E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 15

What Does Michelangelo’s David Really Look Like?

 Florence is hard to describe because it’s so beautiful. Streets spider-vein around, all seeming to lead to one central location: the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. People visit, watching street artists, eating gelato, and discussing the fun items they discovered at surrounding shops. But, as always, our adventures became somehow hilarious. And no matter how hard I try to be “fancy,” we end up having a real-life moment that is hysterical.

I waited outside the art building, unable to go in because of our music cases (some kind of safety concern). I honestly felt fine with that because I loved watching people go in and come out after seeing Michelangelo’s David. So I sat in my wheelchair and watched as people trudged in … glum, bored, eager, or just filthy rich. When they came out, it seemed they’d been touched by the hand of God himself, brought back to a gentler, humbler state of being. After so many individuals came out, I could hardly wait to see Mike, Trey, and Indy’s reaction.

Ruby and Sky had gone off into the city alone. Since Ruby is a tattoo artist she decided to find the best tattoo shop in town to get a matching tattoo with Sky: wine glasses. (It went so well that after seeing Ruby’s work. The owner offered Ruby a job in Florence!)

Anyway, Mike stepped from the building first, looking completely shocked and amazed—as if he’d stood under a rocket ship and somehow survived the blast. 

That sculpture of David must be one hell of a thing. 

“He is big … As tall as our house. Elisa, it was … amazing. I can’t describe what I’m feeling. Just imagining one man carving that by himself … And it’s in such perfect condition after all of this time.”

Then Trey came out. He pulled his ukulele from his backpack and started playing it. “That girl just looked at you,” I said. Trey is like a California surfer boy from the ‘60s. 

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I made eye contact.”

I stifled a laugh and readjusted my position in my wheelchair. “Where’s Indy?”

At that moment, poor Indy stumbled from the building. “Indy? Are you okay?” 

“Mama … “ She stared blankly ahead, looking but not seeing. “He was naked. Haven’t they heard of Adam and Eve—even they knew to put clothes on. I was fine with the six-pack. But that was gross.”

Mike started pushing me across the cobblestone so we could get gelato. “Was he seriously as tall as our house?”

“Yeah.” Mike showed me a picture he’d taken. David’s toes were about eye level, and he seemed completely skewed. 

“Well …” I couldn’t pull my eyes from his schmeckle. “I can see why they didn’t name this David and Goliath.”

“I kept asking if we could leave,” Indy said. “But Dad said it was art.” She paused. “Yeah! Scary art!”

So we went to the grounds of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore and had a gelato just like one of my favorite uncles recommended. (When Uncle Roger recommends something, you should do it because that man has taste!)

Anyway, Trey, Mike, and I jammed in the piazza (or square). People took pictures and videos probably feeling nostalgic since Mike had learned the “Tarantella” for a moment like this. It felt wonderful knowing we would be part of a good memory for so many tourists—and a local artist who sat by us as we played. 

When Ruby and Sky came over, showing us their tattoos and raving about their experience, I knew it was an unforgettable day for everyone. No wonder people say Florence is the most beautiful city on earth. It’s definitely up there for me.

Busking to Use a European Bathroom!

“I'm related to the Coglione family," Mike said to the bartender, and the man almost fell over, laughing so violently.
"That means ... testicles," he finally coughed out the words. Then his eyes grew wide as he poured another drink. "Oh! You must mean Colleoni. Coll-e-oni." The pronunciation sounded barely different to my American ears, but apparently, it's pretty drastic to a native Italian. "That sounds close to a well-known mafia family here in Italy. Maybe don't be telling people you're related to them."
The next day, we prepared to visit Trento where the testicl—I mean—Colleoni family hails from. 😉 But transporting a woman in a wheelchair and rousing four people (who are 21 years old and younger) takes time, and we missed our train by two minutes. 
Mike parked me against a wall in the Milan Central Station, and the kids piled all of their backpacks around my wheelchair like some sort of pyre. "I'll be back. I think the next train to Trento doesn't leave until later tonight. We might just have to skip it and go straight to Florence." 
So, Mike left to get tickets sorted, and about twenty minutes later, Trey whispered, "Mom, I need to use the bathroom."
"Me too," Indiana said.
"So do I," said Sky.
Ruby appeared to be the only one who DIDN'T want to visit a European bathroom.
"It costs money here," Sky said. "A euro per person to use the bathroom. And they have bidets."
Everyone looked horrified. Bidets could be fun, though ... right? RIGHT?
I dug through my pockets and cursed under my breath. Mike had taken all of the money with him on accident. 
"Mama, what are we gonna do?" Indy asked. "He might be gone for a long time."

