EC Stilson's

We Became Family

2026-05-25T22:35:03.299-04:00

They say that when someone is dying, the world can shrink down to a single room. For the past week and a half, I’ve felt the truth in those words because a certain room—the living room at Ralph’s house—has felt like my entire world.

It’s an odd feeling, when the vastness of life simplifies to four walls and a hospice bed. Even though I currently have my own physical limitations, still recovering from a major spinal surgery, nothing on earth could’ve prevented me from visiting my dear friend, Ralph, while he’s experiencing such tough times.

Ralph is in his 90s and is easily one of the most brilliant, deeply philosophical people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. In his prime, he worked as a court reporter, but in his free time, when he wasn’t enjoying his time as a father and husband, he loved fishing and discussing the complexities of the universe.

Now, that’s changed. He can only say a few words, existing mostly in profound silence. And sitting beside him through this struggle, I find myself traveling backward through memories.

I think about the Father’s Days he spent with us, sitting in the best chair, laughing at our terrible jokes. I remember the undeniable warmth he brought to our Thanksgiving table year after year. We never shared a last name or a drop of DNA, but somewhere along the way, the years seamlessly transformed Ralph into an irreplaceable part of our family.

As I sit near his hospital bed, I think back to the sunny afternoon he took my two youngest kids to a soccer field to teach them the art of fly-fishing. He patiently demonstrated how to flick their wrists, sending fishing lines and barbed hooks slicing over the emerald grass. Another time, my son—at eleven years old—confidently tried to read Ralph’s future, predicting that he’d abandon all intellectual pursuits and get a job playing Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. At first, a quizzical look slid onto Ralph’s face before he roared with laughter.

Those memories are pure gold, but I’ve realized that even the present—despite these trying circumstances—is priceless because Ralph somehow manages to make everything brighter for the people around him.

The other afternoon, while Ralph napped in his hospital bed, the neighbors’ dog darted into the house, jumped on Ralph’s legs, and cuddled up to him. This dog is a character, and even though he only has one eye, he sees a lot better than most people do. He doesn’t actually belong to Ralph—but no one has the heart to tell the dog that. And, like a self-appointed guardian, Snuffy loves Ralph more than anyone on earth. So, I smiled at the dog and didn’t move him or put him outside. Instead, I remained sitting in the chair beside them, gently holding Ralph’s frail hand, and wishing Snuffy could comfort him.

Ralph’s son asked if he could take a quick trip to the store, and I said, “Absolutely. Take your time.”

The air felt so still after Ralph’s son left, and before I knew it, a heavy wave of exhaustion washed over me….

I had the strangest dreams then, about trying to save Ralph, hoping to find the fountain of youth. Snuffy was there too, wanting to help. But no matter how much closer we moved toward Ralph, the farther away he seemed to be.

When I finally woke up, the afternoon light had shifted, casting long shadows across the floor. Ralph had woken up, too, and he looked over at me with an expression of such profound kindness and unconditional love that I blinked, wondering if this was another dream.

“Ralph?” I said, smiling at him and then Snuffy.

He nodded and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow, I’m just like this dog,” I said. “You can’t seem to get rid of either one of us!”

He laughed, a genuine, wheezing sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes and lit up his face with a brilliant smile. But after a moment, the smile faded into a look of intense concentration. He desperately wanted to say something. His lips moved, his brow furrowed, but the words simply wouldn't come. For a man who spent his entire life mastering language and philosophy, I knew this sudden change must be beyond devastating.

Seeing his struggle, I gently squeezed the hand that I still held. “You don’t need to say a word, Ralph. I’m just happy being here with you.”

The tension and frustration drained from his face only to be replaced by a deep, heavy peace that seemed as tangible as the air we breathed. Ralph and I turned our heads and gazed out the window together, watching the leaves rustle in the afternoon breeze. Two squirrels ran by, and a few birds swooped into view, chirping and eating the seeds in a bird feeder.

When I looked back at my friend, he seemed so…happy. I realized that we didn't need words. In that simple room, love was the only language required. After all these years, we’d somehow become family.

The Weight of a Feather: Finding Light in the Trenches

2026-05-06T14:23:00.004-04:00

Life has a strange way of shifting gears without warning. One minute, you could be deep in the trenches, fighting health battles or navigating the heavy stress of family issues and future concerns. Then, the next second, a sudden "bright spot" might break through the clouds, changing the entire landscape.

This week, I found myself bracing for the storm. I’ve been dealing with a new tumor in my spine, and the physical pain has compounded with the news that my surgery date has moved up. Looming over everything I felt desperate to keep a tandem event where my youngest daughter would be featured by her art and I’d get to sign books next to her.

We’ve been looking forward to this for months, but with the increased pain and the looming surgery, I didn’t know if I could pull it off. So, I waited a few days before the event to make a decision. Then, the unexpected happened: I started feeling a lot better!

It seemed like a miracle as I helped Indy set up, and we watched for the event to begin. She hugged me so tightly, “Thank you for doing this with me,” she said. “I just know we’ll never forget it.”

That evening, I watched Indy as she showcased items she’s worked on for months—crocheted scarves, hats, and phone holders. She looked radiant, chatting with friends from school and people who’d heard about her upcoming journey to Italy this August.

When my own booth grew quiet, I’d sneak over to catch a glimpse of Indy. Seeing her thrive, watching her navigate any “obstacle” with grace, has been a gift I didn't know I needed. In the past, I’ve had to cancel numerous engagements because of poor health or hospitalizations. So, being present for Indy’s showcase felt like a hard-won victory.

