E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 8

Lucky $87 and the Grocery Store Angel

 The Grocery Store Angel

By EC StilsonECStilson.com

So many incredible things keep happening that I've begun worrying... 

Let me explain: Have you ever had to put an animal down? Unfortunately, I have. And the night before their final day, we've given them steak, eggs—even ice cream—to ensure they're having the best possible day. Then, the next morning, we've had to let them go. This could be due to illness or just quality of life… Anyway, so many Godwinks keep happening in my days that now I'm worried this is my steak dinner from G-d.

 

"Don't be such a negative Nelda," you might say, but the problem is that once oncologists diagnosed me with terminal cancer, my world changed. I have an early expiration date. So, whether this is my steak dinner from G-d or not, I better enjoy each moment—and that's exactly what I've been doing.

 

“Do you remember the story about the $87?” I asked my mom after we’d gone to the grocery store. 

“How that lady paid for your groceries?”

I nodded. My card hadn’t worked, and a cashier—of all people—footed the bill. I kept looking for her so I could pay back the $87, but she'd quit working as a cashier. “I finally got to pay it forward,” I told my mom. “Last week a guy couldn’t get his card to work, so I paid his bill. Guess how much it was?”

She looked at me, stunned. “$87?”

“Yep.”

“That’s totally a Godwink. Is this the store where it happened?”

“Yeah. The cashier didn’t even know that I’m fighting terminal cancer—I wonder what she would’ve thought if I’d told her.”

My mom and I shopped for a while after that. I felt bad, but we took an extra long time because I had to keep stopping. “I’m so sorry,” I almost said it more to myself than my mom. I know she understands. After all, we’d gone to the store so she could make me her homemade chicken noodle soup. The problem is that I get mad at my body sometimes. I want to walk like I used to and jump around like Tigger, but I can’t even stand for long and I often use a wheelchair.

“Mom,” I said, trying to knock some sense into myself. “I’m gonna buy ice cream. It just sounds… fun.”

We’d rounded the corner when my mom’s expression changed. “You have…” She paused, trying to get another customer’s attention. “You have the most beautiful hair.”

A woman turned, practically glowing. Long gray hair danced from the back of her baseball cap, and after she left the ice cream isle, I could hardly speak. 

“Mom! Oh, my gosh. Mom! That’s the cashier!” The words wouldn’t come out fast enough.

“The cashier?” she asked.

“The one who paid the $87! The one I’ve been looking for all this time.”

“You have to tell her what happened,” my mom whispered.

I moved as quickly as I could, almost frantic as I tried to find the woman.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Excuse me.”

She turned, looking every bit the angel I remembered.

I told her then about how I’m fighting terminal cancer. I explained that she’d paid for my groceries on a day years ago when I needed kindness the very most. “I tried to find you, but you’d quit.”

She laughed so hard, those thoughtful eyes sparkling. “I just switched departments! I’ve been here the whole time.”

“I wish I could pay you back! But I ended up buying someone else’s groceries last week. And can you believe it was for the same amount?”

She didn’t seem surprised at all. “That’s how these things work. Thank you for paying it forward.”

“It was your money.” I laughed. “Thank you for what you did for me.”

As my mom and I walked away, I heard a distant voice say, “I’m so glad I saw you again. You changed my whole day.”

“You changed mine,” I said.

That night as I ate the chicken noodle soup, we wondered over the experience from the store. “I’d been so upset that I got sick and took forever. But if I hadn’t been so slow, we would’ve missed her. I guess it all worked out.”

Filled with good food and the blessings only G-d and kind people can bring, it suddenly didn’t matter how sick I’d felt that day. Life once again shone so bright, and I realized once more how lucky I am to even be alive.

 

 

A Change of Perspective

 I turned 41 today. Birthdays mean a lot more than they used to, and I guess it’s because doctors said I’d never turn 40. Even though I’m still fighting for each day, I’m really lucky to even be here.

This reminds me of a birthday from a few years before doctors diagnosed me with terminal cancer. I’d gone to get my taxes done, and as the accountant assessed my information, I studied a photo in her office.