I remembered being a homeless street musician in Hawaii, and the dilemma became fun. "This'll be great. Can you guys put my violin case in front of me?" I'd brought my electric violin to Italy with the hopes of playing it on the streets of Rome, but the biggest train station in Milan seemed even better!

I played the first song that came to mind, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," and I really had to put my soul into it because although my electric violin isn't a silent one, it's still fairly quiet. I watched as people gathered around and started listening. As the crowd grew, magic filled my fingers and soul, and the words to the song appeared in my head. Yip Harburg's lyrics felt so true at that moment. 
I couldn't believe we'd made it to Italy. Despite anything going "wrong," it had a beauty all its own:
"Where trouble melts like lemon drops/ High above the chimney tops/ That's where you'll find me ... Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly/ And the dream that you dare to, why, oh why can't I?"
At the end of the song, my four kids stared at me with such happiness displayed on their features. "You made money!" Trey said, dumbfounded.
"We can use the bathroom," Sky almost squealed.
And when I looked in my case, I realized we'd made seven euros—even more than expected.
Sky took Trey and Indy to use the bathroom, and Ruby stayed by me. It seemed like missing our train had opened the door to grand adventures! 
A man walked past, whistling "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas," and I stole the chance to jump in on the fiddle. He glanced back, shocked, and spoke in such passionate Italian. 
"Mi dispiace," I said, apologizing. "Io Americana, e non capisco." I'm American, and I don't understand. "Puoi rallentare?" Can you slow down? 
"Wait? You're American!" He studied me. "But your smile ... That smile is Italian."
I giggled because Italians are THE BEST. "My mom's family is from San Giovanni in Calabria."
"That makes sense. You're a middle Italian!"
"Middle Italian?" I paused. "Che cosa?" What?
"You're part Italian! My family is from Southern Italy too."
Right before Mike and the kids came back, another man approached Ruby and me. "Your music ... is wow. Bellissima." He kissed his fingers and spread them into the air as if he'd just tasted the best meal in Milan. "But you are brave, signora. You can play over there, away from la polizia. But you chose to play RIGHT by them!" He pointed to the sign not too far from our heads. "I like you." He laughed with such joy. "I do." He flicked a couple of euros into my case and walked away, mumbling. "Musica vicino alla polizia." Music near the police. "Mamma mia!"
So, our second day in Italy was filled with excitement too. We got to eat fancy food in a well-known Italian train station, bought a belt in the fashion capital of the world, played music for the police, and earned enough money to use the bathrooms. Plus, I hope my kids will never forget how we made an adventure out of thin air. I honestly believe every moment can turn into something magical if we just dare to search for the good.
The next day we headed to Florence--and I have to admit that it's one of the best places in the world. I'll write about that tomorrow.

 

Our First Night in Italy and a Lost Bag

 “You’re feeling hot,” Mike said. We’d been waiting at the baggage carousel so long that we missed our train to Zurich. 

“I think they lost my bag,” I said. 

“We should probably stay the night in Milan,” Mike whispered before glancing back at our four kids. “Do you think they’ll be sad if we don’t get to see Switzerland and Germany?”

I blinked, unsure. And I felt like such an idiot. I’d brought so much medication in my carryon that the security officers in France did a full pat-down. She even felt UNDER my bra—they’re really thorough in France. But…I’d left my emergency medicine in my main bag—the one they lost. Without those steroids and antibiotics, I could end up hospitalized in a foreign country. And this fever didn’t look good.

