Two Choices

Applebee's resounded with the rhythms of upbeat '90s music and the clatter of silverware, a combination that usually filled me with excitement. That night, however, felt different, new... 

Dena had set me up with Jay, a legend on the football field. He was a year older and undeniably handsome. I'd walked in trepidatiously, shocked that Jay—the popular guy—actually seemed interested in me. This was it. My big chance to visit him, the guy who was always kind, no matter where he was or who he spoke with. I'd seen him in the hall and was always impressed by his thoughtfulness toward others.

"I'm just so happy to be here with you, Jay," I gushed, probably a little too enthusiastically.

He took a thoughtful sip of his soda. "Yeah, it's a good spot. I actually brought another girl here last week, and she really liked it too." He grinned to himself. "She was somethin' else. A real ten outta ten."

My jaw… did a freefall. Dena almost choked on her mozzarella stick, and her date, Kevin, stared at his plate as if hoping it could transport him to another universe. 

I let out a nervous laugh. This was, without a doubt, the worst date I'd ever been on.

After dinner, I decided to stick it out; I'd been looking forward to this for two weeks. I'd better give this guy a real chance. 

"What's next?" Kevin asked. 

We all tossed ideas around: a stroll in the park, a movie… We could go get ice cream?

"But not mini-golf," Dena said. "Mini-golf would be bad."

Jay's face contorted. "Sure—change everything for the handicapped guy," he snapped, his voice laced with a bitterness that cut through the cheerful din. "Let's make it boring and easy 'cause Jay's here."

I gasped, wishing I knew how to save the moment. Dena hadn't meant anything bad. This was an inside joke; she didn't like mini-golf because I always won. It had nothing to do with Jay.

Kevin blinked awkwardly before looking at me and Dena. He obviously didn't know what to do either. 

"We were just brainstorming," Dena finally whispered. "I didn't mean anything by it. And that thing about mini-golfing… It's an inside joke." She looked at me.

But her words hung in the air unanswered, and no one else said anything for a while. Jay's disability and his wheelchair suddenly became the elephant in the room, a living presence fueled by his insecurities. No one had given them a second thought until now.

However, as the moment progressed, no matter how much we tried to reassure him, Jay grew angrier and more inconsolable. Hoping to normalize things, I told Jay that the emotions he felt were normal but Dena hadn't meant anything bad. She just hated mini-golfing with me. 

THAT didn't land well, and I must be terrible at defusing things because everything I said made it worse. And so, the evening escalated until we all left, upset and disappointed. But the person I felt the worst for was Jay, not just because of that night but because of the hand life had dealt him.

At home, with my previous eagerness evaporated, a strange mix of sadness and frustration filled my heart. Part of me, the naïve part, wanted to try asking Jay out again, to somehow try helping him heal from the emotional pain consuming him. But the rational part of me knew better. I couldn't help Jay. He'd been in a life-changing accident his senior year of high school… lost his scholarship, his happy-go-lucky attitude, and his ability to walk. He needed to visit with a counselor, and even then, this was probably something anyone in his situation would feel, but I simply couldn't fathom that kind of loss.

Years have passed since that Applebee's date, and I still wonder how he's doing. I suppose one of the reasons this memory resurfaced is due to my dear friend Scott Hancock. Many of you know about him because he wrote for the Island Park News. I'm still shocked by how quickly he passed away. He taught me so much about life, especially when he shared stories about the things he'd been through and done. He accomplished—and learned—so much.

Despite being in a wheelchair, Scott lived every day to the absolute fullest, even retrofitting a motorcycle so he could drive it on the freeway. He once told a story about trying to jump a canal—in his wheelchair—when he was a kid! After getting to know him and hearing that story, I kind of figured it was a perfect analogy for his life; he took things head-on and didn't let people dictate what he was and wasn't capable of. But I think one of the greatest things he taught me is something he learned through experience a long time ago. Life often presents us with two choices: We can dwell on our limitations, or we can find opportunities around us. 

