E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 13

A Good Friend and Another Plot Twist

 In October of 2018, I had my first bout with melanoma. The consequent wrist surgery left me unable to play the violin for months. This “plot twist” devasted me, but I resolved to hold my violin differently and work to eventually play again. My arm, wrist, and hand pulsed with pain since they’d had to remove some muscle and bone, but I still practiced for hours upon hours perfecting a new left-hand fingering style. After what felt like a lifetime, I FINALLY sounded good. 

I wrote about this in a local newspaper, saying how when life tries to kick us down, we need to kick back! After reading this article, a musical couple, Ron and Dottie Barrett, reached out to me. Ron started calling every so often, just to check in. He’d battled cancer too, and that’s what first bonded us. But after that, what drew me to him was his wit. He’d tell stories about asking Dottie out on a date. She didn’t want to go at first, so he fell asleep under her car and waited—with his cowboy boots sticking out from under the truck—so she’d know he’d stayed there all night, just hoping she’d give him a chance. (Leave it to an Idaho cowboy to give everything to get his girl! I’m just glad she didn’t run him over.) 

Anyway, the couple eventually asked if I’d come “jam” with them. I got nervous—I hadn’t even played with the band I was in (Rough Stock) since my surgery that previous October. “I’d love to fiddle with you guys, but I’m feeling a bit gunshy,” I said.

“Come on, Little Lady. Get your butt over here, and we’ll fix ya up!” Ron said. So, I visited their house and surprised myself because we sounded great. Dottie played the piano while Ron strummed the guitar and sang. Add the violin, and it sounded professional. Dottie grinned “bigger than a polecat eating dinner” (as Ron said), and the two immediately asked me to join them competing in the Bingham’s Got Talent contest and fundraiser for cancer patients.

That amazing couple raised hundreds of dollars for people fighting this terrible illness—and because of their efforts, we won the People’s Choice Award at the contest! When I first found out I had cancer, it felt devastating. I never imagined that months later, I’d be able to play again, let alone help raise money for people in need.

The Barretts became a huge influence in my life. They even felt like family. I’d go visit with Dottie, and Ron ended up giving my second-oldest daughter, Sky, free guitar lessons for a couple of years. Before Dottie died of stomach cancer, she gave me the People’s Choice Award trophy to keep, so I could always remember her fine piano playing and the day we won.

Time passed, and I eventually set Ron up with one of my amazing aunts. (She looks just like Meryl Streep and is funnier than Amy Schumer, so I knew he’d be thrilled.) After they started dating (wait, it worked?!), I started calling him “Uncle Ron.” I loved watching their excitement as they got to be good friends. He’d call me—like a teenager—to rave about how beautiful and special my aunt is. I loved…seeing them in love. And he said one of the biggest highlights of his later years was “the surprise of falling in love again” and getting to know such a “fine woman.”

Anyway, a few weeks ago, Ron said he had something for me. I could hardly believe my eyes when I spied the brand-new purple fiddle. “I wanted to learn how to play. But I’m not feeling so well. I decided to give her to you,” he said. I knew Ron had felt sick for a while, but I had no idea how serious it was.

I phoned him days later and left a message, gushing about the violin. I have no idea if he got it because I received a call this morning, letting me know that Ron died last week.

I have no words for how hard life can be. I cried today, telling Mike that too many people I know have died. “It feels like once a month someone I know passes away.” 

He nodded, and then he just held me.

“This is how the elderly population must feel, watching all of their older family members and friends die. People should be nicer to old people. They have it really rough!”

I know this is the one thing that’s guaranteed with life, is that all of us will die, but sometimes it’s hard staring this reality in the face, knowing that whenever I talk to anyone, it could be the last time …

I’m so grateful for the memories and the good times. I know Ron and Dottie wouldn’t want me to “wallow like a stick in the mud,” so instead, I think I’ll pick up that purple fiddle and play my little heart out, hoping my song will reach Heaven. I just want the Barretts to know how much I love and miss them. They might just shake their heads and smile. When Ron isn’t pulling pranks on Saint Peter, I bet he’s just happy to be out of pain and grateful to be united with Dottie again.

Here’s more about Ron if you’d like to read his obituary: https://www.eckersellfuneralhome.com/...

