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.”

Making a Difference for the People We Love

 When I was younger, I’d wonder if my life truly mattered, but then I’d stop worrying and think, “I still have time. Maybe I’ll do something to make my family proud next year. Then my life will matter.” Although my husband and kids have been proud over various accomplishments, it never seemed to be enough for me. My brother is a mechanical engineer who’s even worked at Harvard. My sister is a chemist. My parents are both equally impressive, and I… Well, I’m not. The greatest thing I’ve done is simply raise my kids and try being kind to the people around me. That doesn’t look amazing on a resume though, and searching for significance, it seemed subpar—especially after doctors told me I’d die from cancer.

Now the cancer is getting even worse in my spine, and (to fight it) we’ll start a new treatment regime on July 25. This specific regime put me into liver failure before, and it would be easy to feel scared and think death is looming closer. What if I go into liver failure again, but this time I die? These are real possibilities, and they can happen far too quickly. Just because I try to see the good, that doesn’t mean there aren’t hard days. Sometimes CHOOSING joy takes work.

“Mike?” I asked my husband. “You’ve done so many incredible things in your life. Are there ever times when even you wonder if your life has mattered?”

He appeared surprised. “I haven’t done so many incredible things.” He chuckled and smiled at me with so much love. “Only you and the kids think that.” Then my humble man paused, deep in thought. “I bet almost everyone questions if they’ve mattered—at least at one time or another—but I think a better thing to ask is if you’ve made a difference for the people around you.” He stopped what he’d been doing and wrapped his arms around me. “You matter to me. You matter to the kids. Elisa, you matter so much more than you might realize.”

“Mike, you’re the most wonderful man.” And I stayed in his arms for the longest time just hoping he knows how much I appreciate everything about him.

The next day, I cried pretty hard and told myself I’m somehow strong enough for all this crap. G-d doesn’t give us what we can’t handle, so G-d must think I’m a bad*ass. I was in the middle of this ugly-cry fest when my phone rang, and it was one of the two people I what to make really proud: my dad!

“Elisa,” he said, “I got a book at a lending library. I’ve been reading it every day, little by little. It’s pretty hilarious—about medical humor.” He described a couple of stories in the anthology and broke out laughing at one point. “Anyway, I turned the page today, and there you were! A story by ‘EC Stilson.’ I didn’t know you were published in a book like this.”

My dad lives in Arizona, and both of us could hardly believe this turn of events. “I was so shocked. I had to call your mom into the room. It shows what a small world we live in. There you are in Idaho, and I found a book you’re in all the way in Arizona.” 

“And the publishing company is owned by a man from Japan!” We laughed because it really was from around the world.

Then my stoic dad, who rarely talks about his emotions, actually told me how proud he is of my writing AND how I’ve handled cancer. He got a little choked up at that point, saying how grateful he is for the memories we have together and that he always feels so loved when I’m around. That final part meant more than anything else he could’ve said.

My outlook seems so different now that we had this conversation that I’ve needed since I was a little girl: My dad is actually proud… But more than that, I make him feel valued and loved. I make my dad feel like a better person when I’m around. That is a pretty astounding compliment. Mike was right, asking if we’ve made a difference for the people around us is a good question—something I want to start asking myself each day. That makes me feel like I have mattered because I matter to the people I love the most.

(Pic above: Me and my dad)

Who knew an anthology I got published in over a decade ago would help facilitate a talk I’ve needed my whole life. It really put things in perspective and helped me remember why I’ve been fighting so hard to stay alive in the first place. It is strange how our lives end up and how experiences come around one way or another. 

Doctors never expected me to live this long, but I’m so grateful to still be here. I can’t imagine missing out on all of these incredible moments, like this life-changing conversation I had with my dad. Somehow I think maybe he needed it too.