Reflecting on that date with Jay, I feel a great deal of empathy for him. I can't even imagine how hard that must've been. He had his entire future mapped out, so excited to play football in college. He was the most popular guy in school, but I don't think he truly realized why. It wasn't because of how fast he could run or his skills on the football field. He'd been popular because he was kind. People knew he cared. He tutored kids who needed help and offered to give rides to people who didn't have cars. He had a lot more to offer than he probably realized, and that's why I'd wanted to go out with him in the first place. It was just devastating that he momentarily lost that spark, stuck in the very understandable depression of gut-wrenching loss.

I've felt like that sometimes now, like cancer is changing me. I can't walk as far as I could before. I can't even stand very long without hurting. There are a few good hours in each day, and then I'm spent... And when people see how I stand and look at me with pity—I'm embarrassed to admit—I start feeling bad for myself. But then I remember the lesson Scott taught me and hope I'll respond the way that he did. I bet Jay is doing the same, finding the good things that life has to offer. 

Right now, I picture him conquering the world and succeeding at everything he does because if someone like him could find opportunities and a path forward, he would truly be unstoppable. That's how I'm striving to be. Sometimes I don't succeed, but I figure each day is a step forward.

Grandma's Wisdom and Scott's Legacy

One of my grandma's favorite quotes echoed in my mind: "You can do anything you put your mind to." Little did I know how profoundly those words, and the memory of a dear friend, would resonate with me in recent days.

Scott Hancock, a beloved contributor to the Island Park News, touched countless lives with his words and his spirit. So when stomach troubles began plaguing him this past spring, a quiet worry settled over us. That concern quickly turned to devastation a few months later when doctors diagnosed him with cancer.

I stood by his hospital bed one day, searching for words, any words, to offer a glimmer of hope. 

"I've had a good life," he replied to my clumsy attempts at comfort. "But I don't think I should fight this, not at my age anyway." 

Tears welled in my eyes, and I turned, not wanting him or his family to see my grief.

"Elisa," he said, always thinking of others. "I don't want this to affect your journey. You need to keep fighting for Mike and the kids. You're much younger than I am, and I believe in you. You're strong and you can do this. You can beat cancer; I just know it."

"But so can you," I practically whimpered. "People need you," I managed, my voice thick with emotion. "All of us need you."

He offered a sad smile. "It's my time."

Scott passed away a few weeks later.

————

It feels ridiculous to dwell on my own struggles when Scott faced so much worse.... Yet, this month I forgot how lucky I am to still be alive when so many others—much better people than I am—have passed away from this horrific disease. Just last week, instead of feeling grateful that I'm alive, my thoughts shifted to how my capabilities have undeniably changed: Sometimes a profound fatigue will descend and keep me in bed for too many hours each day. I can't walk far without feeling weak and exhausted. I can't even stand for very long anymore....

Luckily, Scott's celebration of life shook me back into reality and ended my self-pity. 

Colleen, Scott's widow, is one of the most amazing you could ever meet, and she did an incredible job setting up Scott's celebration of life. Colleen had asked me to play "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" on my violin, and I was honored beyond words. But on the morning of the event, I didn't feel the greatest, so I rallied my inner strength and prayed for help. Anyway, my body actually hurt less and things seemed better! It's a good thing because Colleen's words that day changed my outlook just as much as Scott's memory did.

"Scott always loved eagles," Colleen shared with the gathering, her voice a testament to her own remarkable strength. "This morning, my neighbors saw a fledgling eagle not too far from where we're gathered right now." A shiver ran down my arm because the timing felt too uncanny, too significant to be mere coincidence.

Then, after speaking about the eagle, Colleen read "The Men That Don't Fit In," a Robert Service poem that Scott cherished. The words visibly impacted the crowd, and several people wiped tears from their eyes.

Colleen then generously opened the microphone to others. "Does anyone else have something they'd like to share about Scott?"

A woman walked to the mic, her chestnut hair swaying as she moved forward. "A long time ago," she began, "my uncle applied to work at a grocery store, but when the owner saw him, he shook his head sadly. 'You can't be in a wheelchair and work as a box boy,' the man said. But Uncle Scott begged for a chance, even offering to work an entire shift for free. So, they reluctantly gave him the opportunity, and at the end of the day, Uncle Scott had finished faster than anyone else!" A smile lit her face as she recalled the story. "The owner called to him, 'Hey! You're hired.' 'No,' Uncle Scott said. 'I just wanted to prove to you that people who are disabled can actually do stuff too.'" She paused, stepping back briefly from the microphone. "That's something he gave me... No matter where we are in life or what we're going through, we can still do things."

