E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 21
June 16, 2022
Too Innocent for this World
“That’s why I believe there’s something after this. I mean, we go someplace after we die,” Trey said.
There’s something quite exceptional about Trey. He’s almost otherworldly. Even as a tiny child he would say extraordinary large words and understand things he shouldn’t. If reincarnation were real, he lived previously as a philosopher. If parallel universes exist, he is the best version of himself. And if anyone is truly innately good, it’s him.
“Trey’s special because he’s the only son you had after Zeke—your first son—died,” a friend once told me. “God gave him to you.”
I remember smiling. “All of my kids are exceptional,” I said.
Trey brought me back to the moment. “Even though you have cancer, and all of these bad things have happened to you, you’ll always believe in the afterlife, huh? Because of what happened to us.”
“You’re talking about Adam?” I asked and he nodded.
Adam. Now there was someone too innocent for this world. I never expected it when we dated at the age of 15, but when he reached his 30s, I began to realize. The man had faced more hardships than Marilyn Monroe, and yet he refused to don armor. I cried hearing about some of the things he’d experienced. My stomach twisted in knots because the hardships were one thing, but the way he stayed resolutely unchanged mystified me. Instead of getting angry with someone who almost killed him…instead of getting bitter with his bride who got pregnant with someone else’s child…instead of letting the world destroy him, he fiercely loved everyone. And then…
We always stayed in touch, but grew a closer friendship after my divorce. It felt devastating when I realized he’d gotten back into drugs.
“I can’t have that around my kids,” I said. “We’ll talk again when you’re sober.”
But we never talked again. And several months later I received a message from a mutual friend. “Did you hear about Adam?”
“What? No. What happened?”
“Elisa. Adam…is dead.”
We all took it hard, especially Trey who’d called him “Uncle Adam.”
Months and months passed. We didn’t talk about Adam much. I didn’t want to upset the kids. Then, one day I walked into my bedroom and felt like Adam waited there. I honestly thought I was losing it. And even when I sat at the edge of the bed, it somehow seemed like Adam sat next to me. You know how you feel around different people: the smell of their perfume or cologne, how they make you feel about yourself, the feeling you get about them?
I sat there for a minute, then walked out of my room and into the hallway. Trey stepped from the bathroom at that moment. He was only 5 or 6 at the time; a tiny guy with a very serious attitude. “Mama,” he said, “something weird just happened.”
“Oh, yeah?” I asked, thinking of my own strange experience from moments before.
“Yeah,” Trey said. “Uncle Adam came and said ‘goodbye.’ He told me he was sorry he had to leave early. I guess he just wanted me to know.”
I stood in shock. Dumbfounded….
It’s been so many years since this happened, but every once in a while Trey still talks about it.
“So that’s why you believe in an afterlife?” I asked Trey.
“Yeah, and with you being sick, it’s helped me a lot. It’s nice to have that memory to hold on to.”
“For me too,” I said. And whether it was coincidence, String Theory at its finest, or something divine, I figure it doesn’t matter. That moment still gives my son peace. And for me, it keeps my sense of wonder well and alive.
Happy “late” birthday, Adam. You became like a brother to me, and I’ll always miss you. Hey, if you get a chance can you tell Zeke hello for me?
It’s kind of nice thinking Uncle Adam is looking out for him in the Great Beyond.
June 13, 2022
The Power of ‘I Can’
Two weeks ago felt unbearable. I cried so hard it seemed that I’d completely spent all of the water in my body. I qualified for permanent disability—which everyone says is wonderful—but I guess that’s just not what I planned for my life. I’m in my 30s, I’ve been declared permanently physically disabled—which is the price I paid for more time with my children—and, I guess, everything about my situation just hit me.
BUT this isn’t a sob story. I actually wanted to tell you how I came to terms with it.
