A Bench Named Hope

Every week, I look for the silver linings in life, but some weeks feel exceptionally heavy. The other day, my sixteen-year-old daughter, Indiana, and I sat at an appointment, facing tough truths. My doctors want to change up my treatment regime, starting more intense rounds of immunotherapy, along with introducing chemo, and maybe trying radiation again. On top of that, there are terrifying "what-ifs" hanging in the balance, like a strange little spot in my brain that might be a blood vessel—or could be more cancer. We won’t know until they do more scans. 

I recently had three surgeries within three months, and sometimes this can all feel like too much—the weight of it can be suffocating. 

Anyway, as we finally walked outside toward the valet parking, Indiana did what she always does: She brought the light.

Exhausted, we wanted to sit down, but all of the benches were full except the one behind us where a man sat dead center, his arms spread across the backrest. His posture practically shouted, “Leave me alone.” Yet, Indy gently walked up and enthusiastically asked, “Can we sit by you? Would that be okay?”

He looked up, seeming surprised by her request and maybe even her youth—since it’s mainly adults at the Huntsman Cancer Center. 

After a brief moment, he scooted over and patted the bench. “Sure.”

What followed became a beautiful reminder of human connection. Indy talked with him, and the man explained that he used to be a trucker and absolutely loved his job before cancer changed everything. He didn't offer many details about his diagnosis, and when he asked about mine, I quietly explained that things have recently gotten harder, and I might be starting more grueling treatments soon.

Even without specific details, an unspoken understanding hung in the air between us. We were strangers sharing the same battlefield, resting on the same wooden slats, trying to catch our breath.

When our car arrived, Indy looked at him, smiled brightly, and said that sitting next to him was one of the very best parts of her entire day. I voiced the same.

Then, as I started pushing my walker toward the car, moving much slower than I ever would’ve wished, something nagged at me: I hadn’t even gotten that man’s name! So, I turned around, then rolled all the way back to the bench, and reached out my hand.

“That’s Indy,” I said, nodding to my mini-me, “and I’m Elisa.”

He lit up as if I’ve just offered him the moon instead of a simple handshake, and all the remaining hardness in his demeanor completely dissipated.

“I’m Rob,” he said.

In that brief exchange of names, the heavy worries about health faded away. We weren't just cancer patients anymore; we were simply people in need of connection.

As Indy and I pulled from the curb, we waved to Rob through the window, then drove away. The quiet warmth of that encounter settled into the car, replacing the anxiety that had followed us out of the cancer center’s doors. The terrifying "what-ifs" about my treatment and that tiny, threatening spot in my brain hadn’t vanished, but they no longer felt like a solitary death sentence.

That interaction deeply moved me because despite whatever battle Rob fought, he still made our day so much better. 

He reminded me that even when our bodies are failing, our capacity to offer grace, comfort, and a little bit of hope to another human being remains irrevocably intact.

An Unlikely Philosopher

 In three months I've had three surgeries. This last time (a couple weeks ago) doctors discovered a secondary cancer—radiation-induced osteosarcoma. They successfully removed the tumor, but a few days into my week-long hospital stay, I suddenly couldn’t breathe; I felt dizzy; and I started blacking out. A nurse yelled, “I’m calling it.” The next thing I remember, I laid on a rigid table, looking up into a whirlwind of about twenty different hospital staff. 

They worked feverishly to help and ultimately decided to do a blood transfusion and order several tests, including a highly intensive echocardiogram. The technician came into my room and meticulously adjusted his machine to get the perfect pictures of my heart. But as he worked he offered an unexpected masterclass in human philosophy. He’d immigrated to Israel from China and then from Israel to the United States. “People over here don’t always realize how good they have it,” he said then shared a harrowing story about a childhood friend who, back in the third grade, swam from Korea to escape, barely surviving by clinging to a lone piece of driftwood. “But the human will to fight for life is strong.” From there, he quoted Confucius and Buddha, speaking with deep respect about Muslims, Jews, and Christians, too.

Fascinated by this unlikely conversation, toward the end of the exam I asked, “If you could give me your best advice for my situation, what would it be?”

I expected him offer another quote. Instead, he smiled and told me about his son who loves playing one particular video game.

"He has four chances to beat each level," the man said. "But if he dies all four times, the game ends."

“Are you saying I better make my tries count?” I sighed. “I'm probably on my fourth try for this level.”

"Nope.” He smiled. “I figure you’re on your first one. That’s what I always tell myself anyway—just so I never give up."

He slowly walked from the room, leaving me there to reflect on so much—especially the concept of chances.

Today, I'm still really hurting from surgery, but the lessons I’ve learned along this path are invaluable. My body may often feel like it's faltering, but my spirit is growing that much stronger.

Note: It’s been two weeks since the surgery, and I've been home for the past week. It is so nice to be home.

Another Godwink

 How a Newspaper Clipping Brought Peace Despite Loss

By EC Stilson

In moments of profound loss, some people look for signs—just a hint of hope that makes us feel like our loved ones are at peace. Recently, my youngest daughter, Indy, and I witnessed something that seemed surreal.

