E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 11

A Repurposed Violin

I remembered something fun from last year and just had to write about it.

So, one of the strangest things on my bucket list is "repurpose a violin."

"What does that mean?" Mike asked a few weeks prior.

"I just want to take an old violin that is broken beyond repair and make it have a purpose again. Make it look beautiful." I've had this on my list for many years, but it has special meaning now. Often, I feel so broken from cancer that I can't "play" like I used to. I don't know what God made me for, but it doesn't seem like I can fulfill that now. And yet, I still want to be worth something.

I thought about this before falling asleep on the couch one day because Mike asked about it again. I'd showed him different ideas and said I'd like to glue gears to a violin and replace the strings with chains and necklaces. "It could be so amazing to make it kind of steampunk."

I fell asleep after that, dreaming about violins that had keys instead of tuning pegs and decorative doorknobs instead of bridges. That's when I heard the door open before Mike's low voice drifted toward me. "Baby, I need you to put these on. I have a surprise."

He'd handed me a plastic sack filled with clothes that shocked me: a mesh white swimsuit top and a white pleated skirt. "This is… nice." I giggled, coming out of our room. 

Mike waited as I edged into the hallway. "It's your white outfit." He beamed.

"Oh, yeah? My white outfit." What in the world could he be up to? 

"Just wait here for a minute." Then he bounded out the back door and shut it. 

I'm not great with surprises. Mike and the kids even hide my birthday gifts because, like an evil genius, I will open and rewrap them. 

I put my ear next to the door and heard Mike chuckling.

"Can I come out now?" I stuck my hand through the doggie door and waved.

"Yes, you can!"

The scene shocked me as I took everything in. That exceptional man, Mike, had covered the entire back patio in painter's plastic. I spied cans of paint and a place to sit. He'd set a bunch of gears, yarn, and fabric on a table. Some old metallic odds and ends from his workshop rested amongst other art supplies, and I involuntarily squealed. "Wow!"

I'd never expected a day that started with fatigue and stress over medical expenses to change so drastically. 

"You've wanted to repurpose a violin."

"Yeah?"

"I got a broken violin." He motioned to a completely white fiddle propped on one of our wooden benches.

It didn't stretch very tall and looked so tiny and cute. "Awe! He's a little guy." Even from a distance, I knew this violin must've been a half to three-quarter size. 

"I sanded it down and primed it so you can," he handed me a flesh-colored ski mask, "repurpose it. You better put this on." He pointed to the mask.

I figured we'd be painting, but I didn't know why I'd need to cover my face. "Okay?" The fabric stuck tightly to my head, pushing my hair flat against my scalp. I only had a small cutout for my eyes, but I still caught my reflection in the house's back window. I snorted. "I look… ridiculous." 

"Take my money." Mike held up his hands in mock horror. "Just spare my life." He passed me a pair of goggles. "I figure since your face will be next to the violin." 

The situation seemed about as clear as my life expectancy until Mike positioned me on a wooden seat covered in plastic. "Okay. You try to play, and I'm gonna dump paint on the violin. I figure it'll splash around better if the bow is moving."

He set up a camera and dumped yellow, aqua, purple, white, and black paint all over the baby violin. I don't know what turned out better: my clothes or the violin. But part-way through, I realized Mike remained spotless. We eventually switched places, and I'll never forget how much fun we had. 

Onlookers never would've guessed the hardships we endured, and I think we momentarily forgot too.

It took a couple of days for the fiddle and bow to dry; we hung them by wires outside from one of our trees. Then the whole family got involved. Mike, the kids, and I invested weeks on that thing. Mike found a knob that resembled a bridge and screwed that, along with a couple of gears, into the top plate. We used chains to look like strings. The kids and I cut skulls and eyes out of fabric and Mod Podged them to the fingerboard as well as the back plate. In the same way my violin magnifies my soul and lets me speak without words, I found beautiful irony in using an instrument to make a silent statement.

"I've been so stressed," I said when we'd finished. "We don't have enough money to keep going on like this. We can barely afford travel expenses. I think we're okay this month but what about after that? I don’t think we can afford gas for me to keep getting treatments."

Mike looked at the violin. "You want to sell it, don't you?"

I nodded. "Even if we could make a few hundred dollars, that would get me back and forth to Utah for months. If cancer has taught me anything, it's about enjoying the journey. We made memories. That doesn't mean we need to keep the violin. What matters—time with you and the kids—is what I want to most."

"Then I think we should do it."

We took hundreds of pictures and posted a few of our favorites on the eBay listing. "I can't believe you did this for me." I gave Mike the biggest hug. 

"You think it'll sell?" he asked.

"I have a feeling it will." 

Weeks later, when I opened my computer and realized who purchased the violin, I could hardly believe it. Roberta, a nurse practitioner I'd worked with years before—a woman who also fought cancer—had made the final bid. I could hardly believe someone had looked past their own harrowing hardships and found the strength to help us.

Looking through the bidding history, I felt amazed to see that the violin got 14 bids. But what touched my heart more than anything was who bought it. It's not just this one action, but dozens built up over years of friendship. 

The violin sold for hundreds of dollars. That helped me travel back and forth to Utah for months. Although I've since qualified for Medicare and several other things have fallen into place for us, this story is a piece of my journey that all of us are grateful for. The time we worked on a violin, so I could continue getting the medical care I need.

  

Bites on Our Lines

 “It was the hardest year of my life, the year I found out you had stage 4 cancer,” my teenage son said.

My heart dropped. Having terminal cancer is one thing… but seeing how it’s negatively affecting everyone around me… that’s another. It’s terrible realizing that something so vastly out of my control is impacting those closest to me. That’s honestly the hardest thing about my diagnosis.

