me?" She laughed. "I'm great." After a moment, she continued. "I hear what you're saying about the first day of school though. I have kids, and that would be hard to miss. I want you to know that you are strong. And you've got this, mama!"

 

I'm not sure why, but her words cheered me so much. After getting into my car, I told myself to find the good around me. Sure two surgeries loomed in the future, but there was so much goodness surrounding me—like patient housing and the amazing woman who'd just spoken with me on the phone. 

 

I drove toward patient housing, and that's when I spotted Dirk's Dry Cleaning. I suddenly wondered who Dirk was and what his family was like. Had he always wanted to own a dry-cleaning business? Had he fulfilled all of his hopes and dreams? Was he still running the company? I know some might find it trite, but each of us really is the main character in our own story. We can do all of these incredible things and too often we take it for granted. I was the prime example. I could've been enjoying life that very moment, but instead I'd let fear about the future nearly drown me.

 

So, still thinking about Dirk and all of us, I decided to treat myself to a Jamba Juice. 

 

"When I was in high school—over twenty years ago—you had a drink with 'peach' in the name?" I asked the cashier. As a teenager, I'd had a surgery, and I still remember how my mom and dad splurged and bought me a fancy drink. I felt so loved. In fact, every time I have anything that even remotely tastes like peaches, I remember how wonderful my parents are.

 

The boy typed something into his computer. "It's not on our menu anymore, but I found it. It's called a Peach Passion."

 

"That's it!" I said, feeling better and better.

 

So after getting my drink, I went to patient housing, drank my Jamba Juice, and called my kids to see how their first day of school was.

 

"I'm so sorry I'm not there in person," I told them.

 

"Mama," Indy said, "I knew you were thinking about me so much, it felt like you were with me the whole day."

 

Her words meant the world to me. That's when I knew I could get through the surgeries—hell, I could get through ANYTHING… as long as I got more time with the people I love.

 

 

More than Coincidence

A memory... 

My four kids and I bought a bouquet of flowers and vowed to give it to the first woman we saw.

"I hope we'll see someone soon," my oldest daughter, Ruby, said. Pondering her words, I thought how she’s the prankster who put fake cat poop on her teacher's chair, but still the same sweet girl who held our Labrador forever after the vet put our sweet dog to sleep.

After a few minutes, Ruby spotted someone. "Her!” She pointed to a woman.

I pulled up to the curb. Then, carrying the flowers, I ran up to the woman. Was she a nurse? She wore scrubs. And why did she look so sad?

“These are for you!" I finally sputtered, holding the windblown flowers toward her.

The woman's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "Sorry." I smiled, standing up straight. "My kids and I are trying to do a random acts of kindness once a week—every week. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s been good for them. I’m a single mom, just trying to give them good memories. Anyway, we got these special…. These flowers, well, they’re for you."

I held them out to her again, and after a moment her eyes sparkled as she hugged the bouquet so tenderly.

“Well, see ya!"

I turned and sprinted back to the van.  

“She's so happy," Ruby said, and all four of my kids squealed, watching the woman until she walked behind a gray-brick building.

The traffic was terrible, and I swear we waited at the stop sign for longer than Methuselah lived. Then, as we turned, my second-oldest daughter pointed in astonishment. 

"She's a vet. Look! She's on the other side of the building. Holding those flowers."

The woman, still beaming, opened a vet hospital's door and walked inside. My heart stopped as I looked at the vet hospital. We'd been there before, years ago with our beautiful Labrador.

“Mama, now that I think of it, she kind of looks familiar," Ruby said, confirming my thoughts.

I had to blink away the tears because in that moment I realized the woman was the same person who selflessly helped console Ruby the day our Labrador passed away.

She Has Beautiful Eyes

 “She has the most beautiful eyes,” I said about a stranger at the diner. 

“You should tell her,” Candy responded.

“I can’t,” I whispered. “That’s embarassing.”

But Candy ignored my statement. “My friend was just saying the sweetest thing about you.”

The older woman stopped and leaned down.

“I said... you have the most beautiful eyes. In fact, YOU are beautiful.”

The woman’s bottom lip quivered, and she appeared completely dumbfounded while the elderly man, who I assumed was her husband, sat down at another booth.

“I’ve never had anyone tell me I’m beautiful, and I’m in my late 80s,” the woman said.

After the woman took her seat, she was all Candy and I could talk about. “She deserves all the kindness in the world.”

I nodded in agreement. “You know. I wish I would’ve told her right away how beautiful she is. Something so simple, so easily given, brightened her day. I guess today I was just tired.”

“Well, when it mattered, you did make her day better. And I bet it’ll come back around.”

If karma helped anyone, it should’ve come to Candy. But honestly, I don’t know what to believe about things like fate and karma. 

Long after my friend returned to Utah, I remembered her words: “It’ll come back around.” That’s about the time something very strange happened.

I found myself at the same diner, but I sat with Mike this time. We both enjoyed a cup of coffee and laughed about life when someone tapped on my shoulder. The stranger must’ve been in his 80s or 90s, and his eyes twinkled when he spoke. “I have something for you,” he said and handed me a toy from the vending machine. I turned and realized he’d just been stocking the machines at the end of the diner, and although other patrons filled the store, for some reason he picked me. 

“Thank you so much!” I said, opening the plastic container that held a mini-deck of cards.