The story centers around my dear friend Ralph who just passed away in his 90s. He’s been a close friend and a sort of father figure to me for nearly a decade. Anyway, I felt stunned to hear when doctors gave Ralph a grim prognosis: three to five days left to live. 

Defying the odds, Ralph outlived that timeline by almost doubling it. During those final days, my husband and our children rallied around his bedside, holding his hand, reading books aloud, even playing my violin—simply hoping to bring Ralph some peace.

One of the last days when he was still alive, Lana came to visit. Ralph dearly loved her, and I’ve grown to care about her, too, after meeting her a couple of years ago. But when she sat by Ralph’s hospice bed recently, I had no idea that a massive "Godwink"—a moment of divine coincidence—would happen.

This story actually starts in 2019—about six years before I met Lana. She had a habit of clipping articles out of the newspaper and using them as bookmarks. I guess she’d borrowed a book from Ralph’s library that year, and needing to keep her place, she cut out a newspaper article and slipped it between the book’s pages.

Fast forward to recently, with Ralph nearing the end of his life.  Lana decided to return the book she’d had since 2019. But before placing it back on his bookshelf, she wanted to see which article had been shut inside. That's when she discovered something that left her completely stunned.

The newspaper clipping she’d used as a bookmark was an article titled "A Dream of Eternity," by EC Stilson (me!). Published on Friday, February 1, 2019 (Indy’s birthday!). What’s astounding is that when Lana cut out that specific column, she hadn't even met me! 

Indy and I gaped, watching all of this unfold.

“You must've been having a really hard time when you wrote it,” Lana said, “but then again, it must've touched me because I saved it.”

Several things struck me about that particular article, like it being published on Indy‘s birthday. But the most emotional revelation came when Ralph’s son read the article later.

The piece detailed a heartbreaking, personal loss of mine: the passing of my infant son, Zeke Jackson Morris, who lived from November 18, 2002, to January 30, 2003. In the article, I’d written about the agonizing grief of wanting to know where he was, and if he felt happy and safe in the afterlife. I shared a vivid dream where I walked along a beach at sunset with a tall, healthy man who ultimately revealed his identity: He was Zeke, grown up and okay.

Ralph’s son relayed how much he'd needed to read my story of comfort, heaven, and eternity. I could hardly believe that something I'd experienced and written could've possibly brought him solace and peace as he prepared to say goodbye to his father.

Looking at the clipping, I felt moved to tears myself because although life can often seem like too much, it’s also filled with incredible blessings. I mean, what are the odds that Lana would clip something out of the newspaper that I’d written, long before she ever knew me. Then for it to be published on my daughter's birthday, brought to Ralph’s son at the exact moment he needed to feel peace about the afterlife?

In the face of impending loss, this old piece of paper transformed from a simple bookmark into a beautiful reminder for Ralph's family—and mine—that love, comfort, and connection can truly endure across eternity.

We Became Family

 They say that when someone is dying, the world can shrink down to a single room. For the past week and a half, I’ve felt the truth in those words because a certain room—the living room at Ralph’s house—has felt like my entire world.

It’s an odd feeling, when the vastness of life simplifies to four walls and a hospice bed. Even though I currently have my own physical limitations, still recovering from a major spinal surgery, nothing on earth could’ve prevented me from visiting my dear friend, Ralph, while he’s experiencing such tough times.

Ralph is in his 90s and is easily one of the most brilliant, deeply philosophical people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. In his prime, he worked as a court reporter, but in his free time, when he wasn’t enjoying his time as a father and husband, he loved fishing and discussing the complexities of the universe. 

Now, that’s changed. He can only say a few words, existing mostly in profound silence. And sitting beside him through this struggle, I find myself traveling backward through memories.

I think about the Father’s Days he spent with us, sitting in the best chair, laughing at our terrible jokes. I remember the undeniable warmth he brought to our Thanksgiving table year after year. We never shared a last name or a drop of DNA, but somewhere along the way, the years seamlessly transformed Ralph into an irreplaceable part of our family.

As I sit near his hospital bed, I think back to the sunny afternoon he took my two youngest kids to a soccer field to teach them the art of fly-fishing. He patiently demonstrated how to flick their wrists, sending fishing lines and barbed hooks slicing over the emerald grass. Another time, my son—at eleven years old—confidently tried to read Ralph’s future, predicting that he’d abandon all intellectual pursuits and get a job playing Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. At first, a quizzical look slid onto Ralph’s face before he roared with laughter.

Those memories are pure gold, but I’ve realized that even the present—despite these trying circumstances—is priceless because Ralph somehow manages to make everything brighter for the people around him.

