E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 19

Indy’s Lesson for the Week

Indy (above) drinking lemonade at a fancy restaurant.

 “You need to be grateful. All you think about is food.” Indy’s little voice trailed from her room and drew my curiosity. 

I’d called in sick to work, something that is extremely hard for me to do. And I’d been lying in bed moments before, feverish and dwelling on the fact that I’ve been sick every single day for over two years. Yes, we’ve gotten good news, but I’m still in the midst of this battle and sometimes that’s hard.

“I’m serious,” Indy said to her cat. She had her back to me and her curls and the big bun on the top of her head bounced as she talked. “I guess if you’re ungrateful it really is my fault. You need to see an example—I should show you how grateful I am.” Indy pointed to an apron that’s proudly displayed by her dresser.

“You see that apron?” she asked her cat. “It represents hours of hard work! But you know what? I won first place in a contest for that thing. So it helps me remember that I can do anything if I put my mind to it. And I’m grateful for that.”

Nova, Indy’s tortoiseshell cat, just meowed as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

“Now, tell me something that you’re grateful for,” Indy prompted, but Nova simply flopped on her side before licking her limp paws.

“Don’t you give me those Puss-‘n’-Boots eyes!” Indy giggled. “Tell me something you’re grateful for.”

Nova finally sashayed over to her dry food. She sniffed at it, stuck her nose in the air, and placed her paw on an unopened can of wet food.

“Oh, Nova! I just said all you think about is food.” Indy paused as if deep in thought. “But…at least you have something to be grateful for. It is a start.”

Indy stood and prepared to turn—but I didn’t want her to know I’d been snooping.

“Mama?” she asked, as I tried to dart past the door.

“Oh! Hi, Indy!” I said, peeking my head in and smiling. “What are you up to?”

“Just trying to teach Nova how to be grateful. Boy, do I have my work cut out for me.”

I laughed and nodded. Little did Indy know, she’d said the exact words that I needed to hear. It’s always a good time to be grateful—even if it is for wet cat food.

Too Short to Not Have Fun

 Trey finally went to infusions with me—since he’s 14 now. “They’re putting that entire bag of medicine into your arm?” he asked, involuntarily shivering.

“Well, this one and then another one.” I smiled, trying to put him at ease. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s just cold. And then in a few hours it makes me really, really tired.”

“Anything else?” His eyes grew wide. “Anything at all?”

“And a little nauseous.” Trey is such a tall, strong kid, but I know he cares far more deeply than he wants to show. “Don’t worry about that though. I want to read your future.”

He snorted and shook his head “You brought a deck of cards?”

I nodded.

“I can’t believe I even asked that. Of course you did.”

So, after a touch of drama, I pulled out three cards from my regular deck and placed them on the hospital table that spanned the space between us. “These represent your past, present, and future.” I spoke in my best British accent. “Your past was fraught with challenges. Oh, my!” I gasped. “You’ve overcome sooo much. You have the heart of a warrior and the will of a saint!”

At this point several cancer patients and their families actually stopped what they were doing and looked at us. A male nurse even came over and folded his arms. “This outta be good!” he said.

I hadn’t expected an audience. I’d just wanted to distract Trey from his worries about my treatments. 

“Um…,” I fumbled, and Trey chuckled, realizing how many people watched us.

“Your present,” I cleared my throat, “and future are intertwined.” I flipped over a four and five of spades. “Oh, no! Not this.”

“What is it? What do you see?” he asked, and I wondered if he just placated me.

“A woman!”

“Mom. No! Not a girl!”

“You’re right—she’s NOT a girl. She’s an older woman. With no teeth.”

Trey crinkled his nose, and at this point, the nurse who had continued watching us, broke out laughing.

“It’s not funny,” I said, shushing him. Then I turned to Trey. “She will come into your life and teach you many things.”

“When?” Trey asked, actually on the edge of his seat and completely forgetting that he’d previously been worried about the IV in my arm moments before.

“She’ll come into your life within a week! And you will learn so much about math.”

Something dawned on him. “Mom, I start high school next week.”

“What are the odds?!” I started giggling so hard. “Beware the toothless, old teacher! Algebra. Geometry. Poor dental hygiene!”

