E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 5

Hindsight Shows There's a Plan

My grandma struggled with depression so much that she created what she called her "happiness file." It's basically a recipe box filled with little notes that reminded her to find good things in each day. I don't think she expected anyone to ever read these notes, but now that she's no longer here and I'm fighting cancer, her words have become a lifeline from Heaven.

The other day, I opened my grandma's happiness file and read words she'd written not long before her death: Hindsight shows G-d's plan. This was interesting timing because I'd been thinking about a strange thing that happened to me when I could still work.

I'm currently in the process of converting to Judaism, and every morning I try to do a Torah study. One of them talked about how essential it is to avoid "evil." The exact meaning of the word "evil" in this Hebrew text referred to negativity. "Have you ever actively avoided negativity?" the rabbi queried. "This means walking out of our way to avoid it, sitting a distance from it, standing away from it…"

I thought about a job I had before we even lived in Idaho. 

My boss was having an affair with her boss. I honestly shouldn't judge because no one is perfect—especially me—but this became too much for my constitution at that time in my life. Many of the other employees could ignore the entire situation, but I couldn’t. In fact, I became so negative that I'd come home and tell my family about it repeatedly. "Their spouses come into the office, and I can't stand knowing what's going on behind their backs. It breaks my heart. It really does."

"Elisa, this is all you've talked about for the last few weeks. What are you gonna do?" my husband finally asked one day. And thinking about the truth in his words, I felt embarrassed that I'd let this consume my life.

"Well, it's already been reported by another employee, and administration isn't doing anything."

So, I ended up moving to a different department, but on my last day before making this move, my boss got flowers from her husband. "What does the card say?" she asked from the other side of the office, obviously expecting it to be sweet like he normally was.

"Oh," I gasped. "I don't think I should read this out loud."

"Come on, Elisa. Just read it!"

I took a deep breath and whispered. "It says, 'I know about the affair.'"

Even though I'd moved to a completely different department, after that, my previous boss had it out for me. She'd report me to HR, saying my clothes weren't appropriate or my new hair color wasn't "natural looking." An HR employee said this lady would even check to see where I'd parked in the morning to ensure I'd arrived on time. The list went on and on, and I honestly wondered why all of this was happening and if I should start looking for a new job. Anyway, about that same time, the HR manager called us both in and gave her a warning, saying, "You're spending so much time following Elisa that you're neglecting your own duties."

Anyway, I wrote down my answer and the rabbi shared the next part of the study. "It isn't enough just to simply avoid 'evil'; we must be committed to putting 'good' into the world." The meaning for "good" in this text referred to positivity. "In the previous situation you wrote about—when you actively avoided negativity—did you do something positive instead?"

I thought hard and then did remember something! Each time I'd get called to the HR office, I'd walk by a certain receptionist who always seemed down. Her rich ex-husband had somehow gotten custody of the kids, and I couldn't fathom how she felt. So, knowing her struggles were much worse than mine, I started leaving notes for her whenever I got called in. The notes would be simple: "You Matter." "Have a nice day." "You're a hard worker." "You make a difference."

Honestly, it seemed childish leaving notes, but I almost felt compelled to do it. And this gave me a purpose—a distraction—and transformed the negativity into something positive.

Anyway, after I got diagnosed with stage 4 melanoma in 2020 and I announced on Facebook that doctors gave me two years to live, I got a message from the receptionist who'd worked near the HR office.

"Elisa, you wrote something. You worried you haven't done enough and your life hasn't mattered. And now you're facing dying young. I just wanted you to know when you wrote those things to me… I was contemplating… I had thought about ending my life. That's around the time when I started getting those notes on my desk. I didn't even know where they were coming from or who would leave such a thing at first, but those words saved my life. I have my kids back now. I have custody. My life, well, it's all different from where it was. I'm really glad I didn't commit suicide. I needed you to know that you changed my life."