It’s an intriguing picture with five people lying on their backs in a grassy field. Each person is a different race—and the concept of “diversified yet unified” is beautifully clear. But there was something even more that I couldn’t quite grasp.

“Wow, you really like that photo,” the accountant finally said.

Suddenly what eluded me before shone through. “It’s amazing,” I said, seeing the whole scene differently. 

“I like it, but I wouldn’t say it’s ‘amazing.’” She set down some papers and turned to me. 

“I know there are a lot of photos out there like this, but I just realized what makes this one different,” I said. “If you stop focusing on the obvious things and just focus on their glasses.... Did you notice that every person is wearing eyeglasses?”

She came next to me and stared at the picture. “Their glasses, huh? Well, they look like regular gla— Wait, I see it: the reflection! I’ve never had anyone point that out before.”

The reflection shone faintly in each of their eyeglasses, but even those replicas were far more beautiful than the obvious picture itself. Greying buildings, lanky trees, and a stormy sky showed itself in the glasses. As if every subject looked at a dry, dying world, ready to be refreshed…

I momentarily wished the photographer had rested in the grass as well and taken a picture—not of the people, but up, seeing what had appeared above and around them. 

Were the people the real subjects of this photo, or had the artist realized what the glass told about their surroundings?

“You’re right, Elisa. That picture is amazing!” As I took my paperwork and got in my truck to drive away, I looked through the business window. The tax preparer sat down where I had been moments before, and she intently studied the picture in her office.

A Veteran in a Truck Stop

I 

stood at the truck stop, debating which candy bar to get, when several groups of people darted into the store at once. The cashier balked, watching as more and more customers got gas or parked in the parking lot, and I couldn't help studying every person who came in.

An older lady gazed at herself in the mirror, pulling strange faces as she tried on different sunglasses. A young mother and father chased their toddlers, and numerous people perused the drink section. But out of everyone, an elderly veteran intrigued me the most. He stood on one side of the store near a younger woman with the most beautifully dark skin. 

She kept glancing at the veteran whose baggy eyes bulged with fatigue. He limped, using a gnarled cane, yet as he walked past various people, he smiled at everyone. His jacket displayed badges, pictures of planes, and something about years of service. The beautiful woman must’ve noticed all of this, too, because even as she purchased a hat, her eyes hardly left the man. 

I thought she'd leave after that, but she didn't. Instead, she gracefully edged toward the veteran, long arms and legs majestic—like rippling like water. Her black hair floated behind like a veil. Then, she stopped right in front of the man. 

He seemed taken aback to have such a stunning woman approach him. "Can I h–help you?" he asked.

"You already have," she said, opened the bag, and handed him the hat. "Thank you for your years of service. People might not tell you all of the time, but you are so very appreciated.” Then she turned and simply left.

After a moment, the man shakily donned the hat and gazed in the mirror where the older woman had been before. But instead of pulling strange faces or preening like his predecessor, he tipped the hat a little to the right and wiped a few tears from his eyes. 
 
A brightly dressed lady suddenly spoke next to me. I'd been so enraptured that I hadn’t noticed her studying me—and the entire situation. "That was so amazing to watch," she said.
 
"It really was," I said with more emotion in my voice than I'd expected. How ironic that I'd entered that truck stop simply wanting to get a candy bar, but instead, I'd gotten so much more. It goes to show you never know where or when a miracle might happen. 
I paid for my favorite kind of candy bar, then surprised myself and gave it to the cashier. "I just wanted you to know you're doing an incredible job." Then, after complimenting him on his various tattoos and piercings, I left the store with empty hands and an overflowing heart.

It Finally Came Full Circle, and It Only Cost $87

Something came full circle, and I'm so excited about it. In 2020, nearly two months after oncologists diagnosed me with terminal cancer, I finally got out of the house. Of course, I had to use a walker after surgeons removed a tumor-ridden vertebra in my lower back. Yet, there's always a silver lining, and I felt surprised to find that grocery carts work much like walkers—and they look better, too.

