E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 27

Update on My COVID Situation

I just wanted to thank everyone who’s messaged (or texted) to see how I’m doing. (I’m so sorry if I haven’t responded yet; I’ve had an overwhelming amount of support—especially since getting COVID.)
I’m doing sooo much better, still feeling some COVID symptoms but not anything like even a couple of days ago. I’ve decided I 100% love breathing! 🤣
They had to do some tests this week (X-rays and stuff), but everything looks awesome—except for cancer (oh well). So…yay for some good news!
Just wanted to give you a quick update and say thank you to the people who I haven’t responded to yet. 💓

Loss of Another Friend

Ron and Dottie at one of my book signings (when I dressed up like a character from my YA fantasy novel).
 

The bookkeeper peeked into my office. “Some guy’s on the phone, says it’s imperative that he speaks with the publisher.”

“Did he give you a name?” I asked.

“Barrett. Ron Barrett.”

“That doesn’t ring a bell.” I tapped my fingers on the desk. “I’ll take it.”

Laurie turned around and chuckled. “Of course you will.”

“Hello, this is Elisa, the publisher of the Morning News,” I said.

“Well, hello there, little lady.”

I paused I don’t remember names or faces, but I always remember a voice. This happened to be one I’d never heard before. “I don’t know you. Care to introduce yourself?”

“I read your articles d*mn near every day. You’re a character, so I want you to join my band.”

“Well…sir, I’m already in a band and—“

“Listen, we’ve both fought cancer. What was it you had removed on your wrist—when they took out muscle and bone and you worried you might never fiddle again?”

“Melanoma,” I said. So he had read my articles.

“Well, my wife plays the piano. I play around on the guitar and sing.”

And before I knew it, I’d grabbed my coat and headed toward the door.

“You gotta quit doin’ this, Elisa,” Laurie said because we’d become like sisters. “What crazy story are you covering now?” 

I broke out laughing because she’d seen me livestream stories about fires, car accidents, and even when a deer jumped through a storefront window.

“It’s not a story this time.”

“You’re going to meet another stranger, aren’t you? Good Lord—I swear if something bad happens to you one of these days…”

“He wants me to fiddle with him in a contest. It’ll raise money for cancer awareness.”

She just shook her head. “Share your location with me this time!”

Over the next few months some shocking things happened with the Barretts. We actually won the competition and raised a substantial amount of money for the event. Ron gave my daughter, Sky, guitar lessons, and Dottie (his wife) taught her how to garden.

“I have to pay you for this,” I said one day because not only had they shown Sky love and generosity, she’d begun learning the value of hard work.  

“This is something we want to do,” Dottie said, giving me a huge hug. “You don’t owe us a thing.”

I’ll never forget when I told them my cancer came back as stage four. Dottie, that tough-old broad, actually quaked a little—I heard it in her voice. And every week for months she messaged me asking how I was, giving advice about what to eat, and sending me things in the mail.

“Dottie?” I messaged her one day. “I haven’t heard from you in a few weeks. How are you?”

“I have cancer.”

“Oh my gosh…. Are you okay?”

She never responded, and a month later she was dead.

Sky, Indy, Mike, and I trudged into the funeral home. Family members whispered about “who in the hell” we were. At the end of the service, the pastor asked if anyone else—not in the program—wanted to talk about Dottie. No one stood. Seconds felt like hours, and my heart began chugging in my chest. Ron looked around.

“Maybe you should…,” Mike whispered, gently squeezing my leg. 

“You’re right.” I got up, standing much straighter than normal. My black dress was probably too lowcut for a funeral and maybe a bit high on the legs, but I hadn’t planned on giving a flippin’ speech in front of an entire family of strangers!

“He—hello!” The microphone squealed. “Ummm…I’m Elisa… And Dottie—and Ron…well, they changed my life.” And then I told them everything about the laughter and the kindness. I said how she’d been such a support through my journey. People laughed and cried. “I’ll miss her,” I finally said, and then I almost sprinted back to my seat.