I cried after reading her message. Those notes were so simple. They took seconds and were a good distraction. But to have something so easily done change her life. That meant everything. And that's what I thought about when I read my grandma's words the other day. I think she was right; maybe hindsight does show that G-d has a plan. So many things had to go right for me to leave those notes. I thought that was a hard time in my career, but if all those moments culminated to help that lady, I'm grateful it panned out the way it did.

Elisa, reading a card
from Grandma Beth’s “happiness file”

The Mighty Oak Tree

I opened my grandma's happiness file, a little box where she'd put her most treasured thoughts, and read words she'd written not long before she died: "Remember the oak tree." 

I racked my brain for what this could possibly mean. Was there some story about oak trees that explained this? My grandma always had so many stories to share: blue birds represent happiness, love is just like a flowing river, bear tracks mean the past will catch up to us… But I couldn't remember anything about oak trees except for what I’ve learned myself. Their roots can be massive—up to three times the size of the trees we see above the ground.
I didn't think about my grandma’s words again until a friend called. She’s in her 40s like I am, and when we talk, the topics range from etymology to daily struggles. Despite that, we rarely talk about her marriage, so when she brought it up, that surprised me.

“We aren’t doing well,” she said. “He keeps saying I can’t relax and enjoy life. He thinks I’m a workaholic. Even when I AM at home though, I guess I do end up pulling out my laptop and trying to finish projects.” She paused momentarily. "I wanted to call you because when you first got diagnosed… When that doctor said you have…” Her voice got much quieter. “Terminal cancer… You said something I'll never forget."
"Oh?"
"You said you wished you would've enjoyed life more and relaxed. You spent so much time climbing the corporate ladder and trying to get raises. All you did was work, Elisa. Everyone knew that.”
"And... I regret it," I said. "I can never get that time back with my family. The best I can do now is appreciate the time I do have." We stayed silent for a moment, and for some reason, I remembered a story she’d told me about her father. At the age of 8, he’d called her “lazy, just like her mother." I didn’t know how to broach this, and the words came out much quieter than I’d anticipated, but I finally said, “I think one of the reasons you work so hard has to do with something your dad said… when you were young?”
“When he called me lazy?”
“Yes." I could hardly believe she'd known exactly what I referred to. "I think that single comment has plagued you for years. But," I sighed, "you have to know it’s the exact opposite of who you are. Everyone can see what a hard worker you are."
“Yet, no matter how much I do, it’s never enough—for me. I’m driving myself crazy.”
As I remembered her father’s words, I started picturing an oak tree. They can be beautiful and impressive—mighty even—but, if unwanted, they can be hard to eradicate because their root systems are so invasive.
I shared these thoughts with her. "We've all heard that warning about negative things taking root in our lives, but really picturing it... wow."
"I agree. But how can we stop letting negative thoughts take control?”
"You know that doctors are still saying melanoma will be the thing to kill me?”
She nodded.
“On some days it can be really hard not getting stuck in negative thought patterns, so I try distracting myself with things that make me happy." I thought for a moment. "For example, my parents recently went to Europe—that’s something my mom wanted her whole life. Anyway, the other day I got scared about my situation, but instead of ruminating, I pulled up pictures of my parents on vacation. After a minute, I couldn't help smiling, just seeing them so happy in front of castles and other landmarks. And before long, I was completely distracted."
"So,” she said after a long while, “we'll both continue to work on this?"
"Absolutely. But… I just want you to know that you ARE enough. Yes, you ARE a hard worker, but more than that you’re an incredible person, and you make other people better just by being around them. That means a lot more than you might realize.”
Her eyes softened, and I knew she’d accepted my words and taken them to heart.
“But as far as I go,” I said. “I need to stop being so scared of death.” I bit my lip and internally vowed to really work on this. “I just hope we'll both be able to appreciate our lives and live in the present."
So, that's what I’ll focus on right now: not letting negativity take hold because simply being alive is such an incredible gift. I guess oak trees can be both good and bad; I should let positivity root itself in my life instead.
I do wonder what my grandma thought as she wrote those words “remember the oak tree.” The cards in her happiness file really have become like notes from Heaven.