But the universe had one more surprise waiting. A woman named Ann and her friend, Carol, walked up to my booth. Ann is one of those people who’s unforgettable—shining, exuberant, and full of a life force that felt contagious. Carol seemed trustworthy and kind, the type of friend everyone hopes for but rarely find.

As we talked, Ann said she’s been reading my columns for a while and she brought something to give me. My breath caught as she handed me a “Blessing Feather” because Ann had no idea about the new tumor in my spine. She had no way of knowing about the looming surgery or how scared I’ve been this time around. Usually, I handle surgeries with a bit of stoicism, trying to be tough for my family, but this time….I’ve really been struggling. And just when I needed a miracle, Ann and Carol came my way.

Ann gave me a piece of paper explaining the significance of the gift. It said that in many Native American traditions, birds are believed to be messengers for the Creator, embodying a spirit that is sacred. While the birds vary by tribe, a feather is often given to those fighting illness or cancer as a symbol of spiritual protection, strength, and valor. The note read: “Use this wisely and often for strength, protection, and guidance.”

At the time of writing this, the surgery is tomorrow, and as I look at that beautiful feather, the fear hasn't entirely vanished, but it has changed. I no longer feel like I’m heading into surgery alone. I feel acknowledged, seen by a stranger who became a friend at exactly the right moment.

Life is often a series of grueling battles, but it is also filled with miracles. Not only did I get to witness my daughter shine as an artist, but I remembered that even when we’re fighting hardships, there is still good to be found. I feel so fortunate to still be here, experiencing whatever life has to offer.

Just Within Reach

2026-04-24T16:17:00.001-04:00

We often think of a bucket list as dreams that will happen “someday"—a compilation of things we’ll do when the time, money, and goals align. For me, after doctors diagnosed me with cancer, my bucket list took on a totally new meaning.

Now, I’ve lived almost four years longer than predicted, fighting just to see my kids grow up. My youngest daughter, Indy, recently stopped me in my tracks, explaining that while this battle has been “horrendous” for all of us, even this has changed our family for the better. “We’re all so much closer, and we've worked really hard to make good memories.”

Still, although we’ve done many incredible things together and checked numerous items off my bucket list, two things have felt truly out of reach. One of them is “Number 19: Go Up Slate Mountain Trail Again.”

If you’ve ever been to Slate Mountain, you know its magic isn't immediate. At first, it’s just a bridge and a climb. But as you ascend, the world opens up. At the summit, where the earth drops away into a panoramic expanse, it takes your breath away and renews your sense of wonder.

Over the years, I’ve seen rock chucks, mice, a bobcat, snakes, turkeys, sage hens, deer, and even a moose. And somehow, that trail felt like the backdrop of my life before I got sick: I trained there for a marathon; my husband, children, and I would hike until our lungs burned and our hearts almost burst with happiness; we'd picnic by the water; and I’d bring my violin and fiddle in the meadow.

But I haven’t been able to go back since 2020….

Following multiple surgeries and the physical toll of various treatments, my ability to walk far has diminished. Despite not being able to physically get there, Slate Mountain has filled my dreams. During hours-long scans or radiation, I’ve transported myself there. I’ll imagine sitting by the stream, the cool air on my face as I visit with my family in a world where sickness and death don’t exist.

So, I wrote two things on my bucket list as a tribute to a version of myself that no longer existed, and they truly felt unattainable:

Number 19: Go Up Slate Mountain Again

Number 20: Grow Old with Mike

Then, time marched on.

Last year, my parents gifted me a mobility scooter. At first, it just seemed like a tool for navigating grocery stores without collapsing. But this spring, as the Idaho air warmed, my family suggested the unthinkable: "Let's try the trail."

I shook my head, not wanting to set us up for failure. But, looking at my son’s hopeful smile, I donned a brave face and suddenly agreed to try.

What followed felt like a dream. My spirit came alive as the wind whipped past me. That scooter actually roared up the trail like a four wheeler, biting into the dirt and bouncing over the rocks. At one point, I actually outpaced my family, and honestly, I felt like…I was flying.

Then, in the quietude, sitting "ahead" of the group and waiting for them to catch up, a flash of color caught my eye. So, I gently stepped off the scooter and edged forward. There, waiting magestically on the path—like an angel!—stood a huge, wild peacock. Its feathers weren’t fanned, but the deep purples and iridescent blues still shone electric against the mountain. Within seconds, the bird cocked its head, a silent acknowledgment of my presence, then it disappeared into the brush.

I don't know the formal symbolism of peacocks, but in that moment, it felt like a breadcrumb from Heaven; the little miracle I needed to remember that our world is sometimes surreal, too beautiful for words.

I recently learned that I need another surgery. It feels daunting and exhausting. If I didn't have children or the dream of seeing their futures—if I didn't have Mike and the "outrageous" bucket list moments we’ve had—I might’ve given up by now.

But last week taught me something.

When I crossed “Number 19: Go Up Slate Mountain Again” off my bucket list, the wording struck me. As an editor, I’m usually picky about verbs, yet I hadn't written "’Walk’ Up Slate Mountain,” “Run,” or "Hike." I’d simply written: “Go.” “‘Go’ Up Slate Mountain Again.” I’d been more exact about my goal and less concerned with how we got there. I just wanted to make it happen with my family.

Sometimes we get so caught up in “how” we expect to reach our dreams that we lose the passion we had in the first place. We think that if we can't walk or hike—or run—or be “normal,” attaining our goals must be impossible. But sometimes it’s worth thinking outside of the box.

Sure, I didn't “hike” that mountain, but I still made it—as that peacock is my witness! And as I face this next surgery, I’m holding onto the fact that miracles are around us every day if we just take the time to look. It turns out that when you try and really put yourself out there, the "unattainable" might actually be within reach.