Category Archives: Glioblastoma

What Hope…?


A couple of days ago, a brain cancer charity let me know that I am one of the top 10 influencers on Twitter for brain cancer. The data measurement is done through a service that serves the healthcare industry only.

I haven’t known how to feel about it. I mainly share studies and medical articles aimed at treatment for Glioblastoma. As is logical.

I used to be one of the top 20 influencers in crochet, but… that’s another story.

As I read the note, I was teary-eyed. My son was in the room when I read the note, and he queried the look on my face.

I don’t know how to feel, and I’m kinda sad, I said. I can barely do what I do. I don’t have any resources, and I can’t create a charity or foundation yet. Brain cancer patients suffer so much for lack of research funding.

And here, I make the rank of top influencer on Twitter.

What hope is there for a cure if *I* make the top 10? Because I have not yet been able to do much. I don’t have time to network or chat. I cannot unleash my full dedication to move mountains, create a foundation and find a way to help. All I can do is share links to studies. I don’t even have the bandwidth to write much about it.

And my son said, “Excuse me? What do you mean, what hope? With everything you’ve been through, even while working as hard as you do, you still manage to help. Something good is born. The willpower to make a difference with literally nothing but your determination to do so. You demonstrate the difference that a single person can make, even with nothing. To be an influence for good in the world. And if that isn’t hope, I don’t know what is.”

A second revelation dawned as I felt the truth in his words.

Even one imperfect voice can matter.

I love that kid of mine. And sometimes, he has me in awe.


April 8, 2020
7:10am

Copyright © 2020, Julia Meek Chambers, all rights reserved. No part of my post, writing, or words may be copied and shared without my express written permission and attribution.

Hope

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Filed under Community, Friends and Family, Glioblastoma, Grief, Random Thoughts, Writing

When You Think Of Donations, Please Consider This Mission For The Glioblastoma Community…


If you have been diagnosed with a Brain Tumor you are not alone.

Meet my friend Greg Cantwell. He is now a 16-year glioblastoma survivor (aka GBM, grade 4 brain cancer). He is also one of two Texas brain tumor advocates to the State. He created a 501C3 called Greg’s Mission for the sole purpose of helping other brain cancer patients – because he’s been there and he knows!

Greg is here to help other glioblastoma patients navigate the system so they can make educated and informed decisions on what’s best for them.

After all, it’s their life!

If you know someone with glioblastoma, or any form of brain tumor (remember, even benign brain tumors KILL) – get them in touch with Greg for support. His services are free to brain tumor patients and their families.

Brain cancer patients have a much lower survivability rate without an advocate. It’s just reality. And most small hospitals do not understand enough about GBM to act quickly enough to educate patients and their families fast enough. In many cases, the smaller local hospitals don’t understand anything about this rare disease at all.

Greg plays a very important role in the brain cancer community and helps patients and their families all around the US.

However, this mission needs financial support.

Brain cancer remains the least funded of all cancers. This is true for research, for financial aid and for cancer support systems that help families with the stress and aftermath of living with brain cancer.

As important as Greg’s services are, as much as brain cancer hospitals rely on and refer patients to Greg for coaching and support, due to insurance regulations and laws, his advocacy services are not considered insurance billable services.

And therefore, the only way Greg can continue this mission – to help glioblastoma patients navigate the system when they have the fastest moving cancer known (glioblastoma can double in size every 2-3 weeks) – is to rely on donations. And most glioblastoma patients cannot afford to donate themselves!

Please share this information and consider supporting Greg’s Mission.

Something as simple as registering Greg’s Mission through https://smile.amazon.com and letting your purchases benefit his 501C3 charity will go far to make a difference in the lives of brain cancer patients and families everywhere.

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Filed under Glioblastoma, NaBloPoMo

Ember…


The mountains are so pretty at sunset.

I gaze into the light.

Blinded above.

Blinded below.

Beautiful trees in my peripheral.

A warm wind swirls across my cheek and I disconnect from my body for a while.

I focus on the gift of sight.

Please God. I wanted him to see Montana.

It feels just like him. Rocky and beautiful.

Air flows around me, separating the barbs of my feathers.

I feel each loosen as I close my eyes.

Arms surround me from behind,

as a head of soft dark hair leans into my shoulder.

I loosen my soul to blend with his.

An eternal moment, destined to pass.

My skin crackles.

The fire burns so hot now.

I don’t want to go.

I don’t want you to go.

I don’t want to be reborn without you.

Please, hold my hand. Don’t leave me.

Knowing is a consuming crown.

Ashes smoke the air.

Desperately. Don’t. Want. This.

My fearless Force of Nature.

You kissed my tears and told me once that you would find me.

That nothing would stop you.

The Raptor I set free, returned but for a while.

Life without your comfort is unconscionable.

I try to calm the smolder.

Afraid to breathe on the embers of my own heart and soul.

Hold the space a little longer please.

“I’m burning up a sun, just to say goodbye.”

— July 31st, 2017 —
Copyright © 2017 by Julia Meek Chambers, all rights reserved.

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Filed under Glioblastoma, Poetry, Random Thoughts, Writing

I Will Find A Way…


It is difficult to minister to the spouses of the terminally ill.

But somebody has to reach a hand back into the darkness.

Somebody has to.

I cannot turn my back knowing what I know.

Caked in mud, blood and tears.

For now, it is my hand.

Someday, somehow, I will find a way to do more.

Helping hand

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Filed under Glioblastoma, Widowhood

Roses – Pins for a Cause…


In honor of John’s fight against Glioblastoma and for Brain Cancer Awareness Month, our daughter Jack has designed a “Charity Rose” enamel pin to help raise funds for brain cancer research and awareness.

She is donating all profits to the Dr. Marnie Rose Foundation, which is one of the only foundations that raise money for brain cancer research. Many thanks to Mrs. Rose and Little Matt’s for their support and encouragement along the way as Jack’s vision for this project took shape.

John’s favorite flower was the red rose, so it is fitting that this first dedicated pin be a rose. Jack designed both a red rose and a special grey rose for Brain Cancer Awareness Month. It all started with her drawings, which she then modeled into the many necessary digital files that only she knows how to do.

It is a beautiful design, manufactured in high-quality materials, partnered through one of the most notable pin design companies in the US – and worthy of attention.