Fate and the Death in Teheran

Most of my friends are quite a bit older than me, and I'm grateful for the deep conversations we have. Just this weekend, my 89-year-old friend came over and wanted to talk about fate.

"I don't believe in destiny or fate," he said. "The primary reason G-d created us — if there even is a G-d — was to prevent boredom. Can you imagine being the divine creator and knowing everything? That must be exhausting. I don't think He knows our future either. Maybe He could find out, but I doubt He wants to know. Why not let it be a surprise to everyone — even Him?"

"That idea makes me feel better," I said. When I first got diagnosed with cancer, I hated the thought of it being "G-d's will" or that I was sick for a reason. In fact, some of the things we tell ourselves seem so trite. I don't want to be sick "because of my sins" or think "G-d only gives us what we can handle." I've seen people get way more than they can handle, like my poor cousin who took his own life because of the cruelty of others who acted out of their own right to free will. (And then, when my son died, some people said he was born with defects to help others. That thought devastated me because he deserved to have a long, happy life too...)

"It's much easier thinking I'm sick because G-d refuses to interfere," I said. "I guess it's less personal. If that makes sense." That's the only way I can reconcile why bad things happen to anyone.

He nodded.

And as we sat there in silence, a story suddenly came to me. "Have you heard about the 'Death in Teheran'? It's a really thought-provoking story."

"No," he responded, "can't say that I have."

"Basically," I replied, "a king's servant comes up to the king, frantic because he was just visited by Death. 'Please give me your fastest horse so I can elude Death,' the servant said to the king. 'I'll ride all the way to Teheran and hide there.'" I paused at this point and took a sip of my coffee. "The king thought about the servant's kindness and hard work over the years and immediately gave him his best horse, but the moment the servant and horse galloped away, Death appeared in front of the king!"

My friend's eyes widened, surprised at the twist in the story.

"'Why did you threaten my servant?' the king asked Death. 'I didn't threaten him,' Death said, 'I simply expressed my surprise at seeing him here! It seemed odd because I have an appointment to take his life tonight — far from here — in Teheran.'"

My friend loved the story, and we talked for a while about fate possibly being inescapable.

"I will never understand myself," I said. "Some days I find peace in thinking I'll die at the exact moment I'm supposed to. Other days, I don't want G-d to have a plan because everyone's hardships are less personal."

My friend nodded. "I guess we'll know everything after we die."

"Everything?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I think so."

"But what about boredom? You said G-d doesn't even want to know everything." I swallowed, really pondering it. "That... sounds like my version of Hell." And in that moment, I couldn't help imaging a bunch of beings floating around completely bored in the afterlife, playing chess for the trillionth time and waxing poetic. Maybe just ceasing to exist after this life doesn't seem that bad? But what do I know!

"Well, maybe we won't know everything." He laughed. "There's one thing that's for sure though; I really hope you'll get better and that I'll die before you. When you were really, really sick, back in 2021, I hated not knowing which one of us would die first. I'm older. You're too young right now. And..." He paused. "What I learned in the second half of my life... the things I got to experience... I want that for you."

He's 48 years older than me. That's longer than I've even lived so far. "I want you to live forever and ever," I said.

"Awe... I don't think we should wish that on anyone." He smiled with such a wealth of knowledge that I can only pretend to understand.

"I'm already experiencing so much though," I said, "and I'm starting to have hope." I told him then how in my most-recent MRI, the cancer hasn't grown! This is huge news because it means that maybe something is actually working — and in the least — these current cancer treatments are giving me a bit more time. "My new oncologist said I probably will die from melanoma, but he believes there IS actually a chance that I might beat this!"

I remember where everyone had stood in the room when my oncologist said this. It felt like time stopped and the wind had been knocked from my chest. Had he really just said I have a chance? I might beat this? After so many doctors keep saying this is terminal...

