Speaking about my Love does not hurt me.

It grants me freedom.

Hearing his name does not make me cringe.

It’s music to my ears.

The silence is what hurts.

The desert of his name upon your lips.

You who called him family.

Uncle, brother, friend.

As if he dies a second death.

Unremembered. Unrecalled. Unspoken.

Erased from our experience.

This isn’t the way we honor.

“Please speak of me kindly and often. I cannot be there for them.”

Copyright © 2018 by Julia Meek Chambers, all rights reserved.


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As It Is…

In life we sail united

Stored our memories at 7-Eleven

Queso dip and garlic bread

We pay homage at the altars


An artistic angle beckons

At the crossroads of bells

Leathery wings cloud the fire

West to the waterfall


A rock is desired

A clift is found

Angels lift their voices

All for the want of a Doctor

Copyright © 2018 by Julia Meek Chambers, all rights reserved.

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Write like that…

My neighbor told me the other day “At least people always want to hire creative writers like you for their marketing teams.”

I was startled by his comment. Like, is this a thing?

When I look at job postings, they always want a marketing or business degree, not an Theology/English/Psych major. I’ve never seen a request for a creative writer to join a marketing team. Maybe I’m looking in the wrong places…

We were discussing the need for major medical health insurance and having to look at corporate jobs in order to get good coverage for pre-existing conditions. I have to make sure that my family can continue to go to MD Anderson for anything cancer related now and his family has health issues he has to factor in as well.

He said he’d like to flip houses for a living, but in order to take care of his family’s health needs, he now works behind a desk.

I’ve had a lot of positive feedback about my writing, but no major company has ever told me they want me to write for their team. Then again, I haven’t outright asked one yet.

I guess there *were* those two different magazines, that pitched me to write articles for them; which I did and was paid for. It was nice to be pitched, instead of pitching them. But that’s not the same as looking at hawking your skills to a corporate job.

But I think I’m going to have to. Writing is my main marketable skill that might be able to support a family and pay for cancer treatments. Twenty years of working for myself, but never having had to support a family by myself. Now I’m having to consider re-entering the corporate environment and I don’t know how that will go. I’m far more at home with entrepreneurs.

Consulting all on my own is proving to be very difficult. People ask for my time and help, they back out, etc.. While John was the main bread winner, I could afford to be flexible and understanding with my time. Now I can’t. My son’s life could depend on the choices I make. And working for myself hasn’t yet paid off this year. Need to level up somehow. This is getting more difficult to make work.

If you know of anyone who would like help with writing content or Facebook and social ads and marketing, please pass my name along. I need new clients. Or a new company.


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Note To Self…

I ponder and purge and analyze.

I leave a record for my future self and others in need.

I mean why have a blog anyway, if it’s not to bear witness.

If it’s not to find the words that cannot be spoken.

To help others. To help us remember.

Already this blog has helped me remember things I don’t ever want to forget.

Never forget.

In the face of nightmares and trauma, such a task is more difficult than it sounds.

Every experience is data. But some experiences are like the difference between 8 bits or 8 gig.

The human mind can only process so much all at once.

And trauma tends to rape and rob us of the precious and good moments in the face of extremes.

We can focus on the trauma, or we can can dig past and seize the love.

I have sacred memories in here somewhere.

Memories I want. Memories I earned. Memories I am owed.

If I want to be able to see and remember more, I have to be willing to face the unwanted, so I can then look over its shoulder and see my Beloved behind.

But I need to acknowledge the unsavory to find the precious.

I have to dig in the muck to find my dropped pearls.

Come here Hell, it’s time for you to pay rent.

I have a job for you.

Note to self...

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Meaning more…

It’s Veteran’s Day.

John’s funeral was one year ago today.

His honor guard was made of friends and strangers, but all brothers in arms.

I got Ft. Hood to grant special permission for the honor guard to be at the ceremony an hour later than usual regs.

Friends came in from around the US to pay their respects.

Almost our entire wedding party was there for me. Save two. One of whom is in Germany.

My brother by blood came in from the north-west and stayed a few days to help me, as did our uncle.

My father and my step sister came and helped take down and clean the hall I rented.

I’d paid a non-refundable upfront cleaning fee to the city to make sure we didn’t have to worry about cleanup.

But as it turned out, half of everyone helped clean up anyway, while people stood in line waiting to talk to me.

I shouldn’t have paid the fee.

Our local American Legion let me borrow their colors and sent a representative.

The room was filled with veterans, officers, students from John’s classes, close friends and colleagues from work.

But also there were alumni from the theology college where we met. Aside from John’s sister, parents, the kids and I.

Our chosen brothers and sisters were there. As were our adopted nephews and nieces and other family we choose.

John’s and my special little ones from Houston came, the oldest of which came up to me at the head of the line. He was trying to hold it all in. When I reached for him, he let go and fiercely hugged me, bawling.

