E.C. Stilson's Blog

 I’ve been fighting stage 4 cancer for over five years now. In the beginning, I felt resolved and mentally willing to persevere. Recently, however, things have shifted. Although I’ve received good news—my oncologist even said I actually have a chance of beating this—there are still days when I get down.

It’s hard accepting that my capabilities have changed. I will never walk the same way again, nor will I have the stamina I had before cancer. Adrenal insufficiency caused by treatments has sapped my energy, and the radiation damage causes pain that not even my pain pump can fully dull. But one of the worst things is seeing the pity in people’s eyes when they talk with me in person.

Despite this, I try to act brave for my children. But when it’s quiet and no one is around, I wonder: Why is this happening? Why am I sick? Why am I still here when so many incredible friends have died from this?

Yesterday morning, I couldn’t help sinking into sadness. Indy and I have been working extremely hard lately, and at first, I chalked my mood up to pure fatigue—I simply can’t do what I used to. But as we worked—me on the computer and her crocheting beside me—I battled thoughts about my self-worth and destiny. I hate that I can no longer work to bring in money for my family. I hate that so much has changed. I felt like maybe I deserved this bad karma for some reason, but I knew my husband and kids didn’t deserve this.

Then, as if reading my thoughts, Indy turned to me.

“When I brought you to cancer treatments on Friday, the nurse really got me thinking,” she said. “I started realizing all the things I’ve learned from your journey. It’s taught me to always give people the benefit of the doubt, to be kind to everyone, and to never give up.”

I looked at her and thought about how hard she has worked to create inventory for her new crochet business. She’s only 15, but she’s been working on this for months, and yesterday was the culmination of everything. We took final pictures of the scarves, drafted descriptions, and listed them on her blog ( www.myfireflyfashion.com ) and eBay.

When we finally shared the launch on social media, Indy sighed with relief. “Mama, I just want you to know how much I appreciate you. You’ve done so much to help me recently—even after treatments.” Tears filled her eyes. “I just want you to know how grateful I am for you and your example, especially while you’ve been fighting cancer.”

I cried and hugged her. Suddenly, the worries faded. I no longer felt sorry for myself or my family. Instead, I felt overwhelming gratitude for the lessons, for the people my kids have become, and—yes—even for the hardship, because every second means more time with my family.

So, this Thanksgiving, I woke up overwhelmed with gratitude for my life and this journey. I went to Indy’s website and saw that she already has bids on two items!, and many people have even donated to help with her goal of saving for a foreign exchange program ( https://gofund.me/e367bde89 ). I can hardly wait to see her face when she wakes up and realizes all of this because it seems like sone sort of miracle!

So, despite the pain, the hardship, and how difficult life can be, I’m so grateful to still be alive, witnessing these milestones and seeing the joy on my kids’ faces when they accomplish something meaningful. I’m simply grateful for even a second with my family, knowing that life is precious and not even a moment should be taken for granted….

Feeling strong enough to fight another day AND eat some turkey,

Elisa

P.S. Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. I’m wishing you so much health and happiness. Best to you ALWAYS! ♥️

Even after 23 years, my heart still aches from the memories. It was Zeke’s birthday. Over two decades have passed since I first held him, a tiny bundle with velvety dark hair that I loved to trace and gently kiss. He’d only been two and a half months old when he tragically passed away, yet the memory of holding that perfect baby in my arms is as clear as yesterday.

For months after, I hated walking past his room; the empty crib felt like a gaping wound. Yet, sometimes I’d drift in, sobbing and feeling like a shell of myself as I cried on the beige carpet. It's strange how this much time has passed, yet the feeling of emptiness persists. I suppose maybe mothers never fully recover from losing a baby.

“How did you keep going after he died?” a friend asked, her voice hushed.

My answer came simply: “I have to keep going for my kids who are still here. That’s how I’ve fought cancer too, wanting to live for more time with them and my husband.”

This year, on Zeke’s birthday, after wiping a tear from my eye, I turned to my daily ritual: watering the plants my oldest daughter, Ruby, gave me. It’s a quiet moment, a connection to the bond we share. One particular plant, propagated by her and once only an inch tall, now towers tall in my kitchen window. But although I’ve meticulously taken care of it for over six months, it’s never even shown a hint of a bloom…not until Zeke’s birthday!