After he said all of this, he expressed the importance of hope, and I felt like he'd thrown me a lifeline. Maybe... just maybe it's NOT time for my trip to Teheran just yet. Sometimes that's how cancer treatments feel, like I'm doing this to buy more time and hide from death. But like the story says, can we even evade death at all? Or is there a time set in stone for each of us? Like so many people say, that's why we should appreciate each day and be grateful for the journey. For example: what could the servant have done during his last day, instead of letting fear overshadow the final moments of his life as he rushed to Teheran?

A Kiss at the Fair

The man stared as I peddled newspapers, but instead of coming over to my booth at the fair, he thoughtfully paced back and forth. I studied his kind demeanor, wondering if most people with Down syndrome are like him: honest and unassuming. 
As the day continued, I questioned why life is unfair. Why did this man, who continued watching me, face such hardships when other people don't appreciate their lives? 
After a while, my thoughts turned to my son who died. He had birth defects, and the doctors dubbed him "mentally handicapped." They even said that if he grew into adulthood, he wouldn't have a quality of life. 

 During the pregnancy, doctors claimed he'd have Down syndrome, but when that proved wrong, they tested for trisomy. More results came back negative, and experts never could label the strange mix of birth defects he had. 
My world fractured when he died at 2 1/2 months. And I'd never know what he would've been like—if he'd be gentle like this young man at the fair. Or inquisitive? Would his eyes have held that deep kindness too? 


I could've cried at the newspaper booth, surrounded by articles about births and deaths, murders and other serious crimes... 
I wished for a second that I could feel the arms of G-d wrap around me to remind me that everything will be okay and He somehow has a plan. 
In that moment, when I’d totally descended into sadness, the man who had Down syndrome left the person next to him and gracefully zig-zagged toward me.  “I like you,” he said. “I just do.” 
“Well... Thank you.” I blinked. "And, I like you!”
“Hug?” He kicked a rock by his shoe.
“Um. Sure.” 
So I held out my arms wide, and he placed his head softly on my shoulder as I hugged him. We remained momentarily, and it truly felt like the presence of G-d surrounded both of us, wrapping us in complete warmth. 
The man turned, then lightly kissed my shoulder before darting away. Tears filled my eyes, not because I felt sad anymore, but because I knew that I'd just met an angel.
Here are some pictures of that week during that fair. That was such an incredible time.



I absolutely loved running that newspaper. Some of the best adventures of my life happened there.

Kissed by an Angel at the Fair

Since the Eastern Idaho State Fair just wrapped up, I've been remembering several moments from when I had a booth at the fair in 2019. I thought my job would be pretty straightforward: I'd meet new people at the fair, talk about the newspaper I worked for, and try to get new subscribers. But at one point, something surprising happened.

The man stared at me from across the way as I sat peddling newspapers, but instead of coming over, like many other people did, he simply paced back and forth, watching.  

At one point, I must have looked thoughtfully at him because he returned the action. Sometimes I wonder if people with Down syndrome are like that: honest and unassuming. 

As the day continued, he kept glancing over, and I really wondered what he was thinking. The man must have been in his early twenties, inquisitive, and determined. I'm still unsure why, but I started wondering about things like Down syndrome and how life is so unfair. Why did this man face such hardships when other people don't even appreciate their good fortune? I'd just read an article in the newspaper about how suicide rates are rising. Why can't everyone be happy and healthy? Mentally and physically okay too?

Of course, the more I pondered this, my thoughts suddenly turned to my son who died. He’d had birth defects, and the doctors dubbed him "mentally handicapped." They kept saying, "If he even grows into adulthood, he won't have a quality of life."

A part of me wondered if they’d been right. Although he died as a baby, it was hard to stop imagining what he really would have been like as an adult. After all, I'd been shocked by how much doctors hadn't known.... And it made me doubt everything.