I held him and we cried together, while everyone watched.

It’s ok honey. You can cry. You don’t have to be strong. I love you. John loves you. It’ll always be so.

Friends from a variety of facets within John’s life spoke about him, his guitar playing, his singing, his service in the military, his instructing that saved lives. And then there were the 4 of our adopted girls, who expounded on the father figure he was to them. The good man they recognized him to be.

Some people didn’t know John could sing opera. Some people didn’t know he played guitar. Some people didn’t know he was another dad to a gaggle of young adults. Some didn’t know he had a theology degree and could have been a minister. But there were countless words shared with me that night about how John had changed someone’s life.

His brothers in arms made sure everything was right, that John’s honors were prepared properly.

They chose as well to give him the honor of a powerful Roll Call.

It was a simple funeral, at a city facility, but with much love and grace.

And honor.

And today, I didn’t know how to spend myself.

I wanted to reach out and find his hand.

And I resented that I had things I had to do instead of sitting and trying to hear his voice.

I looked through one of his military deployment bags and found his wallet photos of the kids and I from his first deployment. It was stuck inside a box of allergy meds. And later I saw a hawk fly through our back yard.

Maybe that was him.

Your girl just won 2 senior scholarships this week honey, for academics and for leadership. The very first senior scholarships awarded by her college, in the new degree plan she’s in. Your baby girl did it.

And your son, he’s feeling better and doing great at school, but you should hear his music. It’s amazing and so beautiful. I’m so proud of the music in his soul, that I just wish I could create a movie film for him to showcase it. He needs a Mac though. Little of his music homework can be done on a PC.

You would be so excited for them.

And your Boo, she’s just so cute every day. She doesn’t hiss at my glasses anymore. Hard to believe it was two years ago last week since we brought the kittens in and gave them a home.

I love you.


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The World Needs More Love Letters…

Another good man is dying in great pain tonight, while his loyal wife loves by his side.

She’s reached out multiple times to our prayer text chat.

I don’t know her. She doesn’t know me. We’ve never met.

A friend of a friend, desperate to try to help me through the tasks set before me, asked if I’d like to receive encouraging bible verses.

She sends them via group text every morning. I said sure.

I know she spends time, prayer and meditation on what verses to share each day and I find them pleasant. And I deeply respect and appreciate her efforts to show comfort to others.

More recently there have been extra requests for prayers, as this man’s cancer battle is ending.

The texts are brief, but potent with pain.

It hits my heart and I soul-search on what I can say that isn’t trite, or cliché, or preachy, or meaningless? Or that doesn’t send me into a tailspin of anxiety myself.

After all, I know better than most what she’s going through.

I know she feels hopeless and I’m not sure I can give her any. But I’ve found more than anything, the gift of witness is something powerful.

I no longer need someone to tell me things are going to be ok. They aren’t. They won’t be. I’ve survived more than most people can imagine and I’m quite aware that life goes on, whether I want it to or not.

But acknowledgement. Compassion. Witness. Those are powerful supports when the worst has/is happening.

I can’t stop the raging sand storm, but someone please pull out your camera and acknowledge that the storm exists. That my hair is a fantastic wreck. I really did see Big Foot.

“Ah, this is nothing. You’re too strong to let this get you.”

This stranger isn’t the only one. At least 3 of John’s and my friends are fighting for their lives against terminal cancer right now.

I don’t know what’s happening to gen-x, but deep sadness pervades our circles.

Encouragement has been a lifeline for me, and I very much want to provide encouragement for others as well.

I know how life saving it can actually be.

I also understand how hard it can be for others to figure out what to say.

No one has been trained for these things with the modern eye and understanding. No one wants to hurt me. No one wants to be afraid or feel these things or contemplate the possibilities that they might ever endure something similar to what they see when they glance my way.

Even in understanding all these pieces, sometimes words fail me when I want to encourage others.

Perhaps because I’ve already processed too much data for the day, and my words don’t want to work anymore.

And sometimes I wish I could just reach out and hold somebody’s hand, or hug them, or cry with them to show them I care and they’re not alone. Our experiences may be different, but there’s a fraternal understanding of the nuances of trauma, grief, disease, tragedy and loss. Something I’ve come to recognize with honor.

We try too hard to do everything right, that we are willing to freeze our souls just so we don’t make a mistake. We feel compassion, but we’re afraid to show it, or speak. We’re afraid to risk, so we bury the talent we’ve been given, to make sure we don’t judge or cause harm to others.

But risk is in the very air we breathe. We cannot escape it.

Nothing which has changed the world for the better has ever come at less than the price of risk.

So much of the time we stop telling people the things we feel. Messages never said, thoughts never spoken. We should all write more “letters” in the world.

If we never held back on communicating the love and encouragement we feel, I wonder how would that change the world?