There are 150 roses in this first run. Please help Jack reach her fundraising goal and spread the word? If ever there was a cause that I’d appreciate your help with promoting, this is one of them. Thank you for helping her make this work.

https://www.etsy.com/listing/689262850/charity-rose-enamel-pin-brain-cancer

Rose Enamel Pins - Raise Money for Brain Cancer Research - Glioblastoma

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Filed under Artist Information & Notes, Community, Glioblastoma, Jack Designs, Mixed Media and Oddities, My Recommends

Bearing Witness…


In the last couple of weeks, two more of John’s and my friends from college have passed away from cancer, both leaving behind orphans and grieving spouses. That’s something like 11 people now that John and I went to college with, who have passed away from cancer in the last 3 years. All in their 40’s. All from a theology college of less than 1200 students. A college that closed its doors 3 years after I left and no longer exists, except in memory.

Our alumni community as a whole is shocked and grieving, as two of our best fought hard and died. And as my worries since John’s death have multiplied and as our wedding anniversary approaches just before Christmas, I would be lying if I said I am not struggling to survive every day. John and I would have celebrated 23 years together on the 23rd before Christmas. We got married on Christmas weekend to make it easier on our friends around the country to be able to attend. I struggle with a lack of luster and motivation now that I never knew possible, even during John’s fight. A lack of motivation that only comes from loss caused by death. I think perhaps my lack is more significant than expected in part because of how long and hard the fight was. If he’d passed away suddenly, there wouldn’t have been time to hope. He wouldn’t have worked his butt off, hoping doctors would learn as much as possible from him, only to feel like it meant nothing. At least during the fight we had hope. But in the end, I could not save John’s life. And either neither could, or would, God. Now, there is no hope in the physical life. There’s only hope in death. When you’ve lived a life of service and it’s all you know, such terrible losses and traumas are extremely hard to justify, or recover from. If what I do here on this plane does not make a difference, then where is the motivation in this life.

Megan Divine is an expert in extreme grief and loss. You can find her website at https://www.refugeingrief.com. She created a helpful video titled, How Do You Help A Grieving Friend?, which I’ve shared below.

In my struggle to find words, I’ve voiced much of what this video points out. It’s all true. Witnessing is the most powerful thing in the enduring and bearing of grief. Opportunity to speak and experiences to be heard are invaluable.

When half of you dies and life speeds on and everyone else goes back to living, we feel trapped in a madness no one else sees. Because it *is* a madness no one else knows without having experienced it. And the only way out is to give it voice with witnesses.

My experience with the trauma of glioblastoma and John’s death has made me think about my philosophies on parenthood even deeper. When my kids fell and got hurt, I didn’t interpret their pain for them (that must really hurt) nor did I deny it’s existence (aw, you’re not hurt) either. I held them as they cried, let them tell me about it while taking care of anything I knew needed attention and then figured out how to guide them in their emotions based on how they were processing them. I realized that there were times that my children felt trapped, waiting for someone to notice that something was wrong. For someone to stop them and give them the chance to speak. Part of my job was being a detective too and not just expecting that my kids knew they could talk to me, but proving it. They needed to process and they needed to feel safe with me to do it in a healthy and useful way. They needed a chance to evolve carefully emotionally. I didn’t need to tell them how they felt, they needed to voice it out and share with me and sort it verbally. I wanted my kids to know their own voice, so they could find it when they need it most. And I wanted them to know I would listen, in everything, little or big. As a result, my relationship with my kids is stronger, when they and I need it most. I listened to everything, so they’d never doubt if I could be trusted when the big things came up.

Grief is much the same way, just a large-scale experiment. It’s a two-way street, but when the grieved feel their hands being truly held, vs. slapped, denied or even a vacuum of no hand to find at all (silence is the worst), it makes a difference. Witnessing helps most of all. Tell me your story, the real one, not the pretend one. Hasn’t genuine friendship always been about that? Don’t real people, good people do that for each other?

Some really traumatic and horrible things happened that no one wants to acknowledge, not even I want it to be real. And yet if they’re never acknowledged, healing will never truly take place. It helps me when my friends will bring up and speak John’s name, when they acknowledge his fight and that it was hard, not easy, when they ask questions and are willing to hear the truth. It helps when friends let me be genuine and don’t expect me to put on a “good face.” It helps when my friends don’t seem to disappear into a black hole too, when they don’t avoid me so as to not experience my agony. It helps to know my friends are not afraid of me.

Thank you to those who will take the opportunity to learn with me and who will bear to witness.

As many of us come together as a community to support a variety of trials and losses and hard experiences, some very recent and painful in the loss of our alumni friends, and all the cancer fights in our circles, this is the introspection I have today.


This video is hosted on YouTube and is copyright Megan Devine and Refuge in Grief. It is shared here with permission. You can learn more about Megan and her work at https://www.refugeingrief.com.

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Filed under Friends and Family, Glioblastoma, Grief

Tonight I want to tell you a story about my husband John…


My name is Julia. My husband died from a terrifying brain cancer called glioblastoma. Tonight I want to tell you a story about my husband John…

John was my best friend in the world. I remember the first time he told me that I was his best friend. And I remember after years of marriage, still feeling bewildered. That John Chambers thought of me as his best friend. Because he was the toughest guy I knew. And he was cool as shit.

I asked him about his sister, and his best guy friends, all of whom he was very close to. Because I figured surely they were his best friends before I was.

And he said “That’s true, but it’s different with you. You’re my life, you’re my breath. I trust you implicitly with everything that I am. I trust you more than anyone else in the world.”

And I was humbled by this 6’5″ operatic giant, who was intelligent and tough, and who believed in always doing the right thing. That the strong should protect the weak. That the able had a responsibility to use their strengths for good. That those with knowledge should train others. And I was slightly terrified to be entrusted with so profound a thing.

John was a hero and a great leader to others. The guy who rescued people from an elevator during a power outage in a snowstorm, because it was the right thing to do. And he was the only one strong enough to open the doors to do it.

He was Super Man, and out of everyone, he cherished and trusted me most.

I was stunned at the beautiful confirmation that our souls spoke beyond words. He was my everything. Together we were empowered. Together we could do anything. Together, no one could stop us. Together we were both better individually and collectively.

How did I come to be the one to hold the precious jewels of his heart and trust. It was easy for me to see why I trusted him. Why I fell so hard for him. He was such a good, good man. Not to mention he had an enchanted singing voice. But for him to fall so hard for me, to so deeply trust me…. How did it come to be?

John told me a story about a lesson he learned from his widowed grandmother. One summer during college, he stayed with her, helping her paint and repair the home that his grandfather built. John loved great conversation and he cherished the time he spent with his grandparents. At some point during this summer, the subject of relationships came up, and John made some comment to his grandmother about the kind of (tall) woman he needed to find to marry. And she told him “You don’t marry a body, you marry a mind.”