After a very slooow shopping session, I weaved toward the register, proud of my achievement. Sure cancer has changed my "wins," but I can still revel in accomplishing what I can. Before, success meant finishing a marathon. Now, I'm lucky to get out of bed and do my makeup. Before, I boasted about milestones, degrees, and promotions at work. Now, I'm grateful when insurance companies pay medical bills we've been battling over for years. 

Anyway, going shopping seemed a Herculean task, but I'd done it all alone! Unfortunately, when I went to pay, my card wouldn't go through. I stood so long that my right atrophied leg shook at the register. Why wouldn't the card work? We have a lot of issues—like... terminal cancer—but we're good at stretching pennies and saving what money we have. 
I flushed with embarrassment. (I wish I'd known earlier that the bank shut off our cards 'cause suspicious out-of-country charges aren't a good sign. Too bad I'd gone shopping instead of answering my phone.) 
"It's only $87," I squeaked. "I am so embarrassed."
"It's no big deal, ma'am. It happens all the time," the sweet cashier said. "But I will need you to go over to the customer service area to either return the groceries or figure out a form of payment. More customers are coming."
"I'll take care of it," another cashier said, then darted from her register several feet away, whipped out her personal credit card, and paid for my groceries before I could resist.
"But that was... That was... $87." I balked. "That's a lot of money."
"No big deal."
"Well...," I thought about my previous stay at the hospital, all of the grueling treatments and surgeries. I remembered my ongoing fights with insurance companies and how sometimes death seems easier than all of this. "It was a huge deal," tears filled my eyes, "to me."
Plus, who does that for someone? Especially a cashier?! I don't know how much they make, but she's not taking much home if she helps everyone who saunters through those doors.
The beautiful elderly woman simply returned to her register like she hadn't just saved my day... and then she helped the next person in line. 
"Thanks again," I said, slowly walking past her. My previously aching leg somehow felt a bit better.
"You just enjoy a nice meal with your family." 
Those unforgettable blue eyes twinkled, lighting up the entire checkout area, and it seemed ironic she had no idea what I faced. Her action meant much more than a monetary amount or a well-cooked meal. The timeliness changed my life because it made me feel like G-d "might" have a plan. Even in my loneliest times, sitting with the magnitude of having a terminal illness, preparing for surgeries, or getting long MRIs, I remember her actions. 
"It was a kiss from G-d," a friend told me the next day, and I decided to return the favor. I immediately visited the bank, withdrew $87, and returned to the grocery store. I'd prepared my speech. I wanted to tell the woman with the long silvery hair how much she changed my outlook. "I have terminal cancer," I'd say, "and you gave me fuel to keep fighting for my four children and my husband." I could hardly wait because I wanted her to know how much she blessed my life. But when I got back to the store, the lady no longer worked there; they didn't even have her forwarding address! 
That left me one option: I'd have to... pay it forward.
Since then, when I've gone to get groceries—for almost three years—I've wanted to pay for someone else's food. Unfortunately, it never seems to be the right time, and I don't want to embarrass someone. This has gotten so ridiculous it's a bit like a hunter/prey situation—except I'm a chick who's too excited to do something nice.
Can you believe that after YEARS of waiting, today it finally came full circle?! A man in front of me couldn't pay for his groceries. His face paled as he swiped the card again and appeared mortified. "I'm sorry, sir. They can help you over there."
A bagger materialized out of thin air and escorted the man to the customer service desk. 
I looked at the cashier. "I want to pay his bill." But I could lose my opportunity. Why had they whisked him away that quickly? There are people jonesing to do something nice, but I have issues, and I can only move so fast. 
"Don't you want to know how much it is?"
"No, I just want to pay his bill."
She pointed to the customer service area, and I lumbered over and simply swiped my card. The man stood, pleading with someone on his cellphone, but he hung up and stared at me, slack-jawed. "Did you just... Um. You just... You paid my bill?"
I lit with so much excitement that I could feel it radiating from my eyes. I had shocked the hell out of this stranger. It was the best. Moment. Ever. Kindness is (to use a word my teenage son hates) RAD.
The man looked quite a bit older than me, but after I paid his bill, a massive smile spread across his face, waking up all of his features until the worry and fatigue of life crumbled in the wake of happiness. He looked so young and full of life.
"Yes, I paid. It's no big deal," I squealed because I felt like a Jedi or something.
"But that was... $87!" he said, looking beyond shocked.
Chills ran up my spine and tingled in all the places where doctors say I have cancer. $87! I could hardly believe his bill was the exact amount that angelic woman had paid years before. Suddenly, sickness and cancer didn't matter to me—they were just words that can't damper my love for life. I felt so much joy in simply being alive and enjoying the moment.
The wonder in that man's eyes filled my soul with such hope. Even when I returned home, I gushed with pure happiness. I have been waiting for this moment, and it finally happened for me. $87 spent on my groceries and now someone else's! It seemed like it hadn't even been my money at all. Just like everything in my life is a gift. Everything. 
Life is beautiful. Oncologists said I'd never live to see 2023, but he