Indy and Trey happened to walk into the room during this moment of desperation. Despite how honest I’ve been throughout this “ordeal,” they never see me cry. So, I rushed into the laundry room and shut the door. They know I’m fighting for my life, but they don’t hear about the crippling pain or how truly terrifying this can be for me. I’m not scared of death or suffering. (The doctors still say that unless some freak accident happens, and even if they bought me another decade, melanoma will be what kills me…eventually.) What I fear most now is not seeing my children grow up. Not holding Mike’s wrinkled hand as we hobble along for our 50th wedding anniversary. Not being remembered well. Not making a positive impact on the people who matter the most to me. Not showing my children that cancer, sickness, and even death will never rob me of who I am. And if they see me cry or watch my pain, well, I think that’s placing MY burden on them. Life is hard enough; the least I can do is shield them from my grief about this.
Anyway, in that moment, I listened through the laundry room door. All of my kids are hilarious, but my two youngest are always teasing each other and pulling pranks. It started young too. Trey would give Indy candy if she’d open child-proof drawers for him so he could access all of my Tupperware! And now that they’re older, their schemes have just grown more sophisticated. One distracts me while the other cooks insane concoctions. One watches a romance with me while the other hangs up heavy metal posters—that have swear words—on the wall! And even though I act dumbfounded, I secretly love all of their antics, and they normally keep my sadness about cancer at bay. But two weeks ago, that particular day felt hopeless.
Mike burst into the laundry room. “What can I do?” He looked desperate. The family isn’t used to me falling apart quite like that. “I don’t know what to do!” Tears filled his eyes. “I hate this so much.”
“A bunch of things feel off,” I said. “I know the cancer in my upper spine is gone, but my lower back is still bad. I can only get three more infusions. They said there’s a chance they might be able to keep the cancer stable. I could have years and years. But I’ll always be…disabled. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but this feels like a Herculean task.”
Tears flooded my eyes. Mike is so young and full of energy. I just felt like a lead weight around his neck. How must he feel dealing with this? He’s only 35.
“You could be with anyone,” I said.
“And I want you.”
Looking into his kind face tore me apart. Sure, I can’t be exactly who I want, but at least I can do better than being a bawl baby! After I’d stuffed a bunch of towels into the washer, I grabbed a piece of paper and told myself to “get it together.” Then I made a list of everything that’s bothering me. I wrote about how I rarely do my makeup and hair because I get tired so fast. I wrote about wishing that I could do things with Mike and the kids like we used to: fish, hike, kayak, and camp. I also wrote about how I want to go to the zoo and visit Italy some day. I read it at the end and realized that every sentence started with “I can’t.”
Mike left for work, and Trey and Indy confessed that they knew I wasn’t “okay.”
“Mama, what’s going on?” Indy asked.
“I just wish I could do more things. I can only walk a quarter of a mile. I want to bring you hiking and on epic fishing trips again.”
“But there’s so much you can do! We can go fishing to places that are close to the car. And you can hike to the bridge up Gibson Jack!” And later that day, Trey and Indy helped me make a new list of things they want to do each week this summer. And you wouldn’t believe it, but every sentence started with “I can.” Those sweethearts thought of things “I can” do with them. Fish at Edson Fichter. Hike a quarter mile in to the bridge where we can eat Lunchables. Float the river where it doesn’t require much rowing and Mike can help me. Visit Bear World. And the last crazy thing in our list? Go to Italy.
We started our adventures already. My brother and nephew came up last weekend. My brother is like the best possible version of me and he reminds me of how I want to be. My sister and her husband came up after that. My sister is amazing, everything I wish I could be but am not. She reminds me of how I need to strive to learn and grow outside of myself. I got to speak with Dee, Scott and Colleen Hancock, and my mother-in-law (Maureen)—who always make me laugh. And then my parents (Philip and Ruby) came up and brought me to the zoo. They didn’t care how slow I had to walk or how much I needed to stop. They helped me and the kids check off one of our items, and after we got home I realized again how truly lucky I am.
Anyway, I know it sounds obvious, but it really is astounding switching a mentality from “can’t” to “can.” I’m so excited for this summer, and I think the kids are too. This will be awfully wonderful. They helped me realize that there so many possibilities. The world awaits—and maybe someday so does Italy.
