E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 32

The Good Ones

 “My name is Jay.” The tan man smiled. I could picture what he probably looked like years ago as a surfer…before cancer got to him.

“What are you in for?” I asked. Sometimes this question doesn’t go over well—it’s how I test people. Luckily, Jay proved to be one of the good ones.

“Stage four bladder cancer. You?”

“Stage four melanoma.” This show-and-tell session made the waiting room actually fun!

“You look pretty good for having cancer,” he said.

“So do you! What can we say,” I grinned, “we’re awesome!”

He chuckled then started talking about his tumors, referring to them as “these guys,” and I instantly knew I liked Jay. “Look at this rash and all these scabs I keep getting! It’s crazy what we go through to keep on livin’. And the whole time ‘these guys’ just keep eating away at my body. I’ve been fighting this dang thing for 8 years—“

“Seriously?! I can’t imagine 8 years. I’ve been dealing with mine for a year, and I’m already tired!”

“You’re so strong though,” he said. “I can see it! And you’re positive. You have exactly what you need to get through this!” Then he told me about all of the drugs and trials he’s been on. “It’s amazing I’m still here. They told me I was gonna die when they first diagnosed me. So don’t lose hope, kid.”

“What are you fighting so hard for? What’s your reason?” I asked.

“I want to see my granddaughter grow up.”

I nodded. “I want to see my kids grow up too.”  We stayed quiet for a moment. “You know…” I sighed, “I had the strangest dream that I bargained with death. I always wanted five more years, and then—just five more years. Until it had been decades and my body was sick beyond repair.”

“Ain’t that the truth. Your dream was right; w always want more.”

A nurse came around the corner and said it was almost time to go back.

“Wait,” Jay said, “I need to tell you something important!”

“Okay?” I responded.

“I thought I beat this thing.” His eyes pleaded with me as the words left his mouth. “I had three good years when I knew I should travel and do all the things I’d always wanted. But I put it off, and now the cancer is back. I worry I’m getting really close to the end.”

I wanted to hug him, tell him he could still take those trips. But his elbows were far too bony, and his legs looked frail beyond comprehension. Maybe after 8 years of fighting…his fight is almost over.

“I’m just saying if you ever feel up to it, do those things! Take those trips! Don’t let anyone hold you back. Don’t have those regrets…like I do. When you feel good, just live.”

After that I went back to an hour-long MRI, and the whole time I thought about the spunky man I’d met in the waiting room. I sure hope I’ll see him again.

A New Way of Speaking

 It felt selfish keeping his broken body alive. But still, as the nurse wheeled my son into the room, I asked: What if I changed my mind? What if I could no longer take him off of life support? She shook her head sadly and explained that it was too late. No matter how much I wanted my baby to live, the process for him to die…had already begun.

I remember holding him. He had the strongest little hands and such soft brown hair. My poor, sick baby—he was so perfect to me. 

I didn’t want to watch, but my eyes stayed glued to each detail of him as he suffocated in my arms, breathing oddly, gasping for air…like a godd*mn fish. He snuggled into me then, asking for help, but I couldn’t do anything to save him! In fact, his death had been my decision—my fault. And now I had to watch him die.

I naively thought a miracle would happen THEN. God knew I had enough faith. This could be like John 4 when Jesus heals someone’s son from afar. But this wasn’t some story in the New Testament. This was life. Where if it’s time for someone to die, no one can tempt fate’s hand. And so, after an eternity of labored, sporadic breathing…my son turned blue despite all of my hopes… And my baby boy died. 

I shook myself from the memory and turned to the nurse, “I feel like I always have the flu,” I said.

“And you might feel like that for a long time. It’s just part of this journey with cancer,” the nurse said. “At least we have pain medicine.”

“I really don’t like medicine,” I countered, but this is the ‘new normal’ they keep talking about. I sighed. “And now I might need radiation on my neck and throat?”

“Right.”

“And there’s a chance it could affect my ability to talk ‘normally’ and to sing?”

“Yes, but like the doctor said, it will most likely shrink that tumor. That’s the good news.”

I didn’t mean to, but I let out a little laugh. I’ve been working so hard to “speak no evil—lashon hara” according to the Jews. Apparently more radiation could make that easier. 

