A Bench Named Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m Rob,” he said.

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

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

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

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

An Unlikely Philosopher

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Godwink

 How a Newspaper Clipping Brought Peace Despite Loss

By EC Stilson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indy and I gaped, watching all of this unfold.

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

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

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

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

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

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