He really was one heck of a guy.

#stage4cancer

#cancerawareness

#MelanomaAwareness

#cancerwarrior

#Blackfoot

#blackfootidaho

When Bollywood Stole My Facebook Page

 In 2003 my cellphone rang. I glanced at the unknown number, not feeling up to conversation. My son had died a few months before, and I’d gotten momentarily separated from my first husband. As if reading my mind, my oldest daughter studied me from her highchair while taking another bite of oatmeal. 
Oatmeal. I hated the stuff. But being poor, oatmeal seemed to be the only food we could afford, and while I had to choke it down, I thanked God that Ruby still loved Quaker Oats.
“Should I answer it?” I asked Ruby who giggled, dancing to my ringtone. 
“Hello?” I spoke into the receiver and smiled at my beautiful little girl—my reason.
The man responded in a thick accent. “Ma’am?” Then he began peddling an inane product. 
“I can barely afford oatmeal,” I said. “There’s no way I can buy whatever you’re selling. Can you remove me from your calling list?”
“Yes.” But he sounded devastated. Desperate. 
I thought then how easily we separate ourselves from our own humanity through a phone line or a computer’s modem, wielding apathy instead of kindness.
“Wait,” I said, “before you go, can you tell me how your day is going?”
He paused. “It’s…okay. Um…thank you…for asking.”
“Where are you from?” I just wanted to show some interest, try to make his day a bit brighter.
“Ma’am,” his voice wavered, “I’m in India.”
“How exciting!” I squealed. “I bet it’s gorgeous over there.” And Ruby’s eyes lit with mirth as she watched my reaction.
The conversation that followed still feels somewhat magical, even 20 years later. The telemarketer told me about his hardships and fears. He shared how he felt like he’d hit rock bottom to have a degree and be a telemarketer—he felt like a failure. And to top that off, people could be so unkind, yelling at him and hanging up all day long. 
I told him about my son who’d died and my failing marriage. He said he never would’ve guessed because I’d sounded so happy when I first answered the phone. And somehow the conversation felt so…healing.
He’d called to sell me something but instead reminded me of the very best of humanity. He fought to provide for his family, striving to succeed no matter how difficult life had become. And on that international phone call, we encouraged each other to keep going…for our kids and even for ourselves.
“You’re amazing,” I said. And with that, we ended the call.
Fast forward to almost two weeks ago. I received an email from a woman in India. She explained that her company desperately wanted to advertise on my Facebook page. I immediately remembered the Indian man from 20 years ago, his kind voice, his quiet resolve. And I wondered how the years had treated him. Had he finally landed a job where he could utilize his degree? Had his children grown up to realize what a strong, selfless man had supported them all of those years. And what would he think about my life? My wonderful children? My second husband who’s been so good to me? And—since 2018–my terrible fight against cancer and death. 
Thinking about all of that, I agreed to advertise this woman’s product. All I needed to do was sign into my Meta account and accept her invitation to advertise.
Imagine my surprise when this woman ended up being a man who later hacked into my Meta account and stole my business page on Facebook. As many of you know, I had 56,000 followers on my EC Stilson page. I’d worked for 12 years to build it up to that point. Despite contacting Facebook over 14 times since this theft on Feb. 19, they have done nothing to help me, and I’m beginning to lose hope. 
Today, I sat wondering why this feels so devastating. I guess it’s hard knowing this scammer read about my fight against cancer, and they still proceeded to steal my page and thus part of my livelihood (selling books through my platform). It’s also appalling having someone take my identity, and now post Bollywood videos under my name. But it gets so much worse. I hate knowing that cancer patients and some of my elderly followers might be trying to message that page, only to be greeted by this dangerous imposter. And—maybe the worst part—the teams at Facebook and Meta don’t seem to care.
Today, as I sat wondering what I’m supposed to learn from this, I immediately remembered the Indian telemarketer from two decades ago. He reminded me that no matter what hardships we have or will go through, we should never let unkind people or unfortunate situations rob us of our humanity. 
It might be terrible that Facebook isn’t doing anything to help, that the scammer has sent someone to try ransoming my page, that I’ve had to realize some people could care less that others are sick—they’ll even capitalize upon it…but what I’m so proud of is that I TRULY know now those situations will never rob me of my ability to be kind and always look for the good. 
I prayed for the scammer today. Begged God to help them learn what they need in order to grow and feel empathy for others. I prayed for myself, for the strength to continue being that girl who makes friends with telemarketers and learns from unlikely circumstances. I also prayed that no one else will be taken advantage of, thinking they’re messaging me…
This has been hard waiting to hear back from Facebook about the future of my page and my business, but it’s nothing compared to waiting for my own demise because of cancer. This page was just something to distract me from the brutal reality of sickness; I know that now.
Anyway, I guess today I’m hanging onto peace in my own humanity. Hope in the journey. Love in the memories. It’s hard waiting, until I realize this is just another sign I’m still lucky enough to be alive. And that’s what I learned after someone stole my Facebook page so they could begin posting Bollywood videos under my name.