“But I love to sing…” I finally said, trying to keep from crying right in front of a stranger. I couldn’t imagine not being able to sing in concerts like I used to…or staying silent during worship at church.

And then I return to that memory with my son: I’m thinking about how I want to change everything and keep him on life support. I WANT to be selfish and keep him alive not because he should live in pain, because I NEED him.

“Elisa. Elisa?” the nurse steps closer. “Are you okay? I know this news about the radiation must be hard.”

“You know, if I didn’t have a young family, I don’t think I’d continue with treatments. There are just so many things I’m losing to stay alive. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know other people have it so much worse, but right now—for me—this is hard.”

She left the room after a moment and the door shut. I stayed even though I should have packed up. And despite everything, an odd peace enveloped me. I suddenly understood the situation with my son. I knew—beyond doubt—that I did the right thing by letting him go. This pain I’ve been suffering through is only a taste of what he endured.

I thought then about how continuing treatments is the hardest thing I’ve ever physically done. And as I closed my eyes in that room, clarity came and joined the peace I’d previously felt.

I know that no matter the outcome of this situation, everything will be okay. There is true beauty in the good and the “bad.” Even when my son died, at least he could feel my love wrapped around him as his soul prepared to enter Heaven. An autopsy later discovered he would have died soon after we let him go. I’m just so grateful I got to be with him before he embarked on a new journey without me.

Anyway, I have the opportunity to find a strength in myself that I never knew I had. Plus, I really think my son is rooting for me—all the way from Heaven. 

Despite maybe losing the ability to sing and talk well, at least I’ll still be able to write. See, there’s ALWAYS a silver lining. Even if it robs me of everything else, I hope cancer will never take my ability to find the good—and right now, that’s the best I can hope for.

Letters of Love

“She never went to Europe.”

“She didn’t take a long trip on a train or go canyoneering.”

“She never finished learning Italian.”

Then these people—the critics of my life—turn brutal.

“She never saw her kids grow up.”

“Or got to watch them graduate from college.”

“She didn’t see them get married.”

“And…she never…grew old with Mike.”

I want to tell these people to shut up. Be quiet! But I’m stuck. I know I’m in an open casket, with satin and flowers all around. They’ve tried to make death beautiful so it’s less scary. But that “death-box” isn’t even what’s holding me back from telling them off. The fact that I’m dead, still trapped inside my decaying, inadequate body, THAT is what holds me back.

“Sweetheart…? Sweetheart!” My husband shakes me, and I throw my arms around him.

“I’m having that dream again—where I’m stuck in my body. And everyone is making me remember the things I never did. I didn’t see the kids grow up, Mike.” I sob so hard. “I didn’t get to see it!”

He holds me for the longest time. Then he whispers, “I found something awesome in the hotel room, and I want to show it to you.”

I open my eyes, wipe away my tears, and look around. We’re in a fancy bed and breakfast that Dee paid for. Mike and I should be enjoying how beautiful it is. I don’t have time for nightmares and dumb reminders that I have cancer. This is supposed to be…fun.

Mike points to a vase. “Look inside.”

“I can’t! Don’t you remember? I said it looks like an urn. No more reminders of death.”

He shakes his head. “Come on, Elisa.”

So, I open the lid and am shocked to find a note inside. “What kind of person would leave a note like this in a hotel vase? Do you think there are more?”

Mike excitedly rifles through various items in the room. 

“I don’t think you should be—“ I begin to say, but then he finds more notes and leaves them in a pile on the floor.

I gingerly lower my body to the ground, and Mike pulls a pillow from the bed. He cradles me right there on the floor, and we read note after note, discovering stories from people who had been married for decades to couples who’d spent their wedding night in that very room. We read three letters written to a man named “Scott” from three different women.

“Do you think ‘Scott’ is bringing different women here?” Mike asks me. “Are they all talking about the same guy?”

“Maybe so…” I completely forget about my dream then and smile as we read the letters addressed to Scott again. “We have to write a letter and leave it in the room!”

“I’ll leave that up to you,” Mike says.

“I can’t wait to start it with ‘Dear Scott.’”

Mike laughs, and afterward we put all of the notes back where he’d found them.