re we are in 2024, and I'm so grateful. Thank G-d for experiencing the greatest win in life—just being alive. Even if my goals are different than they used to be, I've realized what really matters. It's not about the degrees we attain, the books we write, the mountains we climb; it's about helping others along the way.

A Great Way to Show Love

It seemed  like an assembly line where receptionists checked people in, phlebotomists drew labs, and nurses took vitals. At the melanoma unit in this particular cancer center, most of these things take place where patients and staff can hear each other. 

 

As I sat waiting for almost an hour, something really surprised me. Each patient would go back and talk about their journey with cancer. At first, I found it quite beautiful that they could talk there. One man in particular seemed so bottled up. I wondered if he'd ever talked with anyone about his struggles with cancer before, yet there he sat, telling everything to the phlebotomist. Another patient said they'd be getting surgery later that day. I shook inside because I've had so many surgeries over the years. I can't fathom having another one. Doctors talk about knowing where my "hard stop" will be. Is it when I'll need radiation again? Or is it brain surgery?

 

I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it's hard not to listen in, especially when it helps me feel like I'm not alone. It had been difficult getting to the cancer center that day because I needed both cancer treatments and bone infusions. These make me feel especially unwell for weeks (if not months), and it can be tough dragging myself to the cancer center for all of this. 

 

Thinking about my own plight and hearing fellow patients talk about theirs, at some point, I realized that no one had asked how the staff members were doing. The main receptionist bubbled with exuberance while helping patients, but when she didn't think anyone was looking, she seemed beyond tired. Same for the phlebotomists and nurses who had their own worries. That's when I vowed to solely ask staff members about themselves. I felt grateful patients could talk with them about everything—after all, that is their job—but for just a moment, I wanted to be the respite in the day.

 

"Elisa?" a phlebotomist called.

 

"I'm here." I stood and went to get my blood drawn. Although they couldn't see everything, I knew fellow patients could hear the conversation, and I momentarily wondered if anyone else in the waiting area was listening.

 

"How are you today?" the phlebotomist asked, looking genuinely concerned.

 

"Well, the only thing wrong with me is cancer. That's it! The real question," I turned to him, "is how you're doing. I want to know how you are?"

 

This opened up the most beautiful conversation. Instead of talking about my problems for the millionth time, I got to hear about the goodness of humanity. "This is just part-time?" I asked as he prepared to draw my blood. 

 

"I'm usually a firefighter."

 

"And that's your passion?" I asked.

 

"For sure," he said, then gave me a conspiratorial smile. "I'll tell you something most people here don't even know about me."

 

"Okay."

 

"Well, I made national news a little while ago." 

 

"For saving someone from a fire?" I guessed.

 

"No," he said and almost smiled. "My team and I have saved quite a few people and barely even made local news. But when I saved a couple of kittens from a fire, that's when I made national news."

 

"Were they in a house that was on fire?"

 

"Nope. They were under it. I had to climb under a house that was on fire."

