EC Stilson's

Finding the Will to Live in the Midst of Darkness

2026-07-27T21:06:11.363-04:00

This past week was, without a doubt, the hardest of my entire life.

There is a specific kind of quiet that settles into a hospital room when your body begins to shut down. You can feel the energy draining out of you, cell by cell, until the idea of letting go feels less like giving up and more like finding rest. After a long, heartbreaking conversation with a night nurse, I made a choice: I prepared to go on hospice. I was ready to sign the paperwork.

Going on hospice meant acceptance. It meant insurance would stop trying to prolong my life, and we would focus only on comfort. The doctors were brutally honest with us—they didn't think I would make it more than another day. They warned my family that my body was so frail, a fatal heart attack was likely imminent. It felt unreal, surreal, and final.

Then, everything shifted.

Right at the moment I was preparing to say my final goodbyes, people started showing up. It began with my incredible family, who dropped everything and traveled from multiple states just to be in that room—to stand by me, my husband Mike, and our kids. But it didn’t stop there. Friends, acquaintances, and even complete strangers began reaching out.

Two people I had never met in my life showed up at the hospital. An incredible woman wrote me a letter and had it delivered to my room. Inside was a story of profound hope and resilience—a narrative of how she had fought and beat cancer. Every single word on that paper felt like it had been tailored specifically for my soul. It was exactly what I needed to hear, precisely when I needed to hear it.

Surrounded by this sudden, overwhelming wave of love, something miraculous happened inside me. My body responded to what my heart was feeling. Within a matter of hours, my potassium levels—which had plummeted to a dangerously low critical level—surged back up to 2.4.

When I woke up the next morning, the nursing staff seemed completely stunned. A doctor walked in, looked at my charts, and told me he had never seen anything quite like it in his entire career. He looked at me and said something that will stay with me for the rest of my days: "You must have found a reason to live."

He was right. I did.

I looked at my family, and I thought about my children. My youngest is only 16 years old. We are so close, but my deepest wish has always been to see every single one of my children reach their 18th birthday and step into adulthood. I realized in that quiet morning light that I hadn't finished my job yet. I wasn't done living because it simply wasn't my time.

This week taught me two opposing, beautiful truths. I learned that I can be at peace with dying if and when the time comes. But more importantly, I learned that my time isn't now.

Life has a way of changing on a dime. We walk through the world thinking we know what tomorrow looks like, but we truly never know what the future holds. We never know who might lift us up in our darkest, most desperate hours. We never know who will step through the door when we need help the very most.

In a matter of days, I was stunned by the kindness of strangers, blessed by the generosity of friends, and completely floored by the unconditional love of my family.

My health, to be clear, is still in a very precarious place. The road ahead isn't suddenly easy, and the medical battle isn't over. But my spirit is fundamentally changed. I used to think luck was about avoiding hardship. Now I know better. I am the luckiest person in the whole world—not because life is easy, but because I have the absolute best family and friends supporting me through the storm.

Never lose hope. Love is stronger than medicine, and as long as there is love, there is always a reason to keep fighting.

Lonely

2026-07-21T03:35:20.183-04:00

Whenever you feel lonely, look at the stars; they are the same ones I am looking at.

A Bench Named Hope

2026-06-29T23:24:57.158-04:00

Every week, I look for the silver linings in life, but some weeks feel exceptionally heavy. The other day, my sixteen-year-old daughter, Indiana, and I sat at an appointment, facing tough truths. My doctors want to change up my treatment regime, starting more intense rounds of immunotherapy, along with introducing chemo, and maybe trying radiation again. On top of that, there are terrifying "what-ifs" hanging in the balance, like a strange little spot in my brain that might be a blood vessel—or could be more cancer. We won’t know until they do more scans.

I recently had three surgeries within three months, and sometimes this can all feel like too much—the weight of it can be suffocating.

Anyway, as we finally walked outside toward the valet parking, Indiana did what she always does: She brought the light.

Exhausted, we wanted to sit down, but all of the benches were full except the one behind us where a man sat dead center, his arms spread across the backrest. His posture practically shouted, “Leave me alone.” Yet, Indy gently walked up and enthusiastically asked, “Can we sit by you? Would that be okay?”

He looked up, seeming surprised by her request and maybe even her youth—since it’s mainly adults at the Huntsman Cancer Center.

After a brief moment, he scooted over and patted the bench. “Sure.”

What followed became a beautiful reminder of human connection. Indy talked with him, and the man explained that he used to be a trucker and absolutely loved his job before cancer changed everything. He didn't offer many details about his diagnosis, and when he asked about mine, I quietly explained that things have recently gotten harder, and I might be starting more grueling treatments soon.

Even without specific details, an unspoken understanding hung in the air between us. We were strangers sharing the same battlefield, resting on the same wooden slats, trying to catch our breath.

When our car arrived, Indy looked at him, smiled brightly, and said that sitting next to him was one of the very best parts of her entire day. I voiced the same.

Then, as I started pushing my walker toward the car, moving much slower than I ever would’ve wished, something nagged at me: I hadn’t even gotten that man’s name! So, I turned around, then rolled all the way back to the bench, and reached out my hand.

“That’s Indy,” I said, nodding to my mini-me, “and I’m Elisa.”

He lit up as if I’ve just offered him the moon instead of a simple handshake, and all the remaining hardness in his demeanor completely dissipated.

“I’m Rob,” he said.

In that brief exchange of names, the heavy worries about health faded away. We weren't just cancer patients anymore; we were simply people in need of connection.

As Indy and I pulled from the curb, we waved to Rob through the window, then drove away. The quiet warmth of that encounter settled into the car, replacing the anxiety that had followed us out of the cancer center’s doors. The terrifying "what-ifs" about my treatment and that tiny, threatening spot in my brain hadn’t vanished, but they no longer felt like a solitary death sentence.

That interaction deeply moved me because despite whatever battle Rob fought, he still made our day so much better.

He reminded me that even when our bodies are failing, our capacity to offer grace, comfort, and a little bit of hope to another human being remains irrevocably intact.