June 6, 2022
An Altruistic Employer: Newsletter Pro
This brought me to tears.
I’ve been with Newsletter Pro for two years, and I’m continually amazed with how kind everyone there has been to me throughout my journey with cancer. They held a fundraiser to help me pay bills during the beginning of my diagnosis in 2020, have been flexible on hours, and have gone above and beyond to help me get through this. But just a few days ago, they did something that completely stunned me. Shaun, the owner, sent out the following email to his mailing list this weekend, and I feel touched beyond words.
EVERYONE there is phenomenal, but today I keep thinking about Shaun and his altruistic nature as well as Karli who has really gone out of her way to make me feel valued during even the hardest days when I’ve been sick after treatments.
Isn’t it strange how God has the right things happen at the right time? I started working at Newsletter Pro months before my diagnosis, and I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through this so far without them. I have a job I love, and I get to work from home. Plus, Newsletter Pro has helped a numerous amount of companies and people with their marketing, so I feel like I’m making a difference. My role as an editor in some way helps companies succeed—and now that I’m fighting sickness and death, that seems even more important than ever before. I want to feel like my work and my life mattered. I WANT to feel like I’m making a difference. And this company has given me that…. What. A. Gift.
Please read the attachement if you have a minute. It says much more about the owner than it does about me. What a great guy!
Check out NLP here: www.newsletterpro.com.
June 3, 2022
He’s Coming to Visit! Yay!
I woke up practically glowing because something exciting is happening today! I can hardly wait to tell you about it, but first let me introduce you to some people who are legendary to me. Maybe I see them that way because I’m “the baby”; I’ll let you decide.
My brother worked as an engineer at Harvard—Harvard. He’s like a mad scientist without the “mad.” My sister is a chemist and the science department head for a high school in Utah. Growing up, she was the homecoming queen, the class president—you name it. My dad owned a drilling company that garnered national recognition and got him featured by various places for his entrepreneurial success. Soilmec even put him on the front of their international magazine! And you know my mom, Ruby, because (to her chagrin) I share her drumming video with everyone. She’s a beauty queen and one heck of a musician. But like all of my family, they are so much more than any accomplishment could relay. Because they’ve shown so much love to everyone they know. And they made my childhood special.
But this post isn’t to get mushy about that. This is about my brother. He’s one of my favorite people on earth. Growing up he would bring me rock climbing; to the movies; to play soccer, tetherball, and baseball; to our favorite Mexican restaurant…. He’s nine years older than me, but he still brought me everywhere—to hang out with his awesome friends, to play video games…. He read book after book after book to me. Epic fantasy novels that have stayed with me for a lifetime. And even now we trade chapters and write together.
I don’t share much about him because even though we have the exact same personality through Meyer Briggs, he’s a bit more introverted while my life is LITERALLY an open book.
Long story short, Shane is one of my favorite people on this entire planet. And today, he’s bringing one of my other favorite people (my epic, hilarious, fun, witty nephew—Neo) to visit me!!!
We’re gonna play cards (but not on a glass table because last time Shane saw the reflection of my hand and cheated!—told ya he’s smart). We’ll eat cheesecake and crepes. It’s gonna be the best. Time. EVER.
So, the sickness and fatigue of yesterday seem insignificant compared to today. Who cares about cancer and tumors? My brother and nephew are coming to see me. This is gonna be awesome!
Yay!!!
Since I have you here, I might as well share another video of my mom. I can hear her reaction now, “Elisa!” 🤣 *still smiling* That’s why God gave me to this family. Their family dynamics and “recipe” needed a little dash of cayenne!
June 2, 2022
Not the Easiest Thing
I found the blue bird flapping awkwardly, begging me—not for death—for life. Didn’t it know what it asked for? It would never fly again, and feathers littered the carpet where our polydactyl cat had played with the bird. Pawing and clawing, enjoying to watch it fight for life.
And of course, I thought of my struggles. It’s hard not reflecting on my own battle when I see death…and suffering. I’m not okay today. Things are bothering me that shouldn’t. Maybe it’s exhaustion. I don’t know….