A little while later, Trey walked off to the bathroom and a couple of nearby people told me how cute the “card reading” had been. It’s interesting getting infusions because you never know who might be your neighbor and what you might end up getting to visit with them about—or who might be listening!

“We have to make things fun,” I said to a fellow cancer patient. “It’s hard having to be here so much, but…being silly makes me feel like I have a little control. I get to choose how I respond to my situation.”

“I needed to hear that today.” She smiled. “Sometimes I forget to loosen up. Someone once told me to never take myself or life too seriously.” She opened her purse and unwrapped a big candy bar. “You’re a good mom to that boy,” she said, taking a huge bite. “He’ll never forget how you made today fun—and neither will I.”

“You made my day. I really needed to hear that. You know,” I paused. “You’re an encourager—and that’s such a gift. It’s amazing when you meet people who can say just the right things that make the day shine bright.”

On our way home, Trey and I decided to go see Layton Funk, a man I absolutely adore. Layton has quadriplegia, and he’s one of the strongest people I know. Luckily—for me—we’ve gotten to be friends since my whole ordeal with cancer began. He’s just one of the coolest people ever, and I’m so glad he lets me come see him from time to time because he always has the best advice.

So, I got more cancer treatments today, but Trey and I had an amazing time goofing around at the infusion clinic, and then seeing Layton Funk was even better than telling Trey about his fictitious future. All in all, it was an unforgettable day.

“Beware the toothless, elderly woman who will teach you so much math!” *still giggling* Life is too short for us to forget how to have fun.

Barnes and Noble is Stocking ‘Two More Years’

 Barnes and Noble in Layton, Utah, just started stocking my book! This is incredible. Wow!!!

Another bucket list item … ✅

You can find out more about my journey with stage four cancer, my amazing bucket list (I just went skydiving whaaa?!), and my book (“Two More Years”) here: https://www.amazon.com/Two-More-Years-EC-Stilson-ebook/dp/B09Z2ZG269

This is so incredible. Thank God there’s a silver lining in most things—even in cancer.

I also got this message from a friend (see below). Life is so exciting right now.

Living as a Character in a Novel

“Stop living like you’re in a novel,” a guy said after bringing me on a date. I’d just told him that I wouldn’t go out with him again. “I can give you everything,” he protested.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I paused trying to explain it, but I wasn’t sure how. There have been certain things in my life that I’ve just known: Like playing the violin—as if destined, I always knew God created me…to play the violin. At the age of three, I saw a violinist on TV and started begging my parents every single day for a fiddle. Once I hit kindergarten, they finally acquiesced and let me take lessons. 

We found the most wonderful teacher: Atalie Cook. I remember her beautiful, blonde hair and how kind she was even when I pleaded with her to teach me new songs. “This one,” I said once with so much excitement. “‘El Shaddai.’” 

I practiced for hours upon hours because it felt like those musical strings connected me directly to God. His love would wrap around and nothing else mattered. When that hollow, wooden body sang, so did my soul. At the age of eight, I learned that specific song so well I even got to perform it at Andrew and Terri’s unforgettable church—a feat I will always hold dear. And so, from a young age I found my passion, unaware of how truly rare that was.

“What are you looking for?” the man asked at the end of our date, shaking me from my thoughts. “I’m young. I have a ton of money. Women have said I’m handsome.”

“But with us, the most important things are missing.”

He appeared perturbed.

We lacked what I’d found even as a young child with my violin. “Excitement. Adventure… Passion.”

“You’re looking for something that doesn’t exist—a man who isn’t real… I’d be good for you and your kids.”

Sure he looked good on paper. 

I smiled a bit sadly. My children had been through enough with my first marriage. Unless I found the perfect person, I would never get remarried. Plus, I loved being a single mom, and I didn’t need to teach my children how to gamble.

“Best of luck to you,” I said.

“You really should stop living like you’re in one of those stupid novels you read. You will never find happiness,” the man told me. “Ever.”

I told him goodnight and walked into my empty house. My four kids had gone to be with my ex-husband for a couple of days, and the hours always dragged when they did this because they spent almost all of their time with me. As I drank a glass of wine and slouched in bed, the man’s words replayed in my head: “You will never find happiness. Ever.”