Breaking Sand Dollars to Release Doves

 This Valentine’s Day, my teenage son did the sweetest thing; he gave me strength.

Let me explain: In 2021, when my liver started failing because of cancer treatments, my Aunt BoAnn and Uncle Frank came to see us all the way from another state! They bought dinner, brought gifts for each person in our family, and even watched the kids when Mike rushed me to the emergency room. Anyway, each of the kids cherished their time with my aunt and uncle and have taken exceptional care of the gifts they received. But this especially made an impact on Trey. During that visit, he’d received several sand dollars and learned how to break them to release the doves inside.

But even as time passed, Trey couldn’t bring himself to break them. “They’re so awesome. I can’t stand to destroy them.”

So, I looked it up online. “But it’s good luck!” I said then read the search results. “Once the sand dollar is broken open, the five jaw apparatuses are said to look like doves.” I pointed to the ‘doves’ from a broken sand dollar in his room. “Broken sand dollars release goodwill and peace into the world.”

He didn’t quite agree with me. And although he loved the gift, he vowed to keep them safe. Anyway, months passed and despite Trey’s best efforts, since sand dollars are quite fragile, some of them did start to break. I watched as a sand dollar at a time would disappear from his shelf, replaced by doves. And although I didn’t ask Trey about any of this, I just found it interesting until only one sand dollar remained unbroken, in February of 2023.

I’d called in sick to work, suffering beyond words. And I felt so tired. Trey handed me something wrapped in tissue along with a note. “Read the note first?” he asked, and I read it aloud.

“I am giving you a sand dollar,” I read his words on the paper, “but not just any sand dollar…the intact one! Because out of all of us, you have stayed the strongest the last few years. Not only that, but you have inspired so many lives.” Tears filled my eyes as I continued reading his words. “You have earned the one and only sand dollar.” I smiled. “Use it wisely. From Trey.”

I gave Trey the biggest hug. It’s crazy that he’s almost six feet tall and that he has such a tender, loving heart. I’m so grateful for him, every single second of every day. So, as I read his words again this Valentine’s Day, I realized once more the importance of telling the people in our lives just how much they matter to us. 

I am so incredibly fortunate to have such amazing family members and friends in my life. If I have stayed strong at times, it’s simply a testament to the kind of people who surround me. I am lucky and blessed. This Valentine’s Day, I wanted to tell all of you how much I love and appreciate you. I know the best people in the world. Thank you for your kindness to me!

This Side of a Terminal Diagnosis

 When I turned 26, the modeling agency told me I was too old to model. “We kept you a year longer than normal. No one wants someone over the age of 25–not unless they’re a big name.”

I hadn’t liked modeling solely for the shoots. Some of them felt trashy, especially the one calendar project where executives dressed me and eleven other girls to look muddy in a swamp that held about a million mosquitos. They’d do up your hair and makeup, then put you in clothes you’d never wear in real life. And sometimes upper management would try hitting on you….

Still, when the agency ended my contract, it stung. I had enjoyed going out for music gigs. Sometimes the agency would call and send me to music auditions: singing, fiddling, or playing the piano. I’d get to fiddle with various bands at different venues. Sometimes companies needed a model who actually knew how to play a certain instrument for photos or even films. And that felt…nice, thinking I had a sought-after skill and someone thought I was pretty. Plus, minimum wage for music gigs started at $94 an hour—a small fortune to me at the time.