I gaped as I watered it, amazed at the beautiful flowers that had begun to bud.

The sight pulled at a distant memory, something I’d written in my diary while Zeke was still here. I had a dream our house burned down, and after escaping the fire, I looked back to see purple and blue pansies growing strong in the scorched desert ground! I later learned that pansies—despite the connotation their name evokes—are incredibly resilient, thriving even in winter and adversity. They are strong, just like my surviving children…just how my oldest son taught me to be.

Zeke Jackson Morris
Nov. 18, 2002–Jan. 30, 2003

That resilience has been tested again recently, reminding me that life can shift on a dime, and that our only true defense against despair is gratitude. November 18th is special because it’s Zeke’s birthday, but it also reminds me of another person who is dear to my heart…

Almost eight years ago, life gifted me an unexpected bloom in the form of two amazing people: Scott and Colleen Hancock. They entered my world and quickly became our family here in Idaho. As we got to know one another, we discovered a series of "Godwinks" that felt too providential to simply be coincidence. Shockingly, Scott’s birthday was the exact same day as Zeke’s! Then we found out that Colleen and one of my daughters share a birthday as well. Amazed, I took this as a divine sign that something Greater had planned to weave our paths together. And it really did end up that way.

Left to Right: Scott, Colleen, and Indy (my youngest)
Scott and I got to do several book signings together.
That was so neat.

However, this past year was quite devastating. Scott got sick, and the speed at which his illness took him felt beyond devastating. He passed away far too soon, leaving a void that echoed the familiar ache I’ve carried for other family members who have passed away like my grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins, best friend, and—of course!—Zeke.

Standing at the sink, staring at the blooms on my treasured plant, a specific memory of Scott came to mind. I remembered the day I told him about Zeke. I shared the pain of that loss, the type of grief that never fully heals. I remember Scott listening intently, his face softening with compassion. He smiled, the skin to the sides of his eyes crinkling softly in that warm, familiar way of his.

The little buds on the plant from Ruby.

“You will see him again,” he had said, and it wasn't a question; Scott said it with such certainty!

Now, on a day that belongs to both of them, the silence of the kitchen felt heavy, yet strangely full. As I touched the tiny petals of the new blooms, I realized that my grief had actually transformed just like this plant—my sadness had coalesced with peace. I silently wished Scott a happy birthday as well, wondering if both he and Zeke have met. Maybe they even look down on me from Heaven.

So, this Thanksgiving season, I’ve faced a hard, beautiful truth again: We must appreciate what we have RIGHT now because life changes every single second. I could stay mired in regret, sadness, and loss—grieving the time lost—but instead, I’m choosing to be overwhelmed by gratitude for the time given and the blessings shared.

Thinking about everything, I’m suddenly filled with such thankfulness for the fact that I ever got to hold Zeke in the first place. I’m grateful I got to know Scott, hear his wisdom, and enjoy his stories—even if that time was cut short. And I am profoundly grateful that I still get to talk with Colleen each week. She’s one of the most inspiring, strong, KIND people I’ve ever met. I love her so much; she is family!

When I got to hold Zeke
at Primary Children’s Hospital, 2002-2003.

Well, I guess the point is…life’s metaphorical blooms—and the physical ones that arrived precisely on Zeke and Scott’s birthday—remind me of something my grandmother once said: Beauty can be found even in heartache. 

All of this makes me so grateful because it’s a testament that when all else fails, love truly endures.

Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you’ll have the best day ever.

Zeke’s story, available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/48hNcxe: 

I worked as the publisher of a newspaper, but the real thrill wasn't in the balance sheets—I loved writing stories. So, to follow my passion, I often helped the editorial staff find interesting things in town to feature. The regional manager often laughed about this and started calling me “Scoop” because I could find a story in the most unexpected things. The editorial staff, those often cynical souls, looked at my suggestions with wariness. “The coffee group does not sound interesting,” one reporter said.

“But I know there’s a story there. I can feel it.” And sure, I’d been wrong before, but if the newsroom didn't make earnest inquiries into the lives of our readers, they’d solely be covering city council meetings and engagements with the mayor.

