The Penitent Man Will Pass

I love Indian Jones so much that I named my youngest daughter, Indiana. But today I can’t shake one of the scenes from my head. Do you remember when Indy crosses that “invisible” bridge? He takes his first step of faith simply talking about how “the penitent man will pass.”

I’ve seen several people “ring the bell.” This means  people are done with cancer treatments. I always thought it meant their cancer was gone, and at first this could feel conflicting. After all, this isn’t some contest where everyone gets a consolation prize. This is life…and everyone knows it’s not fair.

I never thought I’d get to ring the bell. But then I learned that people ring the bell for other reasons too. It might signify that they’ve decided to stop treatments because it’s too much and they’re ready to meet death’s embrace. Or they could stop after doctors have discovered that the medicine is too much for them to withstand. (I came close to that point last year.)

Anyway, today I find myself in a very weird middle ground: cancer purgatory. 

Some of the cancer in my body remains, but it’s what the doctors call “stable,” meaning it’s stayed the same size for a very “long” time. (Maybe an easier way to describe that is: “dormant.”) “We never say that people with stage four melanoma are in remission,” an oncologist told me. “Unless you have a freak accident, you still know how you’ll probably die, but we have bought you time. And we’ll be watching you closely so if—and when—it starts growing, we can try other options.”

“Like a clinical trial?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

So, my friend (Kara), Mike and I left that office and trekked to the infusion clinic where I’d have my final treatments. “It’s crazy to think I’ve almost had treatments for two years,” I said somberly. Two long years—the most doctors said my body can take. “We just have to hope and pray that the ‘stable cancer’ won’t keep growing.” Then I paused and glanced at Mike. “I would’ve written my life differently,” I told him. I don’t mean to be irreverent, but I am an author, and this plot line could be skewed as a tragedy. I want to be in an adventure…at the Temple of Doom…with Short Round.

“That’s not the point, Elisa,” Mike said, and I wondered what he meant.

“Elisa…,” Kara interjected, always trying to make things better. “You’re such a good friend. I just wanted you to know.”

We continued on, finally reaching infusions. “No way. You are a way better friend than I am.” Then the emotions of the day overcame me, and I needed to tell her how much her friendship has meant to me. “Remember my wedding day?”

She nodded.

“What you did for me was unreal. You fixed my hair so it stayed in place. You made sure my makeup never smudged. You took shots of Kahlua with me in that barn so I wouldn’t be too scared to walk down the aisle. And you single-handedly made sure I could my vows. It’s just an example of the kind of friend you are. You’re amazing and loyal. You made me feel beautiful…like I was worthwhile.”

She broke out laughing. “I don’t remember doing anything extraordinary,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s funny what sticks out to people…. You know what sticks out about you?”

I shook my head. 

“Your positivity. I never told you this, but last year after I went to treatments with you one time, I realized how negative I’d become at work. I watched you, fighting so much pain…. But you still asked how the nurses were and worried about everyone else. You stayed so damn positive. And I thought, ‘If Elisa can be this positive—with everything she’s going through—I can try too.’”

I bit my lip. “That means so much to me, Kara.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Mike smiling with what might’ve been his I-told-you-so face.

“I started a positivity board at work because of you,” Kara continued.

“Really?!”

“Every day I add something to it for everyone to see. It’s gotten pretty big—and I haven’t taken a recent picture, but here’s one from a few months ago. And it all started with me going to that one treatment with you.”

I could hardly believe it. Kara is a big deal, pretty high up at an elite company. It felt hard to comprehend that anything I’d done had impacted her.

“That’s what I meant earlier,” Mike said. “That’s the point of your story. It’s not about how to get better. Or how to not get sick or how to beat cancer. It’s about appreciating what you have, right now.”

So, although I wish I could write that I got to ring the bell because I’m cancer free, that would apparently be too easy. 

I’ve decided that Mike “might” be right. (*giggling* because he’ll love reading that line.) The point of my life right now isn’t to show people how to be happy after overcoming hardships. Its not about how much better life is after beating cancer. It’s about finding joy DURING the hard times. It’s about perseverance and remaining happy regardless of what your situation might be. I’ve honestly found so much happiness after getting a terminal diagnosis. I’ve seen love and embraced the good around me. 

So…despite living with a ticking time bomb, I can be extremely happy today because I got to ring the bell. I wore my best dress from Goodwill, and I think I might’ve been the most fashionably dressed person to ring the bell this year. 2022 fashion alert! There’s that.

Can you believe I made it through two years of treatments, and I’m still here to tell the tale? Life is a wild ride. I can hardly wait to see what chapter God has written next. Spoiler: He’s one heck of a writer. I’m just hoping for a twist ending. Let’s do this thing!

We’re Going to Italy!!!

“It’s kind of like Make-A-Wish, and you’ve been selected.”

I paused, a bit dumbfounded. I’ve been nominated for a few things since my cancer diagnosis, but this is the first time I’d actually “been selected.”

“Think of something you want to do with your family, something really big.”

My first thought went to Italy. My biggest bucket list item has always been to visit Italy— especially where my mom‘s family is from in Calabria. Going there with Mike and the kids, well…that would be a dream come true. But I didn’t want to ask for something so huge, and instead I said, “Maybe they could pay for us to go to Lava Hot Springs. The tickets are under $20 a person, and we absolutely love going there.” I figured, this was something fun but not extravagant.

“Are you kidding?” the woman said on the phone. “That’s not nearly big enough. You need to think of something big.”

So…I thought about it for the next couple of days, and when I called her back I had thought of something enormous. It was beyond going to Lava Hot Springs. Beyond going to Italy. Beyond landing on the moon. “I want to meet Oprah,” I said.

She broke out laughing and then tried to calm herself. “We can’t help you meet Oprah, Elisa,” she said. 

And I immediately felt my skin heat to the temperature of total embarrassment.

“Go look at our website and see what we can do. Go look at what other people have asked for.”

So I went and saw that they built ramps to go into people’s houses. They’ve paid for big vacations to different states. They’ve bought people cars.

But I still felt mortified, so I called one of my best friends. “I feel utterly stupid.”

My friend laughed and laughed. “You have to admit. It IS a little funny.”

This friend is an absolutely incredible person. They’re quite well off, but it hasn’t ruined them—they’re so down to earth and kind to everyone. I remember talking with them about wealth once. “It won’t bring the people we love back,” my friend said. They’ve had some family members who died of cancer. And maybe that’s one of the reasons we’ve gotten closer in the past two years. I guess they just really understand what I’m going through.

“So what are you gonna do now?”my friend asked.

“Well, I’ve decided to call the lady so I can tell her to give the money to someone else—maybe a kid or something. I just think there’s someone else who could use it more than I can.”

Months passed, and I didn’t hear from that organization again. I hoped the representative found someone who could think of an appropriate wish, something that would really change their lives. “I wonder what THEY picked,” I told my friend one day, and they said it was interesting I brought that up because they had a surprise for me.

“It’s not just me,” they explained. “I’ve gotten together with a few other people about this. Don’t get too excited because we’re just covering the plane tickets. BUT…”

I held my breath.

“We’re buying you and your family tickets to go to Italy.”

I nearly dropped my phone. “What?! I stared ahead blankly. “You can’t do that. That is so much money. And plus, the doctor said I might be getting better. Some of the cancer in my body is starting to die.”

Silence. Then finally, “Elisa, I just read your book. You remember the man you met—the one who said he got better for a few years, but the cancer came back? He said his advice to you would be to live to the fullest if you ever had the chance because you never know when it might come back.”

“I remember,” I said.

“I have so many family members who died of cancer. They didn’t get to live out their dreams. But you…YOU have the chance. And I want to help give you and your family that opportunity.”

