E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 18

Too Good for Our World

 “I’m scared to die,” she said.

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the key to happiness?

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

Yesterday, we finally broke down and bought me a wheelchair. It’s not that I need one all the time, but I can’t walk long distances—and this has definitely hampered things I can do. 
Anyway, we got the wheelchair and actually brought the kids to the fair in Blackfoot. 
Trey and one of his best friends palled around and checked out the unique fair foods and booths. (They had such a blast.) And later as I sat in my wheelchair and watched Indy and Mike ride various roller coasters, I had an epiphany. Dirt swirled around me. Cowboys and women in beautiful dresses walked past with their families, and I didn’t even care that I could’ve seemed somewhat invisible down below the bustle and excitement. Yes, life is different, but it’s more than enough—and it’s never looked this clear despite all of the hard things I’ve experienced with sickness and pain. Sure I can’t do everything that I could before, but that’s life; it’s constantly changing and evolving. The best we can do is find good in the chaos. And I feel fortunate to have learned so much well before my time.
Last night, when we got home I wasn’t nearly as tired as I normally am, and Mike’s biceps looked amazing from pushing me all day (I can just imagine his facial expression when he reads this lol!). I had enough energy to look through the amazing tattoos Ruby did at work so far this month, and I even got to visit with Sky about her day. 
I’ve realized my joy isn’t always derived from being the active participant who’s front and center. Instead, I’m content with seeing the happiness around me—still being able to watch my family enjoy our world. When it comes down to it, I would give nearly anything to see them happy—to spend one more day with them, to see their smiles always etched into my mind...
I know I’m lucky to be here. So many of my sweet friends at the cancer center have already passed away since I met them in 2020. I know it must’ve been their time, but they fought so hard to stay…. They were positive and strong. They WANTED to live, but cancer is a merciless, incompetent judge—and it doesn’t care how much someone deserves to keep on breathing. Now when I hear people taking their health or even their lives for granted, well…it almost seems unfair to the people who fought so hard to stay and still died young. 
I wish it wouldn’t take hindsight to see things this way.
Walking short distances or riding in a wheelchair for the long bouts, everything sure does look different from here. I guess it’s all about perspective.
 

Sitting Right Next to a Stranger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Book Club and a Chicken Murder

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Heck, yes! I am!” 

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

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

“But what about all of that stress hormone.”

“You could massage it as it dies.”

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

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

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

“Really?” she asked in disbelief. 

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

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

A Grain of Sand on the Beach of Eternity

 

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

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

Another Item From My Bucket List

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

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

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

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

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

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

Authentic Italian spaghetti, here I come 🍝

How to Get Your Book in Bookstores

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just love seeing you so happy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Makes a Life Significant?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean his grave?” I said.

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

The kids looked really troubled by this. 

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

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

“Me too,” said Trey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Traumatic Memory Shows Life Is Uncertain

 Please beware: This post contains graphic descriptions that might upset some people.

The squirrel bounded onto the freeway, and I stopped breathing. The car in front of us sped onward despite its tiny obstacle, and when the squirrel resurfaced again its back half had turned into a pile of goo while its front paws frantically clawed at the ground. In that terrible moment, the creature faced me as if staring directly into my soul.

“Oh, my…” I clutched the car’s dashboard as Mike and I drove over the squirrel too. 

Mike looked horrified. “Is it…?” I asked.

“I think so,” Mike said. We both stared into the rear-view mirror. “I couldn’t dodge it. It was too late.”

The words hit me. “Too late,” I repeated. It’s odd the situations that strike me now—things that normally wouldn’t have haunted me before my cancer diagnosis—they plague me for days, weeks, even months now.

I thought of the squirrel, now glued by death to the unforgiving freeway, and for some reason it brought back a traumatic memory from 10 years ago.

I drove down I-15 in Salt Lake City. The day seemed bland, and I definitely didn’t expect something irrevocable to happen. Then, out of nowhere, a distant car—a Cadillac—in the fast lane swerved, slamming into the median. It pinballed across the lanes a couple of times miraculously dodging traffic. 