He went to leave, then turned around slowly. “You know,” he leaned down, “you have beautiful eyes.”

Although Mike dismissed this as coincidence, I couldn’t believe the irony. And even though Mike proceeded to beat me at every card game we played that day, I could not quit smiling.

#ecstilson #randomactofkindness #cardgames #minideckofcards

Watching Olympians Overcome

 Mike and I drove down to Utah, so grateful to have a room at the Hope Lodge. It’s an absolutely gorgeous facility, and we felt extremely lucky to get a room where they have wonderful amenities and even an amazing kitchen area with a fancy coffee maker! Any Huntsman patient who lives over 60 miles from the cancer center can apply for free lodging there, and we lucked out. 

I’ve been nervous to do this because I know there are people who need the help much more than we do and are in much worse situations. I didn’t want to take a room from someone else. “You’re the last on the list for that day,” the receptionist told me. “You’re not taking it from anyone. And you need this just as much as anyone else. I’ve seen your appointments and your diagnosis.” The woman had been given access to my chart to verify my situation and approve my stay. “You’re going through a lot.”

I tried keeping the tears from my voice. “Thank you for saying that. We’re so grateful for the help—we’ll take the room.”

Mike and I checked into the Hope Lodge, and they gave me a gift bag along with the CUTEST stuffed animal. Then we went to the hospital, and I even got to play my violin for fellow patients. 

It was the most wonderful morning, but then things went downhill. 

I met with my main oncologist, and he got so concerned after getting my labs and speaking with me that he actually hospitalized me. 

“But I was supposed to get treatments today,” I said. “And we got a room at the Hope Lodge… Can’t I just stay there tonight and come to the E.R. if things get worse?”

“Elisa, the tumor in your L2 might be pushing on your spinal cord. You need an emergency MRI. I’m sorry. I know this is hard. But if something like that is happening, we’ll need to do surgery to prevent permanent nerve damage.”

My heart clenched, and within a couple of hours, I rested in a hospital bed, waiting for MRI results. “Excuse me?” a night nurse came in. I’d spoke with him earlier, and he said it was a surprisingly slow night. “Do you mind if I ask you something?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. 

“It’s just… You seem like you’re handling things so well. And life can be hard even for people who aren’t fighting cancer.”

I looked at him, wondering what hardship he might be facing. I know most problems aren’t as obvious as terminal cancer, but that doesn’t make other things any easier. Life can be hard. In fact, the hardest thing I’ve ever experienced wasn’t this fight against cancer. It was when my baby died years and years ago. You never know what things other people might be facing—things we can’t readily see.

“How do you cope?” he finally asked. 

“I play the violin,” I said, “and when I first started, I sounded terrible. But no matter what, I told myself that I had to keep going.” I sighed. “Quitting wasn’t an option… So, I guess I cope by looking at my end-goal. I want more time with my family. And no matter how hard any of this might be, I’m fighting for even one more second with them. I remember learning to play the violin, and how incredible it felt when I could finally play.” I took a deep breath. “Even though doctors say this is terminal, at least I know I can look back and say I did my best. I tried. There will be a time when I’ll have to say that I’m done. Cancer won’t ’win,’ but maybe I’ll call it a draw. But until then, I have to tell myself I can’t quit. I just have to keep going. That’s all.”

He nodded. And thank goodness, he seemed somehow heartened even though I was still having a tough time myself. 

“I do have really tough times though,” I admitted, wanting him to know. “I cried earlier. I was supposed to go on a date with my husband tonight. But… after getting hospitalized, I had to take a deep breath and tell myself to find the good things around me. One of the good things tonight is that I got to talk with you.”

He gave me a huge smile, and I hoped that whatever he was facing, he’d find hope somewhere in the mix.

When I did get discharged (thank goodness the tumor isn’t pressing on my spinal cord!), Mike wanted to brighten my day, and he surprised me. “I know we didn’t get to go on a date, but we can coin-flip to see where we can stop by on our way home. Even if you just want to take a nap in a park, we can find something fun.”

“Really?” He always seems to know what’ll get my mind off of things. 

He took out a coin, and we flipped to go East, up toward Park City. So, we went to watch skiers train at the Olympic training area. 

Athletes there put on snow boots, carry skis, and walk up several flights of stairs until they ski off a massive jump that leads right into a swimming pool. Mike and I watched as skier after skier face-planted, bellyflopped, and plummeted into the water. Then, despite being sopping wet, they still climbed up the flights of stairs repeatedly—just for a chance to perfect a flip they could eventually land on a real snowy slope. 

As we watched them, I went from feeling a bit dismal to quite invigorated. If these young athletes can keep going despite epic fails, serious fatigue, and various other hardships… If they can get up over and over just for the hope of getting a gold medal, impressing the world, and making a name for themselves, then I can keep fighting for more time with my family.

The advice I gave that young nurse was the best I had at the time, but I felt it even more after watching the Olympians get up even after they’d failed repeatedly. That’s sometimes how life can feel. It can kick us down and make us want to give up. But no matter what we’re facing, it’s so important to remember how strong we are. We can do this. We can overcome hardships and come out shining on the other side. Even in my situation… Sure I don’t know where my road will lead, BUT the best I can do is keep moving forward. If those Olympians can persevere despite odds stacked against them, then we can keep going too. Like my dad says, “The key to overcoming, is to just keep going. It’s as simple as that.”