“Anyone else?” the pastor asked again when I’d finished. Then Sky stood and told her side of the story. I beamed with so much pride as she spoke about gardening and spending time with the Barretts. And when I saw Ron, every bit of the whole thing seemed worth it.

Following the closing prayer, Ron struggled to walk, and a woman held onto him as he started moving toward the back of the funeral home. “Wait,” he said. “I have to tell some people hello.” Then he worked his way over to me, Mike, and the kids, and he gave all of us each such big hugs. “I’m so grateful you’re here—and for everything you said.”

“If you ever need anything, we’re here,” Mike said. 

“I appreciate that. And I’m praying for all of you every day. Praying that you’ll get better, Elisa.”

“Oh, Ron! I’m fine. We’re worried about you!”

Then the woman said they needed to leave because Ron seemed visibly weaker. As he hobbled to the back door I couldn’t help wiping tears from my eyes. A woman came up to me and shook my hand. “My mom just loved you guys,” she said to all of us, tears filling her eyes as she nodded to Sky. 

“We loved her,” Sky said. 

And when we walked from the building, I couldn’t help feeling like Dottie had seen us there, and she knew the profound impact she’d made on our lives.

It’s sobering how many friends I’ve known who have died since my cancer diagnosis in 2020. If they can see me from Heaven, I sure hope they know how grateful I am to each and every one of them.

I Have COVID

 I have COVID. 

And yes it’s just as terrible as you’ve heard….

I rang the bell, then waited in the freezing Idaho snow. Surely someone would answer the door soon. “The window has a gold star on it,” the receptionist had told me on the phone an hour before. I guess administration sectioned off an overflow area for people with COVID. The “gold star” appeared to be a flimsy piece of yellow paper that the wind had played with. I frowned at the paper and rang the bell again.

About 5 minutes later, a nurse—wearing garb fit for outerspace—stared blankly through the glass. “Why are you here?” Her monotone voice broke through the intercom. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes!” I shivered, my shoes and socks soaked. “I’m a cancer patient. I have COVID, and I’m having trouble breathing. I need a monoclonal antibody treatment.”

She studied me skeptically. “Magagna?” she finally asked, and after I nodded, she requested my date of birth.

“Groundhog Day. ‘83.”

“Cute,” she said sarcastically. But I knew she’d started to like me, and I tried not laughing because she sounded a bit like Darth Vader because of her helmet. 

Then she buzzed me in, and my superpower of joy momentarily left. What I saw will stay seared into my memory…always. 

So many people laid in that room. Painters’ plastic swayed, separating the sides of each “station.” The cement floors looked more fit for a parking garage than a hospital, and my apprehension grew. It seemed glaringly apparent that this hospital didn’t want COVID patients near anyone, they’d become desperate for a location to treat people like me, and they didn’t care if it looked like a third-world country. 

“Over here!” The nurse’s helmet muffled her words, yet I still understood. Regardless, I couldn’t pull my eyes from the man who looked dead or the bald woman who heaved with each breath. These people…why couldn’t they do more for these people?

“Oh,” I whispered to no one except myself. I have COVID which gave me admittance to this terrible place: The location with the monoclonal antibody treatment. The same room where people seemed to be dying.

I sat on the hard mattress. “Someone’s having an allergic reaction to the infusion.” The nurse leaned so close to me, her eyes red from lack of sleep. “I’ll be back.”

“Okay!” I nodded.

“Hang tight!” Then she lumbered away, moving to another painters’ plastic separation where a woman spoke frantically. “I’m still itching! Everywhere! And it’s even harder to breathe. I thought this would help, not make it worse?!”

I leaned back, rested my wet shoes on the bed, and closed my eyes.

I’m not sure why, but my thoughts wandered to about a month ago. “I’m a little nervous to visit Mexico.” I typed the text to my friend and hit “send.”

“Don’t tell me it’s because of COVID. You know it’s not real. It’s just a government ploy.”

“Ummm… It is real.”