I looked at Trey and tried to keep the tears from my voice. But then, instead of saying anything, I turned toward the lake. “I just know you’ll catch something,” I said, motioning to where his line punctured the water. And as we sat there, quietly watching, I remembered something from years before.

We all know kids can be cruel, but when Trey was only 8, he came home with a shocking story.

“Mom, during recess the popular boys started picking on Jeremy. They kicked and punched him. It got really bad because they even picked him up and swung him into a pole.”

    

I blinked, stunned.

    

“It was really hard, Mom, but I stood up to them. I didn't know if they’d start beating me up too... Or calling me names like they have in the past. Plus, there were a lot of them.”

Even at 8, Trey loomed big for his age, but he's always been the sweetest kid. I wondered where this story would go or if anyone had told the teacher.

    

“I finally went right in the middle of them and yelled,” he said. “I asked why they were hurting him. Carter said it’s ‘cause he's a wimp... Because he's a pansy, and he’s different from the rest of us.” Trey took a deep breath and gazed down. “I got so mad. They looked like they would start hurting him again, so I stood between him and them. I was so angry—I couldn't believe they threw him into a pole just because he’s different. And for some reason, I screamed, ‘He’s SENSITIVE. So what?!’”

    

Trey and I both sat quiet for a while as I digested his words; he'd gotten to the heart of the matter in just a few seconds. We should all be treated with respect—and appreciated for our differences—thank, God, my boy knew that early on. “Did they stop after that? Did someone tell the teacher?” I asked.

    

“Yeah, they stopped, and the bullies kind of seemed surprised. So, I brought Jeremy into the classroom for the rest of recess, and the teacher let us hang out there. We stayed in the classroom for lunch and ate together too.”

    

“You’re a good kid,” I said.  “I’m so proud of you, Trey. Did you tell your teacher?”

    

“No!” he said. “I’m no tattle-tale. I stood up for him, and it wasn't a big deal. Someone else told the teacher.”

    

“I’m glad she knows,” I said, relieved.

Trey sighed. “You know, I beat everyone in the long jump last week? I was 7% popular, but after this I’m back down to 0% again.”

    

I hugged him, this big ol’ hug. “I just know it’ll all work out,” I said. “You did the right thing.”

Trey shuffled at the lake’s edge, and his words brought me back to the moment. He was no longer an 8-year-old fighting adversity but a teenager facing a parent’s mortality.

“Mom, you’re gonna get better, right?” he asked.

“I don’t know for sure,” I said. “But I’ll tell you what I do know; I’m gonna fight like hell for every second I can get with you guys.” Then I set down my fishing pole, and even though my hands smelled like fish guts and mud lined my fingernails, I put my arms around my big, strong boy. “I just know it’ll all work out,” I said, echoing my exact words from years before.

Trey rested his head on my shoulder for a moment, then he sat up, somber. And there we remained, fishing our hearts out but hoping for a lot more than bites on our lines. We simply hoped for more time.

Indy Did Something Pretty Incredible

 I clutched my violin, so worried about talking in front of a large crowd. This felt terrifying, almost as bad as a performance in 2021. I’d lost my hair after brain radiation and stood there totally bald with large hoop earrings ostentatiously dangling from my ears. My walker (which I named “Bertie”) helped me reach the meeting room where the entire floor of cancer patients had gathered. I probably looked ridiculous with those earrings matching my hospital gown, but I still fiddled my heart out, hoping to make the day better for someone.

“Indy, it felt terrible. I could’ve fainted,” I told my youngest daughter right after this experience when she was 10. “Why, Mama? I don’t get it. You’ve played for a lot of people before.”“It’s superficial… but cancer is hard enough without losing my hair. I could hide behind my hair and makeup. No one knew I was sick. But without hair…well, I guess I actually LOOK like I have cancer now. I didn’t want all of those people to watch me play my violin bald—and I couldn’t afford a wig.”Her face fell. “I’m so sorry you lost your hair.” She touched her own hair that extended past her shoulders. “Do kids lose their hair, too, a lot…from cancer?”I’d nodded. “Yeah. I can’t even imagine being a kid with a terminal illness.” And then as I looked at Indy, sadness overcame me. Something so outside of my control is hurting my family; that’s the absolute worst thing about this…I caught a movement in the corner of my eye, and it brought me back to the present where people had gathered to hear me speak. My right hand clenched around my fiddle, then I blew out a long breath because I needed to say something—do something. They were waiting.My voice finally squeaked out, rambling for a moment about “reframing.” For those unfamiliar with the term, reframing is basically when you step back and look at situations from different angles. In my posts, I often talk about “finding the good.” That’s really just a way of reframing tough situations so I can get through them.I spoke honestly. “I don’t think I would’ve gotten treatments if I didn’t have kids. I used to have such big goals: Travel around the world. Go canyoneering. Catch a massive catfish while noodling! But… now my goals are much simpler: See all of my kids become adults. Grow another year older with Mike. Just LIVE!”I thought about the many people in attendance, and as my hands shook, I willed myself to be strong. That’s when I remembered Indy, the conversation about her hair over two years ago, and something incredible she did this weekend.“It took forever, but it’s finally long enough,” she said, biting her trembling lip.“It’s beautiful.” I paused, studying her long hair and gauging her determination. “Are you sure?”“Mama, I saw how hard it was for you after you lost your hair. I’ve taken care of my hair really well, grown it so I can donate at least 14 inches...” She pulled out a ruler and held it to her hair. “See! There’s no changing my mind. I want to do this.”So, we visited the hair salon, and they cut 18 inches! The hairdresser came over to me at one point. “When I realized you put me in your book, TWO MORE YEARS, I went home and cried because it meant so much to me.”“Really?!” My eyes lit with wonder. I glanced at the beautician’s tattoo that says ‘Always More.’ She’s such a darling person; I never expected her to have encountered any struggles. Yet, she’d gotten that tattoo to remember that there’s always more to people’s stories. She got that after her mother died from cancer.“I’m so grateful you’re the one who helped us with Indy’s hair donation today.”Allie grinned and turned to my baby girl. “This was incredibly kind of you,” she said. “You’re making a difference.”Indy practically skipped to the post office dropbox, so eager to mail her hair to Wigs for Kids. Her hair bounced as she turned and giggled. “It feels so nice to be helping someone since I know how terrible cancer can be. I’m just glad to be making a difference.”Her words echoed in my mind. And so, instead of giving the speech I had prepared, I told the group all about my brave, generous daughter, Indy. Somehow, by relaying her tale of courage, I suddenly felt courageous too. My violin rested at playing position, and despite fatigue, sadness, setbacks, and second-guesses, I played a song that conveyed hope to everyone.Pic below: Indy stands with Mike (my husband), ready to mail the hair donation to Wigs for Kids