The other afternoon, while Ralph napped in his hospital bed, the neighbors’ dog darted into the house, jumped on Ralph’s legs, and cuddled up to him. This dog is a character, and even though he only has one eye, he sees a lot better than most people do. He doesn’t actually belong to Ralph—but no one has the heart to tell the dog that. And, like a self-appointed guardian, Snuffy loves Ralph more than anyone on earth. So, I smiled at the dog and didn’t move him or put him outside. Instead, I remained sitting in the chair beside them, gently holding Ralph’s frail hand, and wishing Snuffy could comfort him.

Ralph’s son asked if he could take a quick trip to the store, and I said, “Absolutely. Take your time.”

The air felt so still after Ralph’s son left, and before I knew it, a heavy wave of exhaustion washed over me….

I had the strangest dreams then, about trying to save Ralph, hoping to find the fountain of youth. Snuffy was there too, wanting to help. But no matter how much closer we moved toward Ralph, the farther away he seemed to be.

When I finally woke up, the afternoon light had shifted, casting long shadows across the floor. Ralph had woken up, too, and he looked over at me with an expression of such profound kindness and unconditional love that I blinked, wondering if this was another dream.

“Ralph?” I said, smiling at him and then Snuffy. 

He nodded and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow, I’m just like this dog,” I said. “You can’t seem to get rid of either one of us!”

He laughed, a genuine, wheezing sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes and lit up his face with a brilliant smile. But after a moment, the smile faded into a look of intense concentration. He desperately wanted to say something. His lips moved, his brow furrowed, but the words simply wouldn't come. For a man who spent his entire life mastering language and philosophy, I knew this sudden change must be beyond devastating.

Seeing his struggle, I gently squeezed the hand that I still held. “You don’t need to say a word, Ralph. I’m just happy being here with you.”

The tension and frustration drained from his face only to be replaced by a deep, heavy peace that seemed as tangible as the air we breathed. Ralph and I turned our heads and gazed out the window together, watching the leaves rustle in the afternoon breeze. Two squirrels ran by, and a few birds swooped into view, chirping and eating the seeds in a bird feeder.

When I looked back at my friend, he seemed so…happy. I realized that we didn't need words. In that simple room, love was the only language required. After all these years, we’d somehow become family.

The Weight of a Feather: Finding Light in the Trenches

Life has a strange way of shifting gears without warning. One minute, you could be deep in the trenches, fighting health battles or navigating the heavy stress of family issues and future concerns. Then, the next second, a sudden "bright spot" might break through the clouds, changing the entire landscape.

This week, I found myself bracing for the storm. I’ve been dealing with a new tumor in my spine, and the physical pain has compounded with the news that my surgery date has moved up. Looming over everything I felt desperate to keep a tandem event where my youngest daughter would be featured by her art and I’d get to sign books next to her.

We’ve been looking forward to this for months, but with the increased pain and the looming surgery, I didn’t know if I could pull it off. So, I waited a few days before the event to make a decision. Then, the unexpected happened: I started feeling a lot better!

It seemed like a miracle as I helped Indy set up, and we watched for the event to begin. She hugged me so tightly, “Thank you for doing this with me,” she said. “I just know we’ll never forget it.” 

That evening, I watched Indy as she showcased items she’s worked on for months—crocheted scarves, hats, and phone holders. She looked radiant, chatting with friends from school and people who’d heard about her upcoming journey to Italy this August.

When my own booth grew quiet, I’d sneak over to catch a glimpse of Indy. Seeing her thrive, watching her navigate any “obstacle” with grace, has been a gift I didn't know I needed. In the past, I’ve had to cancel numerous engagements because of poor health or hospitalizations. So, being present for Indy’s showcase felt like a hard-won victory.

But the universe had one more surprise waiting. A woman named Ann and her friend, Carol, walked up to my booth. Ann is one of those people who’s unforgettable—shining, exuberant, and full of a life force that felt contagious. Carol seemed trustworthy and kind, the type of friend everyone hopes for but rarely find.

As we talked, Ann said she’s been reading my columns for a while and she brought something to give me. My breath caught as she handed me a “Blessing Feather” because Ann had no idea about the new tumor in my spine. She had no way of knowing about the looming surgery or how scared I’ve been this time around. Usually, I handle surgeries with a bit of stoicism, trying to be tough for my family, but this time….I’ve really been struggling. And just when I needed a miracle, Ann and Carol came my way.

Ann gave me a piece of paper explaining the significance of the gift. It said that in many Native American traditions, birds are believed to be messengers for the Creator, embodying a spirit that is sacred. While the birds vary by tribe, a feather is often given to those fighting illness or cancer as a symbol of spiritual protection, strength, and valor. The note read: “Use this wisely and often for strength, protection, and guidance.”

At the time of writing this, the surgery is tomorrow, and as I look at that beautiful feather, the fear hasn't entirely vanished, but it has changed. I no longer feel like I’m heading into surgery alone. I feel acknowledged, seen by a stranger who became a friend at exactly the right moment.

Life is often a series of grueling battles, but it is also filled with miracles. Not only did I get to witness my daughter shine as an artist, but I remembered that even when we’re fighting hardships, there is still good to be found. I feel so fortunate to still be here, experiencing whatever life has to offer.