“I’m sorry about this. I should’ve brought all the medicine on me. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s okay,” Mike said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You need your clothes and everything too. It’ll be okay.”

We decided I’d roll on over to the baggage claim area—thank God for my wheelchair—while Mike fed the kids and told them about my lost bag and our new itinerary.

The missing bag line for Air France stretched for eternity, and I grew hotter by the second; apparently flying over the ocean isn’t the easiest when you’re fighting cancer. I’d make a TERRIBLE astronaut!

Finally, I got closer to the front, and I listened as people yelled at the customer service representative. “I have my fanciest clothes and my best swimsuit in that bag. And you lost it?” 

I know it’s wrong, but although I felt for the woman, I didn’t understand why she yelled at the poor representative. AND, selfishly, I got excited that I could understand what she said in Italian!!! (I know that’s not… angelic…being happy about linguistics when someone else is upset, but understanding even a little bit of Italian IS awesome.)

I started taking Pimsleur Italian in 2020 and got serious about it after my diagnosis. I ALWAYS wanted to learn Italian, but I put it off before I got sick. I put so many things off. In 2020, I figured doctors gave me two years to live; I better learn Italian fast. Mike and I did so much with it that we even became affiliates through the learning app where we can help other people learn languages (more about that here: https://imp.i271380.net/MX4L1N ), and apparently watching movies in Italian with English subtitles helped too.

Anyway, the person in front of me cried to the representative because Air France lost their ski equipment, and they’d miss their entire Christmas holiday with their family. I couldn’t imagine how devastating.

“Mom, are you okay?” Sky asked and I nodded. Sometimes when everyone else is busy, Sky remembers to check on me. She’s grown into such a caring, compassionate woman, and it’s been surreal watching her inner growth the last several months as she’s experienced more of the world.

The customer service rep called us over at that moment, so Sky wheeled me to the front desk. The depleted representative looked beyond exhausted. I studied his green eyes, and instead of complaining about my bag, I used my Italian to ask him how he was doing. He seemed genuinely surprised. And despite my fever and pain, I mustered up the brightest, biggest smile because this exhausted man was having an AWFUL day.

“Bene.” Good. “You-a have-a lost bag?” he asked. “I speak-a English. If that’s-a easier for you-a.”

“You’re awesome,” I nearly squealed. “English is great!”

“You have-a your luggage number?” 

I dug through my fanny pack, and he proceeded to go above and beyond.

“We can get it on the next flight from France. It will be here in a few hours. Does-a that work-a for you?”

“Perfetto!” I beamed.

The machine in front of him fritzed. It’s different from the electronics we have in America. He immediately opened it toward me, like the steampunk maw of a crocodile, pushed a few wires back in place and spun a couple of gears. Then he shut it.

“Wow!” Sky and I said, staring at the machine and then each other.

“You like-a?” He laughed so hard that it echoed around the room. “I-a do it again?”

Before we could leave, the man asked, “Ma’am? Why-a … Why are you two-a so happy? We lost your bag. Everyone one else … “ He motioned to people in the room. “Are … how do you say … pazzo?”

“How can we be upset?! We’re in Italy! We’re actually in Italy,” and then I giggled, “and we get to meet people like you!”

He blushed and waved at us before placing his hand on his heart. “You two-a were the best part of my week-a. Grazie.”

So we caught the shuttle and got a room nearby where Mike brought Ruby and Sky out for a beer (since people can drink at 18 in Italy). Trey, Indy, and I immediately fell asleep, so grateful friends gave us this trip as a gift and just hoping my fever would abate. 

I’ll never forget that sweet man in customer service or our first night actually being in Italy. Despite a lost bag and a fever, it was the most wonderful night. I just couldn’t believe one of my biggest dreams had come true!

Here are some pictures of us at the airport and the train station. Trey was so cute with that ukulele; he brought it everywhere.

I’ll post more tomorrow about our adventures in Italy. All of it seems so surreal.