I haven’t thought about this for a long time, but for some reason, the memory came to mind this weekend as Mike drove me and the kids to a book signing in Helper, Utah.

Mike and Trey brought several boxes of books into the coffee shop and set everything up. And almost instantly people began pouring in. I saw relatives and friends. I visited with some of my very favorite people on earth as well as new friends who drove miles and miles just to meet me. “I used every extra dime I could to hitch a ride here today,” an elderly woman said—and it blessed my heart more than I can say. “My daughter died of cancer.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I drove hours to meet you. I read everything you write.”

I gave her a huge hug and a free book—that was the least I could do after she’d traveled so far! As we’ve been at these signings, I’ve been absolutely amazed by some of the stories I’ve heard—and by people‘s generosity to me. It’s amazing that they’ve come just to share encouragement and love. I’ve now met people from all over Idaho, Wyoming, Utah, Washington, Montana, Arizona, and Nevada! 

Toward the end of the signing, a familiar looking woman walked through the door. “Atalie?” I gaped, completely dumbfounded. “Atalie!” My very first violin teacher had actually come to my signing. We gave each other the biggest hug, and tears filled my eyes as she spoke to me.

“I’ve been following your story. Even when you were a little girl you inspired me to try new things and embrace life.” She looked me up and down. And I worried, wondering what she might be thinking because cancer has taken my ability to stand straight or hold myself up for too long. But instead of mentioning any of that, she commented on something else. “I always knew you’d grow up to be an amazing woman. And you did. Look at you now.”

I’m not sure what it was, but her words really hit me, meaning so much. My growth as a person is what matters, not any of that other finite stuff.

I caught sight of Mike then, shaking hands with someone across the room. “You can’t believe a word she writes about me,” he said, his voice always carrying. “She wears rose-colored glasses when it comes to me.” I had to giggle because he’s so perfect in my eyes—my exceptional, wonderful, goofball man.

Indy talked with someone nearby, explaining how cool it is to be in an “actual book,” and I caught a glimpse of a couple of relatives who were smiling at me with so much joy.

“You’re gonna make it through this cancer business,” one cousin told me. “I just know it.”

As we drove home the next day, I thought about how strange it is that this is the very happiest I’ve been in my entire life. You’d never think that cancer could somehow end up being such a good thing. I guess it just goes to show that no matter how hard life gets, if we can just look for the good things in life, then beautiful moments will follow. 

Cancer has brought me closer to my family and helped me appreciate everything. Because of it, I have a book that even my family seems to be proud of. But more than that, I’ve realized what I’ve always been looking for….

At different points in my life I felt like my book is a romance, a comedy, a mystery, or even a tragedy. But right now, my book is truly an adventure. And I’m proud to say that the rich guy I once dated was wrong. I have found happiness, and I’ve found it in all of the right places despite hardship and trials. I’ve found hope and love among the best family and friends anyone could hope for. Joy isn’t something that comes and goes. It’s rooted in gratitude and it blooms even in adversity. I’m so thankful for everything. Whether I continue to get better or not, I’m so happy with my life. And I’m continuing to truly appreciate each moment, just like we all should.

I’m a Natural Faller

 Before Mike and I even got married, we made a list of things we wanted to do together. It’s not really a bucket list, but it’s close. Anyway, among several things including “visit Italy” and “go hunting,” we wrote “skydive together.” I’ve been before, but I wanted something different—where I could stand on part of the wing of the plane!

We thought about it, but of course life and work got in the way. I kept thinking I’d do this or that when the kids got old enough… I saved everything for “tomorrow.” And then time stopped.

Doctors discovered stage four melanoma and gave me two years.

Cancer has taken a lot from me since 2018, and I’ve tried to settle in to the fact that there are things I just can’t do anymore. Friends, family, and especially medical professionals have told me: I should never fly in airplanes (because I’ve had several blood clots). They don’t want me around big crowds (because of COVID). They don’t want me traveling too far from the hospital (since I almost died from sepsis near Yellowstone last year). AND they definitely don’t want me skydiving. 