I announced a few days ago that the cancer in my upper spine is gone. It’s miraculous. Amazing, really. I rode that high for days and have held onto it like a lifeline!
BUT today it hit me again that the cancer in my lower spine remains and is still very concerning. I thought of this because a woman emailed me after my last post. She wrote, “I’m happy you no longer have cancer, but I won’t be following you now. I followed your story to see how long you could stay happy and have cancer.”
Those five words “you no longer have cancer” stuck out and cinched my heart. Like the bird begging for life, I want to hear those words almost more than anything. To be healthy. To be able to hike with my kids. To go out for more than an hour with my husband…. I have to admit that I WANT to live. I WANT the cancer to be gone. I WANT to ring that f*ing bell in the infusion unit so everyone will know that I made it and they might too!
Yet, the woman who emailed me became the cat, deriving amusement from my suffering. And I became the bird, fighting despite reason, just wanting more time. I thought about all of this, staring at the bird’s beedy eyes as tears flooded my face. I honestly had no idea what to do. Kill it? Try to help it? That’s when my cat sauntered into the room, pounced on her prey, and completely ended the bird’s suffering. I didn’t feel sad then. Not at all. I felt gratitude. Thank God the heartache had ended.
Maybe I shouldn’t be posting this, but I’ve vowed to be unflinchingly honest about my journey with cancer. It’s a roller coaster. It’s not easy. People have made it unfathomably better, and a scant amount of people—very few, like this woman—have made it slightly worse. I’m so glad she’s not following me anymore. Plus, she’s given me a good excuse to take a long nap and then go buy a big-fat mocha.
So, the cancer in my upper spine IS gone—and I hope the rest of it will leave too. But regardless, I am still adjusting to a new normal.
It’s a lot to grieve over, and advice from people is sometimes tough to process:
Have faith.
Don’t lose hope.
Be realistic, Elisa. Understand you’re permanently disabled. You agreed to this price…so you could live; don’t whine about that now.
I’m sorry to complain, but having “terminal” cancer in my 30s is not the easiest thing I’ve ever done. But there are so many worse things in this world: war, hunger, poverty, and a chauvinistic guy I once dated. (Did you catch that humor!)
I’m currently sitting in my cush, baby blue, yard sale recliner that an old lady once owned. My kids are absolutely amazing. Mike is wonderful. My cancer memoir continues to sell. And I have much less to worry about than that dying bird did. How can I possibly complain? I’m gonna go take a nap—I know I’ll feel better when I wake up. Plus, mocha whaaa?!
Today though, I guess it’s okay that I’m not trying to be strong all the time. It’s okay to grieve even if it’s after I got to celebrate for a few days over a pretty big win. 💓 I got out my walker today and have vowed to start walking farther than I have been. Even if I have to stop and rest frequently, I have goals, baby. Bam!
May 30, 2022
The Meaning of Life ... Is Decisions?
"What do you think it is?" she asked.
"Growth? Being present?"
She smiled widely. "It's…decisions. The point of life is simply…decisions."
I scoffed, but she looked at me, so patient, almost patronizingly.
"Seriously though? Decisions? That's like saying the glass isn't half empty or half full. It's simply just waiting there, with liquid in it."
"Well, isn't it? Isn't the glass of liquid just there?"
"But perspective… Positivity can make things much better."
"Yes, it can help the medicine go down. But it's still medicine. Decisions are decisions. And if people are paying attention, they all lead to God."
She looked at me with a penetrating gaze. And I realized she had the same eyes as the Master Luthier from my other dream.
"What's your point about decisions?"
The girl didn't answer for a moment, and I placed my head in my hands, frustrated.
"Let's put it this way," she exhaled, "when your life is spent, you might be asked where you've been on your journey. Would you believe some people haven't lived with true purpose, and they might not even remember why they made certain decisions or what led them there in the first place? They're so busy speeding through life, achieving their next goal—that they've missed the entire point. Their kids have grown up under their noses. Their careers have ended. They're so busy looking for the pot of gold at the end of every rainbow that they forget to stop and DECIDE to enjoy the beauty around them."