But it does a number on your self esteem when someone says you’re “too old” at 26. (I did land two more jobs after this, at 29 and 30, but that was the end of it. Ha!)

Anyway, I thought about all of that this weekend when I went swimming with Indy. Everyone else in our family had plans, so Indy and I headed to Lava Hot Springs to the mineral pools that many claim have healing powers. 

Sometimes I can walk quite straight, without a hunch in my back, but when I get tired, something pulls my back tighter and tighter until I look haggard and old. Unfortunately, that’s what happened as we stood in the changing rooms and prepared to go into the hot pools. As I waited for Indy to get ready, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I have a 9-inch scar on my back, a disfigured thumb, several scars on my stomach, a 5-inch scar on my hip, a 5-inch scar on my arm, and severe muscle atrophy in my right leg. I scoffed. If the modeling agency could see me now.

“You okay?” Indy asked. I hadn’t realized she’d come out already. 

“Yeah. I’m good,” I said. I did not want her to know the internal struggle I faced, just going out to the pools. I felt so ridiculously weak-minded.

So, we walked out, and I saw a few people eying the scars on my body. “Mama, what’s wrong with her?” a little girl asked.

“Trinity! I’ve told you. It’s not nice to point at strangers.”

Indy and I walked away from “Trinity” and her vigilant mother and found a spot in a hot pool near the end, one that boasted a lower temperature than the other pools, about 102 degrees F. 

Indy laughed and smiled, having no idea how bad I’d felt about people’s prying eyes and Trinity’s words. And I wished I could stay submerged in the concealing water forever—or at least until everyone else left. 

“Ready to go?” Indy finally asked a while later. But I felt terrified. I couldn’t stand limping back into that changing room and feeling like some defective version of my former self.

“Five more minutes?” I asked and right after I said it, an older gentleman headed toward our part of the pool. He seemed malnourished and exhausted. He dragged an oxygen machine behind him and barely made it—with the help of a woman—down a step and just a foot away from me.

“No one else who’s sick comes here!” he mumbled, looking around. “I’m mortified, Cindy! Everyone’s staring at me. I’m the only one who’s sick here!”

“You ready to go now?” Indy whispered, and I nodded. I couldn’t wait to stand up. I just hoped the man would see my scars, atrophied leg, and how I walk … and that he’d feel somehow better—like he wasn’t alone.

I stood then, and when I looked back, I noticed so many eyes falling across my back and leg. But I didn’t care about them; I just cared about the man with the oxygen tank. I smiled at him, and he gave me the saddest, most understanding nod. Then Indy held my hand, and I lumbered toward the changing room, feeling a strange sort of peace.

“Mama. Mama! It’s that patchwork lady again,” Trinity said as we walked near her.

Her mother paled, appearing horrified. “I am…so sorry,” she said to me instead of addressing Trinity first.

“It’s all right,” I said. Then I turned to Trinity and her mother and what felt like dozens of bystanders in that pool. I stood up as straight as I could and uncrossed my arms that had been over my stomach—so they could get the full view. “I have melanoma,” I said, a bit shakily at first. “This is what happens when you get burned in the sun, use tanning beds, don’t use sun screen…and don’t see your dermatologist!”

You could tell everyone thought hard about my words; one man even glanced down at a mole on his arm.

“Doctors originally only gave me two years to live, and now I’ve lived longer than they expected. But it’s been a battle.”

When Indy and I returned to the dressing room, I saw myself in a different light. It doesn’t matter that I’m not society’s kind of beautiful any more, that I have more scars than a Viking, or that one of my legs looks like skin and bone. I’ve grown as a person, and if even one life is saved by the speech I gave at the hot pools, then something wonderful happened that is far more important than looking pretty in the pages of a inconsequential magazine.

So, this is what life looks like on the other side of a terminal diagnosis. It sure has a lot more depth and meaning. I think I’d pick the knowledge I’ve gained over youth and beauty—that’s a pretty neat realization. 