Her words struck his core profoundly, and he never forgot. “You are gorgeous,” he said to all 5’1″ of me, “But more than that, your heart and mind are astonishingly beautiful. I love who you are inside. Others don’t see it, but I do.” It was a raw moment of love and joy. To be truly seen, soul to soul. A moment I couldn’t believe I was lucky to have.

John told me often during our 22 years together that it was his job to remind me how beautiful I was, inside and out. To set things right and make up for traumas of the past. To help me to see my beauty and believe in myself. To help me experience that life could be fun. John taught me that I had a right to safety and that it was OK to have healthy boundaries. And he told me, over and again, unto the last weeks of his life, that I was the reason that he was a better man. That without me, his life wouldn’t have been enriched and that because of me he wanted that much more to be a better man. That he wanted that much more to do good things, to help others and make a difference in the world.

And here I thought it was he who taught me more about real love than anyone I’d ever known.

As I stumble through the shards left of my reality after his death, I try to hang onto his words. I remind myself that one of the best souls I’ve ever known never stopped thinking that my mind was smart and beautiful. He even thought I gave good advice. I always counted on his, and boy could I use some of it right now.

I wrote before about the gift of holding our children’s beginnings. The part of life that later our kids cannot remember. The part of their beginning that no one else sees. No one else contains more of those moments than we parents. We hold our children’s first stories.

I did not expect the astonishing reality of holding my husband’s ending. It is a terrifying, yet precious gift. To hold him, his heart and soul. To walk his last walk with him and share his nightmare. To fight for him with every drop of my blood, every beat of my heart, every breath in my chest. To crack wide open and pull out every possible skill I could to save his life. To be the one to bear witness to every honorable and gritty detail. The one who contains his final story. The one to be entrusted with his death.

I am his horcrux.

I hold his story. Together he can never be defeated.

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Glioblastoma: Facts, Notes and Ponderings…


Fact: John was diagnosed with primary, unmethylated wildtype glioblastoma multiforme, a grade 4 brain cancer. Aka: GBM.

Fact: GBM is always grade 4. They do not use stages in brain cancer, much less “stage 4.” Primary GBM originates in the brain as GBM. Secondary GBM brain cancer is when you start out with a different kind of cancer and it mutates to GBM. All GBM, primary and secondary, is grade 4.

Fact: GBM is specifically a series of DNA errors that involves nearly every foundational cell of the brain, including stem cells. Cells which by their very nature are very “fertile” and good at replicating quickly. It’s not just one error or even 2, but a complex series.

Theory: They think that for some reason, perhaps due to some sort of crisis, some part of the regular system of the human body slips up and doesn’t do its job. Like a gear missing a beat or a tire spinning out. And something does not happen in the order it’s supposed to. Suddenly multiple DNA errors are created.

Theory: In the case of secondary GBM, the argument can be made that it’s the first type of cancer that wasn’t GBM that creates the crisis that allows the GBM DNA error series to be created.

Fact: Fighting all other brain cancers grade 1-3 is not only easier and more successful, but the survivability of the patients are also vastly different on the whole. GBM is a different kind of brain cancer from all others. And there is usually more time to treat grades 1-3. Average mean life span of grade 3 brain cancer is 10 years or so.

Fact: Dietary treatments that extend the life of patients with lesser grades of brain cancer will shorten the life of a grade 4 brain cancer patient. Studies have proven that GBM is biologically a very different kind of cancer.

Opinion: People joke that calling GBM cancer might be a disservice. And that if we looked at it as a disease from space, or an engineered computer virus, we might be better off so we stop comparing it to “average” cancer.

Fact: The problem is, once that particular series of DNA errors that is known as GBM is created, it does not die. In fact, it could be considered immortal. And the error exists on the micro-cellular level. Unmethylated GBM knows how to repair its own DNA, making it not only immortal, but nigh indestructible.

Theory: Some argue that it’s like a program or a blue-print that once your body has created it, it can’t forget and stop creating. That maybe it’s not that there are cells still there to fight, but that your body can’t forget and stop creating the error in the cells.

Fact: With the blood-brain barrier intact, it is nearly impossible for treatment to affect GBM cells. Especially because there’s so little time to get ahead of its aggressive growth.

Opinion: If there was a way to harness GBM’s immortality, it might have medical significance. But for now, it just simply follows a program and kills the patient before anyone can figure out why it even exists.

Comparison: Like a computer getting hit with a backdoor trojan. By the time you know it’s there, it’s too late. Except you can rebuild a computer.

Fact: Without treatment, the current mean survivability of a GBM patient is 3 months without treatment and 12-15 with surgery/chemo/radiation combined. A GBM tumor can double in size every 2-4 weeks.

Fact: Less than 20% of primary GBM patients survive past 2 years. Less than 5% survive past 5 years. Of those who survive longer, no one fully understands why.

Fact: the words “remission” and “cure” are never used in the GBM medical world. Medically there is no cure for GBM. No one is ever “cured.” There is no remission. There are long-term survivors. But even outliers who magically survive more than a decade later still undergo ongoing treatment and monitoring and are not considered cured. You have to have the right genetics to survive longterm with GBM and no one understands why yet.

Theory: Survivors seem to have 3 main things in common. 1) Religious faith or will to live. 2) Their youth and good health otherwise. 3) And their support network. Patients with the most support seem to be the ones who survive longer.

Personal Fact: While they do not think it causes cancer, John’s doctors say that a relationship has been found between a cancer patient’s survival and a positive attitude and focus on enjoying life and reducing stress in their lives. Negative attitudes, outlooks and fear all seem to create an environment that tend to support the spread of cancer. By far, the long-term survivors seem to be the ones that deal with their diagnosis and live/love/thrive anyway. His doctors truly mean it when they say – go LIVE, make HAPPY MEMORIES and ENJOY your life!

Fact: Nothing natural acts fast enough to fight GBM alone. By the very nature of natural approaches, they work best slowly. Combined with the standard surgery/chemo/radiation protocol, natural methods may help, but there’s no replicable proof. They can’t always prove when a trial is the reason someone lives longer.

Fact: GBM is *a* brain cancer, but it is not like other brain cancers. Other brain cancers allow more time to explore more options and try natural methods. GBM is voracious and fast. It is the fastest cancer known.

Fact: No one has yet survived primary glioblastoma long-term (2 years) on natural methods alone.

Personal Fact: John and I were already on the paleo diet for a few years prior to John’s diagnosis. John’s oncologist was actually very pleased that we use the paleo diet already. One of the biggest reasons it’s good is because it’s an anti-inflammation diet. And fighting inflammation is a helpful part of fighting cancer.