Maybe it doesn’t change the world. Maybe it only changes one moment. But even that solitary seed has to count, right?

I keep reminding myself that there is No Fear In Love.

Every small nudge of encouragement, even a simple “thinking of you” is helpful; like a palm at my elbow, helping me find balance when I’m dizzy. Like a whisper on the wind; God’s reassurance working through others.

But then there are the insightful and creative responses too. And they do more than steady me.

They sparkle.

They deliver a bit of Life essence, something I have given out so much of and need to replenish. If given in love and honesty, they’re more than whispers – they’re God breezes and life-saving Light.

I’m not the only person in the world to go through awful things. So I feel it’s only right to learn from these gifts and seed it back out to my world.

I realize it’s an assumption that others experience this as I do. But it feels like Truth. And I want to be better and more generous with my love and words.

I don’t understand God’s plan for us, but I’m convinced that if we’ll allow it, He’ll use us to transmute these things.

I have long thought of tribulations in Life as a series of Whys, that if we consciously work with the Divine, will turn into Wows.

I haven’t found my big wow yet, but I look forward to discovering it someday.

And I hope you find yours too.

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You’re Messing With My Sneeze…

My 21 year old daughter was sharing the story of her day with me tonight, while I mixed myself a cup of dandelion coffee in my Texas Starbucks mug.

I’ve found dandelion coffee to be quite enjoyable as an evening time hot drink. Sometimes at night you just want something hot to drink. And with dandelion coffee, there’s no caffeine to worry about. And plenty of health benefits to consuming dandelion.

If you’re curious, Dandy Blend is my favorite. It’s a blend of roasted barley, rye, chicory root, beets and dandelion and it tastes very nice to me.

I’m a coffee snob too, but not in the way most people are. I like good coffee, but I cannot handle dark roasts. They kill my stomach with the extra dietary histamine inherent. Many artsy coffee places are really into dark roasts, but I simply can’t be. But it doesn’t mean I’ll drink crap coffee if I don’t have to. I’d rather drink Finnish coffee over Folgers any day.

So the fact that I enjoy the dandelion coffee is kind of a feat in itself. I add milk or cream to it, just like my coffee. No sugar. Although, I do enjoy adding a dash of dehydrated marshmallows to the drink at the end. It’s like a healthier version of grownup hot cocoa. Sort of. There’s no chocolate in it, but it almost has a cocoa flavor to it. I’m guessing its the chicory that lends to it.

As I reach for the makings, my daughter’s filling me in on the deets of the afternoon.

It was an interactive conversation, though I don’t remember all the parts. But to be honest, it doesn’t really matter. We were communing and sharing and that is what was important.

When my daughter is animated, she tends to speak very quickly.

Multiple times I heard her say something about people messing with her sneeze.

Like this is something undesirable.

It’s an expression I just haven’t heard before.

However, I get it. I mean having your sneeze interrupted is incredibly annoying.

In some cases, maybe even torture.

Like worse than a shop-block.

Makes sense.

But with her words running together so quickly, while I’m rummaging with the coffee bag, I ask her to repeat herself.

“And so I’m telling them, you’re messing with my STEEZE!”

Steeze? What the heck is that?

It’s a combo of the words style and ease. So if someone’s messing with it, it’s like someone’s messing with your mojo.

Have you ever needed to sneeze and someone tickled you or did something to block your sneeze?

I’d say your mojo would be pretty messed up.

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If Wishes Were Fishes…

I believe the only way to get through crisis is to focus on the right now, and the just next.

That and healthy boundaries.

Obviously there are some things that could have long-term impact on your family if they don’t get done, but…

I wish I’d spent less time handling paperwork while John was sick, less time letting people tell me what I needed to do with said paperwork, and spent more time just holding my love’s hand, giving him every kiss I could and snuggling every chance.

I wish I took more naps with John. Sat on the couch and watched TV with him more.

It’s not that we didn’t have those moments. We did. But we could have had more before he died.

I did a lot, yes, and in a weird way, it was our trips to Houston for cancer treatment that gave us more time together, than at home when all the stuff had to be done. When the mailbox screamed at us.

But even so, I still wish I’d forgone some of the papers and phone calls and spent more of that time/energy with John.

In the end, maybe it helped some that I was on top of papers, but it didn’t prevent issues completely, I’m still in paperwork hell. The mailbox is just as loud and off-key.

And right now, I don’t care. I just want those moments with John. Once more his arms around me.

Don’t take it for granted. Don’t let the world tell you to focus on anything else.

The little moments matter so much more than you know.


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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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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 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:

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:

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


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

In Seeking Signs… Part 2

I’m one of those people who have experienced miracles. I walked away from a car accident I shouldn’t have 13 years ago. Maybe for the 2nd time, though I’m unsure how bad the car accident really was or not, when I was 6 . The Cougar was totaled though. I remember falling into the wheel well with the jugs of water we had in the car.