Just Within Reach

 We often think of a bucket list as dreams that will happen “someday"—a compilation of things we’ll do when the time, money, and goals align. For me, after doctors diagnosed me with cancer, my bucket list took on a totally new meaning.

Now, I’ve lived almost four years longer than predicted, fighting just to see my kids grow up. My youngest daughter, Indy, recently stopped me in my tracks, explaining that while this battle has been “horrendous” for all of us, even this has changed our family for the better. “We’re all so much closer, and we've worked really hard to make good memories.”

Still, although we’ve done many incredible things together and checked numerous items off my bucket list, two things have felt truly out of reach. One of them is “Number 19: Go Up Slate Mountain Trail Again.”

If you’ve ever been to Slate Mountain, you know its magic isn't immediate. At first, it’s just a bridge and a climb. But as you ascend, the world opens up. At the summit, where the earth drops away into a panoramic expanse, it takes your breath away and renews your sense of wonder.

Over the years, I’ve seen rock chucks, mice, a bobcat, snakes, turkeys, sage hens, deer, and even a moose. And somehow, that trail felt like the backdrop of my life before I got sick: I trained there for a marathon; my husband, children, and I would hike until our lungs burned and our hearts almost burst with happiness; we'd picnic by the water; and I’d bring my violin and fiddle in the meadow.

But I haven’t been able to go back since 2020….

Following multiple surgeries and the physical toll of various treatments, my ability to walk far has diminished. Despite not being able to physically get there, Slate Mountain has filled my dreams. During hours-long scans or radiation, I’ve transported myself there. I’ll imagine sitting by the stream, the cool air on my face as I visit with my family in a world where sickness and death don’t exist. 

So, I wrote two things on my bucket list as a tribute to a version of myself that no longer existed, and they truly felt unattainable:

Number 19: Go Up Slate Mountain Again

Number 20: Grow Old with Mike

Then, time marched on.

Last year, my parents gifted me a mobility scooter. At first, it just seemed like a tool for navigating grocery stores without collapsing. But this spring, as the Idaho air warmed, my family suggested the unthinkable: "Let's try the trail."

I shook my head, not wanting to set us up for failure. But, looking at my son’s hopeful smile, I donned a brave face and suddenly agreed to try.

What followed felt like a dream. My spirit came alive as the wind whipped past me. That scooter actually roared up the trail like a four wheeler, biting into the dirt and bouncing over the rocks. At one point, I actually outpaced my family, and honestly, I felt like…I was flying.

Then, in the quietude, sitting "ahead" of the group and waiting for them to catch up, a flash of color caught my eye. So, I gently stepped off the scooter and edged forward. There, waiting magestically on the path—like an angel!—stood a huge, wild peacock. Its feathers weren’t fanned, but the deep purples and iridescent blues still shone electric against the mountain. Within seconds, the bird cocked its head, a silent acknowledgment of my presence, then it disappeared into the brush.

I don't know the formal symbolism of peacocks, but in that moment, it felt like a breadcrumb from Heaven; the little miracle I needed to remember that our world is sometimes surreal, too beautiful for words.

I recently learned that I need another surgery. It feels daunting and exhausting. If I didn't have children or the dream of seeing their futures—if I didn't have Mike and the "outrageous" bucket list moments we’ve had—I might’ve given up by now. 

But last week taught me something. 

When I crossed “Number 19: Go Up Slate Mountain Again” off my bucket list, the wording struck me. As an editor, I’m usually picky about verbs, yet I hadn't written "’Walk’ Up Slate Mountain,” “Run,” or "Hike." I’d simply written: “Go.” “‘Go’ Up Slate Mountain Again.” I’d been more exact about my goal and less concerned with how we got there. I just wanted to make it happen with my family.

Sometimes we get so caught up in “how” we expect to reach our dreams that we lose the passion we had in the first place. We think that if we can't walk or hike—or run—or be “normal,” attaining our goals must be impossible. But sometimes it’s worth thinking outside of the box.

Sure, I didn't “hike” that mountain, but I still made it—as that peacock is my witness! And as I face this next surgery, I’m holding onto the fact that miracles are around us every day if we just take the time to look. It turns out that when you try and really put yourself out there, the "unattainable" might actually be within reach.

It’s Okay to Ask for Help

Life has a way of changing when we least expect it, whether it’s a divorce, a wedding, a medical diagnosis, or just one of those seasons when everything feels different. Challenges can seem daunting and feel isolating at times. Lately, though, I’ve been reflecting on something my grandma used to say: “Friendships and families are what brighten the world.” I didn’t fully grasp the depth of that as a kid, but going through hardships as an adult has solidified her words for me.

Take my friend, Kara, for instance…. 

We first met years ago while both navigating the aftermath of divorce, trying to find a new life as single mothers. Back then, our therapy was taking long walks together, covering miles while venting about everything under the sun. Those walks became my lifeline. I remember once trying to surprise her with a trip to a “special spot” to lift her spirits. Kara somehow assumed we were headed to a five-star restaurant; she showed up in a gorgeous dress and four-inch sparkly stiletto heels. So, I changed to also dress up, and led her straight to my “favorite spot”—which wasn't a restaurant, but was a fishing pond! 