Ending the Year with a Trip to Italy

 It’s almost 2023, and I’m amazed to still be here. Even though I continue to fight stage four melanoma, every day that I wake up, I find myself extremely fortunate.

Doctors said I’d never make it past October of 2022, so some friends got together and gave me and Mike money to bring our kids to Italy (my biggest bucket list item). I can’t tell you how humbling that was, especially since several of those friends are also fighting cancer—yet they still found it in their hearts to do something kind for us despite their own struggles. Anyway, we bought the tickets almost a year ago and, after finding a good deal because of the pandemic, booked flights for a time when I would most likely no longer be alive. THAT was a huge leap of faith…but, even with our health, sometimes it’s important to have a goal to work toward. After all, hope is a very powerful motivator.

I’m so proud to say that we just got back from Italy, and it was life changing. I’ll start posting about that tomorrow.

This year has been filled with miracles. I lived longer than doctors predicted. I got hospitalized, almost died, and pulled out of it. I went skydiving with my family and survived a crash landing (because of my bum leg). And now, we actually saw Italy! And so much more. 

It’s rough having cancer and fighting sickness each and every day, but I’m so grateful to still be living. Life is such a miracle—and I’m surrounded by the most wonderful family and friends. To the people who generously made this trip possible: I don’t know how to thank you, but I hope the next several posts will show how much my family and I appreciate what you did for us. You gave all of us—especially my kids—memories that will last a lifetime. I know no matter what the future might be, my kids can look back and remember backpacking through Italy while Mike pushed me in my wheelchair! 😅🤗 This trip was such an adventure for everyone.

A Stranger Who Changed My Life

I’ve tried to write this dozens of times, and the truth is that I just don’t know where to start. Have you ever had a stranger drastically impact your life – literally change the trajectory – and you don’t know how to thank them?

Let’s go back almost 15 years. I’d dug a pile of papers from an old box and read the harrowing story about how my son died. After reading my words, I wanted other people to hear his story because it meant that he wasn’t gone. Not … really.

So, having no idea how to proceed, I pulled out my dilapidated phone book and also Googled local publishers, then I simply started calling numbers. 

This might sound straightforward, but it quickly felt exhausting. Some people were rude and stingy with information. Other people, like the man who republished old works or many self-published authors, seemed quite lovable but couldn’t help me at all.

After the fourth day passed without results, I almost gave up. I spread my son’s story on the ground—just like I’d once spread his tiny ashes. I’d written on napkins, the back of medical bills, notebooks, and anything I could find. It would take forever to organize this mess. Plus, I didn’t want to contemplate the emotional pain of reliving my son’s life and death as I typed every word into the computer. Why even try?!

But although God didn’t give me Elizabeth Taylor’s face or Einstein’s brains, He did give me an extra helping of moxie. So, I grabbed a soda and picked up the phone to call one last publisher. 

“Hello?” the man said, his voice resonating with strength and happiness.

“Hi,” I quivered, “are you a publisher … a book publisher? I need help.”

“Well,” he said, “I did publish a book.” He paused. “How can I help you?”

And out of over 100 people, he was the first person to ask me how he could help. And then, that generous stranger proceeded to give me advice and talk with me for several minutes. I wrote everything down and gained the courage and fortitude to put my son’s story together. 

“I hope that helps,” he said.

“Oh! It does. It really does.” Before he could hang up, I dared to ask, “What book did you write?”

“‘The Christmas Box,’” he said.

It took years, but I eventually published my first memoir, and it actually became a bestseller on Amazon. I’ll still never forget watching as over 3000 copies of the eBook got downloaded in a single day. I cried not because this seemed like a small success but because my son’s memory would live on.

Fast forward to present day. A couple of months ago, I sat crying at my computer because I’m fighting stage four cancer and life can be hard. I’d recently been perusing Netflix and saw a couple of new shows that would be coming out in November—those could be distracting. “The Noel Diary” by the same man who wrote “The Christmas Box” seemed especially interesting. I shook my head because it seemed surreal remembering my conversation with that author, Richard Paul Evans, so long ago. I couldn’t believe that he’d taken time to help a nobody like me. And what’s ironic is how it seemed like no big deal. I bet he didn’t even remember a random act of kindness that literally changed the trajectory of my life.