"That's a gift cancer has given me," I admitted. "'Decide' is a good word to describe it. I've decided to live with my ultimate purpose in mind. I decided to find my true purpose after I got sick. I had to decide to persevere; understanding didn't just happen. I had to work for it—but it all started with that choice…that decision."
"So, what is it? Your purpose? What did you find out about yourself?"
"I really just want to make a difference for the people I love most. That's what really matters at the end…. Giving them joy."
"But you might have a little more time than you think. Far more than the two years the doctors initially gave you."
"Hmph." I looked at her, trying not to give away how much I really, really want to live. "The expiration date—the mark of two years will be up this fall," I said. "If that hasn't helped me make some decisions and live with my purpose in mind, well, I don't know what will."
The little girl laughed, and her smile glowed with such happiness that I longed to feel that carefree too. But no matter how much I longed for it, nonchalance seemed just out of reach.
"You're worried," she said.
"Not worried, per se, just in pain. Usually, the pain leaves in my dreams—my one reprieve. But it's in this one."
"I want to help you today. Really help you."
"Okay. How?"
"Part of you thinks you got sick because of sin?"
"Well, around the time I first got sick, someone mailed an anonymous document to Mike's work. It said I got sick because I wasn't one of 'God's chosen people.' Then I started thinking about my sins."
"Go on," she said, but I didn't want to tell this kid my problems, especially in detail. "Elisa, I literally know everything about you."
"Fine. Yes. I committed the biggest sin I've ever committed shortly before my diagnosis—and trust me, it was a whopper."
"Did you sin against God or man?" she asked.
I suddenly remembered the leather pack I'd been sporting on my back since the beginning of the dream. My hands went up to the straps. They felt so hard and stiff despite being made of leather. "Well, if I have to pick one, I sinned against man, I guess."
"If you sin against God, ask God for forgiveness. If you sin against man, ask man for forgiveness."
I nodded. "I guess that makes sense."
"So, the person you sinned against, did you ask them for forgiveness?"
"Yes," I responded.
"Then why are you carrying this bag of guilt around with you? You are not sick because of some punishment for sin—but holding on to guilt could be making it even harder for you to get better."
"What?"
"Sinning against God is doing something against God's will; that actually puts a wedge between you and God. This specific act didn't start as a sin against God, but it has turned that way. Hanging onto guilt IS keeping you from God. Holding onto it, might be your way of punishing yourself—and that is not something God wants. God doesn't want you to hurt others OR yourself! You have been forgiven. Now let it go. That's why the raft is here."
My eyes darted to the raft with the pyre and little Viking flag. "Oh, no. Are we sending me off to a Viking funeral? Burning me alive as we send this out to sea...on fire?"
She started laughing. "Not quite. I want you to take off the pack and throw it onto the raft. Then we'll release it forever."
"You want me to remove the pack?"
"Yes."
So, I took off the straps, but when I tried pulling the pack from my back, it stayed stuck. "Oh, yuck," I said, pulling my hands away, slimy and gross.
"Let me help you." And the little girl set to work, separating and pulling the leather fabric. And with each minute, I felt the pack grow less and less attached to my back, until it almost seemed to be pulling something out of my actual upper spine. After minutes upon minutes, the little girl brought the pack in front of me. "This is your guilt. This is what you've been carrying around with you so much that it's started to become part of you. You're forgiven, Elisa. Remember this: Would you ever want to put this pack on again?"
I shook my head, appalled.
"This is what sin leads to, a skewed definition of ourselves. The definition keeps us far from coming back to God. You are not your sin. You need to let go of the guilt."
I truly studied what must've once been a pack. But it appeared completely eaten through with mold and decay. Flies swarmed around it. Even in the dream, I could not believe I'd been carrying that around with me, unaware because it was always behind me, always following wherever I went. And how embarrassing; people around could see it, but in my blindness, I hadn't believed them!