It’s not until the afternoon, when Mike busily packs, that I write a note. But it’s not about what I didn’t accomplish in life; it’s about the things I did. I write about my amazing children and family—who fill my life with such joy. I write about being an author and playing the violin; I describe what it’s like finally knowing what makes me tick. And then…I write about Mike. “As a single mom of four kids, I prayed God would send me a miracle. Then, He sent Mike, the kindest person I’ve ever met. We spent the night in this hotel because I needed a momentary escape from stage four cancer. Some days are good and some days are terribly bad. The point is that if you’re reading this, I hope you’ll appreciate every moment. At the end of your life, don’t regret what you didn’t do. Instead appreciate the memories you’ve made and the people you’re lucky enough to have known. That’s it really: It’s all about doing the best you can and being grateful.”

After signing my first name, I go to hide the note in a large box on the mantle, and I notice Mike has left one there too. 

I open it, read the words, and smile. He’s written a note that closely mirrors my own. I love the idea that someday someone else will be reading our words of love—surprised to find notes at a special bed and breakfast in Lava Hot Springs.

Below are pictures of the mantle and some of the notes we found in the hotel. 💕 What a neat experience!

Poor Beautiful Soul

 We’d planned a fancy girls’ trip to a resort town, so when Dee called the night before and canceled for health reasons, although I understood, I felt pretty devastated.

“It’s…non-refundable, Dee. I don’t know what to do.” I delivered the bad news. “But Mike and I can pay you for the hotel…. That way you’re not out the money.” We’re strapped for cash because of cancer treatments, but she didn’t need to house the cost, especially after dealing with her own health issues.

“Elisa, why don’t you and Mike just go and enjoy it. You’ve both been under so much stress, and I know you don’t get much time alone. This is on me.”

“But…”

“Elisa. This is what I want.”

“I still wish you could be here,” I said. Dee is one of my favorite people in the whole world. We’d planned to eat cheese pizza and talk about philosophy and religion! We’d watch movies and play old games together. I’d even planned to let her win a few times! (Insert sarcasm—that woman is a card shark.)

“You’ll have fun. And you’ll also get that fancy dinner I paid for. One of you will have to eat the vegetarian meal, but what the heck!” A bit of excitement laced her voice, and I wondered if she’d actually planned this whole thing!

So, Mike and I entered the rustic hotel and prepared for dinner. I put on smoky eyes and falsies, then slipped into the tub to shave my legs—a battle since both cancer and surgeries left part of my right leg numb.

I finished up, then donned a dress I’d found at Goodwill and some pearls from Walmart.

Mike—that giver—had me model in front of the restaurant, and I smiled because despite everything, he makes me feel like I’m worth something. “Tilt this way… That’s it. Look down.” It wasn’t until we entered the restaurant that things flew south for the winter.

Mike peered around, appreciating the antique decor and delicious food. That’s when ladies at the table to our left began gossiping. (Of all the things God’s gifted me with, my kids hate my super-hearing.)

“Look at that dress. It must have cost a fortune. And that hair—the latest ‘fad.’”

“And those pearls!” 

“Some of the people who come here,” another woman said. “They know how to make money and how to spend it. But few of them appreciate what really matters in life.”

“Cheers to that.”

My hand nonchalantly went to the $3 imitation pearls around my neck. My dress had cost $5. And my hair was short, because it finally started growing out after radiation. Were they seriously talking about me?

“What do you think He does for a living?” a large woman asked.

“Who knows. He was probably born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I bet they’re from California.”

“I’m from California,” another woman said, and they broke out laughing.

I turned to Mike, wondering if he’d heard any of it. But he has a skill I need to harness: blocking out the bad (aka gossipy people) and only taking in the good (antique decor).

I felt small and dirty after that. Then, as I looked down at my shoes, I noticed hair gleaming in the candlelight. I’d missed a large section of hair BY MY RIGHT ANKLE! Feeling like a hairy Essau, I sighed in disgust. I couldn’t even shave my legs right—or go into a restaurant without people gossiping about me!

“Oh, my God!” Mike suddenly said. “You look pale, Elisa. How are you feeling?”