I cried and cried—becoming a totally blubbering mess, and I wondered how I would ever pay this person (and the other contributors) back.

“Just promise me,” they said, “I want to remain anonymous and so do the other people who pitched in. Just have a great time and promise you’ll write about it. All of us read your stuff.”

This happened several months ago, but I’ve honestly thought about it every single day. Especially today.

Today, this Wednesday, is a huge day for me. I’m getting scans to see if the last bit of cancer is still in my spine. Tomorrow will be the last time I can get immunotherapy (even though they will continue infusions for my bones for another year and a half). But the max they can do for immunotherapy is two years because any more can cause organ failure and other complications. If I still have cancer today, we will have to try a clinical trial. And doctors have told me over and over that at that point, the game will be set for failure. No more chances. But—by some odd twist of fate, modern medicine, and answered prayers—some of the cancer has started dying in my body. And despite what doctors predicted, I actually have a chance.

On Oct. 30, it will be exactly two years since doctors only gave me two years to live. It’s odd to think that so many miracles have happened since then. Plus, I’ve really begun to live.

I’ve experienced so many amazing things with my family over the last two years. I got to sing the national anthem for a semi-pro baseball game. My memoir got published by a real publisher and became a bestseller. I went skinny-dipping with Mike—even though he seemed a bit worried that I’d get swept away in the current. And now we’re going to Italy this winter, and I might finally be feeling up to the occasion. We have a wheelchair now because cancer ruined my back and part of right leg. Plus my stamina is still so low, and doctors say it always will be since cancer treatments wiped out all the cortisol in my body. But if that’s the price…to live and see my kids grow up, I’m willing to pay it.

So, I will never meet Oprah—which is actually hilarious. But I will get to see Italy if I can just stay the course. 

I’m so excited to find out what my scans will show today. I feel like a new day is dawning, and I have a renewed lease on life. Yes, the cancer might still be there. Yes, even if it’s gone there is an 80% chance that it will come back. BUT right now I simply don’t care. I am too busy being happy and loving the moment.

Someday I’m going to Italy. And today I’ll embrace whatever beautiful things cross my path. 

Life. Now. The present. Well, it’s beautiful.

Huntsman Cancer Patient with Stage Four Melanoma Goes Sky Diving

 East Idaho News did such a fantastic job on this interview Wow 💓

To read the full article, please go here: Author Makes the Most After Terminal Diagnosis

#melanomaawareness #melanoma #stagefourcancer #cancerwarrior 

How Negativity Can Dim Your Perspective

 I’ve always had strange dreams—for as long as I can remember. In elementary school, I didn’t understand them. But by the time I hit middle school, I knew they were something special. “If there’s one thing I hate,” my best friend said at lunch one day, “it’s hearing about people’s dreams. Booo-ring!”

How could anyone say that? Even as a teenager, I felt dreams showed a path to the soul. I could go to sleep contemplating problems, and the answer would come in a dream. One time I stressed about what to sew for a contest and even dreamed up an incredible pattern. Our subconsciousness can be such a gift! 

Anyway, now that I have cancer, my problems have changed. Instead of wondering what to sew for a contest or how to tie up loose plot lines for a novel, I’m asking humanity’s oldest questions: What’s the point of life? What’s the point of MY life? What happens after I die? Where did it all begin? And what gives a life meaning? 

Surprisingly, I’ve gone to sleep asking these questions and actually gotten answers. Yes, it’s mostly allegorical and a bit confusing. Several of the dreams have someone who claims to be God right before they reveal an amazing truth. Now, do I really think God is coming to me in dreams? Probably not. But at least I’m feeling peace about a lot of issues as I’ve mulled mortality, sickness, and the meaning of life.

Right before my surgery last week, I thought about all of this. “What is the point—and why am I still here?” I thought. Oncologists are starting to say I actually might beat this. Yet, other patients—my friends who had much better diagnoses—have died while I’m still here. Maybe I’m having survivor’s remorse. I want to live, but I feel so badly for the people who have died. 

Anyway, I went to sleep and had one of the most powerful dreams I’ve ever had. I won’t go into full detail except to say this: In my dream every person started life with a brilliant light burning inside of them. When they were positive, the light would burn even brighter. But when they were negative, the light would lessen. 

“Many people have forgotten their God-given spark,” a woman said in the dream. “We each have it, but it’s so easy to be negative. And sometimes people’s lights go out. If you say or do something negative, you must balance it AT LEAST with the equal amount of positive. But people forget to nurture their light. Your purpose, Elisa, is quite simple. You must remind people that it’s not worth being negative because it leads to darkness. Simply share your perspective and help people keep their flames burning.”

I knew the dream would change my life. And several days after my surgery, I kept thinking about it—especially on one specific occasion. Mike brought me to a store, but the pain in my leg from muscle atrophy and severed nerves, made it nearly unbearable to walk. So—practically being a saint—Mike pushed me in a wheelchair. 

At one point, he left me to look in one aisle as he went to another, and an eccentric woman came up to me. “Why in the world are you in a wheelchair?” she asked.

I’d done my hair up, fixed my makeup, and I wore a beautiful low-cut dress that framed my bust. I’m sure I looked “the vision of health.” Despite this—and her intrusive questions that I didn’t NEED to answer—I told her about stage four cancer, previous and recent surgeries, and extreme fatigue from ongoing treatments.

“I never would’ve guessed. You don’t look like you have cancer. You’re too young. I feel so bad for you.” Then she went on and on.

Not long after, when Mike brought me to the car, tears filled my eyes. “What’s wrong?” Mike asked.

And as I told him how much I hate being pitied—and about the nosy woman in aisle seven—I felt my inner light getting dimmer and dimmer.

“What is wrong with people?” Mike asked.

“Wait,” I said. “You remember my dream about everyone having a light inside them?”

Mike nodded.

“I feel mine dimming. It’s metaphorical, but you know what I mean. All of the negative things I just felt and said, I need to counteract it.” So I started thinking of positive things. “I must seem very approachable,” I said slowly. “The woman felt at home enough that she could even ask me what’s wrong. AND she said she’ll never forget me or my story because she’d been focusing on unimportant things.” And the more Mike and I said—both agreeing to only be positive—the more I felt my inner light turning from a dim flicker to a blaze. 

Several days have passed, and I’ve remembered that flame and how I don’t want to be negative and jeopardize dimming my light over petty things. And I can say, this mindset has completely transformed how I feel inside.

A few people have thought my dreams are “odd” or “the product of stress.” But I’ve found the lessons in them to be quite profound. Whatever someone might think, I do hope this is my purpose: to help people see the best in themselves and to realize God’s put something special in all of us—a divine spark. If my dreams have taught me anything, it is that life is far too short to spend time dimming our lights with negativity. Why not dwell on the positive and let joy light the way?

At Least TODAY Isn’t Yesterday

 A lot of people have asked about Sky, especially after reading “Two More Years.” 

Pic above: A recent picture Sky sent me from Yellowstone.

“I just relate to her the most,” Heather said. She’d called to see how I fared after yesterday’s surgery. “I finished your book and loved it. I thought that might brighten your day a little bit.”

“You’re right.” I giggled. “AND you’re the best! Thank you for reading it.”

“It IS weird knowing all of you though because I could hear your voices throughout the whole thing. But Sky is so real and a lot like I was as a teenager.” Then she whispered, “My mom had cancer when I was young too.”

“She did? I remember you saying she died a while ago. Did she die from cancer?”

“Yeah,” she whispered.