But when our epic daughter, Sky, told us she wanted to skydive with the family for her 18th birthday, I really wanted to go. So I called several places around Pocatello. A woman in Utah made me cry. “That’s incredibly selfish of you to want to go skydiving. You have advanced cancer. You could put the instructor in danger!”

I tried changing the subject. “Oh. Well… No worries. Um…I won’t go. But how much is a down payment for my two oldest daughters and my husband?”

She wouldn’t drop the subject. And I finally interrupted her monologue. “Enough,” I cried, sobbing almost uncontrollably. “I’m still f-f-fighting cancer. I don’t need this! You have n-no idea what I’m dealing with…or what my exact situation is like. I already told you I won’t go.” And I hung up the phone.

After taking a couple of days to calm down, I tried one last place: Sky Down in Caldwell, Idaho—almost four hours away.

“We help people who have cancer quite a bit,” the woman said on the phone. “It’s a pretty common bucket list item.”

“But…I can’t lift my legs. I have so many health issues.”

“This is something you really want to do, isn’t it?” she asked so politely.

“Yes,” I said. “It is.” But I worried because I struggle to stand up straight, lift my legs far off the ground, and I’m always so nauseous from cancer treatments. The last thing an instructor needed would be throw up hitting their face at terminal velocity!

But the lady on the phone, Denise, allayed my fears. In fact, when we got to the place this weekend, the instructor went over several things, explaining how if anything went wrong he would roll with me so neither one of us would get hurt. He’d strap me tightly to him, and we would land sitting. He even had a special chute that delays deployment to avoid extra jolting. I couldn’t believe it. My dream of going skydiving with Mike would come true, but more than that, we would get to experience this with our two oldest daughters (Ruby and Sky) while our two youngest kids watched. It would be incredible.

And it was! Skydiving a second time was totally different from the first because I got to enjoy it with Mike and all of the kids too. I absolutely loved seeing their joy as we watched each person land and while Indiana and Trey cheered everyone on even saying, “The Sky is falling,” when Sky did her jump.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to lift my legs how we hoped, and several seconds before landing, my right leg drooped at an angle, caught on the ground, and forced us to plummet toward weeds and gravel. Fortunately, the amazing Portuguese skydive instructor—who speaks about a million languages and is so witty—rolled so the most we sustained were some cuts and bruises. “Oh, my gosh! Are you okay?” I asked after we ground to a halt.

“Are you kidding?!” he said. “I’m totally fine. I do this for a living. I’m just worried about you.”

After we got back to the hanger, when everyone had completed their jumps, I talked with Denise and discovered some pretty profound things about Sky Down. They have helped so many people accomplish their dreams—people just like me. Some have been told they would die from terminal sicknesses. Others suffer from various physical ailments and were told they would never skydive again. This group of altruistic skydivers even helped someone who has quadriplegia. They used a pulley system which held up their legs so they could safely land. 

I gave Denise my book, “Two More Years,” a huge hug, and the biggest smile. “Thank you so much for making this a reality for me. Doctors are starting to say I might actually beat this. But regardless,” I looked over at the skydive instructor and the pilot of the plane who both sat near the front entrance, “you’ve given all of us a memory we’ll never forget for Sky’s 18th birthday. You’ve made it so special.”

And to think, they’ve done this for so many other people. It’s astounding.

Today as Ruby smiled, talking about how much she loved free-fall, and Sky beamed looking at how they caught her E = mc2 tattoo in a photo of her plummeting next to the moon, I couldn’t help feeling the happiest I’ve been in a long time.

Sure I’m still fighting, nauseas from my monthly treatments, and a bit bruised from learning how to ”stop, drop, and roll,” I’m so grateful. I’m still alive. And I get to be experiencing so many miracles each day with my adventurous family.

Who cares that I didn’t stick the landing? I got to go skydiving with some of the best people EVER and all of us lived!

When I discovered who bought the violin, I cried.