Like Essau! “Honestly, I’m struggling,” I whispered, hoping he wouldn’t see the forest on my right leg.

He gave me some medicine which I swallowed after drinking water from a wine glass—classy. 

“What happened?”

“Nothing at all,” I lied. But stress exacerbates everything. And while listening to those loose-lipped women, my spine tensed until the pain became almost unbearable. “I’ll be fine.”

Mike pulled out a deck of cards after that and we played a few games. As I won, I forgot about judgment and cruel words. 

Our waitress came out, her eyes scanned the cards that DID NOT belong in a place like that. And after she grinned, I don’t know how, but we ended up telling her the story about Dee paying for our hotel and dinner. “I have stage four cancer,” I finally said so loudly that the women next to us stopped talking and one of them dropped a fork. “We’re here—at this fancy place—because she did something so nice for us.”

“We’ve been through some hard times,” Mike said “and I didn’t even realize how much we needed a break.”

When the meal ended, Mike helped me from my seat. I hunched more than normal from the pain and the hard antique chair. 

“I would’ve never known,” a woman said as I limped forward.

“Poor. Poor…beautiful soul. She’s so young.”

I looked at them sadly. “Knowledge changes perspectives, doesn’t it?” I said to Mike, but the women suddenly knew I’d said it for their benefit—and each of them turned blood red.

“Thank you, Mike,” I said as he continued helping me walk toward the door.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked.

“The best! The food was amazing! And the dinner itself was unforgettable. How did you know to pull out those cards when you did?”

“You just looked—like you needed to lose at something!”

I laughed so hard, wondering if he had actually heard the women.

And as we went back to our hotel room, I thought of Dee and how grateful I am for the good people in this world.

Meeting in a Synagogue

 I sat, honestly stunned. The Hebrew words wrapped around me like a balm, and I faintly heard the haunting harmonies my violin could play on top of the alluring music. And like a child running to the pied piper, I felt myself closing my eyes…yearning for the glory of God.

The music ended and the rabbi gave a few people cards—of course I’d somehow been one of them. I turned it over curiously to read a single word: forgiveness. Why had I been given THAT card? I wanted a redo. Forgiveness and patience aren’t things I excel at. I strained to look at a card someone got in front of me. Patience? Well THAT wasn’t much better. Good luck, buddy!

“I’ve given a few of you a card,” the rabbi said. “Please, one at a time, tell us of an example when you’ve embodied the word on the card.”

I quickly handed the “forgiveness card” to my husband. “Looks like you’re up,” I whispered.

“Ummm…” Mike’s eyes bulged.

“Mike, I have cancer. Please.”

“Oh, my gosh. Don’t use that again. That’s not even fair!”

As he studied me, I suppressed my laughter. “Fine!” I whispered.

At that point a man who looked like Jesus walked into the synagogue and sat by me! We looked at each other awkwardly. He knew this was a synagogue, right? Then…I broke eye contact and stood.

“Oh, yes! Thank you!” the rabbi said, clearly relieved that someone had decided to talk about their card.

“My card is forgiveness.”

“Is there a time when you’ve shown forgiveness?” he asked.

“Well…I hope it’s not too much to share, but I have stage 4 cancer. Melanoma. The doctors initially gave me two years to live, and now I might have more. But death…. Well, even though it faces all of us, when you’ve been told you’ll die soon, you have to make peace with a lot of things. There are people I’ve wronged and people who have wronged me. I’ve been forgiven and offered forgiveness, but it’s not always in the ways I’ve expected. Sometimes it’s through giving time and rebuilding relationships to what they should’ve always been. In that way, cancer has been a gift. I have the chance to make peace—which comes from forgiveness—before I die.” Then I sat down. Someone else talked about their card: positivity. Another person stood and shared a story about love.

After that, the modern-day Jesus kept staring at me. I felt uncomfortable until the service ended and it was time to mingle. But the guy followed me after a moment, even as another congregant showed me the Torah scroll at the front of the church and made Mike hold the heavy thing over his head just so he could “get a feel for it.”

“Some people hold this over their heads while other people  pray. It’s heavy enough that you hope it’ll be a quick prayer!” the congregant said.