A Lesson in Trust

Mike doesn't believe in G-d, and rather than let our differing beliefs tear us apart, they've knit us closer together. We discuss various religions and debate how people find faith through hardship. I have told him, though, how ironic his atheism is; after all, he's the greatest example of G-d's love in MY life. And oddly, I think my current plight has made Mike want to believe in the randomness of the universe even more.

Despite how opposite our beliefs may be, Mike has admitted that I do have some pretty strange things happen to me, and today was not an exception.

A couple of days ago, I told my mom a story my rabbi once shared. "A pauper wanted to marry a princess," I said, "but the king needed to know if this would-be suitor was even worthy, so he sent him on a quest. 'Find the one thing that can make a rich man weep with sadness and a poor man cry tears of joy.' The pauper searched for years but finally returned empty handed and dejected. It wasn't until he stood at the castle gates that he found the answer. A beggar gave him a ring with the words..." My voice faltered. And at this point in the story—as I relayed this entire thing to my mom, my mind froze, and I completely forgot the words that were written on the ring! We broke out laughing—and Mike chuckled in the other room because, apparently, he'd been listening too.

No matter how much I racked my brain, I couldn’t remember the riddle’s answer. I thought about it during dinner last night and then today as I thought about the word trust. I’ve been really trying to fully place trust in G-d, believing that there’s a reason for everything. But trust is a terribly hard word to understand AND it’s even tougher to put into action. I’d just been thinking about all of this when Mike bounded into the house, looking like an energetic golden Lab—the best of humanity. “You got some mail!” he beamed. And after I opened the package, we both literally sat dumbstruck. 

“You’ve had some bizarre things happen,” he said. “But this is up there.”

“Does it make you believe in G-d?” I asked. 

“No… But I have to admit that sometimes weird things do go on. And I can’t explain why.”

I don’t need to change Mike’s mind. G-d knows I’m the last person who should be judging anyone. I’m currently in the process of converting to Judaism, and some people aren’t the happiest about that. But “vivre et laisser vivre,” right? At least one would hope. I’m tired of being judged, so I don’t want to inflict my own beliefs on anyone else. I’m simply curious.

Anyway, I held up a card that had accompanied the package we received in the mail. Then I read the words to Mike:

In times of uncertainty, remember the wisdom of King Solomon, whose ring bore the timeless letters of “This too shall pass.” Life's journey often leads us through unexpected twists and turns. Trust that in whatever place you find yourself, you are meant to be. Know that every step has a purpose. For only when it's dark can you see the stars shine. Let this ring be a gentle reminder. You may not feel in control over your life, but you are deeply loved by the One who is.

Engraved on the ring in both Hebrew and English it reads: THIS TOO SHALL PASS—the exact words from the ring in the story that I just told my mom. Not only does this feel like a godwink, but it seems like a beautiful reminder that G-d has a plan for each and every one of us. The reason this could make a rich man weep is because riches don’t last. But the poor man would cry tears of joy knowing that “this too shall pass.” Not even hardships can last forever, and that’s a pretty powerful thing to remember when life feels at its worst.

Maybe my fight against cancer is a lesson in trust, but I feel like G-d might be telling me that everything will be okay—one way or another. Whether I do die from melanoma (like doctors keep saying) or if I miraculously beat this, at least I feel like G-d will be by me each step of the way. The good, the “bad,” it’ll all be all right because somehow there really is a plan—for all of us.

(The ring is from TheHonestJewelerShop.com (Honest Jeweler) if you want to see a picture of it.)

It's Not Over Yet

 When someone faces hardships, we assume 100% of people will be kind. Unfortunately, this isn't the case. While 99.999% of people might be compassionate and helpful, a few insensitive things are often said. I learned this when my baby died at Primary Children's Hospital in 2003. We had to take him off of life support, and it was the most horrific moment of my life. Much harder than my battle against cancer, tougher than getting a divorce or being in an abusive relationship, having a child die was hellacious. 

