E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 34

Do Trials Come in Threes?

 I took a picture after deciding to show you my arm—that’s bruised from constant cancer labs—when suddenly a massive part of our tree blew down in the backyard. I simply had to laugh out loud because this happened after water damage in our basement and the death of our A/C unit. 

(My arm = the smallest of my worries.)

So, let’s play the “glad game.”

#1 At least the tree didn’t hit our house.

#2 The repairs to the basement are gonna be awesome!

#3 Mike, my brother, and my nephew (Neo) already fixed the A/C unit—and I think they had fun doing it. (They even went and got death-hot wings after.)

So, this afternoon Mike, Trey, and I went outside and took pictures. We figured our family can look at this one of two ways: We lost a great tree or we got free firewood. 

Thank God Mike just built us a firepit. #FistPump #ComingUpRoses

I might still have cancer, but I’m gonna have s’mores now too. Blam! I’m the luckiest!

This is War

It started as an odd journey. Who knew that having cancer could bring so many people together. But I’ve written all about it, been open and honest about my fears, doubts, and even peace with it all. And what’s happened in return has been amazing.

I’ve met people who have survived cancer or are still battling it. They’ve felt the same as me and now have someone new to talk with. I’ve seen people miraculously healed from tumors. I’ve met people who’ve died, and now I know their surviving family members. I even wrote about my doubts with religion and was surprised to discover that I wasn’t the only person who had an exorcism done on me when I was a teenager. That same pastor had done exorcisms on two other kids I knew. Each of us had no idea about the other experiences. And...after over 20 years of feeling like a “bad” person, peace came with the knowledge that I’m not alone. That’s what cancer has taught me: I’ve never really been alone, even when I thought I was.... Family and friends were there. God was always there, too.

I’ve had some very good news and some hard news recently. My brain tumors are gone—which is a miracle in and of itself. (The doctor told me those are usually the last to go, if at all.) But my liver started failing a few weeks ago because the immunotherapy began killing the cancer AND my liver. My lab numbers continue to improve right now, but we did have to stop cancer treatments for a moment so my liver can recover. This really IS a battle. And just when I think I’m starting to win, there might be a sobering setback that momentarily buckles my knees.

Anyway, what I wanted to say isn’t how tough this is, but rather how beautiful it’s been seeing the love and support from so many people. Laying everything bare, although terrifying, is liberating. I thought people might shun me for some of the things I’ve shared, but instead, people have selflessly shown love—and just accepted me despite all reason.

You see, none of us know what the future holds or if we’ll even wake up tomorrow. And that uncertainty can be scary. But when we have the love and support of each other, life’s so much easier: It’s beautiful. I have more flaws than most, but the fact that people have accepted me regardless, well, it’s one of the greatest gifts of my life. And I’m so fortunate to see it while I’m still alive—I honestly think everyone has this support, they just don’t always get to see it.

I’ll have more scans this week (and my biweekly labs). We’ll find out where to go from here (if they’ll continue a lighter version of immunotherapy—or if they’ll start chemo). 

Wish me luck and strength. 💪 Things are really starting to look up, but this is war; and I guess war isn’t meant to be easy. I asked for God to refine me in 2020, ten months before my cancer diagnosis. I better buckle up. Apparently, trying to be the best version of myself is gonna take a LOT more time!

(Free fishing day in Idaho, 2021. Living life to the fullest!)

That’s a Beautiful Thing

I remember the first time he came in because a couple of the other patients accidentally stared. You see, “Jeff” didn’t look ordinary. He had tiny ears that sat low on his small head. His chin sloped inward, practically nonexistent, and the way he wore his loose clothes showed he’d been born with other abnormalities he preferred to hide.

Over the months, we spent a lot of time in the waiting area together. In between my answering of phones and processing of bills, we visited about the intricacies of life. Slowly he stopped wearing his hood. Sometimes we laughed. One time we cried.

“I like coming here, Elisa,” he finally said one day. “It’s nice having someone to talk to.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “It’s always so fun visiting with you.”

Time passed. I eventually got a better job that led into a bachelor’s degree and then a career. Years later, I ended up running a newspaper in a different town—and as such, I became one of the first people to see the obituaries before they were printed.

I still remember the day I read Jeff’s obituary. His elderly mother (at least in her late 80s) had called and sent it in. He lived with her all those years even into his 60s. And I’m still not sure why, but I didn’t tell her I knew Jeff until she came into the office to get several copies of the newspaper.

As I handed her the publication, I just couldn’t believe that Jeff was really gone.

She started walking out the door and suddenly turned. “He had so many birth defects. And he was so sick. He had no friends. He never got out of the house.” Huge tears rolled down her face. “It’s killing me that he never really knew anyone—and it was all my fault. He lived with me all these years. I just wish he could’ve known more people.... Someone. Anyone....”