Opinion: Or is it that inflammation gets in the way of healing cancer. Remove inflammation as a possible barrier and you have a better environment to work within and better success because it’s not there to f* things up.

Fact: Researchers more recently found that while ketogenic shows promise, and is helpful to GBM patients who suffer from seizures, many GBM patients also fail to thrive because the diet is so restrictive and their bodies are overwhelmed while they undergo treatment. So they instead looked at modifying the keto diet into what is essentially paleo, but they did not focus on organic sources or some of the other philosophies on food sources that are hallmarks of paleo thought. Just the low carb, low/no grain, high fat, high vegetable diet with an emphasis on using cold-pressed coconut oil. And they found it not only worked much better but the patients could thrive. And that coconut oil in particular was key in that success.

Theory: Some people believe that blood-sugar is the problem.

Fact: Researchers discovered that diabetic patients are less likely to get GBM.

Opinion: For other cancers, it seems sugar very much so is an issue. However, the paleo/keto diet likely helps some GBM patients not because of blood sugar levels, but because of the anti-inflammation.

Fact: GBM patients have to be careful and balance their sleep and blood sugar levels to keep them from dropping too low. A drop in blood sugar or lack of deep rest can trigger seizures and stroke. Which creates more brain damage and struggle in the fight against GBM.

Personal Fact: In John’s case, they noted that his blood sugar was actually borderline low. Even while he was on steroids, which would normally cause someone’s blood sugar to be unnaturally high, John’s blood sugar was low. Low enough they cautioned us not to let his calories drop while he underwent chemo and radiation. If our regular primal/paleo diet had John’s blood sugar levels already at a low state, then there’s no way his GBM was caused by blood sugar as some would try to assert.

Reflection and Frustration: Even before officially going paleo, we had always been incredibly health conscious, eating organic as much as possible, picky about our foods and food sources and I have a literal apothecary of herbs, vitamins, minerals and natural supplements. John was a focused athlete since before joining the Guard. He never did drugs, didn’t smoke and everyone commented on the incredible health of the rest of his body. We didn’t live near mines, power stations or anything else considered to be hazardous. I’m allergic to many modern medicines and have been on the path of natural healing for most of my life because of it. And yet, in spite of John’s low blood sugar, our organic living, and all of this… we’ve found it depressing that none of this protected John from getting GBM.

Opinion: If all of this stuff about being able to treat GBM naturally or via diet were fact, this should never have happened to John.

It’s just one more proof in what we’ve been told by the researchers at MDA. GBM is a unique demon that discriminates against no one. Sadly even new babies have been victims. 😦

Personal Fact: John and I chose to pursue medical treatment, combined with natural efforts at home. Doing everything in our power that we could to uplift his/our spirits, support his liver and kidneys and overall health in general while he processed so much medicine. We added several things we’ve found genuine research on that seem to show promise in supporting regular treatment in fighting glioblastoma. And John’s oncology team allowed us nearly everything we wanted to try, even though they didn’t think it would help.

Opinion: GBM is a complex DNA issue that requires an equally complex approach to treat. And no one thing, medical or natural, is going to conquer it. It will take a hybrid approach from all fronts. If it takes a multi-pronged approach to successfully fight GBM, then regular medicine alone is not likely enough either.

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Filed under Glioblastoma, NaBloPoMo

Family Update – November 2018


Our family update for those following along.

As John’s birthday just passed (he would have turned 50) and now our anniversary and the holidays approach, the kids and I are working on some brain cancer awareness and charity projects in honor of John and his courageous fight.  And also in compassion for those patients and families in the thick of fighting the hard fight, who are in desperate need of assistance.

Orphan diseases receive the least amount of financial and donation support, including glioblastoma. And while support systems and charities are in place for many more common cancers, glioblastoma is so rare, aggressive and terminal that there is almost no assistance available for the families of GBM patients. Many of us GBM widows want to change that, one step at a time.

Towards that end, here’s what the kids and I are working on.

1) We’re asking friends who shop at Amazon to enroll in the Amazon Smiles program and to select the Dr. Marnie Rose Foundation, or Greg’s Mission, as beneficiary of the program to help raise awareness and funds for brain cancer research, patients and families. The Dr. Marnie Rose Foundation supports child and adult brain cancer research. Greg’s Mission was founded by long-term glioblastoma survivor Greg Cantwell. His foundation provides critical and free 1-on-1 coaching and support to brain tumor patients and families around the US, and even internationally. Many hospitals refer their patients to Greg for much-needed help, but donations are crucial to make travel possible and keep this mission going.

When you use https://smile.amazon.com to buy from Amazon, it costs you nothing, but Amazon will give 0.5% of your purchase to the charity you choose. It’s a very easy, no extra cost, way to support the charity of your choice. For more information visit: https://smile.amazon.com/about.

Moody Shroom Enamel Pin - Pink Version - designed by Jack Chambers - November 2018 - Cure Glioblastoma2) Our daughter Jack has designed and released some cute mushrooms, collectible gold-plated enamel pins (her drawings turned into pins) to help raise awareness and donations for brain cancer this holiday season. The first release of gold-plated pins is already in her Etsy store named Squash Rabbit, and another design release is on the way, including some roses. 20% of proceeds will be donated to brain cancer charities.  You can find 3 color variations of her little shroom pins to choose from – there’s even a grey option, since it’s the color of brain cancer awareness. Find them in her new Etsy store here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/637121368/moody-shroom-enamel-pin.

Some of you have watched her grow up drawing, so you can imagine how excited she is now to have these special enamel pins of her artwork to share! 🙂

3) I have begun a crochet related charity project that I will be announcing soon! And a neat little bakery in Idaho is helping me. Stay tuned!

It’s been 2 years, 7 months and 30 days since the shift in our family’s journey began. When my John was diagnosed with glioblastoma. And 8 months ago when our son was diagnosed with a rare kidney cancer. Your prayers and support as we keep pushing through are greatly appreciated. To everyone who has followed along and simply made a point of witnessing, of reaching out and holding our hands through everything – our utmost gratitude.

– ♡♡ –

#RaiseAwareness  #Glioblastoma  #CureGBM
#IncreaseOrphanDiseaseResearch #CureCHRCC

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Filed under 'Tis the Season, Glioblastoma, Jack Designs, NaBloPoMo

Reaping Thorns: The Only Lifeline Is Love…


Yesterday, March 7th, marked the 2 year anniversary of rushing John to the ER. The day we first learned about glioblastoma. The day his 18 month, 8 day, 8 hour fight for life began.

Today our son walks into MD Anderson for surgery to remove the tumor inside his kidney.