P.S. (1) This motorcycle picture was not a modeling picture, but it was taken to get my last gig when I was 30. (2) This second picture is a partial shot of my back scar (I didn’t show the whole thing because I’m not THAT brave 😅). (3) Lastly, snow lined the ground everywhere in Lava Hot Spring. People even go there for the Fire and Ice festival in the winter—we aren’t the only ones who love going there when it’s cold, and I think it’s one of America’s best kept secrets! The rest of these pictures are from my weekend with Indy; we had so much fun.

So This Is 40 — And God Sent a Ladybug!

My 40th birthday was the best anyone could ask for! I wanted to thank you for all of the kind messages. I feel extremely loved and so lucky. I don’t even care that I’m still fighting cancer. It’s my new normal—and like I’ve said before, even though I’m not in remission, my shitty attitude sure is! 🤣 Life is such a miracle if we just have the guts to look for the good. 🥰

Do you remember that post I recently wrote, praying for God to send me a ladybug as a sign? Look at what I got (picture below)—and one was an accident from Amazon! 😮 (Here’s that post if you want to read it, but having this “ladybug birthday” seemed pretty incredible: https://www.facebook.com/738955486/posts/10168471432875487/?flite=scwspnss .)

I asked for a ladybug because in some cultures if one lands on you, it’s a sign that it will take the suffering away and keep you safe. Anyway, yesterday I got all of these ladybugs (FIVE OF THEM), and it blew me away!

Also, your support this week has been unreal. THE GOLDEN SKY has stayed in the top No. 1 and 2 spots for women’s memoir for five days in a row! Thank you to everyone who’s taken the time to get the eBook; I am on cloud nine. 

Do you know how when you’re about to put a dog down and you give them a steak dinner the night before? If this is my steak dinner from God, it’s been worth it. But honestly, I have a feeling things are starting to turn around. No matter what, I’m enjoying the ride.

If you haven’t read my first memoir and would like to, you can get that for free today:

https://www.amazon.com/Golden-Sky-EC-Stilson-ebook/dp/B006FD16DQ/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?crid=15Y2A9IT07W9H&keywords=ec+stilson+the+golden+sky&qid=1675446386&sprefix=%2Caps%2C208&sr=8-1

Thanks again for everything 🥰

#fortiesAreBest #stagefourmelanoma #Gratitude #gratitudeattitude #ladybug #ladybuglove #cancerwarrior #findthegood

All She Wanted Was Time

We’re sitting at an old Chinese restaurant. It’s so dilapidated, the chime no longer works at the front door. I look at you, with your bright eyes smiling back at me because you’ve been waiting weeks for this date with Mama. Your chubby hands grip the water glass in front of you, and your darling sandaled shoes kick rhythmically under the table. 

“We don’t have much money,” I say, “so we’re gonna share a cup of soup.”

    

Your eyes light with excitement because you don’t worry about money; you’re a seven-year-old who’s ready for adventure.

“We’d like a cup of egg-drop soup,” I tell the young waitress. “That’s all.”

“We’re going to share it!” you squeal, eager to spill our secret. The waitress studies us, doesn’t write anything in her notebook, and walks away.

     

As we wait for our soup, we talk about the beautiful stringy lights, the slippery red seats, and the soft music playing around us. I’m totally in the moment then, so part of that place that even the smallest details are committed to memory.

    

“Mama, you’re the best,” you say.

“No—you are.” 

    

You giggle.

    

The waitress arrives then, holding an enormous bowl of soup and two little cups to go with it.  She sets it down with such kindness. “One small cup of soup.” 

    

I know it’s not their “small” size, and I’m taken aback. You on the other hand think it’s amazing.  You don’t even notice the waitress has walked away because your eyes are glued to the huge bowl of egg-drop soup—your favorite. “She’s so nice, Mama! Look what she did—she made it big this time.” You can hardly stop talking, even to drink your water or eat your soup. You tell me about friends, math, books, life … After a moment, you stare at your water flabbergasted. “You know, this is the best water ever! This is the best day ever.”

    

I realize the waitress sits in the corner; she's listening to every word as she’s rolling silverware. 

    

We pay the check before the waitress pulls me aside. “You are both so grateful—you’ve taught me something today. Even the simplest things, can be the best ever if it’s with someone you love.”    