Yet, after his funeral, a woman came over and said, "He would still be here if you'd had more faith." My sister even received an anonymous letter detailing how my baby was born with defects because someone in our family had "sinned." I don't think people always intend for these things to be hurtful. In fact, they're often searching for answers themselves. None of us truly know what happens after we die. It's one of the ultimate mysteries which can mystify and terrify people. I think this is why I lost a couple of friends; they simply don't like facing death at all, let alone personally knowing someone who's fighting it.

In 2020, after oncologists diagnosed me with terminal cancer, my first thoughts weren't even about my own death. They were fears regarding telling my children, husband, and other family members about this diagnosis. I didn't want my children to encounter such hardship at such young ages, and I didn't want to disappoint my parents and siblings. For such a long time, I hoped for perfection. I know I'm deeply flawed, but at least I can try to improve. But having cancer... that's not something to just brush under a rug. If I told my family, they would know beyond a doubt that something was wrong with me. I'd gotten burned too many times. I'd gone fake tanning when I shouldn't have. I'd made innumerable mistakes. And it wasn't just that, but I've been through enough terrible things to know that .001% of people might make insensitive comments to me AND my family. And sure enough, they have. I've had people tell us once again that this happened because of sins. Or if we just had a little bit more faith... If I could be more positive. If I could eat better. If I could trust in: Medicine... G-d... Black Salve... Mushroom Tea... Ivermectine. The list goes on.

I've explained before how tired I've become, especially since the cancer in my L2 is growing and the pain often makes it hard to sleep. Although my oncologist and care team have come up with an incredible new treatment plan, it does feel like a Herculean task to keep going to get treatments.

Anyway, I was just about to go to sleep the other night when I couldn't stop the cycle of sad thoughts. I thought about my plight and what it's done to my loved ones. All of it crashed around me: just too much. After a while of this, I must've really worn myself out because, by some miracle, I actually fell asleep. That's when I ended up having the most bizarre dream.

A man came and said he needed to talk with me. Surprisingly, he looked strikingly like my 16-year-old son, Trey! 

He stood tall and so strong. His short hair framed his face perfectly, and I couldn't get over how handsome he was. I studied his features. He must've been about 21, yet he held the wisdom of ages in those piercing blue eyes. He finally turned to me, showing compassion with every movement, and he said, "You can't go. You're not done."

"Not done with what?" I rebuffed.

"You're not done with what you need to do," he responded, and at that exact moment, I knew he was my little baby who died over 21 years ago. 

When I woke up, I felt so much stronger, with a firm resolve to keep fighting. I told my second-oldest daughter about this when she came over to visit: "I don't know what the heck I'm supposed to do, Sky."

"You know, Mom," she said, "even just being here for us kids, that's enough."

Tears filled my eyes because she was completely right. "That really is," I said. "That is enough." Sometimes just putting one foot in front of the other... Sometimes, the fact that we're even trying... That. Is. Enough. Showing my loved ones how much I care about them is the most important thing I can do with my time now. THAT is my biggest dream, that they'll all know how much I love—and believe in—them.

I've written before about the word accomplished. You know when you see someone who's extremely impressive and people will say, "They're so accomplished." Well, I decided to look up the etymology of the word "accomplished." It originally described a person who simply does what they say they'll do. This could be big or small. But the point is that they finish. So that's what I'm looking at today. Instead of shooting for the stars, I'm happy to be taking steps at all, to continue getting treatments like I promised my husband and our children. I might not be the most impressive person who's done mindboggling things like walking on the moon, but I can say I do what I say I will, and I try. In that sense, maybe I am accomplished, and that feels pretty great.

The funny thing is that not long after this, as my mom and I took out a sack of garbage, we spotted a laminated egg-shaped card in some weeds. My mom picked it up, and her face lit up. "Elisa, this must be for you." Then she read the words aloud. "Find your dream. It's the pursuit of the dream that heals you." She smiled so big. "I guess it's a quote from someone named Billy Mills."