Then, the girl simply threw the pack onto the raft. I'm still not sure how, but it caught on fire and the raft started floating away until it disappeared.
"Let it go, Elisa. No one is perfect. To even hold yourself to that standard is prideful. You're neither perfect nor completely imperfect. You are exactly who you were made to be. Make decisions, remember how you got to where you are, but never let it hold you back. Do better next time. For now, just live the best you can for your purpose…for your family."
____
"You're done," the tech pulled me out of the MRI machine, and I realized I'd been asleep for almost the entirety of the two-hour scan. "Oh! My back is stiff."
"These tables will do that to ya." He removed the IV from my arm. "Your appointment with your radiation oncologist is in two hours?" he asked, and I nodded. "I hope you'll get some good news today," he said. "We should have the results by then. I'm pulling for you."
Those two hours flew by, and soon I found myself waiting at the appointment with my second-oldest daughter, Sky. "Give me a second," the oncologist said, leaving the room. It wasn't long when she came back, looking stunned. "Well, it's still early to say…but the radiologist saw the preliminary scans. The cancer in your lower back might be worse, but your upper back… He said all signs of cancer in that area appear to be gone. It looks like after almost two years of surgery, treatments, and radiation, the infusions might finally be working. We might cancel radiation for now and see if the cancer in your lower back and the area in your femur start looking better too."
I remained frozen, completely dumbfounded. "Wait, the cancer in my lower back is still there, but in my upper back…the cancer…is gone?" Had I even heard her correctly? "Is it still terminal?"
"There's no cure. And we don't want to get ahead of ourselves because your lower back is uncertain. But for today, this is very good news. It will still be a battle, but this means you might live much longer than we ever anticipated."
I could hardly breathe. Sky and I looked at each other gape-jawed.
"We'll do more scans in two months and follow-up then—unless we hear something different from the radiologist. But they must be pretty confident about this; I just spoke with one of the doctors over the phone."
I left the hospital with Sky, and we both felt quite shocked. So...we got Zupa's LOL!
Anyway, we still don't know what's going on with the cancer in my lower back, and my main oncologist said that "at least for now I don't need that back surgery after all either." But the whole drive home, I kept thinking about my odd dream and everyone's prayers for me, wondering if some sort of miracle had taken place. Whether it was God sending a confirmation, the infusions finally working, or a combination of everything, I'm feeling better than I have since this whole ordeal began—even since they found the first stage 2 melanoma all the way back in 2018.
Regardless of cancer, what feels even better is that it appears as if I'm truly forgiven for all of the "bad decisions" I've made. And now I'm on the other side where I can appreciate the lessons I've learned along the way and feel like there isn't a mountain of guilt separating me from God.
Life is the biggest miracle of all. I'm so grateful to feel like I have a purpose and to be sharing that joy with my family.
This is a picture of the dock I always try to envision when I'm getting scans. This is from our honeymoon.
A Godwink on a Dock in Jamaica
I spotted the same dock where Mike and I had spent quite a bit of time on our honeymoon. The Jamaican waters shone so clear you could watch colorful fish for yards in all directions. The weather felt perfect, and the winds danced playfully across the water's surface every time it flitted past. I could hardly wait to reach the end of the pier, but when I finally drew closer, instead of seeing Mike, a little girl sat there, kicking her feet in the water.
I thought about turning back, but she motioned me forward and pointed to a raft bobbing expectantly with a Viking sail that fluttered, opening and closing. "Come on, silly" she hollered. "I've been wanting to show you something."
So, I edged forward. And even though just a dream, I kept thinking how it felt all wrong this time. It's true that I usually picture this place when I’m getting procedures, radiation, cancer treatments, or scans. After all, this location holds one of my most beautiful memories.
On that dock, God gave me a sign.
A year before I first saw that place during my honeymoon, Mike and I actually broke up. At the time, I worked as a single mom with four kids. Mike didn't have any children of his own, and I didn’t think it seemed fair to marry him and rob him of his right to have a biological child. So, after quite a while of dating, I broke up with him as cleanly as possible, and told him he needed to find someone to have kids with.