    

I walk out, a bit changed. I’m not quite sure why it feels so magical, but it does. Sometimes simple truths are that way.

    

“That was the best date ever,” you say.  

    

I nod.  “Yes, it was. And it hardly cost anything.” I realize then as I gaze down at your sparkling blue eyes, all you’d really wanted … was time.

—

Happy birthday, Indiana! You might be a teenager now, but I’m so proud that you’ve grown up to be just as sweet as you were at the age of seven. Thank you for all of the wonderful memories. 

(We had this fun AI picture made for Indy with Lensa. I hope she’ll love it!)

I am the luckiest mama in the world because of my kids 🥰

What Does It Mean to Have a Rainbow Baby?

 I had a miscarriage after Zeke. It might sound terrible, but I wondered if the baby would’ve been born with birth defects again, and I just felt so grateful God took the baby before we had to watch them suffer like Zeke did.

But when I got pregnant with Sky, I worried the further along I got. The doctors said that since I’d had one baby die, the chances went up of it happening again. I thought about this as I drove through a storm one day, white knuckling the steering wheel in my pregnant paranoia. The weather seemed like my young life at times: beautifully tragic. If I could just get to the other side of that damn storm …

“Mama! Rain!” Ruby hollered from the backseat. Ruby was so tiny at the time, and she loved the rain, seeing the world in a magical sheen I once loved. I looked in the rearview mirror, studying her curls. Ruby was my lifeline. When everything else seemed awful or too hard to bear, that perfect angel kept me going.

I patted my huge belly. “I wish I could have some sort of sign that I’ll never have a baby die again.” I cried through the storm, and shortly after my words, I turned a bend. 

“Rainbow!” Ruby giggled. ”Two, Mama!” And she was right; we saw two huge rainbows just outside of the storm. I wiped away my tears, thinking how if we wouldn’t have traveled through the storm, we never would’ve appreciated the beauty of the rainbows. I told Ruby that, and she listened with her big, green eyes getting wider and wider.

I thought of God’s promise to Noah in Genesis, how He sent a rainbow to tell that old man He’d never flood the earth again. Maybe this was my promise from God.

“What should we name your sister?” I asked Ruby.

She stared up at the double rainbow and grinned. “Sky!” So, Ruby named her little sister, and the two have grown up to be best friends: my beautiful Ruby and Sky.

I thought about Sky, my rainbow baby yesterday. That’s actually what they call babies born after one who has died. Sky was quite sick yesterday, but she still came to talk with me and make sure I was okay because I’d been fighting a fever all day. She hugged me and asked if there was anything she could do. And after she’d taken some medicine and started to feel a bit better, she came and cheered me up. 

True to her rainbow baby name, Sky knows how to bring joy after any storm. She told me about the exciting things she did over the weekend and how happy she is about her inner growth. As she talked, I couldn’t help forgetting my fever and my sickness because she made me smile. I’m just so proud that she’s only 18 and she’s already begun to figure life out because she knows what really matters: love. So many people spend their lives trying to look for the pot o’ gold at the end up the rainbow; unfortunately, in their fight for status, meaning, riches, fame, and achievements, they forget the magic of seeing a rainbow at all. It’s sad, but the contentment that eludes them was there all along, the roadmap to a treasure that never even existed.

At one point last night, I glanced over at my second-oldest daughter and saw her giggling as she squatted, holding the cat (Milo) she got for her 11th birthday! I HAD to take this picture. 

It’s so true that life has its storms, but I’m grateful for the miracles that are waiting just around the corner if we have the courage and patience to look for them.

THE GOLDEN SKY Listed No. 1 for Women’s. Memoir on Amazon

THE GOLDEN SKY is still listed as No. 1 for Women’s Memoir Amazon. It’ll be available for free download until Feb. 2. You can find that here: “The Golden Sky” by EC Stilson

It also hit featured on this amazing site. I’m so excited!

