He said the dreaded words, "I give you two years to live," and my heart froze in time.
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“Two More Years is just a beautiful and emotional memoir.” ~ Rabia Tanveer, Readers’ Favorite Book Reviews (5 STARS)
I have four young kids. To not see them grow up, start their careers, get married… those thoughts seemed unfathomable. "I'm only in my 30s. You can fix this. Can't you?" I'd made so many plans.
"No. I'm sorry, Elisa. We can't."
My breath evaded me, like I already needed the ventilator—the damn life support. I wouldn't die in a car crash or some freak accident. Nope. I knew what would kill me; I just didn't know when it would happen.
The night I met Mike, an infamous bachelor, I couldn't imagine that years later I'd be battling for my life as he helped raise my four children. Yet, there we were. It was slow at first, but my view on life reverted to something it had been years before. It wasn't until I started modeling in hospital gowns, fiddling for terminal patients, and taking my kids on outlandish adventures that I discovered how to truly live again. But, despite handling so much with grace and trying to build a legacy for my family, could that reconcile the most devastating of diagnoses?
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EVOLVED PUBLISHING PRESENTS a most personal memoir of one courageous woman's battle with cancer, and her determination to make the most of whatever time she has left, including her powerful mission to help others facing a similar battle.
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Several doctors couldn’t pinpoint the root of my issues. “I’m not calling you a liar,” a specialist said. “I’m just saying we can’t find anything wrong with you. Without other evidence, there’s no way your insurance will pay for an MRI.”
Without answers, the doubts and worries crept in. Would this just go away some day, as suddenly as it had come on? I could barely walk, feeling crippled. What if I died from a strange malady that could only be found in an autopsy? Why couldn’t the “experts” help me?
Where was Dr. House when I needed him?
I mulled mortality, wondering what my purpose has been. Raising my kids, yes. But beyond that? Writing has always been an integral part of my life. I’d been a newspaper publisher. Written two memoirs and several novels, some of which met with decent success. Music, playing the violin, is a key part of who I am.
Feeling like my last lifeline hung, severed, I got an unexpected text:
She wanted you to have this.
The words brought me to a time before, when I ran a little newspaper in Blackfoot, Idaho, and wrote opinion pieces about the amazing people in town. I’d been vivacious and fun—not this shadow of myself.
While there, I briefly met a woman named Norma Furniss. Even the first time I saw her, she shone with an unforgettable intensity. Her eyes saw much more than they should have, and she carried a wisdom befitting her ninety-six years. Ever-changing like time, it appeared she’d outlive us all—and maybe that’s why her death surprised me. Yet, months later her wishes lived on, and I got that message from her son, Nolan.
He came to my house after that, and when he walked from his vehicle with that Quiet Riter—the same typewriter Norma herself had used—well, I couldn’t hold back my joy.