Anyway, I sat crying, thinking about how hard life can be, and that’s when I got a notification. My heart stopped. “Richard Paul Evans commented on your photo …”

I dried my eyes and gaped at the screen. “No way,” I said. And when I clicked on the link; it was true! He had come through for me again—a total stranger brightening my day for no reason, telling me how much he enjoyed my post where I’d written about overcoming hardships.

I didn’t thank him in my reply … because I didn’t know how to. But that’s why you’re reading this today I guess. Right before Christmas, I hoped this “message in a bottle” would make it to one of my favorite authors—a stranger who changed my life. Thank you for selflessly helping me. 

From a girl who’s continued writing for years, I’m so grateful for your kindness,

EC Stilson

#RichardPaulEvans #TheChristmasBox #TheNoelDiary #randomactofkindness

Photo Info: These are from my first hospital stay when doctors removed my L3 vertebrae after they discovered tumors in my spine, hip, brain, and lungs. I’m so grateful they let me play my violin for other patients; it really made everything quite a bit better.

Side note: Melanoma sucks! I hope everyone will go get their skin checked if they see anything suspicious.

He Hit on Me — And I Handled It Poorly

I don’t get out much. I work from home, rest all afternoon, and then have a blast hanging out with the kids when they get home from school.

So, maybe my most recent social interaction seems idiotic because I’ve lost all social skills. Who knows?

I’d kidnapped our one working car and gone to buy groceries. I can’t walk very far into the store because it hurts my back, right leg, and hips. So, I quickly grabbed the two items I needed and went to the checkout.

Since I don’t get out much, I’d actually done my hair for the occasion. It’s funny how going to the store is almost like going to the prom now—a big freakin’ deal. And suddenly, this incredibly tall, handsome man started talking to me. “I love your hair,” he said. “You are beautiful. Women just don’t do their hair like that anymore.”

Excuse me? I looked around. Was this guy talking to me, a woman who feels like she’s still fighting in WWIII. I’d done my hair up like a pinup girl. Sure I might have cancer but I can have class too. And just ‘cause I feel like ass, doesn’t mean I need to look like it too.

I finally turned to the man and could’ve fainted. “Um.” I balked, not knowing what to do. “My-husband-does-my-hair,” I blurted.

“Your husband?” 

“Oh, yes. He’s the most AMAZING man. Does hair and fixes cars too. Practically fixed my whole damn life.” 

The guy had started to smile in this unnerving way. Hadn’t he just been hitting on me? Or was I mistaken? Have I been out of the game long enough to get this confused? “All my hair fell out,” I went on, compounding an already uncomfortable situation. Other people had begun listening too. “Cancer treatments,” I said to practically the whole store.

The man’s eyes widened.

“But it’s back now. Not my husband—he’s always been there. My hair…IT is back. The hair that my husband dyes.” 

Did I mention my husband?

At this point, someone from another checkout aisle waved and said—laughing REALLY hard, “I like your hair too.” It was one of Mike’s best friends! He must’ve thought the whole interaction was hilarious. And I wanted to die. Forget about cancer treatments, radiation, and tumors, grocery shopping will cause my untimely death.

I called one of my friends after all of this. “Why would someone hit on you?” she asked. “You have cancer.”

“Thanks a lot! And he didn’t know that, not until I told the whole freakin’ store.”

That night, Mike called me from work, laughing really hard. I guess his friend had just told him about what happened at the store.

“Oh, no,” I said.

“Oh, yes.” Mike chuckled. “He told me you’re hilarious. And I should never worry if someone hits on you because you’ll tell them all about me.”

So, I had a good and a terrible thing happen. I got hit on, and I handled it kind of like a psycho—but that means despite cancer and physical disabilities, I still got it 😂😂😂

Oh, man. No more trips to the store for me—for a while anyway. Thank God the grocery store delivers.