There was the time I was drowning in a lake. My mom’s best friend was supposed to be watching me, but she was chasing her own son (my best friend back then) who’d headed over to the diving board on the dock. I knew better than to go over to the deep area, so I waded in from the shore and got swept off my feet. I remember bobbing up and down in the water, panicking, watching the big kids play ball and paddle board around me. I couldn’t swim. I couldn’t float. My body sank. I held my hands up, but all I could see was the green water around me and the surface reflecting above. And a great sense of calm fell over me as I floated there. It was beautiful, and I let go. Everything faded dark and I heard voices as someone wrapped their arms around me. I woke up on a picnic table with a horrible sore throat, pain in my head and shivering. My mom’s friend Jean just wrapped me in a towel.

There was the night I nearly miscarried my son. Bleeding heavily and knowing I was about to lose him. Bracing myself to be ready to experience what millions of women before me have experienced. And then I heard a voice in the darkness that I could not explain, that simply said, “Mommy, don’t give up on me.” And I knew he was alive. For 9 weeks we didn’t know if our baby would live or die because scar tissue from my endometriosis had torn a hole in my uterus. He was only 20 weeks along and too young to be delivered. The doctors and nurses were concerned that I wasn’t facing reality, as I was told over and over again that I was going to lose this baby. But I was calm – I knew he was alive. And while I bled throughout the rest of the pregnancy, I didn’t lose him.

And there was the whole not knowing I couldn’t even have kids in the first place. But if I hadn’t ignored the naysayers and met the right people, who led me to the right specialist out of New Orleans, he wouldn’t have discovered that my tubes were closed. Something they told me was a birth defect and that at the time couldn’t be identified with just a scope. And they fixed me when I had that laparotomy for endometriosis. I would have tried to have kids my entire life. And instead I later gave birth to two miracles. The surgery was not 100% successful, but I was able to live a much more normal life afterward, because the damage caused by my endometriosis had been off the charts for someone just 23.

And let’s also not forget that my mother and I were run off the road into a ditch on the way to New Orleans to get that surgery. It was the strangest set of circumstances and I remember Mom sitting on the curb of the mechanic shop after we were towed in, asking me if maybe this was a sign from God that I was not supposed to have that surgery. The car was completely undriveable and would take days to fix, but I was supposed to be at the hospital the next day. We were stuck in nowhere LA. But somehow Mr. Havir, a minister I knew and called, knew someone who called someone and somehow 2 airline tickets were bought, someone showed up to give us a ride to catch a plane from the nearest big airport in some town not where we were. I had no luggage with me, I’d just thrown things into Mom’s car. Not only did the airline hold the plane for us, they helped us throw my stuff into boxes so it could be checked. I remember running through the airport with my mom and a minister and an airline employee I didn’t know with these awkward cardboard boxes of my clothes and things. I can’t remember the plane flight, but I made it to my surgery. And a family I met a few years prior when my college choir toured through their area, opened their home to us and gave us a place to stay. To this day, I always pack my clothes in suitcases now, no matter how short or local the trip or stay.

And there’s the night the remnants of hurricane Harvey came through, soon after John was in ICU. The night torrential rain poured down the walls of his hospital room in the dark and began flooding his room. Our son was staying with John that night, but our daughter and I were late to leave, because John had a seizure. After things seemed to settle down, we headed down to the lobby to go home, only to discover that the rain and trees were literally horizontal outside, while the lights in the parking lot sputtered and sparked like a fireworks show. We headed back up to John’s room, all the lights dimmed for the “night,” only to look at the floor and think it didn’t look right. And then I realized that half the floor was covered in water and it was moving. And worse, there were electronics units in contact with the floor, including John’s Optune unit. I immediately unhooked everything I could reach and screamed for personnel to help. If John had not had that seizure, and I had not tried to leave too late, making it unsafe for my daughter and I to go home in the weather outside, someone stepping into that water might have been electrocuted in that room that night, a nurse or most likely our sock-footed son. And who knows what could have happened to John, his life support, several things could have gone very badly and horrifically. It was terrifying to be thankful that John had that awful seizure.

There’s the time our son was diagnosed with 6 different medical issues that negatively affected his eyesight, requiring therapy that we didn’t have the money to pay for and that insurance didn’t want to cover, even though it meant the difference between being legally blind and able to drive. After the doctor presented all their findings, we found out how much the treatment would be. How? How do we make this happen? We have an answer and this can be treated. I remember praying to God please help. I’ve looked over the finances every way I can think of. I can’t see how this will work out. Please, please show me. Please provide the means for our son to have this treatment now that we finally know what’s wrong. Please provide it in a way we cannot deny. I don’t know how to pay for this, but if we don’t, our son will be essentially blind. And it’s preventable! I cried and prayed my heart out. And 3 weeks later one of the credit cards I closed during John’s deployment sent me a letter. It stated that they’d recently audited their system and discovered that they owed me money. It was a couple thousand dollars. Enough to start our son’s treatment. Since when does a credit card company refund thousands of dollars? I didn’t question. I knew what it was for. A few months later a fellow crocheter also sent us some money to help our son out. How is that not God in action?