“You know anyone who’s had it?”

“Yes.” I responded.

“Anyone who’s died?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“People probably just said it was COVID. 🤣I don’t know anyone who’s actually had it!”

“Did you at least get the vaccine?” I queried.

“No way! Why would I get a shot for something that isn’t real?”

“My doctor doesn’t want me around anyone who isn’t vaccinated…. I guess they have a higher chance of getting sick. And if I’m around them, then I can get sick. My immune system is crap right now.”

“But you’re vaccinated. If you believe in all this stuff, then why get the shot?” she asked.

“I guess the vaccine doesn’t work for most people who are getting cancer treatments….”

“Ha! Figures.”

“But I at least need to try. I’m fighting so d*mn hard just to live.”

And we haven’t talked after that—both of us so upset. I couldn’t imagine her shock to see the scene currently around me, the people so desperate for the infusion, for oxygen, for ventilators…. Tears filled my eyes and dripped into my mask as I thought of dying in that cold, morbid, community room. Then I heard that woman, “I’m itching. Make IT stop!” She almost growled.

“I’m trying,” the nurse said. “We’re giving you Benadryl!  Everything will be okay.”

I wiped my eyes and told myself I’m stronger than crying like a baby. Then I thought of a scene in an alien movie, “Slither,” where a lady is enormous, about to give birth to millions of aliens. She says something in a redneck accent that always makes me smile, so as the nurse approached, I decided to say it to her.

“Hey…. Na-urse. I-ah I-ah thank somehtin’s wrong wath mey.”

She just looked at me, then broke into a huge grin. “Ug.” She chuckled. “Symptoms?”

“Trouble breathing, headache, dizziness, chest and back pain, sore throat, cough, congestion. A sense of humor.”

She raised a brow. “Any allergies?”

“Just aloe vera.”

“Perfect! Let’s get you hooked up.” Then she placed an IV faster than you’d believe. “You’ll be here a few hours.”

“Okay,” I said. 

“Any idea where you got exposed?” she asked.

“Mexico.” I nodded. “My poor mom tested positive on Christmas Day. I guess my symptoms just took a little longer to show up.”

“It can happen that way. Too bad. At least you had a fun trip until then?”

“The best!” I said. “But my parents are still stuck in Mexico. I feel so bad for them. They can’t leave until my mom tests negative. It’s been over a week. Luckily my dad hasn’t gotten sick.”

“He got the vaccine?”

“Yeah,” I said as she hooked my IV to a bag of clear liquid. “I sure hope I won’t get you sick. I don’t want to get anyone sick.” I looked at her pleadingly. “You don’t want what I have,” I whispered.

“Don’t worry about me. I know what I signed up for.”

And as she hobbled away, I couldn’t stop thinking about my friend who doesn’t believe  COVID is real. What a sad state of denial she must be in….

So, now I’m quarantined to my room, grateful to work from home. My youngest kids think this is some great adventure since we can communicate through the door. I even came out for a minute today, staying masked and far away. “I love you even though you have COVID,” Trey said. “I won’t discriminate.”

I laughed so hard that I started coughing. “I love you too.” Then—as the kids started their homework—I went back to my room and watched another episode of “Lost in Space” because that’s what the nurse’s outfit left me craving.

(You can kind of see the nurse’s outfit in the third picture—and the room where they’re doing infusions at the hospital in Pocatello.)

A Bullfight with Death

 2022 … the year I “am” supposed to die. Maybe everybody has a timer stuck on their back, ticking to an expiration. But only God should see that. I’ve come to believe that no person should be privy to the date of their death…even if it is just the year.

Since my diagnosis in 2020 I’ve lost a vertebra and undergone grueling cancer treatments … but in 2021, that was the worst of my fight so far. I almost died two different times—the most disturbing from sepsis in Montana. If I’d gotten to the hospital three hours later, the doctor said I would have died… I cheated death—by three hours. Three hours.

