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.