I could go on with personal stories of magical moments of hope bestowed to me and through me. The people John helped rescue. I’m no stranger to miracles. Nor kindness. Nor love and service, both given and received.

I didn’t expect there to be silence now, when I need hope more than ever.

While my faith has been challenged in every way I couldn’t imagine, I do still believe in a God. Even though I don’t understand why so many terrible things have happened. If God is the comforter of widows, then please dear God, comfort me.

So I’ve been asking for help, with all of the pieces that have to be resolved, all the work that has to be done, all the things I don’t know how to do, all the things that keep breaking, like my car, the lawnmower and the fence.

And I suppose if broken things were a sign that my husband’s spirit was still around, then all the things that keep breaking down must be John screaming at me. But it just doesn’t make any sense. Because all these broken things are causing harm to our family, and are hurting me. And there’s no way John would ever do that. If being in contact with me meant harm to me, there is no way the man I knew would ever contact me then. Because he would sooner disappear and exit my life than cause me any harm at all. And I just don’t believe that’s how it works.

So that doesn’t make sense to me either. That’s not the kind of language John would use to try to comfort the kids and I.

And yet this pattern of adversity persists, with a safety net following behind. The yin and yang of whatever this new reality is.

A lot of that surrounds the car. Like the shifter cable breaking Friday afternoon. Or when my car up unexpectedly broke down after visiting family in another state over the summer. A starter coil went bad after I replaced the spark plugs on my car. The first happened a month before my trip. The second happened in another state during the middle of that really bad heat wave, but I managed to limp over to a nearby Love’s where there was food and air conditioning. And I just happened to be within 30 miles of grandma’s house where my uncle lives. I was stranded in OK for 5 unplanned days, but it wasn’t bad. Just an expensive repair. It could have been way worse.

Or recently when a lady hit my daughter while she was driving John’s truck. Thankfully nobody was hurt, and everything happened under 10 mph. But the lady hit the back wheel of John’s truck with the front corner of her car hard enough that it broke something in the wheel assembly. Now she’s trying to claim that my daughter somehow hit her while she was parked on the side of the road; this after she tried to get my daughter not to file with insurance. Our insurance company says they have no idea how she can possibly make such a claim with all the evidence laid out. Everything is still in arbitration. It was in discussing all these things with our rep that it came out that when he was 17 his father died from glioblastoma.

Glioblastoma is an orphan disease, affecting less than 200,000 people in the US. And it just happened that the claims rep I got, when I called after my daughter’s frantic phone call to me from the scene, lost his father the same way she did, at close to the same age.



Filed under NaBloPoMo

In Seeking Signs… Part 1

Two weeks ago today was my birthday. And a week ago yesterday was John’s birthday. He would have been 50 this year. And you know he would have rocked this party.

It was our tradition every year to reserve the weekend between our birthdays as our annual standalone date night. With only 6 days between our birthdays, there was usually a full weekend between our birthdays. This year my birthday fell on a Sunday, and John’s fell on a Saturday. We would have spent the entire week doing special things, cooking lots of great meals, all leading up to his 50th birthday.

I decided I didn’t want to be alone for his birthday, so I held a Halloween party gathering of our local friends instead. Doctor Who TARDIS on my front door step and a yard full of spiders and angels and all. John always wanted to get a bunch of angels for us to move around the yard every night. I didn’t have the energy to move them around, but this year 14 angels from 3 different cities graced our yard around the TARDIS. Not every friend or adopted family made it, and some had to come late, but it was really nice to see the ones who came.

It’s been 13 months, 2 weeks, 6 days, and 85 minutes since John left this world. And I’m ever seeking signs that he still exists. He and I met in theology school you know. We both have theology degrees and he could have been a minister if he wanted. (I wasn’t allowed to, being a girl and all. At least not at that institute.) I guess my point is, we’re not strangers to religion, or church, or a lifetime of service or God. My faith has never been challenged as it was during John’s fight. And in the face of death, his never wavered. If there were ever a recipe for comfort after death, you’d think we had it.

And yet the silence is deafening.

The frustrating thing is, I can’t even seem to have nightmares about him, much less dream about him. And while I believe in God, I don’t have the experiences other widowed spouses have reported about their dead loves. I don’t experience the kind of comfort they do.