At 80 mph, I approached at an alarming rate and seemed to be the one who “wouldn’t get away.” Within moments, the Cadillac slid sideways as if floating across the freeway—facing the wrong way! Then time stopped.

An elderly couple sat in the car directly in front of me. The woman’s shoulder-length gray hair drifted out a bit to the side as if she performed in some odd, underwater ballet, and the man’s eyes flew open so wide he looked like a grasshopper. They both stared at me as my eyes darted from one to the other. And instantly, the terrifying thought came to me that one of them would die that day.

I slammed on my brakes, hoping to get far away from their car. And I’m still not sure how, but we must’ve missed each other by inches—so close in fact that I felt a suction-like wind pulling my vehicle just as their front bumper cleared mine.

My foot shook as I shoved the gas pedal completely to the floor and somehow got away when their car lurched into the next lane. 

Within seconds a gut-wrenching smash seemed to jolt everything, and I turned to witness the worst wreck imaginable. The elderly couple who’d been driving the blue Cadillac hit an SUV head-on. Metal flew everywhere and glass crunched.

All of the traffic behind them screeched still, and the accident became a broken cog binding every gear of an intricate clock. 

I’d pulled over in the distance, and I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t even get out of the car. I just rubbernecked, completely shocked. And then I couldn’t stand the grisly nature of such an accident. Others were getting out—people who had been behind the wreck—heroes far more capable of handling gore than I am. So, I put on my blinker, got back into the fast lane, and sped away.

That night when I watched the news, a peppy newscaster talked about a horrible accident on I-15. “One fatality has been reported,” she said, her blonde hair staying perfectly hair-sprayed in place despite her flippantly animated motions. “And another person is still in critical condition.”

I wondered then about the two people in the blue Cadillac. Catastrophe had seared their faces into my mind. And I kept thinking how strange it was that I might’ve been the last person one of them ever saw. Or how I might’ve been the one to hit them head-on instead of the SUV. I could’ve died. And how sad that someone had. It was beyond sobering.

So that’s what I thought about after the squirrel ran onto the freeway the other day. Everyone says how life is short. Hell, I’ve even said it. But on some days life feels long. I guess what I’d really like to keep in the forefront of my mind is that life is unexpected—and it’s definitely not guaranteed. 

I hope whoever died in that accident realized what’s important BEFORE that horrific day…. After what I’ve gone through with cancer, I can’t imagine death without a warning. Doctors keep telling me that despite my good news, I still know what I’ll die from; I just don’t know when.

When people tell me how sorry they are that I’m fighting and facing death in my 30s, I always think about how grateful I am that I didn’t die in a car accident. At least I’ve had a warning and time to tell the people closest to me how much I love them.

My ‘Wins’ Have Changed

 For those of you watching my journey, this probably sounds bizarre, but I got the coolest today.

My “wins” are different than they used to be. I used to do Ragnar and take amazingly long bike rides. I would go on incredibly wild hikes and go fishing in areas many people have never heard of.

But now, my wins consist of sitting for extended periods and watching my kids play volleyball in the yard or seeing how much they love bowling as I sit and eat greasy fries that all of us love. My wins are going out and walking for over a quarter of a mile. My wins might be small, like holding down a meal and not throwing up in some random bush—or they might be big, like getting a handicap parking pass so I’m not exhausted by the time I FINALLY make it into Walmart.

I know it can be easy to get down and be sad that life changes with setbacks, age, poor circumstances, and other factors—but by God if we don’t remember that nearly everything can be twisted into a “win,” then we’ve lost part of what makes life so beautiful. 

Just a reminder that life is here, waiting. Knocking on your door. You’re alive. Be grateful because one thing is for sure…it won’t last forever. Don’t regret things tomorrow that you could’ve done today. Don’t waste time. Do what you want with the life you have.

That’s it, I’m taking my parking pass for a spin to Walmart soon—because I heard they have swimsuits on sale—and I’m ready to show off my back scar. Let’s do this! Black-striped, push-up with the flashy bikini bottoms, here I come. A penny saved is a penny earned, right? 🤦‍♀️🤣