Getting a Break

Only one of our cars is running. Mike has spent several days on the ground, in the snow, just trying to fix a couple of our cars. “You can come work in my garage,” a neighbor said.

“That’s all right.” Mike smiled, a perpetual optimist. “But if you have a lift…?”

The neighbor shook his head.

I feel so bad for Mike. First he married a single mom with four kids, then his wife got terminal cancer, and then all of their cars slowly died…no matter how hard he worked on them in the cold—BUT he miraculously didn’t get frostbite. The End.

This car conundrum isn’t a big deal though since I work from home. Well, it didn’t seem like a big deal until today. Mike now works from 3 p.m. to 3 a.m. on alternating days of the week, and Indy had a mandatory school performance. (Don’t ya just love when kids tell you the day of the performance that they have to be there?) 

Sky let me borrow her car—thank God! But that only solved half the battle. “Indy, I’ll have to wait in the car. There are always a million cars. We’ve had to park blocks and blocks away, and you know  I can’t walk that far.”

“We’ll bring your wheelchair.”

“It doesn’t work in the snow.” 

I’d need her to pull me on a sled.

“Mama,” my baby girl’s eyes welled with tears. “You won’t be able to hear me in the car.”

Sometimes life is so unbearably hard. I don’t want to have cancer. I don’t want poor Mike to slave away always working even when he’s off of work. But God knows I’m doing everything I can. I’m still working part time even though doctors said they’re shocked I didn’t quit my job ages ago. But I’ve even worked from hospital rooms right after surgeries. I’ve done my very best—because I’ve seen Mike and our kids do the same.

So, I promised to walk inside to see Indy—no matter how much (not to be dramatic) it might feel like trekking behind a covered wagon across the plains without shoes.

She chirped as we drove along, so excited about the performance. “I prayed that God would help us. It’ll all work out.”

Sure, I thought. I don’t mean to be a jerk, but although I love God, I don’t think He always ensures that life will be fair. In fact, life is guaranteed to suck some of the time.

We got closer, and numerous cars filled the streets. My heart started to shatter. I’d be lucky to make it to the front entrance at all. But I didn’t want Indy to be late OR to see me struggling just to get inside, so I thought of something. “I don’t want you to get wet. I’ll drop you off at front. Okay?”

She nodded. Worried.

We waited behind a bunch of cars, and right when we got closer to the front, someone pulled out of a spot RIGHT by the main doors. It must’ve been the best spot ever! My eyes widened, and I waited in case someone else needed it in front of us, but no one swooped in to take it.

So, I parallel parked and could hardly believe our luck. 

“I can’t believe that just happened.”

“I know God doesn’t answer all of our prayers. Only He knows why…,” Indy said. She smiled at me, the streetlights illuminating her already ecstatic face. “Maybe God knew YOU really needed a break.”

“Maybe He did.”

The performance went great—Indy always does an unforgettably spunky job, AND she did give me something to think about. After my oldest son died, I stopped praying as much because I figured God would do what He needs to; He knows better than I do anyway.

Tonight, that might’ve just seemed like a parking spot to most people, but it was a lot more to me and Indy. Maybe God does reach down and give us a break when we need it the most. That’s what tonight felt like anyway.

—

I took this picture right after the spinal team removed a tumor that had eaten my whole L3 vertebrae. You know I love editing (and getting a paycheck) when I’m even doing it from a hospital room. 😂

If you’re having a hard time, I hope you’ll “catch a break” soon. They sure do help!

Looking for Rainbows

“I want to know why life isn’t fair?” I asked the man in my dream. I’ve had such odd dreams lately about the deepest topics.

“What if God is like a clockmaker?” he asked.

Watches, cuckoo clocks, compasses, pendulums, and grandfather clocks all ticked around him, making syncopated rhythms that practically awakened my soul.

“Why am I here?”

“You’re running out of time, and you want more of it,” he said.