It does seem like everyone has been affected by cancer. And I’m shocked with the number of people who’ve died from melanoma. I might feel like telling someone my story—they could be the cashier at a grocery store, a waiter at a restaurant, a person sitting by me at the DMV… And they’ll know someone who died from melanoma. “Please go see your dermatologist,” I’ll beg. Please….” I’ll ask complete strangers because no one needs to personally understand this kind of suffering.

“So, how is Sky?” Heather asked, bringing me back to the moment. “Is she still having a hard time with everything?”

“Actually, no. She’s been doing amazing.” 

“That’s awesome. What’s she been up to?”

Pic above: This is Sky when she modeled for my sewing company. What a happy, little dolly!

I thought about my beautiful, vivacious Sky. She’s my rainbow baby. That means she had a sibling who died right before her. And I always thought God sent her down at that exact time to somehow ease the pain. And she was just a ball of blonde-haired, giggly fun. She made it so hard to be anything except happy around her. In fact, I should’ve named her “Joy.” 

Anyway, it’s hard to explain what our relationship has gone through the past two years because we’ve been through the fire and definitely come out stronger for it. 

Sky moved to Utah her Junior year—smack dab in the middle of my diagnosis, when doctors gave me two years to live. She visited us a few times, but nearly six months later, that’s when things really changed. I remember her look of worry as we played board games and talked about life. “I miss you, Mama,” she said.

“I miss you too!” 

And we both cried. 

All of my kids have grown up in their own ways and been absolutely exceptional throughout this experience: whether it’s swooping in so I won’t have to do dishes or cleaning hard-to-reach places in the bathroom. Trey and Indy do things “just because” now. And Ruby has ordered and paid for groceries or taken me out on mom-daughter dates more times than I can count. 

But Sky has changed in her own ways too. She rearranged her schedule numerous times so she could go with me to treatments. She’s held my hand as the medicine dropped into my veins.

“Every time I have a cold and I want to call in sick to work,” she said one day, “I think about how tough you are—and how you’re sick all the time—and yet you hardly ever call in. You’ve even worked from the hospital room.”

Then she took it a step further and changed her entire schedule so she’d work the same time as me—early mornings. We now had the afternoons alone together. Those are times I will always treasure. Whether we ate fancy cheese and drank bougie coffee, played 31 or SkyJo, watched our millionth documentary, or just waxed poetic, that whole year made my heart warm. 

“You…you kids and Mike are like my best friends. I’m so lucky.”

She got a little teary-eyed. “You too, Mama.”

Heather waited, probably wondering why I hadn’t answered her question. “She’s in Montana right now, working for a hotel in Yellowstone. And she’s grown up so much. I’m so proud of her,” I said.

“That sounds amazing. You must miss her though.”

“I do, but the job ends in a few weeks and she’ll be back soon. Plus she’s come to visit, and she sends me these videos every day. They are so cute.” I told her all about Sky’s adventures and the wonderful people—and even animals—she’s encountered. 

“Elisa, is this ever hard for you? That you can’t do things you see everyone else doing? I know you wanted to travel. And you loved hiking. Sometimes it makes me sad because we just think things are going better and then you need stronger treatments, more radiation, or even this stupid gallbladder surgery. Everyone loves you so much, but it hurts me thinking of all the things you used to love—but you’ll never be able to do again.”

I had to smile wistfully because my life has changed so much. “I did love those things, but I love it even more seeing the beauty of them through my kids’ eyes and through my family and my friends’ eyes. Sky called me the other day so excited about epiphanies I had at her same age, and I could hardly wait to hear her talk about her renewed love of life or how exciting and new everything is. I love when Ruby calls and talks about a tattoo she’s done. I love hearing Trey and Indy rave about the songs they’re writing together and hoping to someday perform onstage. And I love hearing my friends talk about their travels and how beautiful our world is. I’m living it up—in my own way. Happy just seeing people enjoying it around me, happy that I’m still lucky enough to be part of it. It’s not about what I’m missing; it’s about what God has still allowed me to be part of.”

After I hung up the phone, I clicked on one of Sky’s videos and watched it for the hundredth time. In it, she talks about how much she’s learning and enjoying it up there because she’s taking the most beautiful pictures when she’s not working. 

Tears filled my eyes not because I’ve raised the most brilliant or accomplished kids in the world (even though I think I have), but because I’ve raised kids who really get “it”—they understand life. It’s not about what we can gain, accomplish, or conquer. It’s about spreading love and just appreciating the fact that we’re lucky: To. Even. Be. Alive!

I shut my laptop, crawled into bed and ate another bowl of sherbet. Sure I just had surgery yesterday, but that just makes today even brighter because at least today isn’t yesterday. 😉

Pic above: Someone anonymously sent us this mat. I love it!

Pic above: This is just before the gallbladder surgery this Tuesday. I guess cancer treatments killed my gallbladder, but of all the organs for it to kill, that’s the best one! 🤣😅

When Dreams Become Reality

 “You see the world weird!” the girl said from the hallway. I sat in the elementary library, reading a book instead of going to recess. 

“Lindsay, that’s not very nice!” the librarian said, but Lindsay had already darted out of sight. 

“Mrs. Smith,” I said, putting a bookmark in “Anne of Green Gables” and turning to the middle-aged woman. “Do you think I’m weird? I don’t have many friends. And I’m either reading or hanging out with my cat.”

She laughed so sweetly that her voice almost sounded like little bells. “No, Elisa. You’re just you. And…you see beauty in everything. That’s not weird. You’re just lucky.”

I remember the first time Lindsay called me weird. We each had to use figurative language to describe the ocean. I’d closed my eyes and pictured it like liquid glass. I thought about how you can crack the surface and see a whole new world of creatures and excitement just waiting below. It felt magical—just like the library. Except at the library I could “see” more than just the ocean! I could visit Shannara or Middle Earth. I could learn from people like “Anne with an ‘e’” or Mr. Hyde. 

Plus, other magical things happened at the library too. My mom had brought me to an event there once and a newspaper reporter asked the head librarian, “Is there a specific kid we should take the picture of? Someone who comes here often?” And of everyone there, they picked me: an unimpressive elementary kid. I even got to be on the front page. Yes, I had a big scab on my forehead from falling out of a gigantic tree, but I still got the glory—forehead-scab and all.

“What do you want to do today?” my mom (Ruby) would ask on Saturdays.

“Anything?”

“Well…within reason.”

“Can you drop me off at the library? Just for a few hours?”

She’d chuckle because that was almost always my answer.

I devoured books, row after row. The librarian even gave me “The Grey King” because I read it so much. “Just take it, sweetheart,” she said. “We have an extra copy.”

In sixth grade I wrote my first book—most of it at the library. It was 90 pages, about a hamster that ran away from its owner and embarked on a grand adventure. After I wrote that “epic saga—based on a true story” (as I called it), I noticed a change: When I visited libraries or bookstores, they didn’t feel the same. Instead of tons of adventures waiting for me to discover, each book felt like someone’s dream. I couldn’t imagine getting a book published or having other people actually read it. All of that seemed farther away than Narnia.

My first real job was at a library. I could hardly wait to work there and shelve dreams. I’d long outgrown worrying about people like Lindsay, that validation held little value. I cared more about people like the heroines in Austen’s novels, Melville’s Ishmael, or even Margaret Mitchell’s Melanie. 

And years later, when I’d become a closet writer, I would bring my kids, nieces, and nephews not just to the library but to bookstores as well. In fact, every time I brought them out, they knew I’d buy them a special book from a specific Barnes and Noble. And the whole time they perused, I’d dream about having a book published, about having a book THERE, about having people actually read a few words that I wrote.

“It’s a pipe dream,” an elderly relative told me. “Do something that makes money. Do something that makes sense. Don’t try to be an author.”