During the pregnancy, my main OBGYN thought my son would have Down syndrome, and when that proved wrong, they said he must have trisomy. They performed all sorts of tests before he was born AND after, but they never discovered a reason for the combination of birth defects he had: a cleft lip and palate, a diaphragmatic hernia, an extra half a pinky... This mix baffled all of us, but (as doctors said) it's a miracle any of us are born healthy at all.

If my boy had grown into adulthood, would he have been gentle and inquisitive like this young man who studied me at the fair? Would his eyes have held such kindness too?

I’m normally so happy, but I suddenly descended into sadness about the unfairness of life. And as I sat there, I could've cried surrounded by newspapers that boasted births and deaths; scholarships and petty thefts; traffic accidents, suicide rates, murders and other serious crimes...  

I wished for a second that I could feel the arms of G-d wrap around me to remind me that everything will be okay. In that moment, I whispered all of these things to G-d. It seemed like when my son died, he left a hole that'd never be filled--not unless G-d decided to take the pain away.

Suddenly, when I’d descended into the very worst of this feeling, the man with Down syndrome gracefully zig-zagged toward me.

“I like you,” he said. “I just do.”

“Well... Thank you.” I blinked, and then brightened, for his sake. "And, I like you!”

“Hug?” He looked down and kicked a rock by his shoe.

“Ummm. Sure.” So I held out my arms extremely wide, and he placed his head softly on my shoulder as I hugged him. I swear that somehow it felt like the presence of G-d surrounded both of us, wrapping us in this beautiful, strong warmth.  

The man turned, then lightly kissed my shoulder before darting away. "I love you, k!” he yelled from a short distance.

Tears filled my eyes, not because I felt sad, but because I’d witnessed something amazing.  

“Thank you for that,” his caregiver quickly said, still keeping an eye on the young man.

“He’s pretty special isn’t he?” I said, and as his caregiver nodded, I felt like I'd just met an angel.

*Note: I'm in the process of converting to Judaism. "G-d" is spelled with a dash here out of respect. It's actually such a beautiful tradition if you have the time (or inclination) to look it up.

The Power of Vulnerability

The man stared, probably wondering why I sat RIGHT next to him when dozens of seats rested vacant around us.

“Hi,” he said, choosing direct contact as the anecdote for awkwardness.

“I’m Elisa.” I beamed, and he reluctantly shook my hand. 

Thin skin framed his blue eyes, and I knew something scary brought him to the hospital. 

I remembered a recent conversation then, when someone asked why I have exceptional occurrences with strangers. “It’s because I’m vulnerable, and I put myself out there,” I said. Honestly, I’d love to sit away from people because that’s comfortable. But sometimes people look lonely.

Step #1: Be brave. 

Now, for step #2: Be vulnerable.

“My husband went to get our car,” I blurted. “I have stage 4 cancer. It’s hard adjusting. I can’t walk as far as I used to.” 

He remained quiet, digesting the quick string of words. I probably sounded like a squirrel—an espresso-loving squirrel who had cancer.

After a while, he squinted toward the cloudy sky. “Yeah, I have a hard time walking too far too.”

“I don’t know your situation, but I found something that helps me.”

“Really?” he asked, more eager than I expected.

“The opposite of fear can be a lot of things, right? Peace, hope, knowledge… But what I’ve found takes the fear away the fastest for ME is trust. If I can somehow trust that there’s a plan, cancer loses its sting.”

“You must get so scared,” he said. “I just found out that I… I have a heart condition. And I’ve been embarrassed to be scared. Men aren’t supposed to be afraid.” He looked exhausted from carrying all that responsibility.

“But we all get scared. I just hope you’ll find what the opposite of fear is for you.” I paused. “For me, I just want to see my kids grow up. It’s peaceful realizing everything will be okay no matter what because G-d is looking out for everyone. Even me.”

A quiet understanding settled between us, and we didn’t say much more. Instead, we gazed at the luminous sky. Cirrus clouds spread to the edges of the mountaintops, framing the sun perfectly, and I thought how ironic it is that my love of the sunshine is still what doctors say will kill me. I’ll never fully understand melanoma.