“But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Well, isn’t that why you think life is unfair?”

I paused for a moment. “I guess that’s part of it. I would like to know why some people get sick and die while other people stay healthy and live long lives.” I paused and thought about how hard life can be. “I think people talk about Heaven, saying there’s no pain in the afterlife because they’re so tired of the pain on Earth.”

He didn’t respond for a while and instead continued inspecting a gear in front of him.

“Clocks run for however long they’re supposed to. Do you disagree?”

I thought about it. “I think that’s generally true.”

“Maybe a clock is caught in a house fire or an earthquake. A watch could be left out in the rain, even if it’s not weatherproof. The clock might get cracked or overly worn with time. Maybe the thing lasts and lasts much longer than expected. But the point is that at some point, the clock will stop.”

I nodded.

“When it’s run its course,” he went on, “only a fool would blame the clockmaker—because it wasn’t made to last forever.”

“So, we’re all like clocks?” I asked him, knowing what he would say but still finding beauty in his analogy. There he sat, surrounded by hundreds of clocks I knew he’d made, and I couldn’t wait to hear his reply.

“I wish people would stop blaming God for hardships,” he said. “People should be grateful that they even get to live—God wound your clock—but death was just part of the bargain.”

“What about sickness? And pain? They can make life feel pretty unfair.”

“The world is filled with so many terrible variables.” He picked up a tiny hammer and knocked a gear into place. “But if something ‘bad’ does happen,” he hit it again, “it can usually look good with a change of perspective. Even a crack in a clock’s face can look like a rainbow when turned in the right light. That’s what people should look for: rainbows. Sometimes even the biggest imperfections can make life beautiful.”

And as I thought more about his words, the scene began to fade. “We can always find the good,” I heard the clockmaker’s voice fading away, “if we take the time to look for it... Always.”

I woke up to my alarm this morning and had to smile. I’ve decided that life can be hard, but even if I see a crack in my clockface today, I’ll look at it from a different angle and try to find the rainbow.

Ruby Made My Day Bright

 It’s almost too ironic … Look at the photos Ruby used to make the AI photos. 

Tonight I looked at the photos Ruby paid to have generated of me—then I saw what she sent as inspiration. These original photos respresent some my hardest days during cancer treatments: One is from a hospitalization when I didn’t know if I’d live past the week. Others are from scans. 

I didn’t feel glamorous, like I could keep going, or maybe even worthwhile in some of those pictures.

Sometimes I don a smile because often a smile can make a bad day better—especially when given to someone else. But that doesn’t change the fact that suffering through numerous surgeries, undergoing cancer treatments, and fighting an incurable form of stage four melanoma is not easy—for anyone.

When I look at some of these photos now, I won’t think of hard times when I tried to be strong, I’ll remember what Ruby did to the photos and how my kids say they see me. They make me want to rise to the occasion. They make me want to keep trying. And that’s the best any of us can do: keep trying to be the best version of ourselves for the people we love.

One foot in front of the other,💓

-Elisa

How to be Happy

 The Key to Happiness

The kids each gave me a note, explaining how happy they are that I'm still alive, and I sat stunned, thinking about it days later. Despite cancer and feeling sick 90% of the time, I truly have everything. But the lady venting at the table across from mine felt far differently. "I'm just so miserable," she said to the woman who ate with her.

I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but Sky had gone to the bathroom (which appeared to have a massive line), and for some reason, I couldn't stop myself from listening. "We don't have anything." The brunette pouted. Her beautiful sweater glistened under the restaurant's lights, adding a bit of glamour to the joint.

I didn't want to hear this, so I shoved some fettuccini into my mouth and had to chew for a million years. Something bizarre is going on with my throat lately, where food gets stuck and won't go down. I've lost ten pounds because of this, and doctors plan to conduct a "swallow test" next week. They aren't sure if it's a complication from multiple intubations during surgeries, a side effect from radiation, or--something much worse--a sign that the tumor in my neck is growing...

"If he worked harder, we'd have a bigger house." 