I sold the violin. And when I discovered who bought it, I had to sit and cry….
Roberta is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever known. I first met her at Portneuf Medical Center. I desperately wanted to work as the manager of primary care, but even I knew it was a long shot. Yet, over a month after the interview, I got the job and sat in my new office talking with one of the providers: Roberta. 
“I wanted you to be the manager,” she said, and my heart swelled. I’d recently studied the patient feedback ratings and had already grown an immense amount of respect for this woman. The patients absolutely loved her—actually leaving comments about her wonderful bedside manner. It became obvious that each day she changed lives. 
Years passed and our friendship grew. I’ll never forget smiling and laughing over falafel or when I had to get a serious surgery in 2018. We went out to eat and I got all decked out in what we dubbed my “uterus dress,” because it’s the last time I’d get to go out on the town—with my uterus. Even during the tough times, Roberta just has a way of making everything fun, better, and somehow unforgettable.
In 2020, when my cancer progressed from stage 2 to 4, my previous coworkers at primary care were the first to know. Several of them cried with me and told me they were there if I needed anything. I’ll never forget when Roberta gave me a huge gift filled with various scarves and other things after I lost my hair. 
Then…Roberta got cancer. I bawled because I know how hard this journey is. I feel like a lot of people “think” they know what it’s like having cancer, but no one fully understands unless they’ve gone through it themselves. My heart broke knowing the journey my friend would be embarking on.
Despite fighting through treatments herself, she still found time to visit me, bring me a Viking helmet (that matched her own), and play music with me on a day that I needed cheering up the most. 
So you can imagine how much this meant when I realized that she bought the repurposed, steampunk violin from me. The genuine warrior who has fought and smiled and brought the best out of everyone despite her own plight. 
You see, Mike and I repurposed the violin because it was on my bucket list. And then, after it turned out so well, we decided to use it for something else. I have a lot of bills because of trips to Utah and treatments there. I had to ask for money in the past, but that is mortifying. So I decided to try to think of something else. Earning money to pay for my treatments. I was amazed to see that the violin got 14 bids! But what touched my heart more than anything is who ended up buying it. 
This is the violin that Mike and I repurposed:


It’s not just this one action, but dozens built up over years of friendship. Roberta has fought cancer, and yet she’s still doing things to make life better for everyone around her. She’s the purest example of kindness. Truly. 
I’m so grateful for this friendship…so grateful for Roberta. Thank you—for everything. 🥰

Below you can see me—trying to look…surprised in the hat Roberta gave me. Who knows what that face is 🤣🤦‍♀️ 

And this is my sweet Roberta 💓

 

A Repurposed Steampunk Violin

We finished the violin! I just had to share that info here 🤗

Repurposed Steampunk Decorative Size 3/4 Violin Bow By EC Stilson and Michael Magagna.

EC Stilson and Michael Magagna repurposed this old size 3/4 violin and bow using acrylic paint, buttons, fabric, zippers, metal handles, hooks, keys, and various other mixed-media materials.

EC Stilson is currently battling stage four cancer, and all proceeds will go to help her pay medical bills and expenses related to her ongoing cancer treatments.

If you’re interested, you can find that listing here: https://www.ebay.com/itm/155090480017?mkevt=1&mkcid=16&mkrid=711-127632-2357-0

 

Bloom Where You’re Planted

 Mike planted several different kinds of flowers in our front yard. I’d seen them at the store where they looked beautiful, with bright futures. I bet some hoped to be planted in a botanical garden while others longed to be in a nature preserve. Yet, the poor ones we purchased, ended up in our pathetic flowerbed. We do our best, but most things we plant out front…die.

So, last year I studied the perennials and thought, “If doctors are right, these flowers and I have something in common; none of us will see next year.”

At that moment a truck pulled up. Braydon stepped out with his dad. Braydon is one of the coolest, nicest kids in the whole d*mn world. He feels like an adopted son, and all of us adore him because he’s such a great person.

He actually lived with us for a bit in 2019 and 2020. It’s funny that we originally just wanted to help him, but what he did was help us. In fact, he came into our lives when we needed him most.

Anyway, I had never met Braydon’s dad, Shane, before that day. And I could hardly wait to shake his hand and tell him what an amazing son he has!