(Picture taken earlier this year.)

Who's Dirk?

I won't lie; Wednesday was an incredibly rough day. I battled my insurance (it's crazy fighting cancer AND my insurance) and found out I needed two surgeries instead of one.

 

My doctor called to say he could do the first surgery in two days, and although I acted tough on the phone, I cried after we hung up. It's just that sometimes this whole journey feels like a never-ending rollercoaster. I'm buckled in tight, and—when I'm at my weakest—I just want to get off the ride. 

 

I received another call shortly after this. "Elisa, you have appointments in Utah over the next couple days. We have a room available if you'd like to take it." 

 

"This is the best news!" I dried my eyes. "You have no idea how much this makes people's lives easier."

 

"Ma'am," she said, "are you doing okay today?"

 

It seemed like such a long time since someone genuinely asked how I'm doing. "Well, today was my kids' first day of school. I got to send them off, but I won't be there when they get home. It honestly breaks my heart, and sometimes… this journey with cancer just feels undoable." I sighed. "I hope that you're having a nice day?" I asked.

 

"Me?" She laughed. "I'm great." After a moment, she continued. "I hear what you're saying about the first day of school though. I have kids, and that would be hard to miss. I want you to know that you are strong. And you've got this, mama!"

 

I'm not sure why, but her words cheered me so much. After getting into my car, I told myself to find the good around me. Sure two surgeries loomed in the future, but there was so much goodness surrounding me—like patient housing and the amazing woman who'd just spoken with me on the phone. 

 

I drove toward patient housing, and that's when I spotted Dirk's Dry Cleaning. I suddenly wondered who Dirk was and what his family was like. Had he always wanted to own a dry-cleaning business? Had he fulfilled all of his hopes and dreams? Was he still running the company? I know some might find it trite, but each of us really is the main character in our own story. We can do all of these incredible things and too often we take it for granted. I was the prime example. I could've been enjoying life that very moment, but instead I'd let fear about the future nearly drown me.

 

So, still thinking about Dirk and all of us, I decided to treat myself to a Jamba Juice. 

 

"When I was in high school—over twenty years ago—you had a drink with 'peach' in the name?" I asked the cashier. As a teenager, I'd had a surgery, and I still remember how my mom and dad splurged and bought me a fancy drink. I felt so loved. In fact, every time I have anything that even remotely tastes like peaches, I remember how wonderful my parents are.

 

The boy typed something into his computer. "It's not on our menu anymore, but I found it. It's called a Peach Passion."

 

"That's it!" I said, feeling better and better.

 

So after getting my drink, I went to patient housing, drank my Jamba Juice, and called my kids to see how their first day of school was.

 

"I'm so sorry I'm not there in person," I told them.

 

"Mama," Indy said, "I knew you were thinking about me so much, it felt like you were with me the whole day."

 

Her words meant the world to me. That's when I knew I could get through the surgeries—hell, I could get through ANYTHING… as long as I got more time with the people I love.

 

 

More than Coincidence

A memory... 

My four kids and I bought a bouquet of flowers and vowed to give it to the first woman we saw.