“Wow! That IS pretty heavy!” Mike laughed.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. The modern-day “Jesus” stood there. Then he asked to talk with both me and Mike, but his voice strained as if he’d lost part of his tongue or been born with a severe oral defect.

“Hello,” I forcibly shoved my concerns aside. “My name is Elisa. It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?” I smiled brightly as I shook his hand. “It’s my first time being in a physical service like this…not just on Zoom.”

“Y…y…yes, it was ni….ce,” he slurred the words. Then he slowly explained how he wanted to speak with me after he heard what I said about cancer and forgiveness.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” I asked, then Mike and the man made a space so I could sit next to them. “My back and leg always give me trouble if I stand too long.  Sorry about that! What would you like to talk about?” I asked.

Then he told us the most amazing story. He’d been such a dynamic speaker that he’d decided to become a Christian pastor. “I w…wwwww…went to Texas.” He’d gone to school and almost had his PhD in Texas when he was diagnosed with cancer. It first appeared as a tumor in the roof of his mouth. A surgeon removed it, but this man would never talk the same again. Tears filled his eyes. “I didn’t ev…ev…even finish getting my PhD. What was the point?”

“But why?” I asked. “You have such a story to share. You have so much to say.”

“I ju….st don’t kn—know. Who w…wants to listen to someone like this?” He held the back of a pew so tightly that his knuckles whitened. “Anyway, I don’t know exactly what you…what you are go…going through, but I do know it…it’s hard.” He said they got all of the cancer and he’s in remission now. “But this is how I’ll…I’ll live now.” 

He’d come to a Jewish synagogue in Idaho while visiting family. Something “inspired” him to attend the service that night. And he’d felt like he needed to hear my story about forgiveness and perseverance as much as I’d needed to hear his story about remission. “Don’t…don’t lose hope,” he said.

Tears filled my eyes, and Mike held my hand as the man continued looking at us. 

“I’m glad you’re in remission,” Mike said. 

After a moment, silence rested among us like an old friend, and oddly enough, a type of peace descended as well. 

“Th—thank you for let…letting me talk with you.”

“I hope you’ll finish getting your PhD,” I said. “You’d make an amazing pastor. Who knows the lives you might change! I know we’ll never forget you.” Mike nodded in agreement and before the man left, a huge smile lit his face.

“Thank you,” he said before he walked out.

“No, thank YOU,” I said. And I thought about his words. How strange…maybe we really were meant to hear each other’s stories.

It All Works Out

 “Today just isn’t working for me,” I told Mike.

He looked a bit worried because normally every day works for me—every day is “the best day ever.”

“Today I’m worn down,” I said. “It’s just hard not seeing an end to being sick, ya know? It’s so daunting. I just don’t know when the pain will stop.”

“That’s it. We’re doing something fun.”

“Like what?”

“I’m bringing you to Goodwill.” He waited for me to smile—because I love a bargain—then he went on. “I’ll pick out an outfit for you and you’ll pick one for me. But it has to be some sort of theme. Like a profession. A doctor or a teacher or…something. And then we’ll go out like that.”

Even though it was a rough day, I broke out laughing. “I’m exhausted, but who could pass up a date like that?! It’s a deal!”

At Goodwill I honestly had no idea what to get for Mike until I passed by some suspenders. “Yes!” I whispered under my breath. I could dress Mike like an old man! So, I grabbed the suspenders, a plaid shirt, some faded jeans that came in tight at the ankles, glasses, and a hat.

When we got back to the house, so we could change before going out, I could hardly wait for our “outfit exchange.”

“Oh, my gosh!” he said. “You’re dressing me like…an old man! I should’ve known.”

“And what am I supposed to be?” I asked holding up a studious jean dress.

“A teacher’s assistant.”

After we donned the clothes, we immediately got into character. Mike even talked like an old man—a bit exaggerated if you ask me—he even called me “Sonny.” And I seriously had the best time.

At the end of the night, I realized I hadn’t thought about the pain or the cancer. I hadn’t felt self-conscious as I walked or inadequate. Instead, I’d felt so happy to simply be with the person I love.