In my support groups, there are all sorts of stories of people actually seeing their passed away spouses, feeling them around them, hearing their voices talking to them, flickering lights, objects moving, seeing signs from animals, feathers and rocks in the shape of hearts and unknown gifts left for them. One even reported hugging and holding her husband, and knowing it was real. Others report that the broken dishes they find and other things are signs that their loved ones are still around, though I find it bewildering to consider that someone who loves us would run around breaking things after they’re dead.

And let’s not forget the Cardinals. It is said that cardinals are the spirits of loved ones coming to check on you. But my problem with this is that cardinals were my Grandma Dot’s favorite bird. I’ve grown up with families of cardinals in my backyard, and my grandmother’s backyard, my entire life. I watch them bring generation after generation of baby cardinals to my bird feeders. While cardinals are usually territorial, in my experience multiple families will live in the vicinity of my backyard. It is not uncommon for me to see three different male cardinals in my backyard in a single day. It is always been this way. And while I always think of my grandmother when I see them, it’s because they were her favorite. There are always cardinals. And to me this beautiful bird is something John would specifically never use to show me he’s there. Because he knows.

All these stories from other widows… but as usual, I don’t experience any of these things. I’d be happy with even just dreams. I’ve dreamed dreams my whole life. I saw my aunts, uncles, grandfathers and grandmothers after they passed in my dreams. They were detailed and comforting dreams. But I don’t get them for the man I spent 22 years of my life with. The man whose life I desperately tried to save. It really is as if a black hole opened up and completely removed all traces of him.

And I guess as a deeply spiritual person, married to a deeply spiritual person, desperately in love with each other, determined to fulfill a number of missions of service on this earth together… I just expected more.



Filed under Artist Information & Notes

High Contrast Stress…

Yesterday ended on a weird note. One that unfortunately is no longer a surprise to me.

Living on the edge of a twist.

I had a financial meeting. A stressful one, but one that is helping to solve some things. In the midst of legalities and papers and all the insurance stuff that still isn’t settled from John’s care, and my son’s care and the rest of us.

I left the meeting feeling like, ok, we have a direction at least. There’s a plan.

It’s not a perfect place yet, as there are several pieces of data to sort out still, but having a plan is always better than not knowing what the hell you’re doing.

On the way home, it dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten all day. Just wasn’t time. And I was about to pass this little hole-in-the-wall taco place I know of, where the shredded beef tacos are good and the queso even better.

Did I tell you I love tacos?

Literally just about to pass the place. But instead I flip on my signal and turn into the tiny parking lot.

Everything slows down and flows perfectly. I turn, pull into the parking lot and slide right into a perfect parking space that I noted would be easy enough for me to pull out of. Because nothing is more annoying than to park in a too tight spot, in a hole-in-the-wall little parking lot, and not be able to pull back out of either easily.

And the parking spot was waiting for me. Ample room on either side.

I shift into park and then <bonk>. My front wheels slide forward, bounce off the parking barrier and my car rolls backward.

Whut? Hello. Wait…

Did I not put it into park like I thought?

I slam my foot to the brake. I check the dash and see that I’m actually in neutral, though when I look at my shifter, it’s in park.

I’m confused, but braking hard, I rework my shifter and it slides around the center console like butter.

Something is definitely broken. And as usual, everything happens to me on a Friday, around 5pm. W.t.h.

As it turns out, in the instant that I was parking, the shifter cable broke in the neutral position, right as I shifted from drive to park.

In that instant.

Which means it was quite suddenly and permanently stuck in neutral.

Did I tell you my car has nearly 200,000 miles of experience?

When a shifter cable goes, it’s really a matter of luck when/where/how it will happen and in what gear. It can get stuck in drive, park or neutral if the cable breaks.

And I just happened to want a taco. And with a working emergency brake, just happened to park in the perfect spot for a tow truck to back into the parking lot and load my car up. A tow truck they told me would take an hour to get there, but was in fact there in 15 minutes.

Did I tell you I’ve poured over $6000 into keeping my car running since John died?

Yeah. I don’t qualify for loans yet. I gotta keep this baby going. Thankfully a friend thinks they can do the work for me.

But weird stuff keeps happening to it.

And yet, I just happen to be in the right place, safe and at the right time.

Even got a taco.


Filed under NaBloPoMo

NaBloPoMo Tribal Resources – Find Your People People!