But I kept trying anyway. And nearly two decades after writing my first full-length manuscript of 90,000 words, I finally had a book published by a real publisher. 

“Can we go to Barnes and Noble?” Indy asked last Saturday. We’d traveled from Idaho to Utah for a bridal shower. Unbeknownst to Indiana, she’d asked to visit the exact store I’d brought her to when she was a baby. In fact, it’s the same store where I’d brought all of my kids, my nieces, and nephews.

“Do you think they have your book?” she asked.

“Probably not.” I smiled wistfully. “But we can look.”

So, we found the nonfiction section. I let my hand trail along the spines of so many great books like “Night” and “Angela’s Ashes.” And then, my breath caught in my throat. “Oh, my gosh,” I said, trying to keep my emotions in check. “It’s. Actually. Here.”

I gaped, just staring at my dream. I could hardly believe what it felt like, seeing something I’ve wanted so badly…something I’ve fought for against all reason. Something so many people said would never happen. My dream sat on that shelf proving that sometimes the impossible IS possible if we just keep trying. 

Indy’s reaction made the moment even better. “Hurry, Mama! Take a picture. I’ll do my ‘look of surprise’ for you.”

After I snapped the picture, she peered at me quizzically. “Are you okay?” she asked. 

“I just wanted this with everything in me. And it was so hard to write while I’ve been fighting cancer. But now look. It was worth it.”

“Mama,” she held my hand and swung it, “that’s cool. But if I’m really good—I mean REALLY good—can I get a book today?”

“Yes.” I giggled. And I brought my smallest daughter to the kids’ section where she bought a book about a child who has few friends, owns a cat, and loves the library—she bought something remarkably like herself. 

As I watched Indy reading her book this afternoon, I just had to smile. 

Life is so ironically beautiful.

A Disney Princess with Cancer

 I answered the door. She’d brought cookies, but I still mentally prepared for a confrontation. This particular woman is hard for me to be around because she doesn’t believe in utilizing modern medicine.

“So, why haven’t they done the gallbladder surgery yet?” she asked.

“There are a lot of moving pieces between cancer treatments and medications,” I said.

“May I be blunt?” she finally asked.

I nodded because when is she not? 

“Don’t be offended…”

I blinked, thinking that’s almost the cue TO be offended. 

“I’m not talking about you specifically, but people who continue to get treatments—and are fighting a losing battle—well, they’re kind of a drain on society.”

“Excuse me?” Why had I answered the damn door.

“It’s just that medical intervention costs so much—especially in taxes. Sure some terminal cancer patients might show improvement, but cancer is still what they’ll die from. Don’t you feel like you’re going against God by fighting something so natural? You don’t need to be afraid to die, Elisa. If you’d just come to church…”

Tears formed so fast in my eyes that I could no longer contain my emotions. 

“I want you to leave. Now.”

“I didn’t mean to offend—“

“Leave. And don’t come back. I’m not a charity case, and I don’t need your…cookies or your religion or your opinions. I have enough on my plate.”

She walked to the door and then looked back at me, pleadingly. Confused. “Elisa, I’m trying to help you.”

I really didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I needed to be honest. “You didn’t have time for me before I got sick. I know you feel like you’re doing something nice—and you need that. But this isn’t good for me. It’s hard enough to keep fighting cancer without you telling me that I should quit. That’s fine if you wouldn’t get surgeries or treatments to prolong your life. But you’re not me. I’m doing this for my family.” And after she stepped outside, I shut the door.

I heard the woman talking to herself as she trudged to her car. She said something about how she’d never been treated so poorly and how I’m cutting everyone out of my life.

Despite knowing that I did the right thing for myself, I spent most of Wednesday afternoon crying—in the hospital. 

For a normal person, preparing for gallbladder surgery isn’t a big deal and they would just get it done. But for me, I had to stay at the hospital for hours, undergoing various tests including extensive labs, an EKG, and much more. I’m sure the surgery itself will be extremely easy. (I’ve been through worse!) But as I waited for the doctor yesterday, I remembered my visit with that woman and everything suddenly felt insurmountable. 

“Are you doing okay?” the doctor asked right after coming into the room.

“I’m happy today,” my voice shook as I plastered a smile onto my face, “because you guys have upped your game. Can you believe they gave me soap—free soap—to use the night before my surgery?”

He broke out laughing. “You know, THAT’S why you’re doing so well—your sense of humor. I read your chart before I came in here.” He paused. “Do you realize how lucky you are?”

“What do you mean?”

He donned his glasses. “Most people would’ve given up by now. That’s one thing, but sometimes it doesn’t matter how much people fight. Once melanoma goes into the brain, it’s almost unheard of for the cancer to die. We don’t like to tell patients that, but it’s true. You’re probably one of the luckiest people I’ve ever met in person.”

“I really am so fortunate,” I said, and I’m not sure why, but tears flooded my face. “Oh…I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, you’re okay. You’ve been through a lot. I have a couple of extra minutes. What’s bothering you?”

I couldn’t believe he even said that. Most doctors are so busy going from patient to patient, but this guy seemed to really care. So I gave him a brief synopsis of what that lady had said to me and how she doesn’t believe in prolonging life through medical means.

“You are fighting for your husband and kids,” he said. “And it sounds like you might beat this. Don’t listen to her. You’re fighting to spend more time with your family—you’re not fighting to spend more time with that lady.”

I broke out laughing. I don’t know why it hit me so funny, but it did. I try to love everyone. But I’d just like to love her from a great distance.

After he left, a nurse came to tell me I could leave. “I heard you had a bad week?” she asked.

“Yeah, surgery I can handle, but people being thoughtless is another story… That saying about sticks and stones is dumb. Words do hurt.”

“And people suck.” She paused before leaving. “Can I tell you something that might brighten your day?”

I nodded.

“The nurses were all talking about you earlier. We said it’s weird that you have cancer. It’s like seeing a Disney princess with a terminal illness.”

I snorted—actually snorted. “Imagine Belle or Snow White or Ariel with cancer. That is a strange thought.”

She nodded. “But somehow they’d make it look good.”

So I left the hospital getting approved for surgery this Tuesday. And I finally figured out why the interaction with that lady bothered me so much.

I just wish people would do what they can to be genuinely good to each other. It’s not about making cookies for acquaintances, trying to convert unbelievers, or doing some stupid thing that might look good on paper. It’s about actually caring like that doctor and nurse did. It’s about taking time to listen or just brightening someone’s day. It’s about withholding opinions if they might make someone end life-saving treatments—or if those opinions will somehow make life unnecessarily harder for the listener.

Anyway, it’s been a rough week, but a good one too. I got called a Disney princess who has cancer. It could be better, but you know what…I’ll take what I can.

When You Feel Yourself Faltering

 “You can’t have the HIDA scan done,” the woman said, obviously worried about delivering the news.

“But I’ve been fasting,” I said. “I did everything the ER doctor told me to.”

“But you’ve taken pain medicine.”

Tears welled in my eyes. “He said I could. I have stage four melanoma, excruciating pain. I can’t lie flat on a table for almost two hours without pain medicine. My nerves just….” I’m so desensitized to this situation that I don’t cry much—not anymore—but today I really broke down. “Excuse me. I have to sit.” I shook as I slumped into a chair outside of the imaging room. “You deal with other cancer patients, right?”

She nodded.

“I’m in a vicious spiral. Cancer treatments have ruined my gallbladder. But I’ve had pulmonary embolisms. And now I’m on a blood thinner. The surgeon won’t remove my gallbladder until I’ve had this test because I’m so high risk. I haven’t slept in almost three days. I NEED this scan, but without medicine, my right leg feels like someone is holding it against a scalding glass fireplace. No one can hold still like that. No one.”