“Mike,” I turned to him. “I just want you to know how thankful I am for you and everything you’ve done for me and the kids this last year. I don’t know anyone who would handle this as well as you have.” After all, he’s cooked, taken care of the kids, taken care of me—and made sure all of us were happy. “I’m just so lucky. It’s hard being sick, but you make it all better somehow. I can’t imagine if our roles were reversed. I don’t think I would’ve handled it half as well.” Then the thought was too much. “I can’t stand the thought of you suffering. I hope you’ll always stay healthy, and carefree, and young.”

He peered over at me, his eyes squinting. “What are ya talkin’ ‘bout, darlin’. I’m a hun-dred yeeeears old.”

I giggled through my tears and hugged him. “Whatever you are…you sure are the best at it.”

And that night as I fell asleep in my “old man’s” arms, I couldn’t get over how incredibly lucky I am. Life might be hard, but it seems like there’s always something equally wonderful that balances it out.

Signs

Another friend died totally unexpectedly. This is the third death since doctors told me I would be the one to die soon. It’s so devastating—and shocking; this person has been supportive, worried about my death. Now he’s gone and ironically I’m still here…staring at the hawks who live in my tree. 

Did I tell you they’ve started building a nest? I thought it was a sign of hope until Saturday. “Maybe it's a sign. Or maybe it isn't. What do you think?" I asked my husband.

Mike looked at me seriously. “I’m the wrong person to ask, Elisa,” he said. “You know what I believe.”

He’s a hilarious, life-of-the-party guy who doesn’t like labels--especially the word "atheist." People hear it and don’t quite grasp what it encompasses—or they hear it and judge negatively.

I pried further despite knowing the answer.

“No, sweetheart. I’m so sorry, but I don't think it's a sign,” he said.

A strange fear overtook me as a new pain ran the length of my body. The pains have been getting worse again lately—a fact which is extremely sobering. And in that moment, feeling those pains again, my legs weakened. 

I sat to look at the hawks once more and whispered, "Maybe Mike is right. Maybe this isn't a sign. I just want some confirmation that I’ll get better.” I sighed. These signs-- Godwinks--are what I hold on to. Mike is so strong that he doesn't look for confirmation, but I do. I need some type of reminder that despite the suffering and pain of life, God is looking out for all of us. A sign that everything will be okay and God will protect me even in life...even in death.

As I continued gazing out the back window, rain splattered the glass, a final collision after its long descent through the sky. I watched as the water scattered, tendrils fighting to reach the dignity—and rest—of the ground. Then my thoughts turned to the hawks. How would they fare in the rain?

Four hawks had quickly flown right next to the nest. They made a circle, held their wings out, and bent over the formation of twigs and sticks. The winds rocked the birds. The rains beat against them. And instead of leaving, the majestic creatures practically weaved themselves together and leaned farther over the nest. They would do anything to provide protection.

I anxiously grabbed a cup of coffee and continued watching this show—far better than anything on Netflix. The storm ended shortly after it had started. The hawks didn’t leave until the rains and wind stopped. I exhaled. 

Seeing that they'd saved the nest, well, it brought me a renewed sense of peace. I've never seen something like it. Ever.

"You okay, sweetheart? You want more coffee?" Mike asked after walking in and seeing my empty mug.

"I'm good. I'm just thinking about signs and how I think those hawks do symbolize protection."

"They very possibly could," he said, conceding to the hope I needed to hear. Then he smiled down at me kindly. He’s the most wonderful man, really.

I talked with a dear, beautiful friend about this not long after the hawks saved their nest. "Do you believe in signs?" I asked her.

"Absolutely," she said. 

I nodded, thinking about the hawks’ nest. “Me too.” And within moments a song blared over the speakers. “I can’t believe it!”

The singer’s voice resonated perfectly. “Signs, signs, everywhere there are signs…”

We laughed, listening to a song that is literally called… “Signs.”

The Scale of Good and Bad

 When someone says you might die soon, you start thinking about all the things you’ve accomplished and those you didn’t, everything you were brave enough to try and what you put aside for a later date, you think about relationships—new and old—and how you either helped or hurt people. You revel, reminiscent, and regret…. 

Someone recently told me that when we die God has a scale where He weighs our good deeds on one side and our bad on the other. (This conversation isn’t about grace—it’s about justice.) If the good deeds weigh out, we get to spend eternity with God. But if they don’t, we’ll face an eternity without our creator.