 

"You are so brave. That's absolutely amazing!"

 

That night when I got home, I told Mike and the kids about my day at the cancer center. "I really didn't want to go because treatments are brutal, but then I decided to try making the day better for everyone around me. Whether they were facing cancer or working at the center, I asked about their lives, their days, and how they're doing. It ended up being the most incredible day. Sure, I don’t feel well, but my heart is full of the most amazing stories. I even met a man who saved kittens from under a house while it was on fire." My family thought that was pretty great.

 

Anyway, there are times when I want to share my story, but there are other moments when it's much more important to listen. I'm so glad I got to hear everyone's stories and talk with the people I came across at the cancer center. I heard some pretty wonderful things that I'll never forget.

 

My grandma once told me something, and I think she was right. She said, "One of the greatest ways to show love is by asking people about themselves." My last trip to the cancer center really proved her point.

Hope is a Powerful Motivator

 This is my second 90-minute scan since Thursday. Wow, this journey is exhausting. I didn’t fully understand how tough fighting cancer was, and like I keep saying, you never know what someone else might be going through. Be kind. 🤗

Anyway, I can hardly wait to get home, give the kids their charms from the gift shop (they love it 💓), play a board game with Mike, and snuggle Borah.

I met a family from Africa today. They were so grateful to be at the Huntsman specifically. It sounds like this cancer center might be their only hope at beating the exact cancer they’re facing. I need to remember to pray for them. To travel from soooo far away… Just the thought was sobering. And I act like Idaho is far 🤦‍♀️😅

Hope is a Powerful Motivator

 Even though I continue to fight stage four melanoma, every day that I wake up, I feel amazed.

Doctors said I’d never make it past October of 2022, so some friends got together and gave me and Mike money to bring our kids to Italy (my biggest bucket-list item). I can’t tell you how humbling that was, especially since several of those friends were also fighting cancer. Yet, they still found it in their hearts to do something kind for us despite their own struggles. Anyway, we bought the tickets almost a year in advance and, after finding surprisingly cheap prices (that felt like a miracle itself), we booked flights for a time when I would most likely no longer be alive. THIS was a huge leap of faith… but, even with our health, it’s important to make goals because hope is a powerful motivator.

I’m so proud to say that almost a year ago today (in December of 2022), we visited Italy, and it was life changing. (Mike and I both have grandparents who came from Italy, so this was extra special.)

The time spent after the expiration date (that men gave me) has been filled with beautiful moments. I’ve lived much longer than doctors predicted (going into calendar-year three—whoot!). I had a massive surgery and needed a blood transfusion, got pulmonary embolisms (blot clots in my lungs) on different occasions, needed to be hospitalized several times, went into liver failure, and almost died of sepsis before pulling out of it… But I ALSO went skydiving with my family and survived a crash landing (because of my bum leg), sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” at a semi-pro baseball game, got a real Maine Coon (Trey did, but we all love the little guy), wrote two books—one that got traditionally published, but both are now audiobooks—and now, we’ve actually seen Italy! It’s sad it took fighting cancer for me to truly “live,” but I’m grateful for the extra time and memories. 

It’s rough still having cancer and fighting sickness each and every day, but I’m so grateful to still be living. I’m not in remission but my crappy attitude sure is. 

Life is such a miracle, and I’m surrounded by the most wonderful family and friends. To the people who generously made the time since my diagnosis shine, I don’t know how to truly thank you, but I hope you know how much my family and I appreciate what you’ve done for us. 

And in regard to Italy, the people who made that happen a year ago… They gave all of us—especially my kids—memories that will last a lifetime. I know no matter what the future might be, my kids can look back and remember backpacking through Italy while Mike pushed me in my wheelchair! 😅🤗 In fact, sometimes when I’m facing bad news, possible surgeries, more radiation, and grueling treatments, I remember Italy. And those beautiful moments with my family get me through. My kids were just so happy. Unbelievably happy. Maybe Heaven simply looks like Florence the exact days we were there. Probably…

You can see pictures of that trip below. If you’d like to read more about those adventures, they’re in my memoir, “Ring the Bell”: https://amzn.to/3tBC2TI

One Single Day: The Value of Time

 The dream is always the same, my mind’s way of processing terminal cancer.