And then I cried. And cried. And cried. The tech left, and when she came back, she’d confirmed that they could make an exception because I’m a cancer patient.

Although she’d been nice before, she spoke extra kindly to me after that. I know she was just doing her job before, but today has been so hard. 

She injected medication into my arm that reproduces the strange gallbladder pains I’ve had for nearly two months. The upper right portion of my abdomen throbbed with discomfort, then my back and leg suddenly turned to fire. Nausea increased from my cancer treatments yesterday, and I instantly started feeling feverish from last night’s bone infusion.

“Okay, this will take about an hour and a half,” the woman said. “Are you okay?” 

I’m never okay, I thought. Not anymore. I’m broken from all of this. But I didn’t say anything. Instead I tried to smile.

The table slid under a massive 3-by-5-foot metal plate that hung too closely to my face. My eyes widened as I realized that I couldn’t wriggle out from under it if I tried, and I couldn’t even push it off of me. “I’m not okay. No! No.” I sobbed, feeling weaker than I have in months. “I’m just so tired of all of this. For two seconds, I can’t be strong.” I looked to the side, and tears seeped into the fabric my head rested on. “Please let me out of here.”

That sweet tech swiftly moved me from under the intimidating plate, brought me a warm blanket, and let me sit up.

She studied me, and after a moment said, “You’re the girl I saw on TV, aren’t you?” she asked after a moment. “I recognize your eyes. You wrote that book everyone’s been talking about. The one about your journey with cancer.”

I wiped my tears away and nodded. “I guess that’s me…. I can’t believe you saw that—and you remembered me. That…means so much.”

“Well, you’re awfully inspiring,” she said. “Of course I remembered.” She studied my breathing. “How’s your book doing?” she asked.

“I don’t know if it’ll sell, but it’s in stores nation-wide now.” I sniffled so hard. ”Okay,” I said, so grateful to her. “Because of you, I think I can do this.”

And so I went under the claustrophobia-inducing metal plate where my own shallow breaths ricocheted back into my face, and I stayed nauseous and in severe nerve, back, and abdominal pain for over an hour and a half, unable to move.

While I stayed under there, I thanked God for that sweet tech and the fact that she remembered me from the segment on TV earlier this year. I bit my lip to feel the taste of blood and take away the nausea because I needed to get this done and not throw up all over the equipment and myself. 

Then, when the pain from the back and gallbladder set in, and the claustrophobia seemed worse than hell, I told myself to quit feeling sorry for myself—and to quit thinking how easy it would be to stop fighting. 

I want to make Mike, our kids, and our families proud. I’m not done battling yet—and I might not make a good Amazon woman after all—but I can still strive to live through this for my kids. Plus, this wimpy surgery seems to be nothing after everything else I’ve been through. Of all the organs for cancer treatments to kill, I never liked my gallbladder. It’s just a bile pouch anyway!

The results already came back from my scan today and confirmed that I must indeed get my gallbladder out (shocking); we just need to take precautions with all of the other crap I have going on. I’m not upset that I need another surgery (my eighth surgery in seven years). Like the saying goes: God doesn’t give us what we can’t handle, so He must think I’m a badass. 

I’m done crying. I’m done being a baby (for today anyway). I just never knew how many crazy things go along with having cancer. Complications from cancer treatments almost killed me two times last year. That’s almost hard to fathom. I thought I understood cancer before my diagnosis. I had no idea.

How to Deal with Alzheimer’s Disease and Dementia

 “Oh, my gosh. Mr. McMurtrey,” I said. 

He looked at me blankly, waved, then continued placing items on the conveyor belt at the grocery store.

“I’m Elisa,” I went on. “You remember me. From the newspaper?” He used to call me with news tips; we’d laugh and joke. One day he called about a deer that had jumped through a storefront window—and lived—running around the store and drawing the attention of everyone in town. So many memories, but now he looked at me again…bewildered. “Mr. McMurtrey?”

“I don’t know you. But you seem like a real-nice girl.” He smiled, looking much older than his 70+ years.

Studying him, he had the same light in his eyes and an obvious touch of mirth to his smile. But something felt off. “Well, anyway…it’s wonderful to see you,” I said, so surprised that he didn’t remember me.

A woman came from behind us and stood by him. “Excuse me. Do you need something from my husband?”

“No. Not really.” I shook my head.

After a moment, Mr. McMurtrey and his wife finished checking out, and he started heading toward the door. “How do you know him?” his wife suddenly came back and asked me when he’d gotten a few feet away.

“The newspaper. He’d always give me tips.”

Her expression turned a bit softer. “Oh! You’re that Elisa girl. You had the EC Stilson column, right?”

I nodded, so excited she remembered me. It suddenly felt so important to be remembered.

“He loved talking with you.” Then she paused, always keeping an eye on her husband as he approached the store’s exit. “I’m so sorry. He said he didn’t recognize you. He’s…having some memory issues. It’s been hard on all of us.”

“I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. He’s the nicest man.”

“He really is.” Then she explained that she had to “go after him,” and she darted out the automatic doors after waving goodbye.

When I got home and put my groceries away, I sat on my front porch and waited for the kids to get home from school. The wind licked my face, like a dog so happy for me to be home. Birds whistled, sending cryptic messages through the trees. And I closed my eyes and felt every bit of “life” seep into me.

Sometimes it’s hard not thinking too much about the tough things in this world: how people can lose their memories and really “their story,” and how fast one can lose health, relationships, status, and so many other things on a whim.

But as I felt the wind lighting my skin on fire with insight and the birds trilling above me, I remembered Mr. McMurtrey’s eyes and how he hasn’t changed, not really. His spirit is still the same—completely filled with the jovial kind of mirth and sense of play he always showed everyone. He made everyone feel important and special—and I bet he still does.

Since so many people I’ve known have died or lost physical or mental capabilities, sometimes I wonder exactly why it’s so hard. What exactly makes it hurt so much? Especially with losing a loved one? I’ve decided it’s a loss of time—even time already spent. 

It is extremely tough not being able to call and hear their voice. But there’s something else, and that’s what I saw with Mr. McMurtrey. It’s sad when you lose that tie to a memory. I can tell people what it was like when he called about the deer that jumped through the window. But now I’m the only one who really carries that story around. And when I’m gone, that experience will be gone too. No matter how much I talk or write about it, that too will drift away. Like everything we know here on earth. Everything—I believe—except love.

Yet, sitting on the porch none of life’s heartaches seemed to matter because I felt the true power and serene beauty of change. If I were a conscious observer of life, I wouldn’t want to freeze time and stifle everything; I’d want it to always keep flowing right through me. The good, the bad, I guess all of it. It seems that life hands us new situations to learn from, conquer, and then (in turn) help people around us. Sometimes it’s through helping others that we finally see the beauty in our own struggles.

The kids got home, and I gave them extra big hugs. “You coming inside?” Trey asked.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said, so glad that even though I have physical handicaps now, I am not experiencing what I witnessed from my friend at the store.

So, I still don’t know how I completely feel about poor Mr. McMurtrey, but I hope I’ll see him and his wife again. Sure, he might not recognize me, but I’d love to offer a smile, a kind word, just something that will brighten his day like he always brightened mine. 

I guess that’s what I can learn from the moment. I don’t need to be sad for my friend. Instead, I can be grateful that although he’s losing his memory, he hasn’t lost who he really is: a brilliant, wonderfully kind man. And that’s how I’m trying to embrace change today, by once more finding the good.

Too Good for Our World

 “I’m scared to die,” she said.