I’m not sure where my scales would rest, truly. I thought about all the good and bad things in my life, and I’m still not sure why, but, I remembered something from grade school. The first bad thing I remember doing.

“You can have a birthday party,” my mom said, and we made invitations for the whole class of over 20. I could hardly wait to attend school that day, and I remember passing Nathan on the way through the doors. He always wore pants that clung too small and shoes that flopped, overly big. Some kids made fun of him, but I always sort of liked Nathan. He had curious, big eyes—and I felt like he saw things the other kids didn’t. 

“You have an invitation for everyone?” my teacher asked when I told her about my party. I nodded. “Keep these in your desk,” my teacher said about the invitations. “We’ll pass them out after second recess.” So I placed them in my pencil box and smiled at a couple of girls who had heard the conversation.

Anyway, after lunch, the teacher called my name. “Elisa, you’re having a birthday party, aren’t you?” she said.

I smiled so big. “Yes, I am.” Then she let me hand out all of the invitations. I gave one to every student, everyone except Nathan. “I had one for you, I swear,” I said. But no matter how many times I looked through my backpack or the pencil box, I couldn’t find it. Then the kids were laughing at him—especially two popular girls—and it broke my heart. They’d laughed at him too many times.

“Please come to my party,” I begged. “I think you’re one of the coolest kids in class.”

I wrote down all of the information on a piece of paper, but the damage was done. He didn’t have a “real” invitation and the kids thought it was hilarious. 

Nathan had to call his mom after that because he started crying. When the final bell rang, his mom marched into the room as all of the students left. I heard her yelling at my teacher from where I perched in the hallway. “How could you hand out those invitations knowing every kid got one but my son?”

Nathan didn’t come to my party. He didn’t even talk to me after that, not even a few years later. I always felt bad, and I sort of wondered if the popular girls got into my desk and took Nathan’s invitation. 

I know it wasn’t intentional, but I feel bad for moments like this and the slew of others where I’ve caused pain whether intentional or not. And I wonder how all of these moments weigh out for or against us, making us better or worse. I just so wish I could’ve helped Nathan instead of hurting him at such a young age.

You see, it wasn’t just the invitation incident that I feel bad about…it’s all the times before. I saw an interesting, wonderful person who I knew was lonely. I should’ve tried to make a positive impact on his life long before. I didn’t truly realize that he didn’t have any friends until the incident with the invitation…. How could I miss something like that?

I guess what I’m trying to say is, don’t miss your chance to do good—to make life better for those around you. Sometimes we can get so wrapped up in our own lives that it’s hard to imagine what other people might be going through. That’s what I learned from Nathan. I’m not sure if he even remembers, but to me, he is unforgettable.

Four Hawks and a Reminder

 “You can keep the feather or release into the wind with a prayer. It will find the Grandfathers.” Mato-Uste had given me the feather, but every time I tried releasing it, the winds brought it back. 

“Maybe the Grandfathers are rejecting my prayer. Maybe God is rejecting my prayer….” I’d honestly begun wondering if cancer really is a punishment for sins I’ve committed in the past. I’ve definitely done some bad things, but what makes my “bad” acts worse is that I genuinely knew better. 

A bit concerned, I brought the feather home from the cliffs of Arizona and placed it safely on my desk. Mato-Uste had smiled while telling me about the feather. “The Grandfathers are watching out for you, Elisa. That is why the feather stayed.”

Some strange things happened in the months that followed. My cancer progressed and the doctors prescribed more radiation. That’s around the time a hawk showed up in my backyard. He’d stare at me while I sat working. The two of us would gauge one another: I’d study his beauty and I’m unsure what he thought of me.

I underwent yet another round of radiation along with grueling sets of immunotherapy that made me lose over 15 pounds. My liver began failing after that. 

“The treatments are trying to kill the cancer and your liver,” the doctor said as I sat in the hospital, enduring steroids and more testing. And the whole time I wondered how my family had handled the news. Maybe the hawk looked after them while I could not.

After being released from the hospital, the doctors halted all treatments. “You need your liver,” one specialist said. “We can’t continue treatments unless your liver heals. Even then, it will be a balancing act. Unfortunately you’re living through a very uncertain time right now.”