Feeling Sorrow Over a Dog He Hated

A friend recently experienced one of the most harrowing tragedies imaginable. Her little boy, under the age of two, drowned. I don't think anyone can hear this and not feel deeply over such a loss. But it's even more tragic when you hear how precious this boy was or understand how incredibly kind his parents are.

I first met Tasha last year. After discovering I'm a local author, she kindly selected my book for the large group's monthly read. Each member purchased a copy of TWO MORE YEARS and read it over a short period. What made this miraculous to me is that unbeknownst to Tasha, I'd been considering ending treatments at this time. My cancer journey had become even harder. And although this would mean death, I didn’t know if I could take any more. 

 

Doctors have said that this road will end at one of two places. Either they will tell me they've run out of options, or I will no longer feel strong enough to continue pursuing treatments. 

 

A layman with no cancer experience called me during a terrible moment of weakness. He explained that if he were me, he'd be strong enough to accept death instead of getting infusions. "Death is natural," he said.

 

We'd worked together years ago, and I listened, not wanting to seem disrespectful. Then the conversation took a dark turn. "People spent so much on healthcare. But they incur 90% of their total medical bills in the last year of their life. They're thinking about quantity, not quality." He sighed. "Do you have quality, Elisa?"

 

"Yes," I said. "Right now, I do."

 

"Really…" He paused for effect. "Well, other people—not you—cost the general public so much money. When they continue getting unnecessary healthcare, they become a drain on society."

 

I cried after the call, but ironically, that's when Tasha contacted me. "We all read your book. We love it—and all of us want to meet you."

 

That book club meeting changed my entire outlook. Everyone there built me up, and I found myself praying for them, hoping their kindness would come full circle. Those ladies made me feel like I mattered. And that I should keep fighting because I might still add something good for my children, Mike, and even a few people outside of my little world.

 

Anyway, months passed, and I attended Tasha's son's funeral. Before she walked into the main room, the irony of the moment tore me in two: she'd given me one of the best days of my life, and there I stood… witnessing one of the worst days of hers.

 

"I want to tell you about a dog," a speaker said shortly after the service began. "I hated that dog because it was annoying." My brows furrowed as I wondered where this speech could possibly go. Everyone else must've thought the same thing because the room got so quiet, I heard the second-hand ticking on a nearby clock. 

 

"I got a call that this dog had been hit by a car," he said.

 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

 

"I ran out to see if the dog was okay, but it had already passed away. And… I felt so horrendous. Even though I didn't like that dog, this was a huge tragedy. Plus, I knew so many other people had gotten joy from him." He sighed. "Just to see him there, lifeless. Without his spirit. That was so… so terrible. I've been thinking about that for days. And now, hearing about James… To think that I'd felt so much sorrow over a dog—one that I didn't even like. Imagine now how tragic it is to know what happened to such a precious little boy."

 

Of course, this made me think about my little boy, Zeke, who died at two and a half months. I had to take him off of life support. And it took years to recover emotionally, even though I carry scars that will remain with me for the rest of my life. That being said, this is nothing compared to what my friend, Tasha, experienced. I can't imagine loving a child for almost two years and then tragically losing them. Yet, both situations might make you wonder, "Why? Why didn't they live?"

 

But the speaker did say something that profoundly impacted me. When he talked about the dog that had died, I realized: That dog's value was bringing joy to people. With everything I've endured, I've wondered, "What do I add to the world?" Other than telling people to see their dermatologist so they won't go through what I have… 

 

But this resonated with me because I want my value to be what made that dog special. I want my worth to be what my baby's value was. What my friend's little boy's value was… I desperately want to bring people joy. So that when I'm gone, people will say, "She brought people joy." That's what I want my value to be. 

 

It's pretty simple.

 

A couple of people approached me at the funeral and said they felt sorry for how sick I've been. Instead, it struck me how lucky I am. I'm so grateful my kids and my husband are healthy and happy. I can't believe that I'd ever let an insensitive previous coworker's words have weight in my life. And, instead of wanting to ever give up, I simply wanted to go out, hug each of my children, and tell them how much I love them.

 

Yes, terminal cancer is not a walk through a candy shop, but at least I'm still here. I am trying to become stronger every day.

 

If you think about praying for my friend and her family, they would appreciate it. They're still trying to raise funds to cover funeral expenses, even after two months. If you feel it on your heart to donate to the Chambers family, please visit the following link:

 

GoFund.me/82d357e8
God Bless You!