This all happened before I got sick with stage-4 cancer, but ironically, those years in journalism taught me something that’s often kept me afloat during this journey. It’s something my grandmother actually swore by when she urged me to follow a cliché and always stop and smell the roses. She was an interesting woman who also swore by ancient cures and old sayings.

I thought about the newspaper again, figuring that a journalist's hardest task is to help others live through what the reporter themselves sees, hears, and experiences. But it’s really important what we choose to amplify. I thought there was too much negativity when I worked for the paper, so I started focusing on human-interest stories.

Oddly enough, while seeking the best in others, I unexpectedly found the best in the world around me. I think the biggest shift came with a story about a rose bush. It was the least sensational story idea I’d ever pitched, narrowly beating out a feature on a swimming pool that got shut down. Yet, it became a front-page sensation.

For months, I’d driven past the same house, where a woman always stood meticulously pruning roses. She had the posture of a retired dancer and the determined focus of a lead violinist. One particular afternoon, driven by an impulse that was 50% curiosity and 50% nosiness, I stopped and introduced myself.

"I always see you taking care of these roses," I said, studying the unusual plant and how each rose boasted a mix of orange, pink, and white petals. 

The woman softly explained that her husband had grafted two different rose bushes together shortly before he passed away.

"I take care of it," she whispered, her eyes misty, "because it makes me feel like a part of him is still alive." Years later, she couldn't help but see the irony. “He combined two bushes that became one," she said. "It was just like our marriage." The way she said it, I knew I’d stumbled onto the kind of story that reminds you how breathtakingly beautiful life can be. I wrote everything down and even took a picture of the woman, making sure to capture the magnificent rose bush. After her story published on the front page of the paper, she showed up at the office with a tray of homemade treats for the whole staff. They were the best cookies I’ve ever tasted, and everyone beamed, watching as this once-lonely woman passed out treats and talked about how she’d made dozens of friends in town after the article ran. People stopped her at the grocery store, shared stories from their own gardens, and even asked for her secret gardening techniques.

This interaction made me wonder what inspiring stories are all around us, blooming quietly every single day. My grandma believed that we should take time to smell the roses because you never know what adventure might be waiting. You could meet a new friend, hear an inspiring story, taste the best cookie ever, or all three of the above. And trust me, meeting the Rose woman of Blackfoot was completely worth it. She changed my view forever. She changed my life with a smile and a story about enduring love. She reminded me to always find the good, even in hardship. 

The day started in a fog of self-pity, a state amplified by my husband being out of town. Every small, daily task felt monumental, so going to the courthouse (to visit the passport office) seemed completely unfathomable. But I needed to go, and as I walked into the building, the pain from my spine reared to life.

Beep! Beep! I stepped through the metal detector repeatedly to no avail. Frustrated, a woman came out from behind the bullet-proof glass. “Do you have a belt on?”

I shook my head. “I’m so sorry about this. I have a pain pump in my stomach and a metal cage in my spine from where doctors removed a cancerous tumor.”

She tried to hide her shock, and then, in the most wonderfully direct Idaho fashion, said, “Honey, if the pain pump is supposed to help you with pain,” she looked at my hunched back, “then I don’t think it’s working!”

I broke out laughing, a genuine, startled belly laugh that momentarily cut through the tension. That absurd, honest comment somehow brightened my day.

The passport office rests at the end of a looong corridor that wasn’t made for those with disabilities, and by the time I reached the halfway mark, I hunched over in so much pain that hot tears formed in my eyes. Two young men eyed me with such open pity then that my face flushed with embarrassment. 

Pity… I thought about the word and decided it’s one of the worst things in the world.

I shuffled past the men, feeling fragile and broken.

Things didn't turn around until I got to the passport counter. The woman there, Jen, beamed—so sweet and helpful. Her kindness took away all negative thoughts because she made me feel…normal. She didn’t ask if I was all right or wonder aloud what was wrong or if I hurt my back… She didn’t treat me with sympathy because of how I stand. Instead, she helped me as if I didn’t have any obvious health issues at all!

Finally, after Jen finished helping me, I shuffled over and collapsed into a visitors' chair. And that was it, the moment when my whole week changed. As I sank down, the world tilted. That simple, unremarkable chair—of all things—seemed like the most wonderful invention in the whole world. It wasn't fancy or aesthetically pleasing. It was made of simple plastic and metal. Yet, in that moment, it was such a lifesaver. It sounds ridiculous, but the relief to be sitting down became so overwhelming that an enormous wave of gratitude washed over me. I sat there, savoring the brief absence of pain. Thank goodness there are things that exist like chairs!