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks, and I instantly knew they would positively change my outlook forever,

After that, people continued sharing incredible stories about my friend, but it was the grocery store memory that lingered with me, a powerful example of Scott's last words to me: "You can do this."

A sudden conviction stirred in my heart. What's the point of being alive if I'm not truly living? It's true, there are many things I can't do now, BUT there are a multitude of things that I can do. If Scott, despite his struggles and "limitations," could achieve so much and inspire countless others, then I, too, can pull myself together and strive to be more like him.

Remembering his unwavering belief in me has completely inspired me to reclaim the "I cans" in my life. It's time to shift my focus to capabilities instead of limitations. 

That quote my grandma loved rings truer than ever: "You can do anything you put your mind to." I need to believe that I can. I need to believe that we ALL can.

Proud of Her Independence

 During the late '90s and early 2000s, my grandma filled her Happiness File with things that made her smile (quotes, inspirational ideas, and even advice)—so that even on her toughest days, she'd find something good to focus on. Now that she's gone and I'm fighting cancer, her words have become lifelines from Heaven.

Anyway, the other morning, I gingerly pulled one of the many index cards from the file and quietly read my grandma's words: "Raise children who are self-sufficient and not too dependent on others." This seemed like perfect timing in my life because my 20-year-old, Sky, recently moved to Long Beach, California. Although I've been happy for her, there are days when I feel really sick and I miss just having her comforting presence here.

She's such an extraordinary, fun kid, and when she lived with us, I'd often hear her singing in the basement. Her passion for music is actually what inspired her to move to Long Beach, a perfect place to pursue a singing career. It's been pretty incredible to watch her grow, but now, during the mornings when it would normally just be me and Sky at home, my house is quiet. Lonely. Different...

I pulled up my phone, and tears filled my eyes as I scrolled through pictures of my family. I've been fighting so hard to live, wanting to watch my kids grow up, but now that I'm here—at least with my two oldest children being adults—it's bittersweet.

As I scrolled through pictures the other day, zooming in on Sky's sweet face, her bright blue eyes, and gentle smile captivated me even through the screen. That's when I suddenly heard someone's voice drifting through the house. I strained to listen and realized it was... Sky! Her perfect song echoed around me, soft and emotional, each note a delicate whisper that pulled at my heart.

"Sky?" I got out of bed, entranced by her words. "Sky?" I called, wondering if she'd come to visit.

I followed the voice until it led to where my husband sat at the kitchen table, listening to a video of Sky singing. Tears filled his eyes.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said, wiping his eyes. "Sorry. I thought you were resting."

I shook my head and placed a hand on one of his strong shoulders. "You miss her too," I whispered, watching her sing on his phone's screen. I took a deep breath and sat down next to him. "You know, I was just looking at pictures of the kids, and we must've been thinking the same thing." I paused, and he looked up at me. "When Sky lived at home, listening to her always made the day somehow better."

Mike and I stood after a moment, and we hugged each other so tightly. Not long after that, when Mike went onto the back deck, I called Sky. "I was missing you so much," I said, and then explained how Mike had been listening to one of her songs.

She thought the timing was amazing. "I needed to hear that, Mama. You two give me the courage to believe in myself." She paused, and then I realized she'd begun crying on the other end of the line. "Mama," she said, "thank you for telling me to come out here. I love it—every minute—but I miss you guys so much. Being out on my own, I've realized so much." She took a deep breath. "I hope you guys know how much I appreciate… everything. I'm so proud you're my parents."

"And we're so proud of you." Loving to see her go after her dreams.

When I got off the phone, I thought about how sometimes the hardest things are the most rewarding. Families don't need to fit into a box, and neither does love. We're all just doing what we can to get through this life together, and as long as love is in the forefront, that's what matters the most.