We spent the afternoon howling with laughter as our heels sank and slipped in one section, but we held each other up, just like we have metaphorically throughout life. The whole thing seemed hilarious, ridiculous, and unconventional, but it’s a memory that still makes both of us smile.

Years later, as I’ve been fighting cancer, Kara has been right here to support me. She even brought me to treatments last week where doctors said I have to get another spinal surgery. 

I could’ve started crying at one point, but Kara, not realizing, said something so silly at that exact moment that I couldn’t help laughing. This reminded me of another lesson: We can sit and wallow—it'd be so easy to give up and let the sadness move in and take up residence—but sometimes you have to actively SEARCH for the light, letting people in when it might be easier to build a wall around your life.

My grandma was right. If you’re going through a hardships, don’t isolate yourself. Maybe it's time to try leaning on your family, reaching out to a friend, or meeting somebody new. I just hope you’ll remember that you don’t have to carry the burden all by yourself. You never know what blessing is waiting. 

Yes, life can be hard, but it's in the darkness when the light can shine the brightest.

Honestly, I’m really nervous about my upcoming surgery, but I’m grateful for the wonderful people in my life. And with them around me and my family, I know we’ll somehow make it through.

The Masks We Wear

We often talk about the "fight" against cancer as a physical one—the nausea and fatigue, the looming shadow of scans, radiation, surgeries, and infusion treatments. But the most exhausting battles are often the ones waged on the spirit.

Recently, while at a low point, I received a phone call that didn’t offer a lifeline but a weight. A woman, driven by a "conviction," decided this was the moment to challenge my conversion to Judaism. She didn’t see my years of study or the peace I’ve found; instead, she saw my honesty about an uncertain future with health and my lack of fortitude.

So, she called and told me my suffering—cancer and other hardships—are a divine consequence, a punishment . She spoke of "outer darkness" while I already sat in the momentary gloom of my mind, just trying to keep my head above water.

The problem is that when we’re hurting, we’re vulnerable to the judgment of those who seem "whole." We look at the person shouting the loudest about their faith or their lifestyle and think, “Wow, maybe this is a punishment? Maybe I DO deserve this because a ‘perfect’ person said I’ve been doing life… ‘wrong’?”

But hours after hanging up the phone, another friend surprised me by coming to drop off a loaf of banana bread. “What’s wrong? You look, even more tired than normal.”

Without giving names, I explained about the morning’s conversation.

“No way!” she said, incensed. “Was it ‘Tiffany’?”

In answer to her question, I didn’t even need to nod because my reddening face must’ve confirmed her suspicions. And suddenly, her spontaneous visit didn’t seem quite so random after all.

“The people who are the quickest to point out the ‘sins’ causing your storms are often drowning in their own,” she said, toasting a slice of bread and passing it to me—in my own home.

Through the course of her words, I felt shocked to hear that our mutual acquaintance—“Tiffany,” the one who judged my soul—was dealing with a crumbling marriage, job loss due to her own need to proselytize at work, and a heavy reliance on medications she’s previously condemned other friends for needing.

My heart hung heavy with a profound, deep sadness because I realized her attack on me wasn't about my soul at all. I think it was about her own need for control.

We all do it in different ways. A lot of times I pretend I’m “brave" so I feel stronger. Some people pretend they have all the answers so they don't have to admit that the world is chaotic, and none of us know what the next second might hold. And then there are others like ‘Tiffany’ who judge the people around them—especially the people they don’t understand. I know she means well; I want to think she’s trying to “save” me because I was raised religious like her, and I remember having those same conversations with people. I’ve since called some of them to apologize. “I didn’t realize how judgmental I sounded,” I whispered to one man. “I wanted to help you, but who was I to assume I knew where G-d would send you in the afterlife? I’m so sorry.”

He laughed. “I always knew you meant well, but I really do appreciate the apology. No one wants to be told they’re going to Hell by anyone—especially someone who isn’t G-d.”

I broke out laughing and nodded.

The truth is, we are all just doing the best we can with what we have. On some days, "the best we can" looks like fighting through a cancer treatment-induced fog. On other days, it looks like hiding behind doctrine because the reality of our chaotic world is too painful to face.

If there is anything ‘Tiffany’s’ judgment and our mutual friend's banana bread taught me, it’s this: We are all carrying invisible burdens. Instead of using our beliefs to build walls or ladders to look down from, we should use them to build bridges. We don’t need to be perfect to be worthy of grace. We just need to be kind. Because at the end of the day, we’re all just trying to get through this life the best we can.

(Names changed to protect the people written about.)

Just one more hand of cards

 Since I’ve been fighting Stage IV cancer, the word "persevere" has taken on new meaning. My body simply can't do the things I literally have dreams about. I wake up reaching for a version of myself that no longer exists, and because my energy is now such a precious resource, I’ve become very intentional about my time.