In my dream, I’ve died and I’m missing my family, wishing I could see them, talk to them, hug them… one last time.

“Would you like to go back and repeat a day from your life on Earth?” God’s voice is strong yet gentle, just like His hand—the one I’m standing in right now. I look at the giant lines on His palm and the callouses on His fingers. What type of work caused callouses on the hands of God? Is He a musician like me? Does He work and toil too?

“Any day?” I ask, unable to hold the eagerness from my voice. To see my kids, Mike, and my loved ones again, well, that sounds like… Heaven. It’s suddenly ironic how subjective Heaven must be.

“Yes, Elisa. Any day.”

I think then about the days each of my kids were born, their milestones and triumphs; the moment I met Mike, our first kiss, our honeymoon; running a newspaper in Blackfoot, Idaho, and chasing so many stories my boss nicknamed me “Scoop”; visiting Italy, Mexico, Arizona, or Missouri with family; playing my violin for crowds and feeling the pulsing unity only music can bring… Each of those days were incredible, but would I want to experience them again? Or would that tarnish the memories? Plus, I wouldn’t want to change a thing. So, I shyly look down at my clasped hands, and I do something that surprises me.

“If it’s all right, God, I’d pick a regular day, nothing special. Just a day when I can talk to everyone I love.” I think about the words then. How interesting: What my life boils down to isn’t about my career, degrees, accomplishments, or experiences. At the end, to me the only thing of value is that my loved ones KNOW how much I love them. That I believe in them. That I’m proud of them. That they matter in general but especially to me. That is all I want in the end.

“A regular day. You’re sure?” He asks.

I nod. 

“Well, to talk with everyone… You met a lot of integral people toward the end of your life. What if it’s a day with suffering? After doctors discovered melanoma had gone to your brain? You’d still pick a day like that?”

I think for a moment. “As long as I can talk to everyone I love. Well, then it would be worth it.”

—

I wake up then, and most of the time after having this dream, I’m groggy and half asleep, wondering if this is my one day to “live” again. Seconds later, I shake off these thoughts and slowly start my day. But even though I’m living in a new “normal,” and I can’t walk quite right since melanoma ate my L3 and doctors removed a section of my spine… Even though I’m actively getting treatments and throw-up bags seem to be my best friend… Even though there are days when I want to complain because doctors say I’m slowly dying… After I’ve had this dream, I stop.

If I had died and this were my “one day” to re-experience life and tell my family and friends how much I love them, would the pain and sadness about cancer matter quite so much? Probably not.

So, it’s 5 a.m. on Dec. 24th, and I woke up after having this dream again. My back is flaring with pain and the damaged nerves in my legs and arms are tingling with electric shocks and as if they’ve simply fallen asleep from lack of blood flow. But I know this is “normal” when my pain medicine wears off. When faced with something like cancer, trauma, or any terminal illness, each of us discover what price we will pay in order to live. This. Is. Mine. I chose this. And you know what? That’s okay.

So, I’ll treat today as if it were my one special day to come back. I’ll reframe the pain, try to bring joy to people around me, tell everyone in my life how much I love them, and hope today will be as wonderful as it can be.

Although I’m not in remission, my crappy attitude sure is. Even though there isn’t a cure for the mutation of melanoma that I have (yet!), I would be a fool to forget how lucky I am to even be alive. My life is pretty good. I’ve lived a year longer than doctors expected, and I’ve realized the true value of… time.

A Miracle for the Holidays

 Trey goes above and beyond to help out, but I know things haven't always been easy since oncologists diagnosed me with terminal cancer. No matter how much we try to stay upbeat, sometimes the kids get sad—like when our Doberman passed away.  