After I introduced myself and gave Braydon a huge hug, Shane whispered, “I hear you’re fighting cancer…” You can tell he’s a really conscientious guy who didn’t want to bring up the topic if I didn’t want to talk about it.

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s been rough. Last year, doctors gave me two years to live. So I’ve already spent up half of my time.”

“Well, I…” he paused, “I brought you something.” And he dug into his pocket and handed me a coin. 

I raised a brow.

“This might not seem like something special, but it’s lucky. I’ve won thousands of dollars when I’ve had it on me. It’s kept me safe when I could’ve gotten hurt. And now, I want you to keep it—just until you get better.”

“But what if I don’t get better?” I said reluctantly. “Shane, I can’t take this.”

“Hey, now, you are gonna get better! Because you need to give this back to me.”

I broke out laughing and so did Braydon.

“It might seem strange, but I felt like I should give it to you—and it’s the best thing I have to offer because I know it’ll help.”

I glanced over to the flowers Mike had just planted and that saying came to mind: Bloom where you’re planted.

I held the coin tightly. Blooming where you’re planted means to always do your best—no matter where you’re at in life. This kind man wanted to do something for me despite my circumstances, and he offered me this amazing gift—a token he carried all the time. I had to take the coin.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give this back…when I get better.”

Time passed. And when I’ve been at my lowest or thought I might never be cancer-free, I’ve held the coin in my hand and thought, “I need to get better. I made a promise to give this coin back.”

It might sound silly, but it’s been a reminder to wipe my tears, stand strong, and buck up! 

Anyway, today I got home from my 3-day marathon of doctors visits this week. It’s been crazy adjusting to hope and the fact that I might actually beat this. After all, if things continue this way, the rest of the cancer could die, and I might be able to stop treatments in October! 

I thought about this as I pulled into my driveway and realized the perennials Mike planted last year had come back to life and bloomed! Not just that, but instead of looking pathetic and dead, parts of our yard actually seem like a beautiful garden. 

Bloom where you’re planted. 

I thought about how I’ve had to do that, making the best of what time I have left, blindly having faith that God has put me where I’m supposed to be. I didn’t choose to have cancer, become disabled from surgeries and treatments, or begin a fight for my life. But just like Shane did last year, I’ve tried to use what I can to give my best to the people around me. We can find the good in our circumstances, and right now, I’m happy for hope.

I’m so excited for October so I can call Braydon and Shane to tell them it’s time to give the coin back.

I guess the point is that you never know how your situation might be used to help someone else. I never knew what a huge blessing Braydon would be in our lives or how his dad would give me a coin that could help me muster strength throughout my battle with cancer.

I’m gonna bloom right where I’m at. Sure, life didn’t go exactly how I expected, but I’ve become a better person because of the soil and conditions God chose to plant me in. 

Thank goodness life doesn’t always go according to plan. I am still the luckiest: I have God, good doctors, AND this coin!

P.S. I tried to take pictures of the flowers, but our cat, Nova, stole the show. I give up 🤣

Here’s the lucky coin Shane gave me in 2021.

Big News: I’m Turning a Corner

 

I honestly didn’t think I’d get better. Instead, I reconciled to just enjoy each day and rest in the hope that God would take me when it’s my time.
But now…I’ve turned a corner, and my doctor said if things continue this way, I can possibly stop treatments in October and go on “observation.” This won’t mean I’m in remission, but it’s the next best thing. It means they’ll try to keep me “stable” for as long as they can—which could be a long time (way longer than two years anyway!). THIS is a miracle! Thank you for all of your kindness and ALL of your prayers.
I told my family and some of them cried, but the message that floored me came from my 12-year-old. She messaged back, “Mama is going to be okay.”
Those words made me cry because I’m so glad for the greatest gift of all: more time with the people I love.
——-
My parents went to my treatments today. We all took a nap, and at one point I woke up and cried a little bit. I’m so incredibly happy to be turning a corner, but I wish all of us could get better at the infusion unit. Maybe I have to remember my first thoughts: It’s important to rest in the hope that God will take everyone when it’s their time. I thought all of this as the music therapist started singing during my infusion: “Don’t Stop Believing” and the words “some will win; some will lose.” I think all of us have won something in that place because we’ve grown through the journey. Some appreciate life more then ever before. Some have started finally pursuing their dreams after years of achieving what others wanted for them (instead of what they wanted for themselves). And people, like me, have grown closer to their families. I want everyone to “win” and get better though. I guess I just want them to feel as good as I do today. In this exact moment.
For now, I’ll continue writing about my journey, but I am so excited for good, life-changing news.
Like I keep saying, I am the luckiest. THIS is amazing.