Thinking about this last week, I reached into my grandmother’s "happiness file" and pulled out a note she’d written: "Keep Going."

The timing felt perfect because I'd woken up with a brief reprieve from pain and fatigue. In fact, for the first time in a long while, I felt like “me.” So, I seized the moment and asked my son, Trey, if he’d spend the afternoon with me.

Trey is almost eighteen. He stands over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a graduation cap and gown waiting to debut in May. He's a man in the making; yet, when I asked for his time, the years practically melted away. His eyes lit with a familiar, boyish spark. He didn't want anything fancy, just to go for a ride and play cards at a restaurant—a ritual from the years before "cancer" became a household word.

My heart clenched when I realized he didn't just want a burger; he longed to relive a piece of his childhood from before I got sick. So, we grabbed my electric seated scooter—a necessary concession since I can’t walk very far—and headed toward a local spot. As we went down the sidewalk, the irony of this moment turned into something beautiful.

In 2020, doctors gave me two years to live. Yet, here we are in 2026. I'm still breathing the afternoon air, sharing salty French fries with my son, and losing spectacularly at Rummy. The weight of that miracle hit me mid-hand. He won the game, but I won the moment.

By the cruel math of my original diagnosis, Trey should've been mourning traditions, visiting a grave, and wishing for just one more hand of cards. Instead, we sat in a noisy restaurant, marveling at the miracle of time.

Cancer has taken my stamina, but it's paid in clarity. As parents, we try giving our kids the world, but what they really want is simply our time.

The Best Moment of Each Day

I’ve told you about my grandma’s “Happiness File,” a priceless, weathered collection of scraps, clippings, and handwritten notes tucked away like buried treasure. Each note holds something thought-provoking, and on my toughest days, they feel like notes from Heaven.

Recently, I pulled a card from the file, and in her familiar, looping handwriting rested three simple words: “Love is patient.”

My mind immediately drifted back twenty years: While frying scones, my grandma said that if love could have two essential ingredients, it should be patience and loyalty.

At the time, "patience" sounded horrendous…like something you needed at the DMV, not for the person you adored. I knew her relationship with my grandpa wasn’t perfect. I’d seen when the car keys went missing or they’d sigh over unfinished chores. But beneath the superficial, their bond wasn't just a fleeting feeling; it’d become rock-solid because no matter how tough or frustrating life could be, they still chose each other, every single day.

Still, as a twenty-something with the attention span of a squirrel drinking espresso, being "patient" felt impossible. "Grandma," I said, dodging a playful swipe of her dish towel, "if G-d gave me any gifts, patience wasn't one of them. I’m more of a ‘let’s get this done yesterday’ kind of girl."

She let out a rich laugh, then leaned in with the best marital advice I’ve ever received: “Elisa,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “the secret to a long marriage is simple: As long as you’re only a jerk one at a time, you’ll be fine. It’s when couples decide to be jerks at the same time that things go bad.”

Looking back, I realize that marriage and real love are nothing like I expected.

There are the high-stakes moments that test the "loyalty" part of Grandma’s equation. I think about the time Mike, our dog, and I hiked in the dead of winter. The world felt like a cathedral of white until—without warning—a sound like a crack of thunder ripped through the air, and a massive frozen waterfall began breaking from the cliffside directly above us.

The sound terrified me like a freight train falling from the sky. As the world splintered with blue ice chunks and white powder exploding everywhere, Mike didn’t hesitate. After pulling us to an overhang, he threw himself over me and our dog, pinning us there and shielding us with his own body. As massive chunks of frozen waterfall shattered against the ground like glass bombs, Mike didn't move an inch. He became the wall between me and the breaking world—and it’s been like that ever since.

Then there are the "patient" moments—the quieter stretches of life: watching our children graduate, navigating the loud, chaotic beauty of a house full of life, or the simple times, sitting together and playing games as a family.

But the true test of Grandma’s wisdom came after doctors diagnosed me with stage 4 cancer. Patience takes on a different hue when you’re sitting in a cold waiting room for the hundredth time. It looks different while navigating the paralyzing fear that precedes brain radiation or numerous surgeries. On days, the pain isn't just physical; it’s an emotional weight that threatens to overwhelm me. And at one point—before brain radiation—I told Mike I was done, ready to quit fighting death and surrender.

But Mike? He didn’t try to fix the situation with empty platitudes, he simply held me, and his patience acted as a buffer against the world once more. When I got too weak to stand, he didn't just offer a hand; he literally carried me. He became the physical manifestation of that "loyalty" and “patience” my grandma spoke about in her kitchen. Quite simply, he is the reason I'm still alive today.

With Valentine’s Day just behind us, I’ve found myself reflecting on my life with Mike. I’ve realized that he doesn’t just show up for the "big" days—the anniversaries, birthdays, or frozen waterfall moments—he’s the one who makes the good times incredible and the bad days somehow better.