Friends in Heaven

I got ready for the funeral and thought of the strange timing. Do you ever think about that? What you were doing on this exact day two years ago, four, ten, twenty? Some days might be unmemorable while others could be exhilarating or sad. It can be difficult not dwelling on some of the harder days, when you knew life had reached its lowest …
It’s just that my son died twenty years ago, on Jan. 30.
Now, in 2023, I prepared to play at another funeral for a dear friend who changed my life after my cancer diagnosis. I’d gone to visit Layton Funk when treatments felt at their worst. We’d been talking for months online, discussing mortality and hardships, sickness and the afterlife. And after meeting him at the hospital where he lived, I left inspired. He had quadriplegia. How could I possibly feel bad for myself when I could walk and move my arms, paint and drive a car? A car accident robed him of everything over a decade before—yet, he remained positive and encouraged me to do the same.
I thought about both Layton and my son, as we drove to the service. I’d worn my best skirt, something I bought in Italy, just in case Layton decided to attend his own funeral. I didn’t want him haunting me for not dressing nice.
It’s strange how coincidental timing and such can transport you to the past. I remember when my son, Zeke, died during this time of year. I’d been so worried because he was a baby, and he didn’t really know anyone on the other side. It probably sounds ridiculous, but when I get scared—really scared—about death, I always envision my best friend, Adam, or my grandma waiting for me. I actually dreamed about it once: My grandma had on her red-checkered apron, and she held her arms out to me, so excited to show me around the afterlife. She practically glowed, just excited to see me. 
But my son wouldn’t have that. We had to take him off of life support. When he stopped breathing, I felt like I would die too, like I’d never be able to breathe again. Mainly because I didn’t want to keep living, not in that instant anyway. And I wondered who would show Zeke around Heaven. 
My thoughts turned back to my friend, Layton. It’s strange because I’d been practicing my violin before the funeral, and I got this distinct feeling like Layton was there, listening. And that he’d met Zeke! 
Anyway, the funeral service for Layton went beautifully. His family is so witty and fun. Even during the service, they knew when to be serious and when to make it a little bit lighter. I found myself wishing I could present them with adoption papers—I wanted to adopt the whole lot of them because I saw where Layton got his great personality.
Anyway, it came time for me to play. I can’t stand and play anymore because the pain from the tumors in my spine is too bad. And even with pain medicine, it hurts my neck to hold my fiddle. But no one could’ve pried the instrument from my hands because in that moment, I felt such power and love fill me to the brim. The only way to get rid of power like that is to play. 
I sat behind a bunch of flower arrangements; I wanted people to feel the music and not see the person playing. Then I forced out all of the emotion and sadness and gratitude for Layton, life, love, and friendship. I thought about the people I’ve lost and the love that I’ve gained. And I played with all of my soul, and I know this might sound far-fetched, but I swear Layton stood by me as I played. And I know he knew how much I loved him and appreciated his friendship. 
When I walked back to my seat, a bunch of people sobbed, even Trey—my teenage boy—leaned over and whispered, “I don’t know why, but I couldn’t help crying. That song you played, was overwhelming. I’m so glad I got to meet Layton, but I’m sad he’s gone. You know, we went there thinking we’d cheer him up. And he’s the one who changed our lives.”
“You’re right,” I said. “But I think he’s happy now. I really do.” I suddenly felt so much peace that Layton was healthy. His body didn’t seem broken anymore. And oddly, I got that same feeling that he’d met my son. 
I thought about Zeke then, that beautiful baby whose soul must’ve been too perfect for this world. It’s interesting that he was on life support, just like Layton and that they almost died on the same day just decades apart.
I don’t think these moments are coincidences anymore. Not really. To me, odd moments are simply opportunities to help bring us peace. I always worried Zeke didn’t know anyone in Heaven, but now I remember friends and relatives who have passed since his death, and I have faith they’ve met each other. 
So today, as I reminisce about two years ago, four, ten, twenty … I’m not sad anymore. I have peace that people die when they’re supposed to. Maybe we don’t understand it now, but we will someday. In this moment, I’m grateful people like Layton and my son aren’t trapped in imperfect bodies anymore. I think they’re enjoying the afterlife. And when they’re bored, maybe they occasionally stop by when they’d like to hear the fiddle.
From now until Feb. 2, the Kindle version of my memoir about Zeke, THE GOLDEN SKY, is available for free download on Amazon. It actually became a No. 1 bestseller for women’s memoir. I’m so grateful Zeke’s memory is living on. 
You can find that here: https://www.amazon.com/Golden-Sky-EC-...