“Ummm, Mary,” I used her first name because I’d heard so many lovely stories about her, “I have something to tell you.” Then, I asked her to walk outside with me, so we could talk privately.

I told her about her brilliant son and how much he had changed my life. I explained that Jeff had loved her and all the kind things she’d always done for him. I shared everything I could think of: How he encouraged me to strive for more and switch careers. How his simple visits to the clinic made my job bearable. How his wit and humor were nearly unrivaled. But mostly how much he had appreciated all of her sacrifices so he could have a fulfilling life.

“I can’t believe he was from this small town! And that I’m meeting you now!” I said. “It’s a bit unreal.”

“It was meant to be. You have no idea how much I needed to hear this.” She smiled so big, her eyes completely flooded with peace.

“You know...I don’t think any of us truly realize the complete import of our actions. I bet we’ve all changed so many lives—just like Jeff changed mine.”

She gave me the biggest, longest hug. And I kept thinking about how amazing it felt to share such a sacred, unexpected moment with a stranger. 

Make the Most of What You Have

They admitted me to the hospital last week because the cancer treatments started hurting my liver. I guess they’re just working a little too well.

Anyway, I got so bored at the hospital that I had a fashion shoot in the bathroom. The nurses would’ve killed me if they knew because I was supposed to be resting. Oh well ... I think they thought I was pooping.

But ... in other news, they let me out last Saturday, and I’m feeling MUCH better. It’s so nice to not be in as much pain today. Thank God for good days—and for modern medicine. 

I’m loving having the summer with my kids and my husband. Being with them and working from home is just about the best thing ever.

The Throes of a Dryer

In what many are calling a possible murder/suicide/homicide/tragedy ... my favorite Victoria Secret bra died in the dryer early this morning. Literally ripped strap from strap—leaving padding strewn amidst fading, damp towels—the remains were nearly unidentifiable.  
It has been said, and I quote, "The deceased was dearly loved, unforgettable. Able to bolster—even in the darkest of times."
Authorities on the matter have yet to decide the exact cause of death, although "failure to read a label" is one of the likelihoods under review. 
Others were slightly injured—i. e. my flippin' dryer—although workers (myself included) have reported no worries of lasting injuries. 
Survived by two implants.
Can we please take a moment of silence to pause for a damn bra—that cost more than my life is worth on some days!.........
Thank you!*Heading to Walmart to buy a cheaper bra that can withstand being in the throes of a dryer!

 

A Book on a Grave

On Zeke's birthday I visited his grave and left a published copy of his book there.  It was my final way of saying goodbye.  I can't describe how bittersweet that felt.  At the time I had a romantic notion that God and Zeke were somehow guiding me.  I'd leave the book, and then the right person would find it—that's what I hoped for anyway.

After returning from his grave, I cried and cried at the computer because I was finally saying goodbye—after so many years of grieving over my son. 

Months passed after the publication in November of 2011, and my life, my marriage, and everything spiraled out of control.  One day, I sat on my bed and thought about how tough life can be. BUT even during the worst of my life—when Zeke died—God helped me the entire time.

“God," I prayed then, remembering.  "I'm worried about everything.  My life is falling apart.  I don't know what I'm doing anymore."

My oldest daughter knocked on my bedroom door.  "Mom?  Are you okay?"

“I'm fine."  I cleared my throat, then wiped the tears from my eyes.  "I can be strong," my voice came out as a whisper.  After all, it wasn't like Zeke was dying again.  

I hugged my daughter, went downstairs, and hopped on my computer.  It still amazes me how the strangest things can happen at the perfect times.  In that exact moment, the tides shifted a little for me.  I’d received an unexpected message.

“Hi...you don’t know me,” the message said. “You see, Zeke's grave is right next to my sister's grave. I went to put some decorations on her grave and Zeke's too. I’ve been putting a little something on his when I go out there as well, and I came across a copy of your book. It touched me in ways that you will not know. I am so glad you let me share in it. I cried when I read the part when Zeke passed.... I hope my sister is up there enjoying Zeke as well as a lot of your family members are. She loved children. I just wanted you to know how I felt and that I will continue to leave things on Zeke's grave if that is okay. I feel even closer to him now that I know his story. We lost my sister to breast cancer at the age of 45, and I was very close to her.”

I paused reading that part. I felt so much for this woman. But a strange peace filled my heart, just knowing that our family members are next to each other, and that she’d been leaving things for Zeke for so many years.

“God bless you and your family,” the message ended. “Take care!”

Reading that email, I realized something important: There's a difference between letting go and just saying goodbye.  Sometimes we don’t have to totally let go.

This Memorial Day, I felt bad that I wouldn’t be able to travel to Zeke's grave in Utah.  The doctors just released me from the hospital on Saturday, and I didn’t have the strength to travel back to Utah again today.