Meeting a Master Luthier

I started writing for the Island Park News in Idaho at an odd time. I had no idea a few months later, I'd be diagnosed with terminal cancer or that I'd share the entire journey with the readership of the newspaper for years. Through hospitalizations, surgeries, treatments, and more, I sent in my weekly articles, sometimes writing them on napkins or hospital bills before typing them into the computer. Looking back, writing each week has really buoyed me through some terrible times. One day, I excitedly typed, "I got through brain radiation by pretending to be a violin. I imagined that God is fixing me and giving me a tuneup." I could hardly wait for this to be published for my "Island Park penpals" because imagining myself as my violin has been cathartic—and I knew it might help someone else. 

Unfortunately, tragedy struck last week, and the soundpost in my violin broke. This is a wooden dowel that holds up the top plate of the violin. It's tiny and seemingly insignificant, but without it, my violin sounds hollow and weak. 
I take everything so symbolically that this suddenly felt like a bad sign from God. After all, that violin is part of me. It's gone nearly everywhere I've traveled—for 25 years. I busked as a homeless street musician with it in Hawaii. That fiddle has been with me all across the world! Canada, France, Italy—all over America from California (Berkeley to Venice Beach) to the New York subway, Colorado, North Dakota, Missouri, Kansas, Florida... And now to hear it sound so frail. So broken. Just. Like. Me. And right after doctors delivered terrible news. More testing. Before even having results, they've thrown out scary ideas like "surgery," "palliative care," and "end-of-life planning." 
"Mom," I said after she brought me in for labs, "we have two hours before the spinal tap. I need to get my violin fixed; would it be okay if we go drop it off since we're in Utah?"
The place where my parents bought my violin in Salt Lake, Scoggins and Scoggins, closed years ago, but I somehow found a local luthier online named Carrie Scoggins. She'd quickly responded to an email saying "yes" she could fix my violin, and without knowing more, my mom and I simply drove to her home in between appointments.
Carrie explained that she actually owned Scoggins and Scoggins with her first husband before he died. "I bought this violin from you 25 years ago!" I spouted. "It's been with me everywhere—even as a homeless street musician." I went to hand her my precious instrument, but as I extended my arm, I remembered the bandage conspicuously wrapped around my left elbow where nurses had drawn my blood. "I ... I go to the Huntsman Cancer Center for treatments," I told Carrie, wondering if she'd spied my bandage. 
"Sorry to hear that you're going through that," she said.

We remained quiet for a moment, and then my mom and I became instantly mesmerized as Carrie took my violin, flipped it upside down, removed the endpin, and did all sorts of magic to the inside of my instrument. 
"You know ... I read the Island Park News," she said, still working wonders, "and there's a woman who writes a column. She has cancer too. You might like to read some of her stuff."
My mom and I gaped at each other. "That's ..." I paused. "Carrie, that's me. I'm EC Stilson. I write for the Island Park News ... about my journey with cancer."
She set my violin on the table in front of her. "Really?" She gasped. "Wait ... Really?!"
"Yes." I could hardly hold my joy in check. "Page 9. Every week." I wanted to jump around and dance. Giggle. Cry. Because someone actually reads my articles!
"I've been reading your column for years—and so has my husband."
"I ... I can't believe this. You have totally made my year!" I turned to my mom and giggled because she seemed so stunned. "To think, the woman I bought my violin from 25 years ago ... is reading my column all the way in a different state."
Carrie shook her head in wonder and then began doing more fantastical things to my fiddle. "What you needed fixed, your 'soundpost,' in Italian means 'soul.' It helps the violin vibrate and produce sound."
Her words hit me, filling my entire being like I'd just gotten my own figurative soundpost back. I could hardly take it in, the enormity of the situation. My violin wasn't broken before, not really. But without that soundpost, it would be a husk without a soul to give it life. It just needed a little tweaking from a master craftsman.
"Wow," my mom said, smiling so big. 
In moments, Carrie had fixed my violin and made it sound even more perfect than before. "I take everything so literally," I admitted, "I thought maybe this was a sign from God. Not to be dramatic," I whispered, "but I thought God was about to kill me."
She laughed. "Yeah. Not to be dramatic—at all." Then she beamed at me, and it seemed electric and exciting. "This was an easy fix."
I held my violin out, so amazed just staring at the beauty of it. This master luthier had somehow swept into my life, fixed the soul of my violin, and given me my courage back.
As my mom and I returned to the hospital for my spinal tap, I couldn't help feeling a sense of peace.
"I got to be part of one of your Godwinks," my mom said. "I always hear about them, but now I got to be here for one!" She reached over and squeezed my hand three times, our signal for 'I. Love. You.' "I think God is trying to tell you that He's looking out for you—and everything will be okay."
"I think so too," I said, trying to hold my tears back. Then I thought of the master luthier who'd fixed my violin in a matter of moments. She brought new life to my fiddle and gave me hope that if I place my faith in God, He'll take care of me, give me courage, and even make my soul shine.


Here's what a soundpost looks like inside of the violin.

Does God Really Love Everyone?

 I normally do okay in the MRI machines, but during my last set of scans—when l’d been in the MRI machine for almost two hours—I started freaking out pretty bad.

I knew I needed to think of a good memory, and thoughts of when I played the violin in Rough Stock came to mind. We opened for a lot of big-name bands, and had a really great time jamming at private parties and corporate events. Those years felt magical, but the more I thought about it, my memory turned to performing at a certain farmers’ convention. We’d played our intro songs and sat down so the guest speaker could talk.