"I hope we'll see someone soon," my oldest daughter, Ruby, said. Pondering her words, I thought how she’s the prankster who put fake cat poop on her teacher's chair, but still the same sweet girl who held our Labrador forever after the vet put our sweet dog to sleep.
After a few minutes, Ruby spotted someone. "Her!” She pointed to a woman.
I pulled up to the curb. Then, carrying the flowers, I ran up to the woman. Was she a nurse? She wore scrubs. And why did she look so sad?
“These are for you!" I finally sputtered, holding the windblown flowers toward her.
The woman's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "Sorry." I smiled, standing up straight. "My kids and I are trying to do a random acts of kindness once a week—every week. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s been good for them. I’m a single mom, just trying to give them good memories. Anyway, we got these special…. These flowers, well, they’re for you."
I held them out to her again, and after a moment her eyes sparkled as she hugged the bouquet so tenderly.
“Well, see ya!"
I turned and sprinted back to the van.  
“She's so happy," Ruby said, and all four of my kids squealed, watching the woman until she walked behind a gray-brick building.
The traffic was terrible, and I swear we waited at the stop sign for longer than Methuselah lived. Then, as we turned, my second-oldest daughter pointed in astonishment. 
"She's a vet. Look! She's on the other side of the building. Holding those flowers."
The woman, still beaming, opened a vet hospital's door and walked inside. My heart stopped as I looked at the vet hospital. We'd been there before, years ago with our beautiful Labrador.
“Mama, now that I think of it, she kind of looks familiar," Ruby said, confirming my thoughts.
I had to blink away the tears because in that moment I realized the woman was the same person who selflessly helped console Ruby the day our Labrador passed away.

She Has Beautiful Eyes

 “She has the most beautiful eyes,” I said about a stranger at the diner. 

“You should tell her,” Candy responded.

“I can’t,” I whispered. “That’s embarassing.”

But Candy ignored my statement. “My friend was just saying the sweetest thing about you.”

The older woman stopped and leaned down.

“I said... you have the most beautiful eyes. In fact, YOU are beautiful.”

The woman’s bottom lip quivered, and she appeared completely dumbfounded while the elderly man, who I assumed was her husband, sat down at another booth.

“I’ve never had anyone tell me I’m beautiful, and I’m in my late 80s,” the woman said.

After the woman took her seat, she was all Candy and I could talk about. “She deserves all the kindness in the world.”

I nodded in agreement. “You know. I wish I would’ve told her right away how beautiful she is. Something so simple, so easily given, brightened her day. I guess today I was just tired.”

“Well, when it mattered, you did make her day better. And I bet it’ll come back around.”

If karma helped anyone, it should’ve come to Candy. But honestly, I don’t know what to believe about things like fate and karma. 

Long after my friend returned to Utah, I remembered her words: “It’ll come back around.” That’s about the time something very strange happened.

I found myself at the same diner, but I sat with Mike this time. We both enjoyed a cup of coffee and laughed about life when someone tapped on my shoulder. The stranger must’ve been in his 80s or 90s, and his eyes twinkled when he spoke. “I have something for you,” he said and handed me a toy from the vending machine. I turned and realized he’d just been stocking the machines at the end of the diner, and although other patrons filled the store, for some reason he picked me. 

“Thank you so much!” I said, opening the plastic container that held a mini-deck of cards.

He went to leave, then turned around slowly. “You know,” he leaned down, “you have beautiful eyes.”

Although Mike dismissed this as coincidence, I couldn’t believe the irony. And even though Mike proceeded to beat me at every card game we played that day, I could not quit smiling.

#ecstilson #randomactofkindness #cardgames #minideckofcards

Watching Olympians Overcome

 Mike and I drove down to Utah, so grateful to have a room at the Hope Lodge. It’s an absolutely gorgeous facility, and we felt extremely lucky to get a room where they have wonderful amenities and even an amazing kitchen area with a fancy coffee maker! Any Huntsman patient who lives over 60 miles from the cancer center can apply for free lodging there, and we lucked out. 

I’ve been nervous to do this because I know there are people who need the help much more than we do and are in much worse situations. I didn’t want to take a room from someone else. “You’re the last on the list for that day,” the receptionist told me. “You’re not taking it from anyone. And you need this just as much as anyone else. I’ve seen your appointments and your diagnosis.” The woman had been given access to my chart to verify my situation and approve my stay. “You’re going through a lot.”

I tried keeping the tears from my voice. “Thank you for saying that. We’re so grateful for the help—we’ll take the room.”

Mike and I checked into the Hope Lodge, and they gave me a gift bag along with the CUTEST stuffed animal. Then we went to the hospital, and I even got to play my violin for fellow patients. 

It was the most wonderful morning, but then things went downhill. 