When I got home, I didn’t see my hawk. Instead the summer heat became almost unbearable with deadly dry winds. That’s when the hawk’s tree fell over. Somehow this made me feel like all hope was lost. The hawk had somehow been a sign that someone looked out for me. But where would he perch now with his favorite branch gone?

I worked facing the deck last week, wondering if I’d ever see my hawk again, when something extraordinary happened. One…then two hawks landed on another branch in my backyard. Then three…and four hawks!

(Can you see all four of them? Look at the bottom of this article to see all four circled!)

I went outside and instead of flying away, each of them turned to meet my gaze. That night, they began building a huge nest. And once again, they landed on separate branches so they could turn and look at me. We cocked our heads and studied one another. And then after a while, they went back to building.

This might sound completely silly, but those birds gave me so much peace. Whether it’s just because they like our yard or because they are actually looking out for me…I’m grateful they’re here. It’s strange that they came back shortly after I started treatments again when the doctors said they’re hopeful that we’re on the right path for fighting this cancer.

I guess this is just a reminder that sometimes it can seem as if all hope is lost. Your “hawk” might not stick around when you expected or something as stable as a “tree” might come crashing down in your life, but that’s simply leaving room for greater miracles. Some of the best things can happen when we rise from the ashes instead of staying stuck in the mire. Be brave! And look for the possibilities around you. Life, well, it’s a miracle any of us were even born.

The Most Ungrateful Person Ever

 “The steroids may have given me diabetes. But if I have a shot at life—even with diabetes—it’s better than the alternative.”

“And you’re grateful? Your liver has been failing, you’re on the verge of having diabetes, and you still have stage 4 cancer?” the man asked.

“Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

"You really think you can find the good in anything?"

"Or course!" I said without having to think about it.

"Okay.... Our food is taking forever. What could possibly be good about that?"

"Well, I got to meet someone new and have a great conversation, didn't I? And I got to sit and rest for a minute."

The man stared at me. “I’m sorry, but this is making me a bit a speechless. It’s just that I met the most ungrateful person yesterday—and now I’m meeting the most grateful woman ever.”

I broke out laughing. "You’re just catching me on a good day.” I looked at a picture on the wall. “But I do have a lot to be grateful for. If this is my one chance to live, I better make it count.”

We stayed quiet, both of us thinking quite deeply as we waited for our to-go orders at the bustling pizzeria. 

"This man I met yesterday," he finally said, "he had it all: a beautiful wife, a fancy car, tons of cash. But when I talked with him everything was the worst. His wife talks too much. His friend has a more expensive car. He doesn't work because he doesn't need to, and now he's bored out of his mind."

"Really? This guy was for real?"

"Yes! He stayed at a hotel in town, and he couldn’t believe the stairs hadn’t been vacuumed yet that day."

I tried so hard not to say anything bad because I'm trying this new thing called "keeping my d*mn mouth shut": no lashon hara (as the Jews call it).

"He asked me if I thought he should float the river with his wife. You know what I told him?"

I shook my head. I was beginning to like this stranger. I'm trying not to gossip, but nothing ventured nothing gained!

"I told him he'd hate floating the river."

"But everyone loves the river--once they get out there," I said.

"Are you kidding? Not him. He could find something wrong with Mother Theresa. He'd hate the river."

The lobby's door opened and Mike walked in. "You feeling okay, sweetheart?" He'd gone to look at stores with the kids while I sat in the pizzeria, waiting for food, catching my breath, and hearing about ungrateful strangers.

Right after that our order was up, and we paid for our food.

"Your enthusiasm for life is catching," the man said before we could leave. "I'm so glad I got to hear how grateful you are for everything. It makes me feel sort of thankful for all the good things I have too."

"I'm glad." I smiled so big, and after that Mike and I left.

"Who was that?" Mike asked.

"A stranger," I said. "Isn't it amazing how you can walk into a building not even knowing what exciting thing might happen, then you meet somebody new and have a great conversation?!" Mike just chuckled as I beamed. "Life is SUCH an adventure!"

“Yes, it is!” he said, and then that wonderful man held my hand.