Have you ever felt like you’re in a bullfight against the grim reaper? He keeps charging, and I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve almost been taunting him, even with my recent trip to Mexico. “Don’t go!” my doctor told me. “You’ve had multiple PEs.” That’s fancy-person talk for pulmonary embolisms—blood clots in my lungs. “You could get one again or COVID on the plane. Either could be devastating.”

“But I can’t stop living just because you’ve told me I’m dying!”

She laughed into the phone. I have a niggling feeling she doesn’t call many patients on the phone OR read their books. (I’ll never forget the day she told me she read “The Golden Sky”).

So, I went to Mexico. And it felt like taunting the grim reaper again. And every time that bull missed me I wanted to scream, “You CAN’T have me until GOD says it’s time!!!”

So, what did I learn in 2021? I learned to just live…the best I can. Be that sporting a bald head, a walker, a wheelchair…a wig. Be it hiking, or writhing, or crying…or swimming. Be it any d*mn way you can. And be grateful for all of it. Life... Life! Is. A. Gift.

The docs originally said I had two years to live, now they’re giving me up to ten. Maybe next year they’ll give me 30…those givers.

To taunt the reaper for another year—bring it on,

Elisa

Finding Joy in an Uphill Battle

 I’m waiting in a massive line. It doesn’t really matter why I’m there, it just matters how I feel in that moment. I’m standing on a steep incline, and soon I start to shift uncomfortably. As a teenager I always carried a deck of cards and a hacky sack in my tattered purse. So, I start kicking the hacky sack around, knowing it will even make strangers my friends. Others in line introduce themselves and form a circle where we can all play. 

I soon discover the power of words. Having an epiphany that if you ask the right questions it’s like getting a key to someone’s door. You can find out all sorts of amazing things—and learn so much—if you dare to ask the deep stuff….  It’s like a shortcut to the soul.

“I’ve never told anyone that,” a woman says, serving the hacky sack to the man next to her. “I feel so relieved that I’m not alone.” She smiles at me.

“I think we’ve all felt like that at one time or another,” a gypsy-looking girl says, with the wispy voice of a fairy. 

But the hill makes things difficult—even for budding friendships. We persist for a bit, but after a while, the sun beats down unapologetically, and we all grow tired. 

I decide to try resting. Nobody cares because even my new buddies are doing the same thing. I fluff my ragged purse on the ground and use it as a pillow, but the hill isn’t comfortable, the gravel bites into my hip and shoulder, and the deck of cards only adds to my lumpy purse. I roll but no matter how hard I try, I just can’t get comfortable on that hill. 

After an eternity, a man yells, and I see that employees are finally letting people into the event. We all press forward, like a d*mn herd of cattle. Everyone looks relieved. And I’d never been so happy to be on flat ground in all my life.

***

For some reason as I tried resting today, I couldn’t help remembering that day as a teenager, when I tried sleeping on a gravel hill. That’s what cancer has become for me. I’m in the same reality as everyone else—we’re all shooting for universal commonalities (some kind of purpose), but I’m on a hill, just fighting so hard to be on flat ground again. Nothing is ever “quite” comfortable. And this realization…has me reeling.

Life simply is that way right now. There’s no changing it. I’m in a fight to live—and I’m just not ready to get out of this metaphorical line yet. 

Cancer isn’t easy. Hell, LIFE isn’t easy, even when you level the playing field. 

I guess it’s just a matter of finding the good things, like my hacky sack or enjoying the utter magic of meeting strangers and hearing their stories. 

Despite a terrible incline—or whatever struggles YOU might be facing—there’s still magic around you. For me, I just need to keep filling my “purse” with good things (goodbye, baggage), and I should also remain spongelike, learning as much as I can from the people I’m lucky enough to know—especially Mike and my children.

I might be stuck on a relentless hill, but d*mn it if I won’t keep having fun along the way.