We’re a whirl of emotions that should not exist all at once. But this Oprah article about failing friends in grief was appreciated.

Nothing teaches you harder about the impact of well-meant but misplaced words than the death of a spouse (or child), and worse when it is prefaced by a long, traumatic and even horrific journey to get there. A patient/caregiver/lovers’ journey that appears quieter than its reality, because you cannot talk about most of the grit. Because it’s too raw for anyone to experience. And you cannot go there without knowing you’re safe to open that door. No matter how desperately you need it.

The yearning for meaningful witness reaps thorns with it too. The callousness of the world levies its attention. And as the thorns collect, you cannot help but fear, dear God, did I ever do this to someone myself?

At least with the anticipatory grief that comes with a terminal illness, John and I could hold each other and witness each our tears.

With widowhood, any coping equipment you had for dealing with trauma is taken from you. The one person in your world who you always counted on and shared with is no longer there. Not to mention your every reality is permanently changed by no choice of your own. You not only lose your spouse, but everything you know and have is either taken or threatened too. Your time is stolen and effectiveness reduced; responsibilities change and magnify.

Unless a safety net can be successfully cast, your fall will be permanently disabling. Perhaps this is in part why the ministry to widows and orphans is so compelled in the Bible and in other religious texts. The alteration of reality can be crippling.

You will never ever see your husband again. You will never again feel their touch. They will never earn an income or owe taxes again. They will never put their things away ever again. They will never share the rest of your memories in any way. My John will never physically see his grandchildren and they will never get to meet him, even in passing. My heart will never recover its missing pieces. The bonding that marriage is, when you succeed – is excruciating when it is severed in trauma. Love is valuable, but it comes at a cost in the face of trauma. And the possibilities of never are endless.

Widowhood is torturous on multiple levels. The loss alone is more than enough. Grief will have its way with you, regardless of how much you understand. Regardless of your power of will. Like cancer, it is no respecter of persons. That carnivore will alter your capability in life, augmented by the quality of your relationship. The deeper the bond, the deeper the fractures. Yet the world steals more than just its lump of flesh. The startling negative things people will say. The vulnerability in a society that is still male dominant. The opportunists who come out of the wood work. But we don’t have the protection of neighbors and communities today like we once did in our history.

Even our friends get weird. They expect us to be normal, to react normal, to think normal, to remember like a normal remembers. They cannot see we lost an entire soul that once was inside. We simply cannot perform the way we did, until we recover. And maybe not even then. Maybe we’re different forever.

And then there’s the impact of silence, and the secondary vacuums that friends disappear into, which augments the feeling of losing every thing you value, trusted and recognize about the way you live, move and operate in the world.

In grief you are often forced to alter your perspective on relationships – that you did not expect to have to – along with your sense of trust and safety with others. Imagine suddenly having to reevaluate the safety of every relationship you’ve ever had. As death brings out the strange in people.

Some say cancer/illness/death shows you who your friends really are. Because friends wouldn’t hurt or abandon you if they cared, right? Especially when the demands upon you have multiplied beyond what a normal human being can expect.

I don’t know if that’s necessarily quite accurate, or even completely fair. That blanket seems a bit big.

Even now, in the well I’ve fallen into, I think that perspective is largely thanks to the filter of trauma we cannot help but be altered by. The tunnel vision we rely on in trauma, as all that we are often able to see is just the step we’re executing just right now. Blindingly looking for something to lean on, but faltering to find, because life knocked us silly and it’s not always easy for others to recognize.

No one is trained for this.

Not me. Not my friends.

I do not even now entirely understand what I need.

Just that I do. Need.

I know I’m far too vulnerable when a furniture salesman almost gets an earful from me, because my voice has been dumb for too long.

Neither I nor my friends will learn this without going through it together. And they cannot learn it if I am silent too.

I’m being forced into a rebirth I desperately did not want.

Every aspect of life as I’ve known it, in every way possible has been forcefully altered. It is unlike anything imaginable. Anguish that cannot be fathomed without experience. Something I could never wish on another. And yet desperately need witness for if I’m to heal.

We are all afraid of being overwhelmed, especially by what we do not understand. Trusting in God is helpful, but it doesn’t erase the way we’re designed. Without regular compassion to offset the regular negative, it’s no wonder that the loss of social support leads to “excess mortality rates” after the death of a spouse in our society.

Loss is part of the way of Life in this world. We cannot escape loss as part of our molding. Our losses are matched by our ability to Love. Our overcoming matched by the growth we already have achieved.

Well-meant but misplaced words injure. Silence injures less, but still injures. Silence robs friends of the opportunity to offset injuries caused by others. Because the callousness of the world will be on the doorstep. Not to mention judgement, gossip and malice. These too exist.

Am I what you expected after all.

How do we surmount both the precipice and the mountain falling down around us, as the tornadoes roar and floods gather at our knees?

There is only one answer. Face what you fear. The physical is transient. And the only lifeline is Love.

“Embrace the suck.” It was John’s message when he trained his men.

John’s words, his love, the Love of my Creator, and the love of my children and friends prop me as I face our son’s surgery today.

—–
March 8th, 2018
8:15am
by Julia Meek Chambers
All rights reserved.

Trapped In The Well - by AberrantCrochet

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Filed under Glioblastoma, Widowhood, Writing

Dark Side Of The Moon…


For me the storm is not over.

Merely changing its color.

Noise still deafens.

Wind still rages.

My head still tucked,

Bracing against the force and hanging on.

Bleeding wounds still unattended,

My furious storm shifts gears.

Black Hole devoured my Trees,

Swallowed my Sun

And gave black ice.

Dark, blinding, cold.

Vacant spot beside.

I am no longer a shield.

I am solitaire.

Written 11-30-2017, 01:30am
Copyright © 2017 by Julia Meek Chambers, all rights reserved.

Alone in the Dark Side of the Storm

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Filed under Glioblastoma, NaBloPoMo, Poetry, Writing

Silence Is Broken…


I finally dreamed about John 3 nights ago.

I was at an old drive in movie place, but instead of parking for cars, there was a collection of remodeled vans, cargo trucks and buses in the movie lot – tiny house style.

Where the guts of the original vehicle are removed and the inside is remodeled like an apartment.

Only these were basically just rooms to hang out in.

All the wheels had been removed from the vehicles and they just sat on the ground.

I walk up to the back of a long, converted cargo van and open the doors.

All the seats and stuff inside had been cleared out of it, save a single white bench seat/couch positioned in the middle, facing the back doors where I stood.

A custom couch made to look like it belongs in an old car, but obviously way more comfortable.

The van definitely seems bigger to me on the inside.