"I know, honey. He promised you so much," the gray-haired woman responded.

"He only makes $100,000 a year, Mom! What would it be like to marry someone who actually makes good money--like Dad? I'm so miserable. I should've married Tom."

"Check!" I waved down the waitress. After being diagnosed with cancer, I can no longer tolerate certain things. Sky had finished her food, and I figured I could wait for her in the lobby.

The waitress came over. "It's already been taken care of."

"What? Someone paid for our food?" I asked, and the fancy ladies stopped talking.

"Well," the waitress shuffled, "I did. Ruby is your oldest daughter, right?"

I nodded.

"She does my tattoos, and she told me about you and your fight with cancer. So...I've been following all of your stuff online--I'm not a stalker or anything, but what you write cheers me up. And that's why I paid for your food."

"But you're the waitress--we're supposed to pay you." I couldn't believe her generosity. "And," I knew I beamed, "you read my stuff?" I felt so happy I could hardly contain it. "That totally made my day."

"I'm...I can't imagine what it must be like, having doctors tell you you're dying. But it's so good to see that you're out, still trying to enjoy life while you can. You're so inspiring."

Sky came out, and we left the waitress a really fantastic tip. As we walked from the table, I noticed the fancy women staring at me thoughtfully.

So, I met two people that day who confounded me: The first was the brunette, and the second was a homeless man.

I've been doing extraordinary things with each of the kids, and I've noticed that my efforts have paid off. Even if we're sharing a meal at the diner, paying to see a dollar show, or braving the town's new escape room, the kids and I have gotten really close. Sky talks about her daring travels, Ruby shows me the dozens of tattoos she's designing, Indy talks about being a lawyer (someday), and Trey raves about music.

After Sky and I got home from lunch that day, Trey and Indy asked if they could visit the music store. But halfway through our time perusing guitars, the fettuccini I'd eaten earlier tried making a comeback. "I'm gonna step outside," I told the owner. She sees us weekly and nodded with understanding. 

So, I stepped outside and hoped the cold air would banish the nausea from my body. Not directly out the door, but a few feet away, three rough-looking men stood talking. "God is so good," the tallest man said. He wore a beanie, a scarf, fingerless gloves, and a massive beard. "Being homeless was the worst experience of my life, but now I see that it happened for a reason."

I took in a big breath, grateful that the sickness had momentarily passed. Then I dug through my pockets and found a $5 bill. "Um..." I walked up to the men. "Maybe you can use this?"

The tallest man nodded, and I couldn't help smiling. His skin crinkled with age, but his eyes shone with such joy. His grin could've lit a thousand fireplaces. Plus, I've been working on a novel about pirates, and that old man would make the perfect captain of a pirate ship. "How's your day been," I asked, leaving all of my previous worries about cancer. Who can worry about throwing up when they're talking to a genuine pirate?!

"It's cold," he said, "but God's in it. And He makes it beautiful." He seemed so happy, not just feigning contentment but genuinely grateful. 

"You have a wonderful day, Miss," his first mate said, little clouds billowing from his mouth as he spoke into the freezing air.

When the kids and I got home, I had to mull over the day. What was the difference between the disconsolate brunette and the content pirate? How could someone with nothing be happier than someone who had everything? 

I decided the difference is gratitude.

___

I hope you'll remember this as you enjoy dinner with your family and friends today. Whether you're experiencing grief, loss, sickness, financial trials, or any other hardships, I think it's important to realize that true joy comes from gratitude. I'm always talking about "finding the good" because it helps us access what we have to be grateful for.

Today I might be sick, and life might be a bit scary and hard because I know how I'll die; I just don't know when it'll happen. I'm tied to the tracks, waiting for the train...

But despite that, I'm grateful to spend another Thanksgiving with my family. Looking back at my life, and after thinking about the brunette and her plight, I'd much rather be like the shaggy homeless man. At least he knew that no matter our circumstances, we can always fight to appreciate what we have. Life is a gift. We should be grateful that we're here for even a second.

(Picture created at Neural.Love)