A very well-respected farmer got up and began his speech by telling a strange story about a man named Zeke. 

“Zeke had a really bad year,” he said. “All of his crops died. And at one point during the season, he finally asked God, ‘Why is this happening to me?’ Well, the next year, not only did his crops die but his wife left him and his kids stopped talking to him too. He again asked God, ‘What is going on?’”

The speaker paused for effect, looking around, and a lot of the farmers leaned forward, listening. “Well, the next year, Zeke got really sick and doctors told him it was terminal. He finally screamed, ‘God! Why are you doing this to me?’ At that point, the clouds opened up, and a booming voice said, ‘It’s because I hate you, and I just wanna see ya suffer.’”

Everybody in the audience broke out laughing. But I just stood there, timidly holding my fiddle offstage. This joke shook me to the core, and I thought, “Oh, my gosh. Does God really hate certain people? And if He does—well, I’m no better than anyone else—does that mean He might hate me too?”

Now, that I’m older (and not much wiser) I do believe that God loves everyone. At least I really, really hope He does. Despite my convictions, this story has always stuck with me. (Zeke is actually the name of my son who died, and this joke fed my fears.) 

Anyway, while in the MRI machine this last time, thinking about the farmers’ convention and poor, troubled Zeke, I started crying and hyperventilating. No matter how unfounded it seemed outside of that claustrophobia-inducing contraption, unrealistic thoughts poured through my brain in the moment: Does God hate me? Could it be true? 

A tech must’ve seen me in the camera they use for brain MRIs because her voice shot over the intercom, and she asked if I was okay.

“No!” I sobbed. “Can I come out? Pa-pa-please. My hurt leg is shaking. I’m in so much pain.”

“You can, but you’ve almost made it two hours. And if I bring you out, we’ll have to start all over again.”

“No.” I took three long breaths. “I…I can do this.” I had to calm myself down. Plus, Mike and my parents were out in the waiting room and they’d been there long enough already. 

Looking back, I’m so glad I found the strength to stay because something unforgettable happened.

We’re all taught that God loves us—to the point that it was actually the punchline of a farmer’s joke: the idea that God wouldn’t love someone. But while amid whirring machines on that rock-hard imaging table, I started thinking, “Why do people suffer? Why do we go through such terrible things? Why am I going through such hardships with this new brain tumor?” and I suddenly thought about the Hebrew word for love.

There are a lot of different words to describe love in Hebrew. This can be romantic or platonic. They even have a word specifically for the kind of love that God has for each of us. The root of THAT kind of love actually means… “loyalty.”

I can’t tell you how powerful this realization has seemed because loyalty isn’t about preventing hardships or stopping pain; it’s about sticking by somebody’s side even when it’s tough and loving them through it all.

As I thought about this, I felt that God somehow seemed to be with me, even though I’m so flawed and I can be an angel with one wing in the fire. I calmed down and actually made it through the rest of the scan. And to think, I also learned something along the way. 

I know that God does love us, but maybe it’s not always about intervening in our lives and stunting growth. I guess I just realized that maybe God’s love is much better than I imagined. He’s loyal, and I’m glad He’s there, sticking by our sides for whenever we need Him the most.

A Mocha a Day Keeps Negativity Away

This has been one of the oddest months of my entire life. Several weeks ago, doctors discovered a new tumor in my brain. Then, just hours before the radiation, the tumor board called the entire thing off. Forget that my insurance just paid $60,000 for a mask to be made—the same one they'd bolt to the table, covering my entire face to ensure up to 1mm of accuracy. And the reason they called it off? Well, the possibility is much worse than radiation, and just the idea of surgery has me shaking. But I'm trying not to worry too much. We all know where they've said this road is leading. Why quibble about the attractions along the way?

 

Anyway, I decided to share my story online through videos this time as a way of coping, and the first video quickly garnered over half a million views! To put this in perspective, years ago a local news station featured my blog when it hit a million views—after 10 YEARS.  So, to see these new numbers in a few short hours, well, it felt flabbergasting. 

 

The comments began rolling in by the thousands: most nice and a few mean. On top of that, my views for overall content is at 4 million today—something I once hoped and prayed for. But now, that seems unimportant. I pray for many different things than I did years ago: I pray to see each of my children reach adulthood. I pray for a few more years with Mike. I pray for my friends who are dying from terminal illnesses. I pray for people to be out of pain. Views ... what silly things I used to hope for.

 

My one concession is that in the main video, I urged people to "visit their dermatologist," and many of the comments claim viewers are doing just that. Other than being a mother and Mike's wife, I feel like I’ve accomplished something now. If people really are seeing their dermatologists, maybe they won't suffer my harrowing fate. Perhaps that was the point of my life, to help other people avoid sunburns, tanning beds, and an unchecked mole that could ruin their future. How insignificant that mole once seemed.

 

After getting off the phone with an oncologist last week, I pondered his words. He gave me 2 ½–3 years to live. Doesn't that sound cruelly familiar?! After all, I did write "Two More Years" following the first two-year diagnosis—IN 2020. Is that just their go-to? 

Doc #1: "This chick's insides are crap. Let's give 'er two years."

Doc #2: "Sounds about right. That IS standard protocol."

 

The three rudest comments on my "almost viral" video probably go as follows:

#1 "Who cares about this woman? Everyone has cancer these days."

#2 "I've heard she doesn't like Trump. At least that's one less liberal."

Last, and also least, #3 someone said they had terminal cancer once (like it’s something you get from the store), and they couldn't believe my "hubris" in posting my journey.