We both cried. The thought of not being with him romantically, or otherwise, seemed almost unfathomable. But I needed to give him that chance, time to really process things and decide if my kids and I were the right choice for him.
I brought a mason jar along with a notebook and pens. I pulled them from my bag, and we both sat on a cement sidewalk near a park and wrote a letter to each other. It was all of the things we hadn’t been able to say during our relationship and wished we would have. We also laid out our hopes and dreams. Then we put the notes in the mason jar, brought them to a place we both loved, and buried the jar. "We'll meet up a year from today, catch up, and dig up the mason jar together?" Mike asked.
"Yes," I said, "and then I can hear all about how amazing your new life is."
"And I can hear all about yours." He nodded.
"A lot can happen in a year," I said, and we went our separate ways.
But as fate would have it, we ended up getting back together, and a few months before our wedding day approached, we went and dug up the mason jar and decided to open it on our honeymoon at the end of a dock in Jamaica.
I’d never expected our letters to be so similar, to relay the exact same things. It felt like a confirmation from God that we'd done the right thing. That's probably why I cried on the dock and hugged Mike after we read our own words to each other. Then I promptly jumped into the water and pulled him in after me. It was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.
Here a pic of the day we dug it back up:
So, that’s why I picture the place frequently because despite pain and hardship and cancer, that memory always makes me realize that I still have the best life ever. Plus, it brings with it a semblance of peace, that God does have a plan. Mike is always there when I picture it though, not this little girl. And hearing her high-pitched voice, instead of his baritone one, really took me off-guard.
"It’s only a little farther," she said. "You can do it." With the pain in my back, the dock seemed much longer than ever before. My gait had slowed to a molasses pace, and I struggled forward until I gingerly lowered my body a few feet away from hers.
"What’s with the raft?" I finally asked.
"I'll tell you in a minute. But isn't there something else more important that you wanted to talk about, something that's been bothering you?"
“Not really,” I said.
She suddenly looked much older and wiser. Her black hair swirled in the wind, and her beautiful brown eyes reflected the ageless crests of the waves.
“Yes, you have questions about sin,” she said, and I wondered who I was really talking to. "Elisa, isn’t that why you think you got sick? Why do you think you got cancer?”
“Not because of sin, not really.”
“It’s okay to be vulnerable sometimes,” she said. I glanced at the Viking flag still fluttering from the raft next to us. “Do you think this is karma? Even a little piece of you?”
I turned toward her and felt my back spasm in pain. I realized then that I wore a leather pack tightly against my back, and it wasn’t very comfortable.
"Do you think you got sick because you sinned?" she probed, practically interrogating me.
"Well…maybe."
——-
Okay, I'll have to write the rest of this later. I am sooo tired from treatments last week. Please don't think that I'm still worried about getting cancer because of my sins. It'll make a lot more sense in the next post :)
A pic from our honeymoon:
May 24, 2022
Two-Year Update: Featured on the News
I’m so grateful that KPVI put me on the news today. They did such a phenomenal job. For more information, please visit TwoMoreYears.Net.
May 23, 2022
Beginning of an MRI
The tech strapped me in and placed a cage over my face. “Wait…please.” My breath came out haltingly. “I have to close my eyes first, before you put that on,” I said. I wanted to move, but my arms strained under the Velcro straps, and I couldn’t pull the cage from my face. “Please!”
He unfastened the cage and studied my eyes. “You get claustrophobic?”
I’d begun to hyperventilate.
“Okay. Okay! We’ll do what we need to, but I’ve never understood what makes some people claustrophobic and others not—especially when someone gets scans as much as you do.”
I had to get my mind off things, so I talked mindlessly. “I got locked in a tiny trailer closet—totally my fault—when I played around as a kid. It took my family quite a while to find me. And I got locked in another tight place. Because of a maintenance malfunction at one of my old jobs. I was in the dark for almost 15 minutes, unable to move. I thought I’d die.” His eyes went wide as he listened.