My thoughts turned to my dear friend, Sheri, who passed away last year. She’d reached a point where the pain from cancer had become too severe. Whether she stood, sat, or even rested in bed, she could never find a reprieve. I grieved for her losses when she did, but toward the end, it was so horrendous seeing her in such terrible pain. 

My thoughts turned to my current predicament. Sure it can hurt for me to stand too long or walk more than a short distance, but I can still find respite—and I should be incredibly grateful for that. Life can be hard, but sometimes, often in the most mundane places, it gives you a small, unexpected gift. I can still walk, laugh, find incredible people like Jen, and, most importantly, I can still spend time with my family. 

We are so often surrounded by wonderful things, but sometimes we need to look for them. They could be as close as a waiting room chair or as conspicuous as a kind receptionist.

Today, I remembered once again that a win is a win. I can enjoy life and live to the fullest, vowing to find the good in everything that I can, and that is pretty amazing. 

The paper citation arrived like a tiny wrecking ball, flattening Indiana’s composure. "I'm a failure," my daughter confessed, clutching the ticket like it was a grand jury indictment. "Our insurance will cost more, and I have this huge fine. I can't afford this." Every dollar in her savings is earmarked for a foreign exchange trip, and she seemed convinced that this fine would derail her opportunities and somehow prove that she’s a failure.

"Indy," I said, trying to keep my voice hopeful, "it’s not the end of the world. I promise.” I admitted that I, a fully grown adult with a mortgage and responsibilities, have made more mistakes than anyone I know. I guess the point is that we ALL have made mistakes.

"Mama, I feel terrible about the insurance. I really do. But there’s a little more to this than that…” She sighed dramatically. “What if this is a sign that I'm not good enough to get accepted into the foreign exchange program? It could be the universe confirming that? Maybe G✡︎d looked my driving record and thought, ‘Yeah, hard pass on the cultural exchange for this one.’”

“Indy...” I hugged her, squeezing out a laugh. "I don’t think G✡︎d or the universe sends out tickets as rejection letters. The foreign exchange folks would be crazy not to accept you. You are brilliant and kind. It’ll work out the way it’s supposed to. Grandma Stilson always said that life has a funny way of showing us exactly what we need to learn.”

Days later, something truly timely arrived in the mail: reference letters. Teachers, family, and friends all wrote glowing accounts, detailing Indy's resilience, kindness, and intellectual drive. They’d written pages and pages of evidence that Indy is, in fact, the opposite of a failure. As she read their words, I watched the excitement and gratitude flooding her features. The initial impact of the ticket and the fear of rejection all shrank into the insignificant speck they truly were. Now, the potential and goodness everyone sees in her finally became the truth she realized in herself.

“Is this what it’s been like, when people have been so kind to you as you’ve fought cancer?” she whispered, the unexpected emotional pivot hitting me hard.

Fighting cancer has definitely been a test of will for me. There have been many times when I’ve thought about stopping treatments, trading the struggle for a moment of peace. But the only reason I’ve kept showing up for infusions, radiation, and even surgeries is because I’m trying to be the person my loved ones think I am. Their belief is my reason to continue on because I simply want more time with them. 

It’s a peculiar, human paradox: We can be at our physically weakest while fighting a disease like cancer, yet it’s the love and strength others see in us that helps us persevere. “Yes,” I nodded to Indy, a lump forming in my throat. “When people believe in us, it can make even hard things seem somehow manageable.”

So, the ticket gave Indy a priceless lesson: She is not defined by her mistakes but by the good she brings to the world—the good others inevitably reflect back to her.

I am so grateful we’re surrounded by such incredible people. Their love has seen us through so much, and now it’s helping us stay strong, teaching that even a simple ticket can carry a huge life-lesson.

I still remember the day my world fell apart. Before the big C word took up residence in my vocabulary, I was a whirlwind of productivity. I managed companies, penned books, and secured grants for organizations. I measured my worth purely in achievements, stacking them up like an ever-growing tower. I’d become a complete go-getter with so much ambition and drive.