I hadn’t realized how sick she’d become. “I think everyone is.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” I paused and thought about what I’ve seen throughout my journey with cancer and all the people I’ve met who are close to death. If people claim they aren’t scared of the unknown—not at all—they’ve either never directly faced the dragon, or they’re lying to themselves. Fighting death reminds me of skydiving. You might feel ready when you prepare to jump, but that doesn’t make it less terrifying. I know I’ll fall into death’s embrace someday, but the thought of my body breaking beyond repair, unanimated without my soul … Well, it seems unfathomable.

The fact that she remained honest through her journey has been humbling. “You’re so strong,” I finally responded, thinking about some of our experiences together. “Whatever the future holds, you’ve got this.”

Ashley exuded something special. She modeled in her younger years and could brighten any room just by entering it. In her 20s, she crafted visionary cakes that could’ve been featured on television. It wasn’t enough that she completely excelled as a mother and a wife; of course, she could master anything.

Sometimes in life, you might encounter someone and immediately feel a … “je ne sais quoi,” but the details of it won’t become apparent until time has passed. That’s what happened with me and Ashley up in the mountains.

Our husbands are best friends—like brothers—so several years ago when Ashley and Garrett invited us to camp with them, I could hardly wait. One day Ashley sat by the stream, gazing wistfully at the water. “I can’t explain it,” she said. “I just feel so alive.” Ashley loved it up there: the looming cliff-face, the refreshing steam, the pure power and majesty of nature. And instead of going back home, like the rest of us, she stayed with her kids in the mountains for days and days. I talked with her on the phone and ended up chuckling. That was her “something special,” her own “je ne sais quoi.” She seemed ethereal—like some mythological creature, always meant to be wild and free. So that’s how I picture Ashley now. She’s sitting by that stream, saying how beautiful everything is and how alive she feels…even though she’s not alive at all—and she had to leave us too soon.

“There was no reason to be scared,” she says, probably making an elaborate cake for God. Then I picture her sending every bit of love to her husband, kids, and mother. She died on her second-oldest son’s birthday. That might seem devasting, but there is something good to find in the heartache. He’ll always have a beautiful, supermodel guardian looking out for him, forever. Always wanting the best. Always protecting and fighting for him, his siblings, and the rest of their family. She’s graduated beyond the pain. The day he first met his mother now marks the anniversary of when God deemed her too perfect for our world. It’s ironic because my son died years ago, and his viewing landed on my birthday. I thought I’d never like that day again, but now it’s a chance to simply remember someone I love.

So this very moment, Ashley might pause up in Heaven while mixing ingredients. And then she may even read these words and nod because we just understand one another.

“I love your posts,” she used to say. “They somehow give me hope.” And how nice of her to read my words because she’d been the strong one.

The point is that even though she died in her early 30s, she showed me what truly gives a life meaning. Instead of flaunting her many talents and her exceptionality, she brought out the best in everyone else. She made people believe in themselves. If everyone could do that, quit worrying about finite accomplishments and pride and self-indulgence—and fight to help those around them despite their own hardships—we’d have paradise on earth.

Ashley got it. She lived purposefully. And I will miss her.

Looking back, when I think about her now, I’ll never forget our time in the mountains where she looked like a nymph of the forest, and her gratitude for the simple things in life changed my view of everything.

Picture: (left to right) me, Mike, Garrett, and Ashley

What is the key to happiness?

(This photo was actually taken at a museum where we rented a wheelchair. It’ll be so nice to have one that I can keep.)

Yesterday, we finally broke down and bought me a wheelchair. It’s not that I need one all the time, but I can’t walk long distances—and this has definitely hampered things I can do. 

Anyway, we got the wheelchair and actually brought the kids to the fair in Blackfoot. 

Trey and one of his best friends palled around and checked out the unique fair foods and booths. (They had such a blast.) And later as I sat in my wheelchair and watched Indy and Mike ride various roller coasters, I had an epiphany. Dirt swirled around me. Cowboys and women in beautiful dresses walked past with their families, and I didn’t even care that I could’ve seemed somewhat invisible down below the bustle and excitement. Yes, life is different, but it’s more than enough—and it’s never looked this clear despite all of the hard things I’ve experienced with sickness and pain. Sure I can’t do everything that I could before, but that’s life; it’s constantly changing and evolving. The best we can do is find good in the chaos. And I feel fortunate to have learned so much well before my time.

Last night, when we got home I wasn’t nearly as tired as I normally am, and Mike’s biceps looked amazing from pushing me all day (I can just imagine his facial expression when he reads this lol!). I had enough energy to look through the amazing tattoos Ruby did at work so far this month, and I even got to visit with Sky about her day. 

I’ve realized my joy isn’t always derived from being the active participant who’s front and center. Instead, I’m content with seeing the happiness around me—still being able to watch my family enjoy our world. When it comes down to it, I would give nearly anything to see them happy—to spend one more day with them, to see their smiles always etched into my mind...

I know I’m lucky to be here. So many of my sweet friends at the cancer center have already passed away since I met them in 2020. I know it must’ve been their time, but they fought so hard to stay…. They were positive and strong. They WANTED to live, but cancer is a merciless, incompetent judge—and it doesn’t care how much someone deserves to keep on breathing. Now when I hear people taking their health or even their lives for granted, well…it almost seems unfair to the people who fought so hard to stay and still died young. 

I wish it wouldn’t take hindsight to see things this way.

Walking short distances or riding in a wheelchair for the long bouts, everything sure does look different from here. I guess it’s all about perspective.

 

Sitting Right Next to a Stranger

 The man stared at me, probably wondering why I sat RIGHT next to him when dozens of seats rested vacant around us.

“Well…hi,” he finally said, apparently deciding that direct contact would be the anecdote for awkwardness.

“I’m Elisa,” I beamed, holding my hand out to him.

He seemed shocked. And slowly—almost reluctantly—the man grasped my hand and shook it. Crinkled, thin skin framed his blue eyes. And I knew something scary brought him to the hospital. 

I didn’t know what to say, not right off. And I remembered a recent conversation when someone asked me why I have so many exceptional occurrences, especially with strangers. “It’s because I put myself out there—and I’m vulnerable.”

You see, normally I’d love to sit away from people because that’s comfortable. But sometimes I get a niggling, that maybe a person is lonely, or they need to feel heard or of value. And in the grand scheme of things, that is much more important than momentary comfort. And this felt like one such occasion. 

And so, instead of sitting in one of the 50+ seats in the courtyard, I sat directly next to the man. 

Step #1 complete: Put myself out there. Now for step #2: Be vulnerable. I suddenly knew what to say. 

“My husband went to get our car,” I blurted. “I have stage 4 cancer, and I’m only in my 30s. It’s been hard adjusting to this new normal. I just can’t walk as far as I used to.” He remained quiet. 

This poor guy obviously didn’t know what to do with a woman who talked faster than a squirrel who’d had five shots of espresso—a squirrel who had cancer.

After a while, he squinted toward the cloudy sky like something had caught in his eye. “Yeah, I have a hard time walking too far too. My wife went to park the car.”

“I don’t know what you’re going through, but I’ve found something that has really helped me.”

“Really? What?” he asked, more eager than I expected.

“The opposite of fear can be a lot of things when we really think about it: peace, hope, knowledge… But what I’ve found takes the fear away the fastest for me right now is trust. If I can somehow trust that there’s a plan, cancer loses its sting.”

“You must get so scared in your situation,” he said. “I just found out that I… Well, I have a heart condition. And I’ve been so ashamed that I’ve been scared. Men aren’t supposed to get scared. I’m supposed to stay strong for my wife and my whole family.” He looked exhausted, not just from feeling sick, but from carrying so much for everyone.