 

"You can't listen to these people," one of my daughters said. "You're getting to the point that you can't read all of the comments anyway—but you really shouldn't waste your time on the bad ones."

 

"I want to read what people say, though, because so many other cancer patients ask me to pray for them. And most people are so nice."

 

"Well, then," she paused, "you need to find a way to deal with this, so it doesn't drain you emotionally. You have enough to worry about, Mom. We need you to get better."

 

I thought for a minute and then started giggling. "I have it! I just need to make this fun."

 

"Okay?" She raised a brow.

 

"You know how I love mochas?"

 

She nodded.

 

"I don't get THAT many bad comments. So, the solution is easy. Every time someone says something mean, I'll go buy myself a mocha."

 

"This could be a very good or a very bad idea," she said before bursting with laughter. 

 

So, we're doing the best we can. We're adjusting to bad news and good news, kind people and the few mean ones. And we're about to potentially drink a ton of mochas. Life couldn't get any better, right? That's what I'll keep telling myself.

The Kindness of Shaun Buck from Newsletter Pro

My phone rang and I froze. “Shaun Buck’s” name paraded across the screen, but it took a moment to answer. How do you possibly say “thank you” to someone who’s moved mountains in your life?

“Hello, Shaun?” I finally said, answering the call.“Elisa! I’m so glad we can talk.”But my voice faltered, and I found myself back in that horrid hospital room in 2020. A doctor unceremoniously told me I would die soon. Family could hardly visit (one hour a day, one person at a time) because of COVID-19. That particular day—when doctors relayed my fate—I sat staring out a sterile window, stressing about bills. Mike had taken a month off—unpaid—to help the kids with school, emotions, and pretty much everything. I worked remotely from my hospital room, but I couldn’t possibly edit 40 hours a week, not after getting a cancerous vertebra removed! Mike returned to work and even took on side jobs, but we couldn’t seem to catch up, and I didn’t think I could continue treatments let alone pay regular bills.My hours dropped to between 20–30 a week. Nurses would laugh when they came in to get my vitals. “Are you seriously working from your hospital room?” one lady asked. I’d donned a fancy shirt over my hospital gown and IVs, so coworkers wouldn’t suspect my true attire—or location—on Zoom calls. “I …” A deep breath of air gave me courage and brought me back to the moment. “I … wanted to say thank you, Shaun. I’m gonna try not to cry. But what you did for my family, well, it changed our lives.”“It wasn’t anything,” he said.I scoffed. “You have no idea how stressed I was. I tried working full time, but I couldn’t, not with my health. We needed the money so badly. And then … you swooped in and paid me for full time—for months and months—even though you knew I could never pay it back. I tried, just because I wanted to be worth it, but God knows I couldn’t. And then, you didn’t even care. Management said you just did it to help, even though I’m sure times were hard for everyone during the peak of COVID.”“It’s just money,” he said. “And I wanted to help. Really. People told me about you and your family. They said you’re really good people. They said YOU are a good person.” I’d never spoken to Shaun directly before that call. I messaged him once, thanking him in 2021, but I didn’t dare call. Shaun is a big deal. He’s extremely successful with amazing connections and the kind of marketing skills any entrepreneur would envy. I guess that’s why people hire him to help grow businesses through magazines and newsletters. He uses personalized stories to help customers become fully invested not just in products, brands, and services but also in the people behind them.I shook my head. I couldn’t believe this benevolent man had called ME a good person. I didn’t even land on the scale compared to him.“Why did you do it?” I finally blurted.“Well, I still remember where I was when I heard about your diagnosis. You’d started working for the company in June, and you found out about the cancer in October. I was going through a pretty hard time myself. It was … really rough—but nothing compared to what happened to you.” I knew Shaun had gotten divorced, but I didn’t know the details except he loves his boys more than life itself. It’s true that divorce is hard; it can feel daunting for even the most capable of people. His story fully captivated me, and I couldn’t help but gasp. “I’m so sorry you went through that,” I said.“Hey, it’s okay. But like I said, it was bad, but then I heard about you. Even though I didn’t know you, I pretty much did—because other people had told me about you. And I wanted to help.” Then he paused, and I felt a shift in the conversation. “Elisa, you just have to get better. I can’t wait to talk with you in two years and hear how you’re cancer free and able to walk well. You’ve gotta believe it.” So much emotion filled his words that I found tears brimming my eyes.“It wasn’t just money to us,” I sobbed. “It helped us keep a semblance of normalcy for the kids. I’ll be forever grateful for what you did.”After the call ended, I thought about what a blessing it’s been to work for Newsletter Pro for the past three years. I reveled in perfecting articles about history, current events, life hacks, food—and almost anything you can imagine! “I loved my job,” I told Amber, the director of client operations, “because NLP has the best employees—and editing every day gave me an added purpose. It’s so hard giving up this part of my life.” “We all love you,” she said, and I knew she really felt empathy for what my family and I are experiencing with the advent of this new tumor. “We’ve been honored to have you as a team member. And I wanted to let you know that Shaun has decided to give you the work laptop.”“What?! Why—I mean … What?!” Had I heard her right? I rested my hands on the keyboard and stared at it. It’s a top-of-the-line MacBook Air with fancy editing programs and fonts! It’s so fast and new that it makes my personal computer look like a 100-year-old with a walker, dentures, cataracts, AND a diaper! “I’ve gotta pay for this!”“Just enjoy it.” She laughed. “You being a part of the team—and bringing positivity to all of us—has been more than enough payment.”So, I had my last official day of work on Monday, just in time to prepare for my new radiation journey that has followed. I’m writing this on my beautiful, flawless, AMAZING laptop, and my soul is filled with such gratitude right now. I still don’t fully understand why Shaun decided to do these kind things for me and my family, but I do know that every time I use this computer, I’ll think of the good people in this world and be grateful to still be alive, experiencing the joy and wonder of a life well lived. I really am the luckiest.