Then cancer changed my life, pulling the rug out from under me. My career became a casualty, and my self-worth dwindled to almost nothing. I couldn't keep up the frantic pace I once maintained, and the loss of purpose and meaning threatened to drown me. On a scale of capabilities, I’d fallen from a hundred down to zero, where my most incredible—and often sweat-inducing—task of the day might be locating a matching pair of socks or successfully cooking dinner without only making it halfway through.

My point of view, however, recently changed—and in the most unexpected way—after meeting an incredible woman at our local synagogue. She doesn’t just own a yarn store; she practically inspires the whole town to love yarn. She’s a vibrant, perpetually contented woman whose hands are never idle. She’s always armed with knitting meedles, her fingers flying with a serene, near-mythic speed. I've visited her a few times, and we've talked about everything from modern life to ancient religion. During one conversation as I watched her knit a gorgeous sweater, I remembered how much I used to love crocheting with my grandma.

“There’s a knitting and crocheting  group,” the woman said, her eyes twinkling as she wound a skein of gray yarn. “We meet every Sunday.” I wondered what they called themselves and came up with all sorts of silly names in my head: Knotty by Nature club, Hookers by Day, The Loose Ends, Knit Happens!

And so, after years of dismissing crocheting as a hobby I wouldn't enjoy, I finally dusted off an old crochet hook and pulled out some yarn. 

Its been weeks, and now, my youngest daughter, Indy, and I go to the knitting and crochet group together. It’s a weekly expedition into a world I never knew existed, and I’m surprised by what an utterly hilarious and heartwarming adventure this has become.

The group is a mix of ages and backgrounds, held hostage by their mutual love of knots. There’s Mary, who weaves hot pads, and Crystal who makes the best socks in the world. Clarice works at a hospital—and although I've never asked, I heard she’s a doctor who enjoys crocheting the shell stitch in her spare time, following patterns as if she’s sewing up a wound.

Somehow, these ladies, with their needles clacking like frantic chopsticks, reminded me that life isn't about the grand, headline-grabbing achievements I used to crave; it's about connection—offering love and kindness in a world that can be painfully lonely.

Anyway, last Thursday, I visited my friend at her yarn store. I found her feeling out the texture of a new shipment of yarn, and she told me a powerful story about how she went completely blind her senior year of high school, yet she refused to let that loss define her life. 

While attaining her college degree, she learned to knit, relying purely on touch, and eventually opened her business, proving that sight is not a prerequisite for vision. I listened, mesmerized, as she described the initial difficulty—the frustration of failed stitches and uneven rows—and then the flood of passion ahead felt, discovering a new kind of purpose.

“Why do you enjoy it so much?” I asked, nestled into a comfortable love seat at her shop.

But she didn't respond right away, and instead, her fingers traced the delicate pattern of a knit scarf. “It gives me a sense of accomplishment,” she finally said simply, and her words hit home.

I kept thinking about her insight that night, and I felt somehow lighter. Though cancer treatments often make life almost unbearable—and on days it can feel tough to even leave my bed, I realized I can sometimes still crochet, even lying down! This wasn’t a grant proposal or a book launch, but it was just as fulfillling. This felt like a small, quiet win, a piece of worth I could forge for myself, one repetitive loop at a time.

So, I recently finished a cat outfit—my first semi-nice project—and gave it to my oldest daughter, Ruby, for her kitty. Seeing the genuine joy on her face, I felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment, not because I’d done something to further my own ambitions but because I’d made my daughter happy.

In that moment, my grandmother’s quiet wisdom echoed in my mind: “Everything changes. The trick is to keep looking for what makes life worthwhile.”

Right now, that’s creating small, slightly lopsided gifts for my kids and knowing that I still have a place in this world. We don’t always need huge victories. Sometimes, the greatest accomplishment should simply be that we’re here, still moving forward, one hopeful stitch at a time.

The conversation started innocently, a casual chat with a friend that quickly veered into the deep waters of parental expectations. My friend, a genuinely pure soul, confessed that he’d felt inadequate his entire life, a wound inflicted by a father who seemed to measure masculinity in touchdowns and a wake of heartbroken women. This topic sparked thoughts about society still clinging to the outdated myth of the "tough guy"—the man who never cries, is completely independent, and certainly never watches musicals.