If you are looking for ways to participate in NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) this November and meet others as crazy as you for considering this challenge in the midst of Thanksgiving, or if you’re a NaBloPoMo wannabe-supportive-I-eat-blogs-for-breakfast-groupie, here are a few places where people and information are pooling this year:

2018 NanoPoblano Badge for NaBloPoMoThe challenge known as Nano Poblano has been around a while, hosted by the Cheer Peppers. If you want to join their ranks as a Cheer Pepper and share November posts, that’s done in their Facebook Group and on their website here. I joined them last year, so you’ll see me in the group if you join too. Check out the 2018 NaNoPoblano Team for some great reads from bloggers ranging from seasoned (spicy!) and new. You can find the badge here on the left and a list of blogging resources from the Cheer Peppers here.  Official Hashtags/blogtags: #NaBloPoMo #NanoPoblano2018 #TeamTinyPepper. You can even find an active team Instagram page: @teamtinypeppers

Aimie Clouse over at Blissful Lemon hosted a NaBloPoMo challenge list last year. For 2018 she’s proposing a #Create30 challenge, where you create something every day for 30 days, but the form is more flexible. It’s not just geared towards writers. If you found the pressure of NaBloPoMo to be a bit much, but you want to keep your creative juices flowing, then you might want to check out her challenge for November.

A NaBloPoMo Revival Group has been established on Facebook just in time for this year’s challenge as well. As their tag line suggests, it’s a group “for all of us dealing with the withdrawal.” Think I joined? Duh, yup. They’re singing my song. Well, I’ve asked to join anyway. I’m sure they’ll approve my request soon, right? You can join too -> here. There are some other groups listed on Facebook for NaBloPoMo, but some are expired BlogHer groups and honestly this is the only related public FB group that looks like it’s active or cares.

To help with the enabling, I’ve created a NaBloPoMo Roster event listing over on my Aberrant Crochet Facebook page where everyone can share their NaBloPoMo posts. I’ll monitor it, but please feel free to share and chat there if you like. Being on Facebook should make it easy for people to share their posts without crashing anyone’s website. You can find that event page here:

See Jane Write is also hosting a November blogging challenge called #BlogLikeCrazy. By all descriptions it seems identical to NaBloPoMo, just much younger and perhaps hosted differently. You can check out that November challenge and any connected communities here:

Several bloggers are taking to social media to share their challenge posts on their own.

You can find all sorts of goodness from them at the following links:

Know More Places?

If you know of more communities and places where the collective heart of NaBloPoMo can be found this year, do share in the comments below! Help our fellow writers and creatives find each other and commune again.

Should make for some really interesting and wonderful food for thought during this month of Thanksgiving. Good luck to all!

Talk to you tomorrow!



Filed under NaBloPoMo

NaBloPoMo – Tribal Call!

Welcome to November y’all!

It’s that time of year when I terrorize myself, my readers, or both with NaBloPoMo. Thirty posts during the traditional 30 days of November each year. To learn more about NaBloPoMo, you can refer to a previous post on it here.

Ever since BlogHer became SheKnows, the official hosting of NaBloPoMo has simply disappeared. No announcement, no death note. And there’s still no sign of acknowledgement, much less renewal of the idea.

It’s as if NaBloPoMo’s been kicked out of it’s home and no one’s admitting it happened.

It’s unfortunately not news. You might remember my anarchist rant about it a bit last year. After you read last year’s post, you’ll understand when I say – I haven’t designed my NaBloPoMo #NoMoNoBlo badge for this year, but I will! 😉

It’s easy to say geez, no one’s officially supporting it and it’s really too hard to do it right now anyway. Give it up. But how can I let a decade of obsession just die without even a eulogy? Especially when it’s not dead yet. In fact, it’s feeling a little better. Might even go for a walk.

I’m not alone. There are a few of us diehard NaBlo nerds out there, along with some newbies who just caught wind and think we’re cool.

Well, we are. I mean. Ya know.

In the last decade of participating, I’ve lost the challenge only once. That one time was last year and for the obvious reason of my husband’s death, if you’ve followed my blog at all, then you know. And I’m grateful if you’ve stuck with me along the way. I can’t promise that I won’t talk about deep things, sad things or even haunting things. I mean, my teenage son was diagnosed with cancer this year, so things definitely still suck, very much. But my soul is not keening with the same rage it was a year ago.

I’m not ok. I’m not. I never will be. Of that I’m certain. I was forced to be reborn and I’m still angry about it. But I’m putting one foot in front of the other, I’m learning and in new ways I’m living John’s favorite teaching motto: Embracing The Suck.

This year will be a challenge to see how NaBloPoMo goes, with an upcoming surgical procedure and a few other irons in the raging fire. But transmutation is never a process of ease, is it? If a caterpillar has to completely dissolve to become a butterfly, then… well…

:: shudder ::
Actually let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

Look for a list of NaBloPoMo resources in the next post.

On to it!




Filed under NaBloPoMo

There Is No Spoon…

I’ve had a recurring dream most of my life.

That there is plenty in the world until I arrive. Then something happens. But everyone around me is oblivious to my situation.

People see me a certain way and cannot see that my reality is quite different from their perception. I am assumed or judged by actions I have not taken and a reality I have not lived.

Last night I dreamt I got to attend a music performance at my daughter’s college. One of her friends was performing with a group, and the event would be followed by a banquet.

