The Joy of Existing

The day started in a fog of self-pity, a state amplified by my husband being out of town. Every small, daily task felt monumental, so going to the courthouse (to visit the passport office) seemed completely unfathomable. But I needed to go, and as I walked into the building, the pain from my spine reared to life.

Beep! Beep! I stepped through the metal detector repeatedly to no avail. Frustrated, a woman came out from behind the bullet-proof glass. “Do you have a belt on?”

I shook my head. “I’m so sorry about this. I have a pain pump in my stomach and a metal cage in my spine from where doctors removed a cancerous tumor.”

She tried to hide her shock, and then, in the most wonderfully direct Idaho fashion, said, “Honey, if the pain pump is supposed to help you with pain,” she looked at my hunched back, “then I don’t think it’s working!”

I broke out laughing, a genuine, startled belly laugh that momentarily cut through the tension. That absurd, honest comment somehow brightened my day.

The passport office rests at the end of a looong corridor that wasn’t made for those with disabilities, and by the time I reached the halfway mark, I hunched over in so much pain that hot tears formed in my eyes. Two young men eyed me with such open pity then that my face flushed with embarrassment. 

Pity… I thought about the word and decided it’s one of the worst things in the world.

I shuffled past the men, feeling fragile and broken.

Things didn't turn around until I got to the passport counter. The woman there, Jen, beamed—so sweet and helpful. Her kindness took away all negative thoughts because she made me feel…normal. She didn’t ask if I was all right or wonder aloud what was wrong or if I hurt my back… She didn’t treat me with sympathy because of how I stand. Instead, she helped me as if I didn’t have any obvious health issues at all!

Finally, after Jen finished helping me, I shuffled over and collapsed into a visitors' chair. And that was it, the moment when my whole week changed. As I sank down, the world tilted. That simple, unremarkable chair—of all things—seemed like the most wonderful invention in the whole world. It wasn't fancy or aesthetically pleasing. It was made of simple plastic and metal. Yet, in that moment, it was such a lifesaver. It sounds ridiculous, but the relief to be sitting down became so overwhelming that an enormous wave of gratitude washed over me. I sat there, savoring the brief absence of pain. Thank goodness there are things that exist like chairs!

My thoughts turned to my dear friend, Sheri, who passed away last year. She’d reached a point where the pain from cancer had become too severe. Whether she stood, sat, or even rested in bed, she could never find a reprieve. I grieved for her losses when she did, but toward the end, it was so horrendous seeing her in such terrible pain. 

My thoughts turned to my current predicament. Sure it can hurt for me to stand too long or walk more than a short distance, but I can still find respite—and I should be incredibly grateful for that. Life can be hard, but sometimes, often in the most mundane places, it gives you a small, unexpected gift. I can still walk, laugh, find incredible people like Jen, and, most importantly, I can still spend time with my family. 

We are so often surrounded by wonderful things, but sometimes we need to look for them. They could be as close as a waiting room chair or as conspicuous as a kind receptionist.

Today, I remembered once again that a win is a win. I can enjoy life and live to the fullest, vowing to find the good in everything that I can, and that is pretty amazing. 

A Life Lesson for Indy

The paper citation arrived like a tiny wrecking ball, flattening Indiana’s composure. "I'm a failure," my daughter confessed, clutching the ticket like it was a grand jury indictment. "Our insurance will cost more, and I have this huge fine. I can't afford this." Every dollar in her savings is earmarked for a foreign exchange trip, and she seemed convinced that this fine would derail her opportunities and somehow prove that she’s a failure.

"Indy," I said, trying to keep my voice hopeful, "it’s not the end of the world. I promise.” I admitted that I, a fully grown adult with a mortgage and responsibilities, have made more mistakes than anyone I know. I guess the point is that we ALL have made mistakes.

"Mama, I feel terrible about the insurance. I really do. But there’s a little more to this than that…” She sighed dramatically. “What if this is a sign that I'm not good enough to get accepted into the foreign exchange program? It could be the universe confirming that? Maybe G✡︎d looked my driving record and thought, ‘Yeah, hard pass on the cultural exchange for this one.’”

“Indy...” I hugged her, squeezing out a laugh. "I don’t think G✡︎d or the universe sends out tickets as rejection letters. The foreign exchange folks would be crazy not to accept you. You are brilliant and kind. It’ll work out the way it’s supposed to. Grandma Stilson always said that life has a funny way of showing us exactly what we need to learn.”

Days later, something truly timely arrived in the mail: reference letters. Teachers, family, and friends all wrote glowing accounts, detailing Indy's resilience, kindness, and intellectual drive. They’d written pages and pages of evidence that Indy is, in fact, the opposite of a failure. As she read their words, I watched the excitement and gratitude flooding her features. The initial impact of the ticket and the fear of rejection all shrank into the insignificant speck they truly were. Now, the potential and goodness everyone sees in her finally became the truth she realized in herself.

“Is this what it’s been like, when people have been so kind to you as you’ve fought cancer?” she whispered, the unexpected emotional pivot hitting me hard.

Fighting cancer has definitely been a test of will for me. There have been many times when I’ve thought about stopping treatments, trading the struggle for a moment of peace. But the only reason I’ve kept showing up for infusions, radiation, and even surgeries is because I’m trying to be the person my loved ones think I am. Their belief is my reason to continue on because I simply want more time with them. 

It’s a peculiar, human paradox: We can be at our physically weakest while fighting a disease like cancer, yet it’s the love and strength others see in us that helps us persevere. “Yes,” I nodded to Indy, a lump forming in my throat. “When people believe in us, it can make even hard things seem somehow manageable.”

So, the ticket gave Indy a priceless lesson: She is not defined by her mistakes but by the good she brings to the world—the good others inevitably reflect back to her.

I am so grateful we’re surrounded by such incredible people. Their love has seen us through so much, and now it’s helping us stay strong, teaching that even a simple ticket can carry a huge life-lesson.