“I just wish I could do something special to honor him,” I told a friend. Imagine my surprise when she sent me a photo from the library. The staff chose “The Golden Sky” to feature this Memorial Day weekend....

It never ceases to amaze me how God is looking out for each of us. I hope Zeke knows how much I love him—and how I still remember. I’m so grateful the library featured his story so other people could meet my son this Memorial Day and remember him too.

Life is full of so many miracles.

Find out more about Zeke’s book here: https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B00DHT...

The Brave Little Bunny That Could

 “Ma’am, you’re walking kind of different. Are you in a lot of pain?”

Did he just say “different”? I stared at him, knowing he’d simply tried to be kind, but I still didn’t know what to say.

“Do you need anything?” he pried again.

“No, I’m good. I just got out of the hospital.”

“No sh*t! What’s wrong?” There are two kinds of people in this world, those who are nosy and those who aren’t.

“Well...complications with cancer. Stage four.”

“You don’t look like you have cancer! I just thought you hurt your leg,” he explained. This man could’ve been a lead biker in a huge gang. His long beard hung well over his chest, and he must’ve been almost a foot taller than me! “I am so sorry.” Then he looked at me like I’m this innocent woodland creature who is about to die. “Are you driving yourself home?“

“Yep—to Idaho!” I beamed.

“All alone?”

Would this “Hulk” man stop interrogating me? I laughed and slammed my sparkle gummy worms and pink energy drink on the counter. The thing is that: YES, I have cancer, and ya, I might’ve seemed like a damsel in distress, BUT I’m stronger than strangers expect.

“Listen,” I said to the man with a massive beard who works at Maverik. “If Columbus traveled all the way to America, and then pioneers could travel in covered  crap wagons—all the way to the western areas—then I figure I can drive myself home from the hospital.”

His eyes went wide, and then he broke out laughing—like a little bunny had just told him off. 

“I guess you’re right. You’re one tough woman!”

“Thanks!” Then I paid for my stuff and left. 

It’s so nice to be home now. And it felt good driving home. I rolled the window down and loved feeling the wind on my skin. I imagined being a little bunny, capably steering a huge ship through a terrifying storm.

I guess the point is that sometimes we limit ourselves. If we’re capable of doing things, then we should keep striving until we can’t anymore. What’s the point otherwise? 

So, I’m finally out of the hospital—I figure I got out on good behavior.

Choose Joy

 When I stepped into the hospital elevator the other day, the poor couple with me, well, they looked grim.

“How are you?” the elderly man asked in a monotone.

“The sun is shining! It’s a beautiful day.” Forget that on that day I found out my liver started failing, and I’d need to be admitted as soon as they had a hospital bed. “I’m just fighting the good fight, staying strong, trying to beat cancer. ‘Cause what else did I have to do with my time? Nothing! I’d get bored if I wasn’t so damn busy trying to stay strong. Am I right????”

The couple just stared at me—like a genuine lunatic had joined them in that tiny, locked, moving box.

Bing! The doors opened.

“That’s my stop.” I waved and got off, positive that I’d just scared the crap out of the poor, sad couple.

Just before the elevator door closed, the woman stuck her hand out and stepped into the hallway. “Miss?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“We... Well, we really like your positive attitude. Don’t lose it. If you lose it, it’s hard to find again.”

I nodded. “I hope the two of you will have the most wonderful day. I have a feeling I’ll be thinking about you—and sending you good vibes—for most of it!”

She went back into the elevator, and I headed off, hoping that whatever situation they’re in, that it’ll somehow get better.

I also hope I’ll never lose my optimism. Some days are hard—and I’ve cried out of fear, pain, or just grief because of my changed health and life. But that’s the thing I’ve realized about joy. It’s not like happiness. Happiness comes and goes. Joy stays—it’s a way of being. When people persevere, they see a wall and keep trying to knock it down, get over it, overcome it EVEN when they know they will fail. Having joy is the same. I CHOOSE to be joyful despite hardship and even failure. Always, I have to choose joy. 

So, what am I doing today? I’m fighting the good fight, trying to kick cancer’s butt. I even started writing a new book during this hospital stay—and I’ve written three chapters! Like I said before, what was I gonna do with my time anyway? 

No matter what you’re going through today, I hope you’ll find a way to choose joy as well. It’s actually quite liberating.

My Melanoma Doppelgänger

I stand by the comment, “Give me a bed and a bucket, and I’m good.” But things have gotten harder. And even though a friend warned me, I had no concept of how tough immunotherapy would be. It sounds a lot nicer than chemotherapy, but unfortunately it’s not.