I recounted a story to my friend. It’s often attributed to the Talmudic era, around 200 C.E. This wasn't just a quaint historical anecdote; it’s a profound illustration of how much our values have changed in two millennia. Wise men back then understood that true strength shouldn’t be reflected in the size of someone’s biceps but rather in the size of their character.

Just elaborating on this story made me smile. I could almost see it: the scene of a bustling building, filled with the scent of aged parchment and bright oil lamps. The protagonist is a revered rabbi, known as the greatest theologian of his time. He has a reputation for turning away even the most brilliant minds if they lack qualities he found most impressive….

Anyway, a young man appeared at the rabbi’s door one afternoon. Let's call him Dave. Despite his scant years on earth, Dave had already conquered everything that came his way. He stood so physically powerful that he could push a boulder up an entire mountain! His mind remained equally formidable, and the young man could’ve excelled in any high-ranking position, from rich merchant to military strategist.

Yet, here he stood, hands scrubbed clean, clothes meticulously neat, with only one request: “Please, rabbi, let me be your student. I seek wisdom.”

The older man looked beyond Dave’s strong arms and clever eyes, and after a long moment, with a twinkle of mischief, the rabbi said, “If you truly want to learn from me, you must pass a test.” He paused. “So, tell me, Dave: What makes a man?”

Dave’s mind, usually swift and logical, seized up. He thought of strength, loyalty, wealth, piety, and courage. He could easily recite the traditional virtues. Yet, something told him the great rabbi wanted something more.

He thought for a long time, the silence stretching into uncomfortable minutes. Finally, he shook his head, a gesture of intellectual defeat rare for him. “I can’t do that, rabbi,” he admitted. “If I were to show you what makes a real man, it would defeat the entire purpose of what I embody and who I try to be.”

The rabbi’s eyes widened with intrigue. “Come back tomorrow at sunset,” he said. So, the young man bowed and left, shoulders slumped in frustration. 

But Dave didn’t realize that the rabbi, a surprisingly spry ol’ fellow, followed him that night. The older man had no intention of waiting for more pleas; he wanted to see what this seemingly perfect young man would do when he thought no one was watching.

The following morning, well before dawn, Dave woke up. He didn't head to flirt with women, waste his money on trivialities, or boast about his exploits. Instead, Dave quietly, almost furtively slipped coins into the pockets of the destitute—not bothering to wait for a "thank you." He anonymously left a basket of fresh fruit and bread at the door of a widow who was too proud to ask for help. He spent an hour fixing a broken door for an elderly neighbor whose back had become frail and brittle.

In short, he performed countless acts of kindness selflessly and altruistically. Dave appeared driven by a profound, internal sense of duty and compassion. He was just genuinely…good.

As requested, the young man met with the rabbi at sunset.

“Why couldn’t you show me what makes a man?” the rabbi asked, his expression unreadable.

Dave’s authentic answer came out boldly: “Because the type of person I want to be is kind, gentle, and thoughtful. I should be that way without demanding recognition or asking for anything in return—not even the approval of the world’s greatest scholar. It’s not something you do for an audience. It’s simply a way of being.”

Dave understood that the moment he demonstrated kindness as proof of his masculinity, it would cease to be genuine and become a performance—a selfish egotistical act.

A knowing smile spread across the rabbi’s wrinkled face because he now saw a man not defined by societal expectations but by humility and self-control. He immediately took Dave as his student, knowing he’d found a young man who would retain the lessons he wanted to teach.

Whether this story is historically accurate or just a fable (that I’ve definitely taken liberties with), its lesson is timeless. The moral shows that strength lies in kindness. We often mistake gentleness for weakness, forgetting that it takes incredible internal fortitude to remain compassionate when it could be much easier to turn cynical, bitter, or aggressive. It takes immense self-mastery to choose goodness when succumbing to our animalistic, self-serving impulses could be our natural reaction.

For my friend and anyone struggling with the burden of toxic expectations, the message is clear. What makes a man is not how tough or manly he can appear. What makes a man is the kindness he practices when no one is watching. Ultimately, gentle, thoughtful power makes any person exceptional, regardless of gender. I truly believe that kindness is the secret ingredient that makes every truly good person an incredible human being.