And there was John sitting on the couch, in his jeans, t-shirt and ball cap.

He tells me, hey baby – why don’t you come in and spend some time with me?

I look around, noting the absence of anything else inside this van.

And I quip, “Well now… I guess you did clean everything up quite a bit!”

Cocking my head, I smile coyly and start to close the door and come sit with him.

And then I freeze, staring at him – suddenly realizing, dear god I’m dreaming about him.

Nine weeks since he died and I’m finally seeing him.

But as soon as I realized he was there, the vision broke and I woke up. 😦

I tried to go back to sleep and revisit that dream, but it didn’t work.

Still, it’s remarkably comforting.

After weeks of complete vacuum, without a good or even a bad dream about John or our fight again GBM, I finally saw my love.

I just hope I see him more.

dream-van

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Singularity…


A black hole opened within the sun.

Half my heart and soul fell in.

Eclipsed in the palm of the one I love.

Will I ever find him again?

..
Happy Birthday Love….

— October 27th, 2017 —
Copyright © 2017 by Julia Meek Chambers, all rights reserved.

solar_eclipse

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HBD…


Today is tough.

Today’s my birthday and John’s birthday is in 6 days. The weekend between our birthdays was always our standing annual date weekend. We’ve almost never thrown birthday parties for ourselves. Instead we focused on our own personal celebration. And my motto has always been to set aside October as our birthday month to do something memorable each year. It’s so easy for the monotony of work, duty and stress to just blend all your memories together into one mushy pile. But for our birthday month, I would try to do something memorable – something unique just to feed the soul – and set things apart. A deposit into that bank account of fun, positive experiences in life.

For John and I, regardless of how busy or crazy the year was, we had this standing date with each other that we looked forward to. Our October weekend birthday date. Our fun date. We tried never to break it. Of course we always tried to do something nice for our anniversary on December 23rd, but our birthday date weekend was something fun and a creation all ours I guess.

Our date this year would have fallen tonight. And then this week would have been our special week. We would have tried to at least make dinner creative most nights this week. Both John and I love to cook. Sometimes for our date, he’d make some amazing creative dish. His venison round steak with spicy Magic Bourbon Sauce was out of this world and probably my favorite of his creations. John’s skill with food often left us disappointed if we went out, so eating in was not uncommon.

His absence is punctuated right now. And it really hurts.

So I’m hanging with my two favorite people in the world.

Our kids. And soaking it in.

Love you honey. Wish you were here.

#CureGlioblastoma

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El Dorado…


It’s been a difficult few days.

Actually, a difficult few weeks and months.

Actually… 18 months of crisis fighting tooth and nail to be exact.
Difficult challenges around every corner.

Culminating up to a pinnacle, a colossus.

I suppose befitting the force of nature that I fiercely love. Who showers me and our children with his fierce love in return. Our love that was not simply stumbled upon in luck, but worked, created, earned and crafted between us over 22 years. #SeizeTheRide

John’s chariot came. He was stolen away this weekend, far too soon.

Neither he nor I did anything to deserve the pain and trials received through this journey, but we strove to create something better through them anyway. We chose to transmute and live consciously and as gracefully as possible. And do every damned thing we could to help others, every chance possible.

I’d like to think our lives were richer and more meaningful for it.

The love and support of others helped in every way.

To everyone who has followed and simply made a point of reaching out and holding our hands in this most terrible of storms – our utmost gratitude.

– ♡♡ –

#RaiseAwareness  #Glioblastoma #CureGBM #PrayersContinued

Here’s what I wrote for John’s FB page.  I don’t think I can write it again: https://www.facebook.com/303426583411423/photos/a.303554250065323.1073741831.303426583411423/368767613543986/?type=3&theater

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Strong Together…


I sit here marveling at how John has enriched my life
and helped me to believe in myself.

We love each other so much.
We’ve always been strong together.

John’s inextricably a part of everything
that I’ve ever become, in my adult life,
as I am in his.

My wins are his.
His wins are mine.

And yet–we’re two whole people who just happened
to like each other’s company–a lot.

In our 22 years together, we have deeply loved and
helped each other become more than our parts.

It’s actually difficult to explain,
but I am so much more today than when we met.

Like, I’m a whole multiple-reality universe bigger
and more detailed today than before.
At every possible level of the soul.

Like Shrek’s onion, I keep growing new layers.
Or is it levels of my soul, really.

And John’s love, friendship, and support are
threaded through every one of them.

John doesn’t complete me.
That’s not the right description.

He empowers me.
He takes joy for me.

He tells me that I help him see the strength
that he didn’t realize was there.

That he can do and be so much more because of me.
And that because of me, he wants to even that much more.

I get it.
I feel the same.
It’s an atonement.

Sometimes, even now, it’s a confusing reality
to realize how this really works.

Sometimes now, in the face of this adversity,
it’s also all so much clearer the importance of what we’ve crafted.
And its power.

Love doesn’t work like the fluffy images in the movies.

If we were to try to live love in that way,
it really couldn’t just work.

It’s not found so much as it’s crafted.
Invested.

And it looks a lot like the richest,
most beautifully textured friendship you can imagine.

Without the solidity of our friendship,
this wouldn’t be what it is.

Honestly, if neither of us had the ability to be a quality friend,
I don’t think this could work.
Friendship is the well source of our love.

Because of John’s steadfast place in my heart and life,
I have so much more strength and confidence than I could have imagined.

Yes. Even in this adversity we face.

Yes. Even in the face of terminal brain cancer.

Yes. Even knowing that this fight may be impossible to win.

Yes.

He believes in me. And I in him.

In every way.


June 27, 2017
11:43am

Copyright © 2017, Julia Meek Chambers, all rights reserved. No part of my post, writing, or words may be copied and shared without my express written permission and attribution.

Strong Together

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Glioblastoma Updates…


May is Brain Cancer Awareness Month

Go Grey In May - graphic by Aberrant Crochet

I just want to say that I am truly grateful for everyone who checks in on John and I.

Things have not been so great lately. And I’ve been really struggling this week. Some of you drop in virtually and I appreciate the nudges. They help steady me when I feel so dizzy sometimes. And because it’s been so chaotic and emotional, I haven’t been able to wrap my head around writing very much.

John’s glioblastoma has been on the move. The first signs appeared with the New Year. And his GBM never fully disappeared in the first place. He went through a flurry of uncontrollable seizure activity and blood pressure issues in February and March. I actually think it was the uncontrollable blood pressure that was causing the seizure events. Then his liver enzymes started getting too high in February, so they were discussing pulling him from the Lomustine (CCNU) because they wanted to give his liver a break. However, MRIs in early March confirmed that the GBM had become resistant to the Lomustine. So that cinched it. It’s no longer a viable treatment.