Strange to think that the tumors in my brain are gone, yet I’m sicker than I’ve been this whole time (nausea, weakness, fatigue). They doubled my doses AND doubled the frequency that the immunotherapy is administered—so no wonder. On the flip side, this is what might help me beat this thing!

Anyway, I had a fever all night and dreamed that Mike and I were floating in a freezing ocean where all we had was each other and the occasional flip of a nefarious tail. I called in sick to work, which totally sucks! Before this cancer business, I hadn’t called in sick since 2014. I slept most of the day. Honestly, unable to do much else.

After I finally woke up, I tried to find someone else online who’s been through exactly the same situation. It took a while, but I found a man from 2018 who had melanoma tumors in his brain that went away after numerous immunotherapy treatments. But he had some other stubborn tumors that wouldn’t leave—and they just happen to be in the same places as mine (spine, neck, etc.).

So in 2018 he responded to a thread about melanoma, saying how terrible the side effects of immunotherapy were. He got massive rashes everywhere that itched like crazy. He couldn’t hold anything down, until he only weighed 120 pounds. The doctors eventually made him take breaks on his treatments for fear that he’d lose too much—and there was a comment saying how the side effects from immunotherapy almost killed him. 

I read this entire story with complete interest—until it just stopped! I had no idea if the man lived or died. What a terrible feeling to not know....

But I did have his name and his wife’s name. So I immediately looked them up on Facebook. To my dismay, his wife had been put in an assisted living home in 2019. And the man himself, well, the trail went cold on his Facebook page, and I worried that maybe he hadn’t made it after all.

It might sound crazy, but I started scrolling through his stories, wanting to know more about this man who suffered from the same thing as me. It was odd because he’s also a writer. And I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I understood this person because of everything we’ve both gone through. I saw a book giveaway he’d held, some posts about cancer, and other things.

After a while, I decided to send him a message. It wasn’t a very hopeful message. And I waited most of the evening, to no avail.

Early the next day I grabbed yet another bottle of water to drink. Seems lately the main thing I can keep down is clear liquid—which totally sucks because I could really go for a hot dog with green peppers and onions right now.

More time passed, and I really started to lose hope not only for this man but somehow for myself. This type of suffering, it’s just hard to put into words. And just when I had completely given up, my phone binged. 

“Yes, I am still here, “ he responded.

I know these stories might sound silly, but when something as small as this propels us through each day, well, it’s actually something quite big. I’m so grateful for miracles. 

It was fun to talk with that man. Like so many other people I’ve spoken with, he gave me hope. And you know what, I just might buy one of his books.

How to Sneak Out of Church

I bring my kids to church every Sunday that I can—even though I’m not religious. Today went differently, I got so sick that I couldn’t stay. I told my daughter we’d use a trick my mom taught me: wait for the next prayer, then exit discreetly. One problem remained, that my son sat somewhere else with his friend!

So, we waited, but ruining expectations, they didn’t pray for-e-v-e-r! I gathered my stuff and tried to hold my keys (like bloody knuckles) so they wouldn’t jangle.

“Bow your heads while we pray,” they finally said.

“Now!” I whispered to Indy like we were on a SWAT team. “Go. Go! Go!” After almost tripping on someone’s purse handle, we made it to where Trey, my son, sat, and I just knew the deacon would soon wrap up the world’s shortest prayer. Everyone’s eyes would see me—trying to get my son to leave. It would be the most awkward thing ever especially since the church was completely full!

“Trey,” I whispered, but the kid was intently praying—for once. “Trey! TREY!”

Then he turned with his eyes still closed and shushed me. “They’re praying!”

“And I’m sick!” 

He opened his eyes. “Oh! Sorry, Mom.”

“In Jesus name,” the deacon’s voice slowed just as we opened the back door to freedom. “Amen.”

If I hadn’t been so sick, I would’ve felt like Indiana Jones after leaving that cave in his first movie! Because IT WAS sort of awesome! We left church early and got away with it. Sometimes being an adult does have its perks.

Anyway, after we left I immediately went to bed, but before I could fall asleep I heard my kids talking. “That’s the first time I’ve actually wanted to be in church!”

“Yeah, me too,” my daughter said. “I was really excited to hear the sermon.”

“Yeah!” Trey said more emphatically.

I’ve decided I can’t win, but there are just some days when we have to think about ourselves. Plus, I’ve never puked in a church because that’s God’s house. Disaster averted!

I’ll try going next Sunday—better luck next time? Plus, it is kind of fun imagining people’s faces when they realized we’d just vanished during the prayer. After the docs told me my brain tumors are gone, I’ve decided some miraculous things can happen when we pray.

I just hope we can get rid of these other tumors too. It’s so hard enduring some of these treatments. It would just be nice to have an end in sight. I guess that’s the problem with cancer though. It’s like having a flu that never ends. And we just don’t know when it will.