For a lot of summers, my grandparents would roll up in their motor home. I’d bound in, and we’d jet off like bandits escaping a high-stakes heist.

Grandpa drove, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, while Grandma Beth and I settled in the back. This was the '80s, mind you, but our entertainment system was firmly stuck in the 1930s-‘50s. They owned a portable VCR and a hefty stack of black-and-white VHS tapes that showcased old Hollywood glamour. I loved those films too much, always wishing I'd been born in another time, preferably one that required elegant gowns and numerous song-and-dance numbers. While Ginger Rogers twirled on the tiny screen, Grandma taught me everything from tinsel painting to origami, always optimistic that my adolescent hands could handle even the most delicate work.

One summer, the TV blared “As Time Goes By” from “Casablanca.” Grandma’s eyes, previously fixed on the dramatic scene, suddenly darted to a basket of yarn. "You'll love this," she said, her voice cutting through Humphrey Bogart's world-weary dialogue. 

She deftly turned a simple loop into a chain, the hook flashing in the dim light. And as Rick told Ilsa, "Here's looking at you, kid," that’s how I learned to crochet.

I thought about all of this today because the scene felt comfortingly similar. My youngest daughter, Indy, curled up next to me. But instead of the bumping rumble of a motorhome and an old film score, the cool, blue glow of a Netflix series washed over us. I passed her a crochet hook and a slightly large ball of variegated yarn.

“Okay, loop it through,” I instructed, imagining the phantom presence of Grandma Beth nearby.

As Indy worked, the yarn’s color shifted—from a rusty orange to a pale pink, a sunny yellow, and finally, a perfect lavender. And as the colors changed, so did our conversations, the steady stream of our spoken thoughts mirroring the progress of the stitches. In the orange section, she talked about her boyfriend and navigating the complex world of teenage relationships. The pink and yellow brought out a funny moment from her marching band practice. But when we finally made it to the lavender, my baby girl talked about her hopes for the future and how deeply she loves dreaming about the life she’s striving to have as an adult.

This simple moment became a shared space, a confessional woven into a gorgeous scarf. Each completed row seemed to pull out a different moment from Indy’s life. These weren’t just crochet rows; they became a colorful, albeit slightly misshapen journal of our secrets. I’m still unsure why, but the depth of her words and the memory of my childhood suddenly filled my eyes with tears.

So, that night, I dug through the back of my closet and finally found something extraordinary: a small section of the blanket I crocheted with my grandma. Even this tiny piece looked lopsided and utterly amateur, filled with so many skipped stitches and tension struggles that it seemed subpar. Yet, holding it now felt like the most beautiful thing in the world. It wasn't the quality of the craft that mattered; it was the quality of the time.

I thought about something my sweet grandmother wrote in her "happiness file,” and I couldn’t help but smile: "At the end of it all, the most treasured moments are with the people we love."

I’m so grateful to be sharing her legacy with my own children. Who knew that a little quiet time and a ball of yarn could connect one heart to the next? I guess my grandma did.

The trip Mike planned for our tenth anniversary was beyond anything I could’ve imagined. The cozy little cabin and the scent of pine and damp earth felt perfect. We spent our first day there at a nearby hot spring, just talking, filling the world with laughter. And it was so much fun that for a while, I forgot about cancer. But my body has a cruel way of reminding me. 

After returning to the cabin, a crushing wave of fatigue and a deep ache settled into my bones. I fought it, trying to keep my eyes open and smile bright, but I’d begun failing.

“I’m so sorry, Mike,” I finally whispered, the words catching in my throat. “Don’t let me ruin this for you because I’m sick.”

As Mike’s brow furrowed with tenderness, and he appeared somehow even more handsome. He reached out to gently brush a stray hair from my face. “Just worry about feeling better so we can have a blast when you’re recooped.”

I wanted to say more—to tell him how much this trip meant—but my eyelids felt heavy as stones. I could only manage a slow nod before falling asleep.

When I woke up a little while later, Mike was gone. I knew he probably went out walking, maybe grabbing a beer from a quaint restaurant nearby. Apparently, Mike’s version of "experiencing life" is hearing stories from elderly men at the bar, and I love hearing my husband talk about it.