The Man Found Perspective

 Being raised by my parents was almost magical. Because of my mom I wanted to be a preacher. I salvaged a big box from the garbage and stayed in it like a bobsled, reading the Bible for hours and preparing sermons. I started praying other places once I found a big spider in the box and let my parents throw it away. My mom is just…unexpected. She’s sweet and quiet, yet she was a beauty queen and her talent was wailing on the drums. (Check that out here: https://youtu.be/e9kCjMVXOt0 .)

My dad is infused with joy and a sense of play even though he usually dresses like a cutthroat cowboy! Growing up he’d make us steak and lobster on occasion! We had holidays fit for royalty even though my dad had to hawk his guns one year so we could have Christmas. Even though we didn’t have the “most” we always thought we did.

Then one of the greatest success stories I’ve ever seen happened. My parents ran a construction business and even sold it. I’ll never forget watching how hard they both worked years later to make it succeed. Yet, even though they’re “quite comfortable” now, on vacation I saw that my parents will never lose perspective of what matters.

“Pedro!” My Dad stood from his seat in Nuevo Vallarta and clapped the bellboy on the back. “Pedro” turned around and grinned.

“Oh—my goodness. Felipe!” he said in a Spanish accent. They hugged so excited to see one another. “Welcome home!” The man joked.

Another time my parents spotted one of the employees who’s from London. “We have to get together soon!” the man said, and my dad nodded saying they’d had such a fantastic time when they last caught up.

This continued at a small German restaurant in downtown Puerto Vallarta. “Thank you for coming here so much, despite COVID,” the owner said. “We’re so very grateful.” Then later he gave my mom a hearty hug and she beamed.

The point is that they’ve been frequenting this area for 20 years, yet they aren’t just friends with the ritzy people who stay in the best hotels like they do. Nope. They’re friends with the workers, the locals, and anyone (regardless of class) who’s real.

I thought of this as I walked from the plane in Salt Lake City and sat down in my designated wheelchair. “How are you?” I asked the transportation employee.

“I’m having the worst day ever!”

Mike kissed me on the cheek and whispered, “Good luck with that.” He stood up. “I’ll meet you at pickup gate 2C, and then we’ll drive home? I’m gonna go get the SUV.”

The man vented for a while. “I never talk to customers like this, but my boss just passed me up for a promotion. I just found out—and I’m livid.”

“Is this your dream job?”

He shook his head, and as the conversation continued I couldn’t help dropping the bomb. “I have stage four cancer. The doctors say it’s terminal.”

He gapped, obviously rethinking his worries. “And here I am telling you MY problems…”

“I just shared that because life is short! Don’t waste it being so unhappy. What is your dream job?”

“I want to stage houses.”

“But—let me guess—it doesn’t make any money. Right?”

He nodded. 

“Okay!” I said. “I had a similar problem. I wanted to be a writer; I even wrote nine books, but I make enough each month to eat off the dollar menu at McDonald’s.”

He laughed. “Oh! I didn’t mean to laugh.” He shook the amusement from his face.

“No worries.” I grinned. “So I found something that’s close to writing where I CAN make money. I had to work hard for it, but now I’m an editor! Sure I’m not writing YA fiction like I hoped, but I’m surprisingly happy with my career!”

“But how can I possibly make money staging houses? I don’t have any experience.”

I thought for a minute. “You could be…a realtor! Stage homes and then make money selling them. Get contacts and then—down the road—start your own staging business for fellow realtors who’ve grown to love you!”

“This is so weird,” he confessed. I started a realtor class, and it’s about to expire. Then my mom—who has no idea—gave me silly realtor socks as a joke for Christmas!”

“And NOW we’re talking about it. It’s a Godwink for sure!”

He broke out laughing. At that point Mike called, and the man pushed me over to our SUV. 

“I have to work until 1 a.m., but I’m so energized! You changed my whole perspective.”

“Nah! You would’ve figured it out.” I winked.

“This job IS a means to an end. I’m gonna finish that real estate class—and then I’m gonna go skiing.”

“Skiing?” I asked.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’ve always wanted to go, and you only live once, right?”