Yesterday, the house fell quiet for a rare moment, and the familiar, metallic creak of our screen door echoed through the front room.

"The best part of my day," I told Mike as he walked in, "is hearing that screen door creak open. Because I know you’re finally home."

He didn't say anything at first and just pulled me into a hug so tight I wished he’d never let go. In the silence of that moment, I realized my grandma was right. Marriage does teach you patience, and I've had a front-row seat, watching Mike’s example every single day.

So, this Valentine’s, I thought about how lucky I am, celebrating a man who reminds me that love isn't just a word on a card. It’s the person who selflessly stays and makes life somehow better on the good and bad days too.

Happy sweet 16, Indy

 It's hard to believe she's 16 today, and it feels like just yesterday we were blowing out her first birthday candle. This year, Indy’s wish was bigger than ever—to participate in a foreign exchange program for her next school year.

We are overwhelmed with gratitude for the incredible generosity of everyone who has donated to her GoFundMe or bought a scarf ( myfireflyfashion.com ). Thanks to your support, she is so close to reaching her goal! The other day, she looked at the numbers and was moved to tears by the kindness and generosity of so many incredible people. You are truly making her dream a reality, and it means the world to her—and to us.

We can't wait to share more details about her trip soon! She has a big event with Rotary this upcoming weekend where we'll get more information. Stay tuned for updates on where she's headed – she is beyond excited!

Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for making this extraordinary opportunity possible.

If you’d like more information, you can find her GoFundMe here: 

https://gofund.me/8c20da640

#Sweet16 #ForeignExchange  #DreamsComeTrue #GratefulHeart #MakingADifference #ecstilson 

Life is Bittersweet

Last Friday marked the solemn anniversary of my first son’s passing, and that made me think of something. In my family, late January/early February always felt special because my mom’s birthday and mine are just five days apart. Growing up, those days in between became extraordinary times to celebrate, ending with my own birthday on Groundhog Day. For a long time, this represented the happiest moments of my life.

But in 2003, everything shattered. On January 30th, I had to take my son off of life support. He died in my arms—an experience so harrowing that it redefined my entire world. His viewing fell on my birthday, followed the next day by his funeral.

 

I truly believed my birthday would always be a horrific reminder, and for years I didn’t feel like celebrating, instead re-experiencing that trauma and bracing for impact every time Groundhog Day rolled around.

 

But life has a strange, magical way of turning the soil when we least expect it. Years later, I got pregnant with my last baby. She made her grand entrance on February 1st—thirty minutes before my birthday.

 

My mom remarked on how incredible the timing was. Within that tiny window between her birthday and mine, the universe had tucked both the date of my son’s death and the date of my daughter’s birth.

I'll never forget sitting in that hospital bed the day after Indy was born. Nurses walked in with a cake and sang “Happy Birthday” while I held my precious newborn baby—and the moment took my breath away.

The very day once a monument to grief had now been reclaimed by new life.

People often say that time heals, but although time doesn't take the loss away, it does change things. When I look back now, the sharp, jagged edges of loss have softened. I don’t just remember the sorrow of my son's death; I remember the warmth of holding him…and the love.

 

So, last week, on the sobering anniversary of when he died, I fully realized that, yes, life is filled with both shadows and light, but if you are in a dark season, it's worth it to hold on because you never know what miracle could be right around the corner if you have the courage to just keep moving forward.

An Anchor in the Storm

 Feeling so sick today, it was difficult even getting to my cancer treatments. In the middle of the drive from Idaho to Utah, I remembered something my grandma used to say about the importance of remaining anchored—finding a firm foundation to avoid being buffeted by the winds of life. For a long time, I understood that only intellectually, but today a memory brought her words into sharp focus.

I remember being on a small boat far out in open water. The captain desperately hoped that we'd see something spectacular, but the wind surged, unforgiving. Every time he tried to stop, the current and gusts ripped us away from the spot. I watched him struggle at the helm, growing exhausted and frustrated. Finally, peering at the white caps, he exhaled and decided it would be easier to head toward a buoy where he could tie off.

The moment he secured the line, everything changed. He finally relaxed, opened a beer, and looked out over the ocean, happy and content. That’s exactly when it happened. In that stillness, we spotted a flash of silver—a school of fish—and then the magnificent breach of a whale.

Looking back, I realize that beauty only revealed itself once we stopped fighting the waves. I thought about that boat before treatments—and after—while snuggling into Mike’s arms as we watched TV. He is my buoy—the anchor that holds me steady through the swells of life.

I don’t think my family always realizes how much they do, just by being there, but my grandmother was right: with a firm foundation, we can endure so much more than we ever could alone. When the world feels like a gale-force wind threatening to pull me out to sea, my family and friends help hold the line.

The Fiddle, the Five-Year Fight, and Jack’s Brother

I heard a song again today that’s soul-crushingly bad. It’s one of those bar anthems with a melody so repetitive it feels like a brain glitch. As someone who’s picked out tunes on the violin and piano since I was a kid, my head already feels like an overcrowded apartment of melodies—and I don’t have the mental real estate for a song this annoying.