John’s NO team decided that the best course would be to do 4 more weeks of radiation to the brain, and continue with Avastin, so that his liver could take a break and then regroup after for a new chemo. Avastin has been shown to offer protection to healthy brain tissue (but not cancer) during radiation. You can’t fight active GBM successfully without a multi-pronged attack. So it definitely seemed like the wisest route. That way his liver could recover and we could see how another chemo would do after that. It was worrisome though. Radiation combined with Temodar did not hold back John’s GBM last time. Wasn’t sure Avastin combined with radiation would this time either.

Unlike last time though, John had nausea and vomiting during this recent round of radiation treatment. He lost his strength and even started to lose feeling in his right hand, arm and foot. And he experienced more uncontrollable blood pressure and seizure events. So while he was receiving the radiation, they also changed up his blood pressure and anti-seizure medicine. And they added meds for the nausea. It took about a month, but it seemed like the new blood pressure and anti-seizure meds were a great improvement and his tremor and other seizures stabilized.

As predicted, John’s liver enzymes started to decline. While the radiation symptoms were pretty awful, it seemed like his liver was recovering as hoped. In talking to other wives of GBM patients who receive a 2nd round of radation, I learned that for most of their husbands, if they lost use of one of their hands, it came back generally within 3 months. John finished the radiation about a month ago. There has been some improvement in the feeling in his hand. It’s not back yet, but we hope this is a good sign.

A week after he completed radiation, John’s liver enzymes shot up, nearly quadrupled, for no explainable reason. He hadn’t had a dose of chemo in 2 months, and the enzymes had been coming down. But suddenly overnight the enzymes skyrocketed. They ran every test they could think of and he was negative for everything. It didn’t make any sense.

So next came CT and MRI. They found what appear to be 2 small tumors, at 1 and .7 cm in size, on his liver. And because of that, he’s been pulled off of all brain cancer treatment, waiting for a biopsy to be done and for those results to come in. Of course, everyone’s worried that the spots are cancer. There was a mention in the MRI notes that there were some unusual blood vessel formations. I hold out hope that maybe these 2 spots are more weird knots of blood vessels. And that they figure out what’s distressing his liver. Nothing about the liver distress makes sense.

The biopsy is this week. And it will take 3-5 business days to get those results back. Meaning John will not even receive Avastin before the end of next week. Avastin is not like typical chemo, as it’s an anti-angiogenic. It helps starve the GBM, reduces brain swelling better than steroids and overall improves quality of life. But he will have gone a month without any protection from GBM by then. And the swelling caused by the radiation is no small thing either.

GBM can double in size every 2-4 weeks. And John’s last ABTI/MRI showed multiple seeding areas of his left brain, possibly trying to move to his right brain.

Regardless of whether he has liver cancer too, which is so super incredibly rare in GBM cases!! the glioblastoma is faster. But there are 1% of GBM cases where it becomes gliosarcoma. Needless to say, it’s worse than regular glioblastoma.

It’s just all so crazy.

And I’m struggling. I want to be positive. But it’s scary and it hurts. Deeply through my soul, piercing lifetimes of my heart.

John had 68 different appointments with oncology teams between February – April  alone, 52 of which (plus an ER visit) in Feb/Mar. Every bit in effort to save his life, and unlock the key to GBM. It’s what it takes with this cancer. If you want to live, you don’t relax. You don’t pick the easiest path. You get your ass on the road and you go. You ask every question and figure out how to meet your doctors half-way. Because they can’t do everything. You gotta be interactive or it won’t work.

And there’s so much more than just that to do. I can’t seem to keep up. Our kids help, I barely sleep and it’s still not enough hours it seems.

And all I want to do is be with my love. Not chase papers and run errands. Capture every moment. Go out to lunch and see a movie.

But crowds and sounds cause him pain right now. He’s so tired and his headaches are getting worse. He can’t help me right now.

Dear God, I love him so much.

It’s been 14 months and I still cannot believe that this is happening to us. Or that it’s been more than 3-4 months.

There are some bright spots of hope though.

John’s recovering from the stroke. It’s taken time, but the quality of his communication (with the apraxia and aphasia) is improving. Except when he’s at his most tired. Which is a lot lately. But still, the quality of his conversation is markedly different today than it was 6 months ago.

Also, our family attended the bi-annual Together in Hope Brain Tumor Conference that MD Anderson puts on for patients and their families. It was an amazing gathering of information and people within the brain tumor community. And we met other families and survivors there. The trip was difficult for John, he really didn’t feel well. But it was so good for our family.

And, John’s NO team is trying to get Optune for him. I don’t know if insurance will cover it or not. Or if he’ll receive it fast enough. But hopefully we’ll know something about that by end of next week. Optune is promising, but I have no idea if the biopsy this week could change even that. But we met a 4.5 year survivor a the conference, who’s on Optune.

So there are things to hold onto in this upside down twist of events.

I hope and I pray that somehow, this crazy set of circumstances is a divine plan to get John the treatment he needs. And that the Optune works and allows him to live a normal life. Allows him to recover. The brain is amazing. Given enough time and proper therapy and exercise, it can recover nearly every skill it’s lost. If we can get ahead of the GBM.

I finally put together a Facebook page for John and our fight against glioblastoma. It helps to tell our story a bit better in bites than I can on my blog here. If you would like to follow along, you can find that page here.

Thanks for listening. Lots of hugs. And stay safe out there y’all.

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Logic Isn’t Always…


My meditation today…

One of the GBM patients in one of our support groups went holiday shopping with his wife. They went to pick out a gift for their daughter. It was a triumph, because he hasn’t felt good enough to get out of the house in so long.

Unfortunately, he has aphasia and he’s lost his peripheral vision. All too common for glioblastoma warriors. He tripped on a display he couldn’t see at a store and knocked everything down. He was so embarrassed.

As people helped pick it all up, someone had the gall to tell his wife that she should make him lay off the booze before going out in public. The wife doesn’t know if he’ll go out with her again.

I’m appalled for their experience.

But the thing is, I know that before I understood this disease, I might have thought he’d been drinking too.

I wouldn’t have said anything, but it is very possible that I would have thought it. Because I simply had no clue before. I didn’t understand brain cancer at all.

*Maybe* my experience with disabled children would have helped clue me in, but if I was busy, I doubt it.

Our perspectives in life are often reasonable, based on logic and data we already possess.

But that does not automatically translate into the truth, the whole truth and nothing but truth.

Logic alone does not make us fair and just. Seemingly reasonable does not equal justification.