Months after this, Trey somehow became enamored with Maine Coons. "I'm so sorry, Trey. But they're just too expensive," I said. A full-blooded Maine Coon is between $2,500–$3,500. "That's more than our most expensive car!" We wanted to help Trey feel better—our Doberman had slept in his room every night—but it needed to be within reason.

"I'll get a job. I'll do anything." 

"You really want this?" I asked, and he'd nodded with such determination that I could already envision Trey, who's nearly six feet tall, holding a perfect little kitten. 

Trey saved every cent he could, and I wanted to help him, but soon we'd exhausted numerous avenues, including animal shelters, cat lotteries, and much more. 

At one point, a friend said this entire endeavor "didn't make sense" and I needed to save my energy. But they're missing the point. I just want my family to know how much I love them. Doctors say I'll never beat this, so I'm spending every second trying to build a legacy so my family will look back and say, "Hey, she loved me MORE than anything." "I was her world." Plus, I really felt that if Trey could get a Maine Coon, they'd have each other for much longer than I'm expected to live, and in the future, he might look back and think, "Mom helped make this possible for me…. Because… she loved me." Crying over my keyboard and a cup of coffee, I typed all of this into the computer and shared the story.   

"Elisa, do you hear someone coming?" Mike asked, bringing me back to the moment. We stood outside a home in Boise. I squeezed Mike's hand as we watched Indy and Trey. They both could hardly wait to see the kittens inside. 

Dana and James glowed as they opened the door. "Come in," they both said, motioning us to the living room. They'd read the story I'd shared months prior (the story about Trey wanting a Maine Coon), but I could hardly believe we were actually meeting them in person—on the other side of the state!

It's surreal, but after initially posting that story about Trey, I received an email from a woman named Erin. She wrote, "Today, I read your post about your son wanting a cat. My own adult son (24) has disabilities and was gifted a service dog many years ago. It changed our lives. I felt called to try to help you connect with a breeder."

Because of Erin, Dana heard about us... I could hardly believe how many things had to go "right" for this whole experience to take place. 

I sat down, stunned. Indy, our 13-year-old, looked like she'd gone to Cat Heaven, but Trey appeared more nervous than I'd seen him in years. "You can do this," Mike mouthed, encouraging Trey to speak up. He'd given us his speech repeatedly for almost 200 miles. Surely he hadn't forgotten it now? 

"I was wanting to… do payments for a kitten?" Trey said haltingly. "I don't know if you usually do that?" 

"I don't," Dana said kindly. "But tell me what you're looking for." 

"I would get a job, and then I'd be able to pay off all the money within a year. I'd definitely train the cat really well. I have $300 right now." 

"Do you know how much our cats are?" 

"I think my mom said $2500?" 

She paused. "They're $3500." 

Trey's face fell, but he forged on anyway. "If we raised it," Trey said, "I would try to help it become the best version of itself—and the happiest version it could be." 

"Well," Dana said, and it seemed Trey's words had deeply touched both Dana and James. "Let me run up and get one of our kittens, and we'll… We'll see what happens." 

While we waited, Mike talked with James, Trey seemed resolved, and Indy fell in love with the cats lounging like royalty beside her.

Moments later, Dana came down with a kitten, and I watched as Trey's hardened resolve fell when his eyes connected with Borah's, the kitten he'd been watching every day from afar for weeks. "He's like a celebrity," Trey had said because he constantly viewed the Mermazing Maine Coons' site and fell in love with that exact kitten.

"Trey," Dana said, "we've decided to give you a kitten. We're giving you… Borah." 

Trey held his breath, blinked twice, and seemed completely dumbfounded. "Are you… Are you serious?" They handed Borah to Trey. "I don't know what to say." Trey gently sat down, not wanting anything in the world to separate him from Borah or this moment.  

"There are no payments," Dana said. "There are no stipulations except that you keep good grades and take extra—extra—good care of him." Trey couldn't hold his emotions back. "Thank you!" He wiped tears from his eyes. 