I took the card, and after displaying it in my kitchen, I thought about how I need to throw out the terrible thoughts I've kept filed away in my mind. It's time to stay strong for my loved ones and myself too. My baby said it's not my time to go. So I better keep fighting. It's like a quote my dad loves: "It's not over 'til it's over." So I better enjoy every second of life that I can. We all should.

The Good Outweighs the Bad

I keep saying that sometimes our problems aren’t as obvious as terminal cancer. Whether you’re getting a divorce, trying to find a job, or struggling with situations in general, life can be tough. I’ve had so many surreal experiences that I honestly try to be empathetic to everyone. You just never know what people might be experiencing—whether they appear to be having a hard time or not.

Most people assume that since I’m fighting cancer, the worst aspect must be the pain, but I have to admit that the emotional parts have been much harder for me. 

It’s just tough knowing that my kids and husband are stuck in this hardship with me. There are times when I’ve thought I “deserve” this, but my family definitely does not. And even though I wish I could shield them from every pain, I can’t this time.

Just last week, Indy bounded into the front room where I rested on the couch. “You’re not feeling good?” she asked.

“Today isn’t my favorite day. But that’s all right,” I said. “The bad days are what make—”

“The good days shine!” She beamed, finishing the sentence for me.

“Do I really say that so much? You knew what I was gonna say?”

She nodded. “Mama, you know our special spot? By the second water fall?”

We live close to the Portneuf River where locals have hung a rope swing and nailed boards to a tree so kids can climb up high before swinging into the river. It’s the sort of place I dreamed of as a child, and I love that my kids go there often to swim. Long before I got sick, I’d go with them. 

We loved crossing a group of rocks that go to a tiny island where the kids have found lizards and other fun creatures. On the other side of the island are two waterfalls that not many people know about. It’s such a magical place. Water rushes from one waterfall then pools over a large flat rock that all of us liked sitting on. We’d dangle our legs off the second waterfall, and that’s where we’d talk about life. 

When Sky was younger, I remember sitting there when she finally shared certain struggles. I talked there once with Trey, and he told me about a girl he liked. And I’ve had incredible moments with Ruby and Indy too; all of these times make the river special to us.

“Can we go there? To the second waterfall?” Indy asked.

It suddenly felt hard to breathe. Although I have been there after my diagnosis, things have changed even since then, and I don’t think I can make it over the rocks anymore. “Sweetheart,” I whispered, and I dreaded each word. “I don’t think I can make it.” Sadness pooled in her eyes, and I tried not crumpling right there. 

We’ve done so many things to try making new memories: like shopping sprees at the dollar store. We’ve bought dollar makeup products and given each other facials and makeovers. Once I even did Indy’s makeup to look like Joey King—her very favorite movie star from “The Kissing Booth” and “Bullet Train.” We posted the makeover video online and wrote “Joey King” in the description, wondering if the actress would ever see it! We’ve crafted and painted. We’ve cooked and played music together. But we can’t hide the fact that things ARE different. I can’t visit the second waterfall, and it hit me that the hardest thing for Indy to accept is not that I can’t go but the “why” behind it… the fact that I still have cancer and it’s not getting better. Unfortunately, last week, we found out that it’s getting a little worse.

“Are you doing okay?” I asked. 

“It’s just… Mama,” she said, “sometimes I get scared.”

“So do I,” I replied, and then I gave her a big, long hug. “But everything will work out,” I said. “And we’ll think of something neat to do. I promise.”

The next evening, Mike sent me a text, “You won’t believe what Indy just got in our P.O. Box.”

“What?” I wrote back. 

Moments later, he sent me a picture of a box he’d just picked up from the post office, a box from Joey King. After seeing the picture, I felt so surprised that I almost dropped my phone!