We arrived and everything was beautiful. We picked out seats, but I really needed to find a restroom. On my way back, I get completely lost. I ask for directions back to the performance hall, but no one knows what I’m talking about.

I finally find my way back, but I’ve not only missed the performance, I cannot find anyone I know. Still, I’m just in time to get a plate of food from the buffet before they tear it down. And I’m so hungry.

The buffet table is huge, taking up most of one side of the banquet room. As I go through, there’s very little left that I’m not allergic to, but I manage to find a little meat. Thankfully there’s still a little salad left on the salad bar at the end of the buffet.

I set my plate down to get the last of the salad, but as soon as I do, someone has taken my plate of food.

I’m in tears and I cry out, Not Again.

I can’t find my plate anywhere. My stomach pangs growl. And as I look back over the buffet, it’s been completely cleared.

All I have are a few leaves of spinach in a bowl. Even the water is gone.

And I feel despair.

This dream theme has recurred most of my life. And seems to play out in weird ways in my reality.

That everything somehow seems more complex for me. That normal sustenance, and needs fulfilled, is not readily available to me. That my trials are never typical. Like an alien trapped on a world I never quite click with. My timing is always off.

Everyone congratulates me on my cooking skills, yet no one is aware that I’m starving.

While it has improved some over time (i.e. my dreams rarely involve mortal danger now too), I’d like to conquer this dream. Master whatever it is that it represents. This dream had gotten better before. But it’s gotten much worse in the last 3 years since John’s glioblastoma diagnosis and death.

It’s understandable, but I need to figure out how to resolve it.

Or succumb.



Filed under Grief, Random Thoughts, Widowhood, Writing

Understanding Doesn’t Erase It…

No matter what I understand about stress and grief and trauma, the understanding does not erase its reality.

Understanding alone does not give me freedom.

I still have to work through the muck. Albeit, it does help to understand.

Grief and trauma aren’t like injuries. They are injuries.

I never understood the physical reality of grief as an injury as well as I understand it now. I peel back the layers every day, and still there are more.

Grief is a uniquely human wound.

Even understanding the anticipatory grief packaged with John’s terminal illness did not prepare me for the eventual reality of his death. It did not prepare me for this side of the trauma. We soldiered on through the brutality of his fight for life, because John and I faced things together. No matter how gritty, our family faced everything together. And we had hope for a cure.

Now… that hope has exited stage left, as has John. And now he’s not here to stare down his son’s own cancer with us too.

Grief cripples, even when you understand. Even when you seek balance in all things. You are not “you” for awhile. Maybe you never will be.

“Faith” that I’ll see John again in spirit does not erase the physical reality I face every day. It does not erase the wounds of our trauma together. It does not remove the flood at my knees or the fight at my door.

While no one can take over my burden for me, my friends and family can cushion the pointy-ness, salve the pain, steady me when I falter and stumble. Hold my hair back as I vomit from this Life’s kick in the gut.

No one has ever thrived alone. Human history is proof of this, over and over again. The world’s sacred texts are filled with example after example. Nature also teaches us this. We can survive alone, but we do not thrive. And we don’t heal from mortal wounds without assistance, from God or otherwise.

Like any piercing physical ailment, grief and trauma require recovery and healing. Avoidance does not erase the reality of it nor the need for working through it, any more than a broken leg can be pretended away. But neither does justification or comprehension remove the reality either.

While many things are affected and even created by belief alone, some things cannot be simply unmade through knowledge and recognition. And while choices have consequences, not all “consequences” have choices.

Sometimes, the task set upon us is unfair and without cause.

Understanding alone doesn’t do the work or walk the path of Life. It merely assists in our perspective. We still must face and work with the actual reality.

Perspective and applied understanding help us transmute. And transmutation of the spirit is why we’re here. To be reborn with every conscious effort, ever seeking the Path, even when obscured by tragedy. Even when we feel alone and blind with pain.

We are not robots and we are not God. I may be a part of God, a part of the family of God, or even part of the Great Network as I understand it, but I am not the sum of Creator. And yet, even my Creator God feels. Even Jesus cried out on the cross.

Christ understood far more about the universe and spiritual reality than we can comprehend. And yet when Lazarus died, whom He was about to raise from the dead – “Jesus wept.” (John 11:35) 

Knowing everything he knew, knowing that Lazarus would return to life, knowing God and the nature of the universe and our connection, Jesus was overcome with emotion and cried for the friend he loved.

How could I be expected to perform “better” than that?

Life is in the Overcoming.

And some tasks are more difficult than others.


June 25th, 2018
by Julia Meek Chambers
All rights reserved.



Filed under Grief, Random Thoughts, Widowhood, Writing

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
by Julia Meek Chambers
All rights reserved.

Trapped In The Well - by AberrantCrochet


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


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.



Filed under Glioblastoma, NaBloPoMo, Random Thoughts