“But we all get scared sometimes,” I said. “We’re human. I hope you’ll find whatever it is that’ll help you fight the fear. But I guess realizing it’s there is a great way to analyze it so you can find a way to not be scared anymore. For me, I just want to see my kids grow up. But realizing everything will be okay, no matter what…that God is looking out for them and me—and all of us…that made the difference.”

This quiet understanding settled there. And neither of us really said much more; instead, we both gazed at the luminous sky. Cirrus clouds spread to the edges of the mountaintops, framing the sun quite perfectly, and I thought how ironic it is that I love feeling sunshine on my face even though it’s what doctors still say will kill me. I’ll never fully understand melanoma. 

A Book Club and a Chicken Murder

 A book club read my memoir, invited me to one of their meetings, and it actually became one of my favorite nights of the year! This whole story is actually pretty hilarious—just wait for it.

Before getting too far, I should explain something. I’ve been experiencing some pretty extreme pain in the middle of my spine and my ribs. Of course my brain goes where it always does now: Has the cancer spread? An emergency X-ray yesterday contained findings stating that they actually spotted a fracture. 

“You can’t go to the bookclub,” Trey, my 14-year-old said—because apparently now he’s extra darling, overprotective, AND my boss. “You seriously can’t go—not with a fracture.”

“I know you’re worried, Dr. Morris, but I can’t just stop living because my body thinks I’m over 100.” So, I gave everyone a gentle hug, and hobbled off to the book club.

On my way there, I hoped I’d quickly get everything in perspective: the fracture, cancer, and that it’s okay if breathing is painful—at least I’m breathing. 

I wondered what these ladies might ask. Would they wonder about Mike and the kids or one of the stories like finding white feathers at the perfect moments. (My mom says white feathers mean angels are looking out for us.) Maybe they’d want to discuss cancer or staying positive despite hardship?

Anyway, after everyone got there and we went out on the deck, that’s when the real excitement started. 

All of them seemed quite cordial, but I just hoped something would happen to break the ice. That’s when we heard it—the scream of a dying child. Well, I thought it was a child, but then it screamed and almost gobble-gurgled.

None of us knew what to do. You know the scene: we’re all sitting there, eating fancy fruit, and then something dies.

“What…,” someone asked delicately setting down a piece of fruit. “What is that?”

All of those fancy ladies stood and peered over the railing. That’s when we spotted the host’s dog, full-on murdering a chicken. I mean, chicken IS delicious—and I know where it comes from—but this was a bit National Geographic. 

Soon the dog held it by the neck, and we discovered from the host that this white chicken had been one of her favorites. The chicken soon flopped uneventfully, and when the dog spotted her owner, she dropped the chicken and bolted like an armed robber!

I felt so bad for Danielle, the host. You could tell she really loved that chicken (and not in the same way that I love McDonald’s).

“It might still be alive, right?” one woman said.

“I don’t think it’s breathing,” another lady whispered as Danielle approached it. Plus, half of the feathers had been plucked from its neck, face, and left wing leaving a bloody pulp that I have never seen at the grocery store.

Danielle squatted and placed her hand on its back. All of us held our breath and then jumped! Can you believe, the chicken shot up at that exact moment and started walking like a drunken sailor? I swear it came back to life just like Lazarus!

But it looked terrible and another woman in the group, Ashlynn, had gone down to help. “You said you grew up on a farm?” I said over the balcony. “I heard you can grab it by its head and swing it around to break its neck—to put it out of its misery. So you can do that, right?”

She gazed at me despondently, then broke out laughing. “I grew up on a farm…not a ranch.”

“I think she might live!” Danielle said, inspecting the chicken. I’d learned moments before that she’s a PA, and if anyone held the fate of this chicken in their hands it was either the PA or the farmer. Danielle explained that she could put the chicken in a special area where it would be safe from the dog under the deck. And after a minute, she came back to her seat. We were all quiet, not knowing what to say. I had to do something. 

“When you laid hands on that chicken, did you pray?” I asked “Because if you did, I think you should pray for me.”

Everyone laughed. “Oh, my gosh,” another lady said. “This is just like something that would’ve happened in your book. Are you going to write about this?”

“Heck, yes! I am!” 

And that seemed to be the beginning of so many jokes and a great conversation. One lady talked about the white feathers in my book and how she found so much strength in that story. Another woman looked over the balcony and said, “Well, there are a bunch of white feathers down there if anyone wants to take one home.”

Every once in a while the chicken would make a really loud noise under the deck. “Do you think it’ll make it through the night?” Someone asked. “If it doesn’t maybe you could eat it.”

“But what about all of that stress hormone.”

“You could massage it as it dies.”

Those ladies are so fun and full of life. I momentarily forgot about my hardships, and they even made me feel so special. Several of them told me different things they gained from “Two More Years” and how it had changed their perspectives on life. They went around and talked about their bucket lists and things they would like to do. I just felt so fuzzy, warm, and happy.

“I can’t believe you have a fractured bone and you’re still here tonight,” a lady said.

“Honestly, I’ve had the best night. And my pain doesn’t seem like a big deal anymore.”

“Really?” she asked in disbelief. 

“I’m just so glad I’m not that chicken.”

So, I had another unforgettable night. I made a whole group of new friends who are selfless and compassionate. I saw a dog murder a chicken. And then I witnessed something come back from the dead. All in all, it was a really beautiful day. Well, not for the chicken. But, you know…

A Grain of Sand on the Beach of Eternity

 

Two doctors in separate cancer hospitals across the U.S. have begun reading my cancer memoir. One already got back to me and said she had no idea exactly what treatments could be like “from the eyes of a patient”—especially brain radiation. The other doctor said he’s asked several nurses and other staff members to read the book so they can understand what parents might be experiencing both physically and mentally.

In 2020, I never imagined that when doctors told me I had two years left to live, I would write a book that would finally get traditionally published. I also never expected something like this. It just goes to show that it’s never too late to reach for your dreams. I hope this will inspire someone else to just go for it. This is amazing. I’m not sure what my purpose is, and I know I’m just a tiny grain of sand on the beach of eternity, but today…well, today is so beautiful.

Another Item From My Bucket List

 I have the greatest family ever. I know everybody says that, but when I say it, it’s actually true.

My uncles are the stuff legends are written about. They’ve cornered mountain lions and probably choked them out with their bare hands. They’ve gone fishing for Alaskan salmon, and instead of catching fish, they caught bears! Some of them can fly, build tennis courts, ride Harleys, cook steak, and more. One thinks 40 hours a week is part time. Another is part Greek—part Chuck Norris (probably).

My aunts, well … they’re classy AND sassy. One was a homecoming queen and an amazing writer. One has the best taste in the world. Another makes the fanciest jewelry known to man, and the others are some of the most hilarious people I’ve ever known. If they aren’t hittin’ you with glamour, they might be laying on some thick wit that you’ll be mulling over for days. 

This goes for ALL of my aunts and uncles, but the one I’d like to highlight today is the myth…the legend: my Aunt Jackie.

I have a lot of wild things on my bucket list. For example, my birthday is on Groundhog Day, and I’ve always wanted to see Punxsutawney Phil up close. I’m actually glad I didn’t go this year because when they pulled the groundhog out on my birthday, he was dead. I’m not sure how many people really heard about it because it wasn’t widely publicized. I guess that meant six more weeks of winter or of the pandemic … or whatever. Anyway, most people know that the biggest items on my list are going to Italy, hunting and bagging a real-live deer, and singing the national anthem at a baseball game. I’ve completely the singing thing … and I’m working on the other two. But another huge item on my list is learning to make Aunt Jackie’s homemade spaghetti. I didn’t know if I’d have to steal the recipe or what. But this has been a lifetime goal.