Not long after, I nearly cried as Indy opened the box. She appeared completely flabbergasted, reading a card from her favorite movie star. “My makeup artist, Allan,” Indy read, “was kind enough to send along some of his favorite products.” She pulled the lid from a box and found numerous makeup products. “Mama, can you believe this is real?!” There were so many other things as well: blankets (for movie nights) books (to read together)! Joey’s mom even sent a hot pack for me—something that helped her during her own battle against cancer.

“So many of these things are activities we can do together!” I said, becoming even more amazed. I didn’t feel quite so bad about the second waterfall anymore.

“This is some sort of miracle,” Indy said. I could hardly believe that Joey King had watched the video of Indy’s makeover. (To put this in perspective, she has over 18 million followers on Instagram alone.) Not only had she seen it, but to show such generosity of spirit… and even the timing of everything. Now we have so many things to do together… so many new memories to make—just in time. 

“Mama, she must be the nicest person.”

“I totally agree.”

“And you know what, I realize what you meant now,” Indy said. “The good really does outweigh the bad. What Joey did will stay with me for the rest of my life because I learned that miracles DO happen.” And as we each snuggled into our new blankets and prepared to watch a movie featuring Indy’s favorite star, I had to admit that I totally agreed; Miracles do happen. I got the best kids in the whole world.

Having a Terminal Illness Really Is Like Fighting in a War…

 Who knew cancer could unite so many people? I’ve been open about my fears and even peace with it all, and what’s happened in return is astounding.

I’ve met cancer survivors and those still battling. We’ve forged unbreakable bonds. I’ve seen people miraculously healed, and I’ve also met people who have since died—but luckily I remain close to their surviving relatives. I wrote about my doubts with religion and discovered I wasn’t alone. And after two decades of feeling like a “bad” person because of doubts, peace came by meeting likeminded people. That’s what cancer has taught me: I’ve never really been alone . Even when I thought I was... family and friends stayed. G-d was ALWAYS there, too.

I’ve received good AND hard news since this journey started. Just when I’m starting to win, there might be a sobering setback that momentarily buckles my knees.

…I didn’t want to say how tough life is but rather how beautiful love and support can be. Laying everything bare, although terrifying, is liberating. I thought people might shun me for some of the things I’ve shared, but instead, people have selflessly shown kindness—and acceptance.

I guess the point is that no one knows what the future holds or if we’ll even wake up tomorrow. And that uncertainty can be scary. But when we have the love and support of each other, life is so much easier. If you’ve read my posts, you know I’m more flawed than most, but the fact that people have accepted me regardless is one of the greatest gifts of my life. (I’m so grateful to see it while I’m still alive, and I wish EVERYONE could experience this.)

It’s cliche, but fighting cancer really is a battle; and I guess war isn’t meant to be easy. I asked for God to refine me in 2020, ten months before my cancer diagnosis. And here I am, still struggling. But when cancer takes hold, it can be hard to shake, so I’m handling what I can personally control: trying to be the best version of myself. But apparently—for me—refinement is gonna take a LOT more time! 😅

Note: *This text is from shortly after my diagnosis. I’m so glad I read it today. I needed that reminder to be strong.

*This picture is from April of 2024.

We Better Make the Most of It

We really can grow complacent when given enough time… In fact, I've been sick for so long—since 2020—that my family and I have almost grown accustomed to it. This is both good and bad. Sure, doctors say I have terminal cancer, but I'm still here... alive, living much longer than expected. This has given us such a false sense of security. I've even thought, "Maybe I'll get better. Maybe I will actually beat this." But then, with a poor twist of fate, we can be shocked back into reality, plunged into the truth that this is how I will die. Unfortunately, that's what happened this past weekend.

It's normal for me to get fevers, feel nauseous, and struggle to keep food down, but for a fever to persist for hours upon hours, well, that's abnormal. Mike rushed me to the hospital, where they appeared stunned that I hadn't passed out.

"60 over 40," the nurse said, removing the blood pressure cuff. 