We are capable of interpreting what we witness and experience as falsehoods. In our justified reasonableness, we can sin against our fellow man.

We can judge and accuse others of actions and beliefs they haven’t taken and don’t have. Because “actions speak louder than words.”

This is why temperance, compassion and love are so important.

They help us to take another look.

Compassion tells us not to jump to conclusions and to offer our hand. Love tells us to hold our tongue and strive not to harm our neighbor. Temperance reminds us that just because we can, doesn’t mean it’s right.

Steven Covey reminded us to shift our paradigm. Every major religion in the world reminds us to be slow to assumption and mindful in our choices. And God reminds us that we are all his children.

Kindness and balance are everything.

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November is coming to an end…


November is coming to an end this next week, as will NaBloPoMo.

NaBloPoMo has been a different animal for me this year.

I tried to write for two blogs at the same time for this year’s challenge, registering my Frell Cancer blog for the challenge along with Aberrant Crochet.

Frell Cancer made it daily for 2 weeks. And then I just couldn’t. So I decided to focus on Aberrant Crochet for the rest of the challenge alone. I haven’t lost the challenge in years. I don’t want to lose this year. And I want to get writing regularly again. I know I need it.

But with just Aberrant Crochet, it’s still been a challenge. And it’s not for lack of ideas of what to write, or a lack of wanting to write.

It’s simply been a lack of energy and bandwidth to bring those ideas to fruition. The difference between a good idea and great writing.

FC fell by the wayside in part because it’s so emotional to write about something cancer related every day. I have so much good information to write about and share, to help other glioblastoma families. I really want to do that. But it takes time to do it right and it also takes all the energy from your emotions every time you relive something.

With AC, I want to write about crochet and fun things. And experiment with various fiction and writing styles, like always.

But… I’m just so wrung out all the time. Life is so much different this year than last year or any other year.

I spend hours on the phone talking to insurance and billing departments, trying to get our bills sorted out. With weekly and bi-weekly medical visits, it’s a constant job by itself.

Don’t get me wrong, our insurance people have been great. Some are even working overtime to help us get things sorted out.

But there are always errors from one side or another. And it always takes a lot of time and energy.

And while I often seem like an extrovert to people, I’m really not. I’m an introvert with leadership skills. I derive my energy and reboot my batteries through quiet alone time. Which I get so very little of anymore.

It’s a constant influx of people. Constantly having to talk with and reason with people I normally wouldn’t have to. Constantly driving all the time. And at some of the doctors offices, the staff are not always friendly, which also wears me out. Natural diplomat that I am. I expend a lot of energy sorting out what’s going on, why are appointments running late, what’s the problem with insurance this time, why didn’t anyone tell us we needed abc before xyz…..

Doing all this for work is one thing. But the stress of handling your family’s personal health is so much more.  And the stress of brain cancer means more than just the fear of John dying and whatnot. It’s all the other stuff it brings into your life.  Including new rules we didn’t use to have to live with.

And then there’s all the management of daily life. Cooking, cleaning, taking over tasks that John cannot do. Groceries, budgeting, rides for the kids, what can I sell, don’t forget work.

With the holiday weekend, I’ve finally had a space where I can focus solely on working on the house. Which needs help.

Come Monday, I’ve a list of phone calls I must make before we deal with MRI, eval and “report card” week for John.

And one more item just got added to my list today. Local lab (new to us) told me our insurance company said we owed the cost for last week’s lab work. I know that there hasn’t been enough time for the lab work to have been filed with our insurance properly. But the technician wanted me to make a payment for something we don’t owe. We’ve already met our maximum for the year. So frustrating. And especially because I think she was reading the notes from her billing department wrong.

So come Monday I will have to call both my insurance company and their billing department, on top of the other calls I already have to settle, because Monday is the only day next week I can really make these calls. (Oh yeah, and work ahead so I can camp out at the hospital all week.) With the NO team wanting weekly blood work, we have to do it asap so they don’t refuse to do the tests. And it’s so close to the end of the year.

Why is the system always so difficult?

Anyway, once I’ve been through a day of all that, it’s like I’ve used up all my energy to write words. I still have my ideas, but the power behind my words is gone. Like running out of color ink on my printer. I can print a pie chart in black/white, but it’s not as useful or interesting.

I don’t like ranting for a post. But this is what’s eating my soul today. I’m trying to pull myself together, finish my coffee and then get busy reorganizing things in my pantry so I can function and figure out a good meal plan.

And, now my post is done for the day. I’ve been mostly writing at night, when I’m the most tired.

Maybe I’ll actually go to bed on time today.

Yeah that might help.

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Delegating…


Helping handFor 6.5 of 8.5 months, there was nothing but crisis and emergency in my life with John’s diagnosis of glioblastoma. Brain surgeries, stroke, seizures, radiation, chemo(s).

It’s not generally how it goes for most. Many John’s age find out when the tumor is smaller and surgery recovery is not as bad. Or they respond better to the initial treatments. Or they have the opposite and simply don’t make it.

It’s a crazy battle to be forced to embrace. Though truthfully, we didn’t pick the easy route.

With John finally responding to a treatment, we’ve finally had a bit of a chance to catch our breath. Mostly in the last month. But only in the medical sense. Only in that we see doctors every two weeks instead of every day now.  As long as he has no fever and as long as he has no seizures.

Fact is, I’m slipping under the pressure and I know it. I’ve been holding everyone and every thing together.

It’s not like people haven’t offered to help. They have, but they don’t know how or what to do. Few people ever jump in. And there’s been so much that no one could take on.

After finding myself running to the grocery store for the 5th time in a week.  Because I forgot something I really needed, like toilet paper or an essential ingredient in John’s cancer smoothies.  Even though I had a list. But there’s so much data running through my head and so little sleep and so many tasks that fall to me. That I can’t remember it all. I forget things. I don’t notice things until they’re screaming at me. I run out of energy. I crash. And I can’t afford to get sick. For so many more than just one reason.

I’ve decided I need to hire some help. If I can find it within the right budget. There are some shopping services in Austin. Like InstaCart and Shipt. I’m going to check them out and Amazon what I can. And I’m going to try to get some house cleaning help.

Friends aren’t always a good choice. Friends all work. They’re busy and have their own families and then there’s the problem when help turns more into reassuring visitors and when they leave, I’m no closer to going to bed earlier.

I am going to also start a Lotsa Helping Hands circle too I think. I’m exploring options. One way or another, I need to find ways to delegate and streamline my day. I’m not sleeping enough. Some things only I can handle. But other things, maybe someone else can help. Even if I have to hire it out.

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