I waved goodbye and after Mike started driving off he said, “He sure changed his tune. What was that about?”

“I just helped give him some perspective.”

“YOU are such a character.” Mike burst out laughing.

I thought of my parents in Mexico and grinned. “If I am, I get it from my parents.” And even though we’d just left a sunny, beautiful paradise and exchanged it for ice and snow, I thought that I couldn’t be happier.

(A “fancy” picture in the elevator 🤣.)

Tortugas Mean Hope

 The gritty sand massaged my feet as the sun’s heat beat down, masking the flulike symptoms that 

I always feel—making the warmth on my skin seem natural. And as the water repeatedly encased my feet, trying to lure me in, I couldn’t help staring at the horizon. If God can create all of this majesty that somehow balances itself out, I can rest assured that He has a plan even for my life. There’s beauty in the mess. There’s joy even in the heartache. 

“Careful: Turtle Season” a nearby sign read, boasting a gorgeous picture of tortugas “turtles” bursting from their shells. I’d seen a documentary once; it said very few turtles actually make it to the ocean. I spied bird feathers next to broken eggs then. Birds had obviously ravaged a nest, yet next to me, little marks patterned the sand, and I knew one of the baby turtles MUST have survived. Sure it was only one … but that exhibited something powerful: hope.

“Excuse me,” a man said, shaking me from my surreal moment in Mexico. “This might sound strange, but didn’t I see you in a wheelchair earlier?”

His wife had come to stand next to him, and Mike sauntered over as well.

“My parents rented me a scooter,” I said.

They blinked, obviously wanting to hear more.

“I have stage 4 cancer. Last year the doctor gave me two years to live …”

“She has a hard time walking long distances,” Mike said, “after a surgery to remove a tumor.”

Their eyes grew larger.

“My parents refuse to lose hope about my diagnosis, but I know they worry—and they wanted me to have a nice trip.” I took in a long breath and sighed. “It IS good to see the ocean again …” I turned to the waves and thought how none of us truly know when it’ll be the last time seeing the ocean, a snow-crested mountain, or the first bloom of spring.

“Well,” the man said, then looked to his wife who nodded, “no matter what you’re facing we wanted to tell you that you’re making a positive impact on other people’s lives. You waved to us from your scooter on our first day here … and my wife kept talking about how sweet you were—this whole time.”

The woman smiled at me, so kindly. “You look great,” she said. “You’d never know anything was amiss.” 

“I think this weather has been awesome for me. I swear I’m standing straighter and feeling better every day.” I grinned.

“It’s so snowy back home,” Mike said.

“I knew it!” The man beamed. “You’re like us—you’re from Canada. That’s why you’re so nice.”

Mike and I burst out laughing. “We’re from Idaho.”

“That’s … close enough!” the man said. Then the couple left and as my parents joined us on the beach, I couldn’t get over how great it felt to be spending time with them in paradise.

A Visit to Paradise

 My ex is in a different state and has the kids for one holiday a year—unfortunately, this year it’s Christmas. Even though we celebrated early, it didn’t feel quite the same, and it’s tough because I miss the kids.

My parents must’ve known I felt bad about that—plus, this battle against cancer has gotten to me a little more recently…. Anyway, those givers bought me and Mike airplane tickets, rented me a TURBO scooter, AND brought us to spend Christmas with them in Mexico!

We’re in one of those fancy resorts that practically has its own zip code! The scooter can go over 20 miles an hour, and I swear I’m the best scooter driver you’ve ever seen! A little kid waved to me last night after seeing me do a figure 8 in the lobby! I think my only traumatic event was driving—at the speed of light—through a Mayan temple. A man kept trying to take pictures of the statues, but I accidentally kept “scooting” in his way. (Then Mike got in a few photos ‘cause he kept chasing me like I needed a d*mn babysitter!)

A shuttle driver asked if I’d had too many tequilas. I told him I’d only had water! Anyway, I hope my parents are still glad they brought us here because we’re having the time of our lives.  