An idea sparked in my mind. It was our anniversary. We couldn't hike or dance together, but we could still do something fun. So, I grabbed my phone and propped my head back on the pillow. I clicked the talk-to-text feature and closed my eyes while telling a story into my phone, talking about the day Mike and I met.

When the cabin’s door opened again, Mike walked in, his cheeks flushed from the cool air. He looked at me with that signature warmth that somehow washed away my stress and made me feel worthwhile despite all the ways my health has changed our lives.

“You’re still pretty sick?” he asked, his voice soft.

I nodded sadly.

“Well, I went out and had fun, but what I really want is to be here,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, “with you.”

“I thought of something fun,” I replied, my spirits lifting. “If you’re up for it?”

His eyes lit up. “Always.”

“Can you write a chapter about how we met?” I asked. “I wrote one too. Maybe we can read them to each other and compare notes on who has a better memory!”

“Sure!” he grinned.

So, instead of letting my illness derail the entire trip, we turned a bad situation into a "writers' convention" right there in the cabin. 

We had so much fun that we wrote on the way home, ending with seven chapters each! 

Reading his side of the story is hilarious; he describes our first date as the time he’d "never felt so romanced" in all of his life. I’ve laughed and even cried a couple of times, mostly because it’s so dang heartwarming.

A line from my grandma’s happiness file came to mind: “We all matter.” It’s so true. And that’s really what Mike does for me. Despite the treatments, the exhaustion, and the way my abilities have been altered, he never treats me like a burden. He always shows his love in every quiet look and kind word, which helps me know that I matter.

Not long after our vacation in the cabin, I went to see my oncologist. They did scans, and something shocking happened. I no longer have any cancer in my brain, which is miraculous news. I still have some cancer at the base of my skull and at the bottom of my spine, but all the other spots are gone! I had tumors in my pelvis, my hip, growths in my lungs, and at one point, every single vertebra in my spine. But now I only have cancer in two places. This feels like a miracle after all of this time!

“This is absolutely incredible.” I hugged Mike so tightly after the appointment. Maybe we have more chapters to write in life after all? I sure hope so! I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

The world shrank to the size of the sterile tube around me. The machine’s clamoring thump-thump-thump resounded, a loud drumbeat against my skull. Its cold, impersonal surface became my only companion as it scanned my body, searching for more melanoma. Every three months, I “get” to spend a few hours in that tube, being reduced to a simple gown and my soul. It’s probably bizarre, but MRIs always remind me of how we’ll leave this world. As I take off my jewelry, magnetic eyelashes, and hair clips, I soberly remember that we will all—at some point—leave EVERYTHING behind. 

You'd think I’d be used to scans by now, but sometimes I still get so afraid, thinking about how the same device that's supposed to keep me above ground is ironically similar to a coffin. In these moments of terror, the only thing that saves me is my imagination. And I've come to appreciate the power of good memories. It’s a game I play, a mental escape. One moment I’m trapped in the MRI machine; the next, I’m back on a pier in Jamaica during my honeymoon. The salty air brings my senses to life, and the gentle lap of waves against the wooden planks tames my soul. I sit with Mike, planning our perfect future filled with happiness...and health... How precious that word sounds now that so much has changed.

The machine continues its tha-whumping, but my mind can’t bear to focus on that. Instead, I’m lost in a highlight reel of my life, a dance through the past that I’ve been ridiculously lucky to live. I see myself in a hospital room, holding my newborn babies for the first time, staring at them with a wonder that felt bigger than the universe. I remember the magical moments of getting old-fashioned photos in Jackson Hole and playing card games in a cramped cabin with our kids. I think of traipsing across Italy while Mike pushed me in my wheelchair, and the kids pointed out beauty in everything as they ate gelato. I recall our family playing tag in Goblin Valley, as the kids ran here and there, living to the fullest. Each memory is a unique stone in a mosaic of my life, and as I piece them together in that awful machine, a surreal picture forms.

The fear and anxiety have left. Regrets and mistakes fade, nowhere to be found, replaced by a gratitude so fierce my chest aches. I’m not defined by this disease or the hardships I’ve endured. I'm a wife, a mother, a daughter, and a friend. I’ve lived a full, beautiful life, and all I have to do is close my eyes to remember. It really is in the darkness that the best moments of life truly shine.