“Let’s get you a pillow for under you knees,” he said.
I bit my lip. That was so nice of him. Those MRI tables are as hard as a linoleum floor, and they feel especially terrible when you have a partially fused back and tumors up your spine and neck.
He’d already put my IV in, and he moved a lot slower as he handled me this time. “You ready?”
I closed my eyes. “How long is this scan?”
“Just over two hours,” he said.
“Can you check in with me every half hour?” I asked, hearing the cage click into place.
“Sure.”
“Thank you! I got so scared once when a tech couldn’t hear me shouting, that I actually climbed out of the MRI machine.”
“No way!” he said.
“Yeah, I almost fell on the floor when I pulled myself out. I guess that’s why you strap people in here?”
“Yeah, just to remind them not to move. Hey, Mrs. Magagna, do you picture anything when you keep your eyes closed?”
“Sometimes I pretend I’m on a dock in Jamaica. Other times I pretend to be lying on the grass up in the mountains. Anywhere that’s big and open.”
“Well I hope you’ll see something good this time,” he said.
And fortunately, I did. In fact, when I went into the machine, I had another dream about God.
To be continued …
May 18, 2022
C'est la vie! And a Mouse in My Car!
I have a temper, and I wanted to go right up to her window and say, "All right, Amber Heard." But I didn't. (Plus, I think both Johnny and Amber are a mess.) Despite THAT drama, the poor man in the car just sat silently, red-faced as his wife continued berating him.
"Hurry, Mama," Indiana said as we shared a look that meant, "That woman is crazy--soda IS awesome!"
But when I turned the key in the ignition, the car tha-whumped, sounding like a helicopter taking off. The man in the car next to us just looked over as we sat there. I didn't know what to say. He realized we'd heard the whole d*mn thing. And the lady finally darted into the store as her husband waited with the devasted little boy. I wondered what that high heeled woman would get--it obviously wasn't soda. And I wished I had the words for that man and the kid. But, I came up lacking.
So instead, I took action with my own problems. "Mike, something's wrong with the car," I told him over the phone. "Can you come pick us up?"
He arrived shortly after. "It's something with the heater," he said. And after we got the car home, Mike turned a bit sad, "I'm so sorry everything keeps breaking down. And we're already going through so much."
"Are you kidding? Cancer has taught me to be extra grateful for people. Who cares about the car. We'll figure it out. Plus, I'm just so thankful you're nice to me and the kids. And that we all love each other. And...I always want to be so nice to you."
So, Mike took the car apart yesterday. It had started to smell really bad, and it turns out that while Indy and I shopped, a mouse got up in the car--and when I turned it on, the mouse took its last breath.
Mike brought the little carcass in. Blood streaked several car parts, and its tiny paws were bent at terribly unnatural angles.
"OH, my gosh," I wailed. "I. Killed It. The tha-whumping was its body!" I sobbed. And sobbed. AND sobbed.
Animals love me and Indy. "This poor mouse must've ran from his cushy home in the bread section at the grocery store, out into the parking lot, and into the carriage of the car." My breathing faltered. "I lured it--to," my voice dropped an octave, "its death!!!"
Mike snorted. "If that's true, we are never shopping in that bread section again." His eyes widened. "You're really shook up over this? Is it...all about the mouse? Or death? Or what?"
"It's just that...that I killed the poor thing. And to add insult to injury, the last thing he heard was that woman yelling at her husband over soda. Talk about a terrible death! It could've been any one of us who died. Imagine if it would've been someone in that car. Would that woman have felt bad those were her final words? People need to think before they speak."
Mike pinched the bridge of his nose and obviously tried to keep from laughing. "Let's just be glad that if anyone had to die, it was the mouse."
I sniffled. "I guess that's looking at the glass half full. But, Mike! What if he had a little family?! They probably thought he got abducted."
Mike thinks I'm incredibly silly, but life is life. I still feel terrible about the mouse, but I guess it's nice that the car doesn't wreak anymore. C'est la vie!