I did throw up our first night here—because cancer sucks even in paradise. But other than taking daily naps (like a 100-year-old), I’m doing pretty good.

We had lobster last night, and we’re having steak tonight—medium-well! Like my brother’s friends used to say: “No one eats like a Stilson.” These days it’s just keeping my food down that’s the tricky part!

Well, we better live it up! I have more treatments and tests next week—and we found out that I’ll be on certain medication for the rest of my life (God, I hope it’s more than docs think!). But I am excited to get home and get the kids back. For me and Mike, those four little people are our world!

In closing:

I told a lady on the plane: “I’ve learned so many great things after having cancer—and now I get to see Mexico again because if it!”

“Wow,” she said, beaming. “I don’t have cancer…but I DO have a heart condition. Maybe I can find something good in that too!”

“Good on ya,” I said, and for the rest of the flight I couldn’t quit grinning.

A Holiday Reset

Indiana wanted to help raise money for a local youth organization; so, this past Thursday we wrapped gifts for people at the mall. 

“Business” was pretty dead, but after a while, a mother and son came up with gifts for us to wrap. 

Indy and I wanted to do a perfect job, so we showed them our wrapping paper selection, different box sizes, and a vast amount of decorative ribbons. 

“I love Christmas,” the boy said, handing me a gift for his mother. 

Christmas isn’t always “jolly” for me. In fact, since I’ve had cancer it’s even more stressful than normal. We’ve been extra worried about money, and I hardly have enough energy to go shopping. Still, I glanced up and smiled, setting a red bow in place.

“Christmas, huh?” I said “What do you like about it?”

He grinned, exhibiting the kind of excitement only a young adult can have. “I love the tree,” he said. “And I LOVE presents.”

“Right?” I finished wrapping the gift for his mother. Now it was time for me to wrap what she’d bought for him. “What did you get last year?” I asked him.

“A pair of pants! We each get one whole gift every year.” His eyes sparkled. “I can hardly wait for Christmas.”

I blinked. It seemed unbelievable that a person his age could show so much gratitude—for one, small gift.

His mom took the break in our conversation as a chance to hand me his gift. She’d left it in the bag—so he couldn’t see—and winked as she handed it to me as if it were pure gold.

These two honestly baffled me. I turned, and I’m still not sure why, but so many emotions overwhelmed me as I spotted the gift she’d bought for her son this year. I’d opened the bag to find…a simple pair of pants. 

“Wrap it in white,” she whispered, “with a red bow. He’ll love that.”

After Indy finished wrapping the dad’s simple gift, we just stared at each other so amazed by this family and their excitement over such small items. “I guess it’s not small to them,” Indy said.

“And that’s what’s so humbling…. Some people don’t have much at all. But look,” we watched them, “they’re some of the happiest people I’ve ever seen.”

“Me too,” Indy agreed.

As we watched the mother and son, Indy hugged me so tightly. “I’m glad we know what matters, too.”

I studied my beautiful, baby girl, wrapped my arms around her, and thought that I have so much more than I could’ve ever hoped for.

Mike and I celebrated Christmas with the kids on Friday (they spend one holiday a year with their bio dad, and it happens to be Christmas this year). I felt stunned to see how happy our kids are over whatever they receive! We had people generously make our Christmas wonderful. We got anonymous gifts, some money in the mail, and even a massive gift basket that completely shocked us! But I do have to say that the thing we’re most grateful for is each other. 

“I know it’s hard,” my oldest daughter said, giving me a huge hug. “But you have to keep fighting. Okay, Mom. You can’t give up!”

I hugged her back and nodded. “I will! I promise. Ruby, I want to be with all of you—for as long as I can.”

It’s crazy how quickly cancer put life in perspective.

Anyway, I wanted to wish all of you a very, merry Christmas! I hope you have exactly what you need this holiday season! And I hope you’ll have the eyes to see the beauty that surrounds you—no matter how big or small.

What I CAN Instead …

 “I saw you in the wheelchair,” the Delta representative said, “so we’re moving you closer to the front of the plane.”