A Beacon in the Darkness

 I’ve honestly had points during this journey when I thought I would never get used to things, my life would never be “okay” again—and I would never survive this terminal diagnosis. 

In fact, I’ve had numerous dreams about floating in a rowboat during a harrowing storm. I’m crying out to God, not asking Him why, but simply asking for Him to either end the storm or to stop the suffering. In a couple of these dreams, the storm finally does abate only for me to end up on the river Styx, constantly paddling away from the ferryman and smacking away bony hands that try to climb into my boat from the river of the dead. Of course, I look into my hand and there’s no coin for passage, because I’ll be “damned” if I won’t make my own way even up until the end.

I thought about all of this over a week and a half ago. Two of my favorite people in the whole world brought me to see a lighthouse. I’ve never seen an actual lighthouse in person, and it completely transfixed me. 

“It’s saved a multitude of ships during storms,” I heard an old man say as he passed us on the walkway.

I scoffed and stared at the unimpressive building again. It didn’t look newsworthy, but that’s what—I decided—made it so amazing. A layman could deem it an old, irrelevant building. Instead, it tells a story…of life.

You see, there have been so many storms I’ve experienced throughout my battle with cancer. My initial diagnosis came in 2018, but it didn’t turn to stage four until 2020. Yet, I have seen the strangest beacons at the most fortuitous times. These things have carried me through the storms these last four years.

The next day, before we flew out from Seattle, Mike decided to surprise me. “We’re driving somewhere before we leave!” And that giver actually brought me to see another lighthouse. I still can’t walk very far because of the extreme pain and fatigue, but I was able to traverse a small portion of beautifully lush forest before we reached a different lighthouse from days before. 

I gingerly sat on a piece of driftwood, and then just rested, facing the wind. It rippled through my hair and forced me to take out my barrettes. It was the most beautifully, freeing feeling, just being next to that lighthouse on the windy beach.

“Mike,” I said, “something’s really bothering me.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I’ve gotten a few strange messages from people lately. They say I’m proof that God doesn’t exist. Because why would God do something like this to me.” My voice faltered. “I’m not religious, but I do love God with all of my heart. Why would my journey bring people further away from God? Even if I do die, death is a part of life. When will people stop getting mad at God for something that was part of the deal anyway? I have peace that there’s a plan. When I’m supposed to die, it’ll be my time.”

Mike thought really hard and stared out at the ocean. He doesn’t believe in God per se, but he’s awfully supportive of people believing what makes sense to them. “Elisa, if they stopped believing after hearing your story…well, it isn’t about you. They’re placing their doubt on you. That’s a burden you don’t need to carry.”

I closed my eyes and faced the wind again. I pretended that lighthouse was shining right into me, guiding me in the storm. In my imagination the light went through me, leading me to be the person I’m meant to be without regrets, burdens, or even sadness over cancer and doubt.

I heard some people approaching because they started screaming excitedly. Mike and I followed their gazes to see a whole pod of orcas jumping and dancing in the waves right in front of us. “Orcas!” I squealed. “They’re REAL orcas. This is the best. Day. Ever.” 

I hugged Mike so hard, and he looked down at me instead of the magnificent fish in the ocean. “You are so darling,” he said.

“But the orcas are my beacon for today!” I no longer thought about the messages I received from people who supposedly lost faith because of my journey. I didn’t worry anymore about how I have to take 18 pills every single day because of everything cancer and treatments have done to me. In that moment, all of this seemed incredibly doable. Whether I’m magically healed someday or have to keep fighting until my real journey on the Styx, I guess I’ll just keep looking for little beacons every day.

It’s like God’s lighthouse, keeping me strong, and always leading me home. Those are the miracles that make life shine.