"Also, your white blood cell count is well below what it should be," the doctor added, looking from me to the nurse. "This could be for many different reasons, but we need to run some tests."

So, I got hospitalized for days after that. I met a plethora of new people and felt amazed by the kind medical staff and fellow patients. I even got to have art time with a volunteer who travels from room to room, just brightening people's days with paper, glue, and some rocks.

But after a couple of days without answers, home sounded like Heaven. I consequently fixed my makeup and hair before donning a fresh pair of clothes. "Hey," I said to the nurses as I sauntered past their communal desk. Surely they'd realize that I could be discharged. Look how capable I was!

"Isn't she a fall risk?" a nurse whispered just loud enough that I could hear her. Then I was escorted back to my room!

"We've discovered why you're fevering," a doctor said to me moments after I'd been forced back into the hospital bed. "We also know why you're experiencing such extreme pain and why your white blood cell count is so low."

"Why?" I could hardly breathe. This felt too reminiscent of years before when a spinal surgeon actually stood in that same spot—ironically in that exact room—announcing that I only had two years to live.

"The cancer in your lower spine is growing, and I'd say it's significant." She paused, letting the words sink in. "Your oncologist will most likely recommend radiation again, and we'll need to change your cancer infusions because your current regime isn't working. You know this is terminal?"

I nodded. "Yes. That's what I've been told." And then all hope momentarily left me.

The point is that there's no reason to get upset after so much time. Doctors have said this is terminal. They've claimed that the cancer will continue growing until I die. But it's also true that I've lived a year and a half longer than expected. It's amazing that I'm still here to enjoy my husband and my children. THAT feels like a major win. 

It might sound silly, but after the doctor left my room, I imagined myself standing in a grave. As someone dumped dirt on me, I could either stay in the hole, motionless, getting covered and accepting death, or I could step on the dirt as it got poured in, until the ground level grew higher and higher. I could rise above: Even now, I MUST find the good.

"You want to go home?" the doctor returned to my room, looking worried.

"Yes," I said. "I would love that more than anything. I just want to hug my kids and my husband."

After leaving the room, I held my Mary Poppins bag tightly to my chest and prepared to leave the hospital with the help of an aide. A couple stood beside us. They complained about having to visit the cancer center once a year. The man is in remission, but they still need to do yearly checks, and they hate coming back because of bad memories. I didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't help it. They were right next to me.

The elevator took forever, so I finally turned to the two of them. "How are you guys doing?" I asked, trying to brighten their day... somehow.

"Quite frankly, terrible," the woman said. "I don't know if you'd even understand."

She looked me up and down, and I knew the lady assumed I hadn't a care in the world. My makeup probably shone, and my clothes looked fresh despite my recent discharge from an inpatient room. Unfortunately, my insides don't match my outsides. I might look normal and happy, but cancer threatens my brain and is eating away at my spine. It doesn't care that I'm 41. It doesn't worry about how young my kids are or that all I want is to see my children grow up. Cancer is the worst of enemies: a sociopath. 

"How is... your day?" the man asked, somewhat hiding behind his wife.

"Well," I forced myself to find the good—to rise above, "today has to be the best day ever. I just found out that the cancer in my spine is growing, BUT I also got discharged from the hospital. I get to see my husband and children again. I get to live another day, even though doctors are saying I'll die from this. I better make the most of RIGHT now. I'm just the luckiest, and I better enjoy today."

I don't know why, but their resolve totally cracked. Tears brimmed the woman's eyes, and the man nodded. "You're totally right." The woman studied me differently then, with understanding and kindness. She must've finally realized I was fighting too.

So, the aide helped me out. And although I left the hospital with devastating news, I felt a burgeoning resolve to enjoy every single second that I can. Tonight I keep wondering about the couple though. I hope they'll get good news despite how scary returning to the cancer center must be. But I also hope they'll enjoy whatever time they can.

This is simply a reminder that I really am lucky to be alive. I better make the most of my time. We all should.