“Oh, wow! Thank you,” I said, my eyes wide. 

I’d decided to visit my parents in Arizona right after Halloween, and I’d never expected the airline’s employees to be so nice! Everything went great until after I left the customer service area and waited to board; that’s when I noticed a few younger people studying me with pity. I’m not sure why their prying eyes hurt, but they did.

I called Mike and whispered into the phone. “God made me all wrong,” I said once Mike picked up, but I immediately regretted my words. God doesn’t make mistakes—that’s religion 101. Plus, I probably got melanoma from fake baking or getting burned when I was homeless in Hawaii. Fiddling all night, then blending in with tourists and sleeping on the beach all day had risks. If you slept too hard, when the shade moved, you’d wake up lobster-red. Nope. Melanoma wasn’t God’s fault; it was mine.

But honestly, it’s true that most days I do feel like there’s something wrong with me. Maybe we all feel like that sometimes. Maybe I’ve just felt that way more than most. I’ve had people tell me I’m a one-upper, so contrary I just have to go against everyone, or an acquired taste. But I don’t want to be someone who has to grow on you like fungus…. Anyway.

It’s hard having cancer and wondering about all this beyond reason … Who am I really? A collection of my perception and what other people think about me? What impression AM I leaving behind? And then it instantly feels as if everything that’s wrong with me is manifesting in my body so everybody can see it on the outside. 

This isn’t a pity-me post—trust me, that’s the last thing I want. These are just issues I’m dealing with probably because of the cancer. 

It’s hard being unable to do most things by myself. I can’t reach up high or climb on counters when I need the largest dish. I can’t even sleep through the whole night anymore because some part of my body inevitably starts burning with pain. 

People ask me when I’ll be able to walk “normal” again. The answers probably never. I’ve also had friends ask when the swelling in my face will go away. It’s called moon face—something that happens when you take steroids. My face will thin out in days or months. I. Don’t. Know. But honestly I think right now that’s the least of my concerns. And that’s what Mike told me before I boarded the plane to go see my parents right after Halloween.

The interesting thing is that when I sat down on the plane an overwhelming peace fell on me. And it grew as a stranger sat down next to me. We immediately started visiting. Somehow I ended up telling him about the cancer, but this stranger didn’t judge me or show an overt amount of sympathy … or sadness or anything bad, really. He just treated me like a normal person. And then I swear we talked about everything: religion, philosophy, family, and what it’s like to live in Idaho. 

“They changed my seat at the last minute,” he said.

“Mine too!” I replied. And then I discovered he’s from the same small town where I live. And he only lives a couple miles from us! And our kids are the same ages—and go to the same exact schools! 

Despite only just meeting, I said this was a Godwink, we exchanged information, and decided it would be fun to go on a double date. And when I walked off the plane, I swear I stood a little straighter. It wasn’t because I felt better, physically, but because someone had treated me normally. This stranger gave me the courage to move on from the moment of self-pity and sadness because  the point is that although I don’t know why I’m going through this, I can still overcome and be positive and happy throughout the hardship. After all, I’m still alive! I’m still able to move around! And I can live life to the fullest—to my own capabilities! It’s time for me to STOP measuring myself against everyone else’s view of me. And measure myself against what I am capable of, what I want, and what I CAN do about it!

We ended up going out—not on a double but—on a triple date a few weeks later. Can you believe the man on the airplane actually knows someone who I’ve been good friends with! I guess they ended up talking about me while visiting at church and were so surprised to discover they have a mutual friend. 

Anyway, I loved every minute: the conversation, the laughter … the joy. But most of all I loved that all of them treated me the same way the man had on the plane. And I realized that regardless of how people treat me I need to always fight to find that inner joy. Some days can be a battle – because joy is not like happiness (that just comes and goes), no, Joy is something you have to fight for. Joy is something you CHOOSE. So that’s what I’m going to do. Today, I choose joy.

(A pic of my second-favorite wig lol.)