But music has a mind of its own. It dragged me back over a decade, right into the middle of a smoky room with a band called Jack’s Brother. Here’s the kicker: The lead guitarist WAS the brother, but I didn’t meet Jack for years!

Anyway, playing gigs in a bar felt like total culture shock because, being raised religious, I practically expected a lightning bolt to hit my Bud Light. I used to fiddle, watch the crowd, and wonder, “Why are these people here?” But I was no different. “Why was ‘I’ there?”

My kids had visited my ex for the weekend, and I reached a "dangerously productive" phase of loneliness, baking enough loaves of bread to feed a small village. I even remember sitting in front of a computer, singing holiday songs in a thick Boston accent—just to pass the time. That seemed like an all-time low!

So, I joined a band. Why not get paid to sing and play the violin? Plus, quite frankly, I needed the cash.

But, looking back, I didn’t realize this would turn into more than just "fiddling" for groceries.  In fact, so much of my past looks different since I’ve been fighting for my life, trying to keep the cancer at bay. It’s been incredibly difficult. And let me tell you, cancer is an unwanted guest that has overstayed. It’s been exhausting, grueling, and…zero stars—would not recommend.

But here's where life gets ironic: Two of the people from that band have become my godsends through this journey. A decade ago, I thought they were just my "bar friends." Now, they’re like guardian angels. I saw them a couple of weeks ago, and my family and I gave them hugs so tight because they haven't just looked out for me; they've been heroes to my family.

It’s hilarious, really. I went into a bar looking for a paycheck and a distraction from my baking addiction, and I walked out with some of the key people who'd eventually help carry me through a five-year war.

My grandma used to say everything works out in the end. Looking at these "strange links" from my past, I realize she was right. Life does have a funny way of planting the seeds for your survival long before you know you're in a fight. So, listening to that terribly nostalgic melody the other day, I decided it turns out, that song isn't so awful after all.

The Harvest of Joy: Choosing to Breathe When the Air is Thin

A friend of mine, currently in the thick of his own battle with cancer, said something recently that gave me pause. We sat in a heavy silence that often follows a round of hard truths, when he confessed his belief that we are each allotted a certain, finite amount of happiness in this life.

With a hollow sort of nostalgia, he described a day from his past—a day so perfectly saturated with light and ease—that he knew he’d never reach that peak again. Now, two years into his grueling diagnosis, my friend remains convinced he’s drained his “happiness account.” 

“The best is behind me,” he said. “I’ve used up my share, and now it’s time to let go.”

I balked because to someone like me, who’s been fighting stage four cancer since 2020, his words felt like lead. They held the heavy kind of pain medicine can’t touch. I looked at him and felt a desperate need to challenge his theory. So, I told him that joy and contentment are not like money in a bank; they aren’t finite resources we spend until the vault is empty.

Joy is more like air. We have to open up and accept it into our lives.

However, there is a vital distinction to be made between happiness and joy. Happiness comes and goes—often based on our reactions to circumstances. But joy? Joy requires perseverance. It is a deliberate choice, a practiced way of living that persists even when the "happiness" of our situation has evaporated.

My life has changed drastically since 2020. I am nearly always exhausted. The version of me that could sit at a desk for hours and write is gone for now. I’ve had to pivot, learning to navigate in a world that feels increasingly out of reach. I use talk-to-text now, and I rely on apps to read to me when I am too weak to even sit upright. These are different kinds of wins than the ones I used to celebrate, but they are wins nonetheless. They are the small, stubborn fires I light to keep the dark at bay.

My friend studied me after hearing this speech, his eyes searching mine. “You’ve been doing this for five years,” he asked. “How do YOU still find joy?”

I stayed quiet for a moment, then thought of my grandmother. She used to say that perseverance wasn’t just a personality trait; it was a virtue—a muscle you build through the sheer repetition of not giving up.

“It is getting harder,” I admitted. I didn’t want to give him a platitude. The longer this lasts, the more pieces of myself I seem to lose. It is aggravating, depressing, and sometimes profoundly lonely. Just last month, a dear friend of mine chose to stop her treatments. Her departure nearly broke me. Yet, even in the wreckage of that loss, there was a sliver of light. It wasn’t in her death, but in the immense privilege of having known her at all. I found a strange, grounding strength in her example—the courage it took for her to know exactly when it was time to stop.

I looked at my friend, leaning into the reality of my own timeline. “The doctors gave me two years to live back in 2020,” I said. “It’s 2026 now. I am living on borrowed time, in the 'extra' chapters of my book. If I don’t find the joy in these bonus days, wouldn’t they just be a waste?”

He nodded slowly, and in that moment, I realized that talking to him had woken me up from my own creeping slump of self-pity. We aren’t owed a single breath, let alone a perfect day. But what tips the scales in our favor is the fact that we are allowed as much joy as we can harvest, regardless of our situation.