I met with my main oncologist, and he got so concerned after getting my labs and speaking with me that he actually hospitalized me. 

“But I was supposed to get treatments today,” I said. “And we got a room at the Hope Lodge… Can’t I just stay there tonight and come to the E.R. if things get worse?”

“Elisa, the tumor in your L2 might be pushing on your spinal cord. You need an emergency MRI. I’m sorry. I know this is hard. But if something like that is happening, we’ll need to do surgery to prevent permanent nerve damage.”

My heart clenched, and within a couple of hours, I rested in a hospital bed, waiting for MRI results. “Excuse me?” a night nurse came in. I’d spoke with him earlier, and he said it was a surprisingly slow night. “Do you mind if I ask you something?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. 

“It’s just… You seem like you’re handling things so well. And life can be hard even for people who aren’t fighting cancer.”

I looked at him, wondering what hardship he might be facing. I know most problems aren’t as obvious as terminal cancer, but that doesn’t make other things any easier. Life can be hard. In fact, the hardest thing I’ve ever experienced wasn’t this fight against cancer. It was when my baby died years and years ago. You never know what things other people might be facing—things we can’t readily see.

“How do you cope?” he finally asked. 

“I play the violin,” I said, “and when I first started, I sounded terrible. But no matter what, I told myself that I had to keep going.” I sighed. “Quitting wasn’t an option… So, I guess I cope by looking at my end-goal. I want more time with my family. And no matter how hard any of this might be, I’m fighting for even one more second with them. I remember learning to play the violin, and how incredible it felt when I could finally play.” I took a deep breath. “Even though doctors say this is terminal, at least I know I can look back and say I did my best. I tried. There will be a time when I’ll have to say that I’m done. Cancer won’t ’win,’ but maybe I’ll call it a draw. But until then, I have to tell myself I can’t quit. I just have to keep going. That’s all.”

He nodded. And thank goodness, he seemed somehow heartened even though I was still having a tough time myself. 

“I do have really tough times though,” I admitted, wanting him to know. “I cried earlier. I was supposed to go on a date with my husband tonight. But… after getting hospitalized, I had to take a deep breath and tell myself to find the good things around me. One of the good things tonight is that I got to talk with you.”

He gave me a huge smile, and I hoped that whatever he was facing, he’d find hope somewhere in the mix.

When I did get discharged (thank goodness the tumor isn’t pressing on my spinal cord!), Mike wanted to brighten my day, and he surprised me. “I know we didn’t get to go on a date, but we can coin-flip to see where we can stop by on our way home. Even if you just want to take a nap in a park, we can find something fun.”

“Really?” He always seems to know what’ll get my mind off of things. 

He took out a coin, and we flipped to go East, up toward Park City. So, we went to watch skiers train at the Olympic training area. 

Athletes there put on snow boots, carry skis, and walk up several flights of stairs until they ski off a massive jump that leads right into a swimming pool. Mike and I watched as skier after skier face-planted, bellyflopped, and plummeted into the water. Then, despite being sopping wet, they still climbed up the flights of stairs repeatedly—just for a chance to perfect a flip they could eventually land on a real snowy slope. 

As we watched them, I went from feeling a bit dismal to quite invigorated. If these young athletes can keep going despite epic fails, serious fatigue, and various other hardships… If they can get up over and over just for the hope of getting a gold medal, impressing the world, and making a name for themselves, then I can keep fighting for more time with my family.

The advice I gave that young nurse was the best I had at the time, but I felt it even more after watching the Olympians get up even after they’d failed repeatedly. That’s sometimes how life can feel. It can kick us down and make us want to give up. But no matter what we’re facing, it’s so important to remember how strong we are. We can do this. We can overcome hardships and come out shining on the other side. Even in my situation… Sure I don’t know where my road will lead, BUT the best I can do is keep moving forward. If those Olympians can persevere despite odds stacked against them, then we can keep going too. Like my dad says, “The key to overcoming, is to just keep going. It’s as simple as that.”