Light from a Lighthouse

 When doctors first gave me two years to live, my medical chart showed “Christianity” as my denomination. This dates back to when my first son passed away. I still remember selecting a religion when staff boasted a pastor who could instantaneously come pray for my baby. But my son didn’t live—no matter how many preachers begged God. I guess Heaven needed him more. 

That happened nearly two decades ago, and now doctors have told me it’s my turn to die … 

Seeing the shock on my face after this initial diagnosis, specialists sent a parson to my room.

I twiddled my thumbs as the on-site pastor doomed my soul to hell. “What do you mean, you don’t believe Jesus was the son of God?”

“I knew I should’ve lied,” I said because condemnation—especially when you’re facing an expiration date—feels markedly worse than lying to a pastor. 

I remained hospitalized for nearly a month, and over that time several Christian clerics spoke with me. Each voiced concerns about eternal torment, but despite their urgings, I couldn’t force myself to believe in Christianity.

After finally getting discharged from the hospital, I had a strange new view on life and death—so close I could almost feel it creeping up on me. I knew how I would die; I just didn’t know when. This left me in doubt about my past regrets along with future goals, but I did know one thing for certain, I didn’t want to spend my final days shackled to condemnation over a difference of beliefs. 

Over the next two years, I visited various places of worship for different religions. I sought prayers from Buddhists, spiritualists, monks, and so-called heathens. I especially reveled in time at synagogues with newfound Jewish friends who became like family and showed me joy in simplicities—and food. Although I found a peace among Jewish culture and something that finally satiated my desire to feel even closer to my creator, the whole time, I kept wanting to visit a spiritual healer named Dixie Nowell.

Dixie takes a holistic approach to healing, wielding oils, music, and books that detail information from ancient texts. A dear friend, paid for me to see her after my divorce, and I genuinely couldn’t believe how much better I felt about life after talking with her.

“Can I come see you?” I asked her. “I’d also like to bring one of my daughters, Sky.”

My relationship with Sky has deepened in a way that is truly astounding. I’m not sure if it’s the terminal diagnosis, the woman she’s grown to be, or both, but we’ve gotten so close in the past year, and I find myself extra grateful to be living on “bonus time.” I’ve already made it five months longer than doctors expected, and although I’m still fighting for more years above ground, I can’t imagine missing these recent months with my loved ones. They’ve held some of the most profound experiences of my entire lifetime.

Dixie quickly responded to my query. “Yes! And come stay with me.”

I’ve had so many people altruistically offer for me to spend the night at their homes—which are close to the cancer center in Utah—but I rarely do it, not wanting to impose. Yet, for some reason I agreed, feeling almost like we needed to stay with Dixie. This might sound hokey or ridiculous, but the night before we left for more cancer treatments and to see Dixie in Eden, I dreamed about a beautiful lighthouse with a blinding light shooting through the windows. It left me feeling pure and flawless despite illness, something I haven’t felt since long before this whole ordeal began.

What Dixie gave me and Sky is hard to put into words. She spoke with both of us for hours and hours, and with each moment that passed, I somehow felt my load lighten. “You’re changing so many lives,” she said to me. “I read your posts. And I love how you write.”

“That—well, that means so much.” Tears filled my eyes when she shared this sentiment about me—but especially when she spoke to Sky. I watched as my beautiful, vibrant 18-year-old transformed from carrying worries about losing her mom to appearing hopeful that everything will end the way it’s supposed to. There’s nothing more important to a mother than seeing that her children are okay. And, I think half of Dixie’s gift is being a life coach; the other half is building others up to the brim with positivity and kindness.

We finally went into the healing room, and as Sky and I closed our eyes to meditate, I felt so much joy beating from my heart. Sure, I don’t know how much longer I truly have or how excruciating my cancerous death may ultimately be, but I am trying my hardest to remain present and hopeful. I’m enjoying every minute, taking opportunities to experience new things and cherishing time with the people I love the most. The longer I sat meditating, it almost seemed as if my dream about the lighthouse had been for this moment, that the sun shone through MY soul and God really filled me with such light and love. I so hoped Sky and Dixie felt the same.

After the session ended, Sky practically glowed and hugged me. “Thank you for bringing me here, Mama. I’m so glad I got to meet Dixie and to experience this with you.”

Dixie smiled, and I realized she must’ve heard similar words a thousand times.

“Let me show you to your room.”

I gingerly walked down the stairs, while Sky and Dixie’s inspiring son brought our luggage down. “Here it is!” Dixie beamed.

I gaped at the wall, completely dumbfounded and momentarily unable to speak because in the corner—large and impressive—hung a striking picture of a lighthouse with light shining directly through the upper windows.

“Is everything okay?” Dixie asked, taking a step closer to me. 

“Ye—yes. I’m just so … grateful for your generosity. And … your friendship.” I paused, willing her to know how much it all meant to me and Sky. “Thank you for letting us stay here, Dixie.” I forced my voice to remain steady and strong. “Your kindness … means far more than you might know.”

The next day, I received test results from earlier that week. They showed a new tumor.

“This tells us once again, that unless there is some freak accident, you will die from melanoma.”

I sighed and wracked my thoughts from something positive to say since I’ve made it my personal vendetta to try shocking the hell out of my doctor. “At least that gives me a good excuse to buy a new dress,” I finally blurted. “How can my husband get mad when I tell him I got a new dress AND a tumor.” 