Tentoumushi and a Ladybugs Luck

 Ladybugs … I’ve been thinking about them so much. I recently edited an article about how they bring good luck. This isn’t in a usual sense though. According to legend, they actually remove the bad luck from someone, retain it in one of their seven black spots, and let the person they’ve landed on live a life that is “less sorrowful.” The article said this is called Tentoumushi as featured in the show “Bullet Train.” Anyway, the thought of lessening someone else’s sadness, well, that’s beautiful. When I die, I hope people will see ladybugs and somehow remember me.

I edit about 13,000 words every weekday—that’s roughly 26 articles a day and 130 a week (give or take). I’m a bit inured to this by now and it takes a lot to impress me, but the article about ladybugs did just that and brought back a memory.

I was so young. My mom always did my hair, and I laughed later thinking those tight ponytails could give me a free facelift. My mom had put me in a darling blue dress because some ladies had decided to come over. I loved listening to them talk about adult stuff, so I sat quietly, hoping to be part of the party—and eventually get a cookie my mom had set on a plate. The conversation topics kind of blended together until one lady said, “She’s so sick.” Then she whispered, “You know her mom was sick first.” I noticed the woman’s spotless shoes and perfect hair.

“I had no idea.” Another woman gasped.

“Well.” The speaker’s immaculate shoes tapped under the table. “She always said she wanted to take on her mother’s sickness—so her mom could get better. Now her mother is dead and she’s dying too!”

“You don’t think—“

“Oh, yes I do!” she replied. “I think she took some of her mother’s sickness from her, but not all of it! And that’s why she’s so sick now.”

My mom didn’t say anything, always pretty quiet unless she talked about her love for God. I studied her, that beautiful dark hair falling in waves around her face. Dear God, could I please look like her someday, all Italian and gorgeous? 

(My stunning Italian mama.)

I smiled at my mama and suddenly wanted to ask her about this mysterious conversation. Sure, I thought some dumb things as a kid—that sleeping with a certain blanket could make me beautiful or that people could get pregnant by touching their boobs to a guy’s chest—but even I knew you can’t take someone’s sickness by willing it into yourself. My six-year-old mind whirred. Couldn’t they just pass it along through their genes or something?

When I got older, I learned about hereditary illnesses (like everyone else), but the humanities always interested me more, especially the concept of sin eaters or how people try to hope that one being (even a ladybug) can take away sickness, sorrow, or even sin. I think people just want to define and quantify everything about suffering, pain, or guilt. It’s easier to wrap our heads around something if there’s a reason for it—and especially if there’s a solution.

I know it’s incredibly stupid (just like my early notions about reproduction), but the other day, I sat on my porch willing a ladybug to fly over and take my sorrows. I rested in front of our four-foot tall “welcome” sign, truly believing something would happen. Surely God would see me in this time of weakness. He’d do something to help take away the pain or the thought that I’m in a death spiral, fighting until it’s time to see my son in Heaven.

I sat in the bitter, snowy cold, looking through tears, wondering why life has to be so damn hard. “God,” I whispered, “today I need help being strong. It’s getting harder the longer I’ve had to fight. I’m tired.”

The wind swept through leafless, barren trees, and a chill came over me, so strong I forgot the pain from cancer. That’s when our welcome sign fell over.

“Seriously,” I groaned. “Not the ‘sign’ I’d hoped for.” But when I went to pick it up, I found something it’s been concealing: a little painted rock. I gaped because that rock went missing almost two years ago. After one of my worst bouts with radiation, a nurse came over and said, “I made this. I didn’t know who to give it to until now. I want you to have it.” I stared at the beautifully painted designs and thanked her—having no idea it was her last day working in the melanoma unit. But after I brought it home, someone moved it, and I couldn’t find the rock for years.

So, today, on this incredibly cold winter day as I grasped for hope, I held that rock to my chest and sobbed. How fitting that a nurse who lessened my pain gave me such a sign of lasting peace. I traced the black dots, little eyes, and intricate designs on the painted rock: my ladybug. “Thank you, God. For letting me be alive to fight another day.”

Who knew that a gift from almost two years ago would wind up being my miracle for today? Life is so beautiful.