You see, she’s one of the most amazing cooks on earth. She makes pickled eggs—that are actually good. She’s half-Italian, and 100% awesome! So imagine my surprise when I got a message from my amazing cousin, saying she’s coming to see me with Aunt Jackie—and we have a date for this Saturday to make the best spaghetti on earth! I’ve heard it takes hours and hours to “brew”—yes that’s how I’ll choose to describe it. I can hardly to wait post pictures and tell you all about it. This’ll be the Best. Weekend. Ever! Get ready to hear about an adventure 🤗

Authentic Italian spaghetti, here I come 🍝

How to Get Your Book in Bookstores

 As I did the dishes today, something amazing happened. I heard Mike talking on the phone. He has a low voice that draws you in and somehow makes you want to hear more. But he is also so hilarious that you can’t help grinning despite how hard life can be. 

“So, you’ll carry the book?” he asked, then paused for a moment. “Oh, no—I’m not the author. My wife wrote the book. I just want her to really feel this kind of success. You know, she sold 34 books at her last signing. You should’ve seen how happy she looked. And that…well, it made me happy.”

I’d been wiping off the counter, but I stopped mid-swipe because my breath had caught in my throat. If everyone on earth could have their own Michael Magagna, our world would be a better place. To have someone who always sees the best—even when I’m at my worst. To have someone who has loved me whether I’m bald, hurling in the toilet, or crying because “I’ll always feel sick.” To have THAT man in my corner…to make me try harder and do better. Well, it’s honestly made all the difference. 

Mike hung up the phone and called someone else. “Yes, hello,” he said, “I’m calling to have a book added to your inventory.” I crept forward as I listened, trying not to seem obvious. But I’m too curious for my own good, and if I had family in the mafia, I’d probably get whacked for being so nosy.

Mike saw me, grinned, and motioned for me to come forward. “Yes, that’s the correct ISBN. Oh, you will?” His finger tapped on the table. “Wonderful. Two copies will be great!”

“What are you doing?” I asked after he hung up.

“Well…” Mike said. “It sounds like 17 stores across the Western States are going to order copies of your book.”

“What?!” Tears came to my eyes. I crumpled into his lap and threw my arms around his neck. “Mike, why are you doing this?”

“I just love seeing you so happy.”

I set down the dishcloth that I realized I still held—near his face. Poor guy. I married the king of hearts and he married the ace of maids.

“You’re the …” I paused. “You’re the sexist publicist I’ve ever had.”

He snorted. “I’m the only publicist you’ve ever had.” And after he left to work, I honestly felt dumbfounded that he’d called so many stores. 

This reminds me of when people have asked why I’m getting better. “What are you eating?”

“Taco Bell and energy drinks,” I’ve replied. “What I think makes a bigger difference is my medical care and all of the support I’ve received from so many people—especially my family. They’ve kept me strong when it would’ve been easy to stop fighting.”

I’ll never understand why I’m so lucky or why people have shown kindness and prayed for me. Sure some downers have said I’m incredibly “unlucky” because of my health problems, but they’re wrong. I’ve had the most wonderful experiences and seen such kindness. Through this journey I’ve witnessed the best of humanity every single day. I’ve made a conscious choice to find the good, and I’ve found more than I ever could’ve dreamed of.

Plus, now my book will be in 17 stores across the Western States! AND I have a sexy publicist. What more could a girl ask for??? This is amazing 🤩

What Makes a Life Significant?

 “We’re here because of who you’ve been to us,” the man said. He wore oil-stained coveralls and a grin that could light up a power plant.  

I thought then about a question that’s been plaguing me since this damn journey started: What gives a life significance?

“What do you mean?” I asked. The line at Barnes and Noble almost went out the door, and I could hardly believe so many people had come to see me. I turned to the man imploringly. “YOU have been such a blessing in my life. Who have I been to you?” He’s the greatest guy, always so witty and fun. He even made us jerky one year and shipped it across states so we’d have something exceptional to eat for Christmas.

“We worked at Kellogg’s together,” he said. “And every day you’d say ‘hello’ to me—every, single day. You were always happy to see me. I loved walking past the front desk because it became one of the best parts of my day.”

“Anyone would’ve been excited to see you,” I said. “You’re one of the good ones. Hearing how hilarious you are was one of the best parts of my day too. As a single mom … life wasn’t always easy, but you made my days at work better.”

Tears filled his eyes, making him blink hard and sniffle. “You made me feel like I mattered.”

As the day continued—and we actually sold out of books—I couldn’t shake the man’s words. And then it hit me, how strange these signings have been. I’ve seen people from elementary school who helped form who I am. I’ve seen old teachers and amazing people I’ve fiddled with in bands. I’ve made new friends who read my posts and have connected with me on a completely surreal level because we’re fighting cancer together or have known others who have. I’ve reconnected with amazing cousins who I wish I could’ve spent more time with when I was younger. And I’ve gotten to see other family members who have made such a huge impact on my youth that it’s lasted a lifetime.

The next day, Trey and Indy asked (since we were in Utah) if we could go to Zeke’s grave. It’s looking pretty sad there, as if no one has visited in a long time. “Will it always be here?” Indy asked.

“You mean his grave?” I said.

Mike had gotten a pair of scissors out of the SUV, and he started trimming around the headstone where weeds and grass almost covered Zeke’s name. “It won’t always be here,” I said. I’ve heard that sometimes they remove the graves to make room for new ones after 100 years. It depends on the cemetery and who is buried there. If someone is really famous, they usually keep the grave undisturbed.”

The kids looked really troubled by this. 

“Half of Zeke’s ashes are at his grave and half are sprinkled in a canyon. It doesn’t really matter about the grave because he’s always with us.”

“I want to always be remembered,” Indy said.

“Me too,” said Trey.

At this point, Mike had finished working on Zeke’s headstone and had started working on the headstone to the right because a couple of huge weeds grew there too. After he finished, Trey looked so sad, “Can’t we do that for all of the headstones. Some of them look so bad.”

He’s such an empathetic, kind 14-year-old. I love how much he cares about everyone, even the people who have gone before us.

After we got into the car, I kept thinking about how strange it is that a century after our deaths everyone who really knew us will be gone too. We’ll only be a memory. And if we haven’t done something notable enough to become famous, then well …

I told this to Mike and a couple of dear friends. “So what makes a life significant?” I asked seriously. “Unless it’s a historic gravesite, there’s more room at the cemetery, or someone becomes famous, their grave might be reclaimed to make way for the future. The dead can’t advocate for themselves.”

We talked about this for quite a while. And I thought of the signings—about what a huge difference all of those people made for me not just at those events but throughout my whole life. I don’t know if they realize how much of a difference even the small actions have made. They’ve helped mold me—and kept me strong through surgeries, barbaric treatments, liver failure, and so much more. The common thread with significance seems to be how an act helped another and is remembered. 100 years after one’s death people no longer “really” know what someone was like, but what keeps the memories alive is how the notable acts STILL make us feel.

This is all speculative, and what’s ironic is that I don’t even want a grave. I just want my ashes spread somewhere that means something to my family. But for everyone who has supported me and shown such generosity of heart, it’s meant the world to me. No matter how long I have to live or how long we’ll be remembered by anyone else, for as long as I have cognition, I will be grateful to the people who have been so kind to me—they have made a significant difference. They have mattered to so many.

So I’ve begun to think about all of us as what experts say to be a culmination of our experiences and feelings. But really, making other people feel valued—as so many have done for me, especially at these signings—that is the best anyone can do. I just hope that everyone in my life knows how special they are. For all of the experiences in my life, the good and the “bad,” I am so grateful. For the next century and beyond, I am the luckiest.