The line stayed quiet, and I didn’t mean to, but I actually broke out laughing. 

“You’re taking this news awfully well,” the doctor said, dumbfounded.

Yes. I’d done it again! Bwa-ha-ha! “I had the most amazing experience this week,” I admitted. “It put everything in perspective, and I’m grateful to be here at all. I can’t believe I actually exist. It’s hard to even fathom that I’ve lived longer than expected. I can’t believe I got to have a family, experience love, see the beauty of our world. Death is just part of the bargain.” I sighed. 

“You … Elisa … Sometimes you amaze me,” she said. 

“Same to you. Thank you for extending my life,” I replied. And after I hung up the phone, my thoughts returned to that unforgettable lighthouse, the one with the light shooting straight through the upper windows. 

“Dear God,” I silently prayed. “I hope you love me. If you do and you can find the time, can you please give me strength to get through the next leg of this journey.” And then I sat down … and thinking about the future, I cried.

Meeting Douglas Sayer of Premier Technology

 I’ve met some pretty legendary people in my lifetime: some who I knew would greatly impact my life and others who have changed the world. It’s incredible to meet both kinds of people, but there’s something truly extraordinary about seeing a world changer up close. They have this energy about them that instantly builds excitement and innovation. And even in a few moments, you can catch that “je ne sais quoi.” I remember feeling this when I met Stephen Covey and later stayed at his home while fiddling as a homeless street musician in Hawaii. And I felt that today while visiting with Douglas Sayer.

Many of you might recognize this name especially if you’re from Idaho. Doug started Premier Technology with his beautiful wife, Shelly, in 1996. Since then, it’s accomplished the unthinkable: streamlining processes that have helped industries across the globe, creating cutting-edge technology that truly improves the world, and finding solutions that were once unthinkable. Yes, this company boasts over $100 million in annual sales, but that’s not what impressed me most about Doug. What impressed me is his kindness.

Let’s back up a minute. In 2021, I cried at my computer. Months before, doctors had given me two years to live, and I found writing to be one of my best outlets. But sometimes, even writing can be devastatingly hard. And so, feeling even more sick than normal, I thought about quitting writing. “There’s no point,” I said under my breath. And I thought then, that if God really wanted me to share my story, He needed to give me a sign. If (and that seemed to be a BIG if) my writing benefited other people, I needed someone to say so … that day. To say: Keep Writing. Honestly, that’s all I needed, those two little words.

I posted a story and got several beautiful comments, mostly about people praying for me. And while these meant the world, they weren’t what I’d asked for. I turned solemn, thinking it had happened, my time to retire my pen. Then, just when I’d nearly given up hope, I received a comment from Douglas Sayer—thee Doug Sayer! And he, of all people, sent those two words I’d asked for hours earlier: “Keep Writing.”

You know, life is absolutely astounding. I never told Doug what his words did for me that day; I didn’t know how. Anyway, time passed and he continued commenting on some of my other posts. I told my son, Trey, about this one day. “That’s the kind of guy I want to work for,” he said.

“Huh.” I smiled. “I think they do tours.”

So, I reached out to Doug, and when I asked if they offer tours, he not only said “yes,” but he offered to show us around himself.
Trey and Indy got more excited than I’d seen them in a long time. Indy changed her outfit about three times, and Trey wrote down a few questions he’d ask if he got brave enough. We arrived today, and Trey looked at me with wonder. “I can’t believe he bought some books from you.”

“Right?” I said. “Trey,” I tried remaining calm, “the books he bought … I needed that exact amount of money for trips to Utah so I can get these new radiation treatments.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I just want you kids to remember how good God is.” We’re not religious, but we’ve sure seen miracles since I got sick. “God looks out for us. It’s astounding.”

After we went into the building, Trey and Indy pushed me in my wheelchair, and Doug gave us the most wonderful tour. I ended up asking some of Trey’s questions (since Trey got nervous), and then I threw in a couple of my own.

“I’m just full of questions.” I giggled. “You can tell I used to work for a newspaper. But I really wanted to ask … you said the most important thing you’ve found in business is to ‘look ahead’ so you can always stay above the competition. But what about life? With everything …” I paused. “With everything I’m going through, I’ve been thinking about the meaning of life, wondering, ‘What’s the point?’ So, what’s your best advice for life?”

He appeared thoughtful. “I guess my advice would be the same: look ahead. I always compare it to throwing a football. You know that at some point the football and the shadow will meet. I’m like the shadow, trying to keep up.” And as he spoke, I nodded, thinking how ironic it felt that this advice fully embodied what he’d done for me with the words “keep writing” years ago. He shared that at a time when I felt like no longer making goals or achieving them. Sometimes it’s so easy to give up and give in when you’re told you’re dying from cancer or you have another brain tumor. But his sage words both in 2021 and today, hit home.

On the ride back to Pocatello, Trey tapped the steering wheel. “I told you he’s the kind of guy I’d want to work for.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“You can just tell the kind of person he is, how he took time with us, to make sure we all felt important. It means a lot with everything we’re going through.’

“That whole thing was amazing,” Indy said.

Trey nodded. “I’ll never forget what he said about looking ahead. I know it’s important to plan, but something about his words—I’ll never forget it.”

“That’s because you just met a world changer,” I said, and I didn’t even have to explain further.

“I guess so.” And that was the end of the conversation.

After we got home, I couldn’t help feeling so happy and warm in my heart. “You ready for the next round of treatments?” my nurse called to give me the appointment schedule.

“Yes, I am. I gotta keep looking ahead and moving forward.” I smiled, unable to help myself. “I learned that today, from a new friend.”