I thought about Dana and her inspiring story. She had breast cancer at 26 years old and underwent surgeries, chemo, and radiation. The fact that she's been through so much and wanted to help us… That's when I cried along with Trey, Mike, and Indy. As huge tears rolled down my cheeks, I somehow felt the goodness of generations, the kindness that unites strangers, and the love that makes fighting cancer worth it.

"You knew I was getting Borah, didn't you?" Trey asked me. 

"Yes," I laughed, "but Dana did such a good job that about halfway through, I started to wonder if I'd misunderstood her."

Before we left with Borah and the bag of goodies Dana and James had prepared to send us with, Dana gave me a huge hug. "What have you learned from your battle against cancer?" I asked.

"I've learned that I'm strong. Doctors can give us the medicine we need, but when we work on our mental selves and say, 'Yes, I can,' we'll have the fortitude to make it through.' It's hard to remember what it was like to not be a… 'cancer person,' but I just couldn't say I was done. It wasn't a possibility." 

I nodded. "I needed to hear that so badly today. I really did." 

Trey walked by us, and we watched him cradling Borah. "I'm just shocked that you did this," Trey said to Dana and James.

"For me," Dana said, "this is better than Christmas."

So, as we drove home, truly realizing that a miracle had transpired, Trey gently sang to Borah in the backseat. 

"I feel like I'm in a dream," I whispered to Mike. "I'm just so happy. This has got to be one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for us." I thought about my upcoming appointments, and instead of being anxious like I normally am about scans and treatments, Dana's words came back to me: Yes, I can. 

"I'm so grateful we got to meet them. Dana and James, from Mermazing Maine Coons, gave us two things we desperately needed: They gave me the courage to keep going and Trey got a lifelong friend. 

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He Became One of My Heroes

The “Little Caesars Dancing Man” worked tirelessly, spinning his sign on the corner of Antelope and Main. Regardless of how hard his job must’ve been, he beamed, so happy and ALWAYS kind.
My kids were still quite little, and they’d smile and point as he’d spin the sign on his foot and flip it over his head. We saw him from our car nearly every day, and no matter what kind of crappy mood I’d been in, this stranger would always make my day better.    In fact, I received some really bad news one particular afternoon, but as I drove home, I spotted the #LittleCaesars Dancing Man, just rockin’ away to some unheard beat. The light turned red, so I continued watching his complete exuberance for life. I fully realized then; he's perpetually happy even though he's out there, working in the blistering sun or the freezing cold. He waves back and smiles. You’d think he didn’t have a worry in the world, but in actuality, he must have been so tired.
That day, I turned right instead of going straight home, parked by the dancing man, and decided to finally meet him.
“I’m Raymond.” He grinned, offering me his hand.
“I’m Elisa!” I smiled and knew an awesome friendship had begun. Then I told him what an inspiration he is—how he might not know it, but he makes life better every day for people like me and my family. He grew quiet, and I thought the words meant far more than I knew.
When I got home, I friend requested Raymond through Facebook and blogged about my experience.
A couple of weeks later, I received a letter from Little Caesars’ corporate office across the country. They’d actually read my blog and sent two $20 gift cards! They had one request: for me to keep a card and give one to someone else. I remember reading the letter in the post office, then I gave the second gift card to the post office employee, John. He said the story was even better than the money!
The whole experience felt surreal at the time. And to think, if I’d never stopped that day, I would’ve missed out on the whole adventure. 
Raymond and I became friends for well over 10 years. I watched him experience good and bad times—and he smiled the whole way through… just like he used to when he danced for Little Caesars. Then, in 2020, after doctors diagnosed me with terminal cancer, he became one of my biggest advocates, sending me encouraging messages and kind words when I needed them the most. Who would’ve thought all this would start after I saw him spinning a sign on the corner of Antelope and Main? Life is such a miracle.
I’ve had the most wonderful people, like Raymond Lowery, come into my life over the years and show me how to be strong, smile when life is the hardest, and keep going against all the odds. 

Rest in peace, dear friend. You made such a positive impact on my life. I think you did that for everyone you met though. You, well, Raymond… you were incredible. Put in a good word for me, all right? Maybe save a seat for me in Heaven? 💓