slow loss

There are some types of loss that happen slowly. The dwindling ability to recall details, the quiet siege of cancer, the agonizing decision to stop driving, the growing list of friends and family that are no longer with you, the long-endured pain that has no remedy, the children you earnestly longed for that have yet to be given, the breakthrough in your loved one’s addiction that is yet to be experienced. Liminal spaces, exhausting days, tough nights. The waves crashing up against the rocks of your hopes, day in and day out.

In 2020 my father was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma. For a few years he actually seemed more like himself than ever before, just a tad bit slower. He was optimistic and looking forward to all the days ahead. He was so focused on Jesus and using every moment to pray, read, and encourage others. He was grateful. It was a beautiful transformation, to be honest.

But it is 2025 now. This kind of cancer is not cured, it is held at bay by a cocktail of chemicals that take their toll. My Dad has become intimately acquainted with suffering. He clings to the promises of God, but he is tired. He encourages people, but he is in pain. He texts his kids, grandkids, and friends on regular basis, but he gets sick often.

I spent a couple of days with my parents at the beach recently. My Dad slept most of the time. He shuffled around a little, but he was not feeling well at all. We went out to eat and we played 2 games of Rummikub, or as my Dad says “Rumble-cube.”

As I drove home after the trip, I yelled and cried. I was so angry at the cancer that had taken my Dad from me. I was finally living close enough to my parents to do things with them, but now they could not do the things I wanted to do with them. There was nothing to look forward to, he wasn’t going to get better. I began to question the value of a life lived in pain. I questioned the value of “hanging on” to life and asked what the definition of living was anyway. After all of my yelling, crying, and questioning, I finally stopped. Do you know that moment when a baby cries themselves out? That moment finally came for me.

In the quiet and the still, I received my answer: My Dad’s life had always been and would always be valuable. He was still my Dad. He still had dignity and worth. His life had never been valuable because he made me laugh, helped me with homework, did well at his job as a civil engineer, or almost always made his famous hook shot on the basketball court. His life had always been valuable because he was made in the image of God and God valued and loved him.

My feeling that there was nothing “after” to hope for, was far from the truth. My Dad may never heal from this cancer in this life, but even if he did, he’s still about to turn 85 years old. At some point we will both diminish and depart. But when we do, and as we hurt in the slow loss we’re experiencing, I take comfort in knowing we will be together again and we will no longer suffer.

Who knows, maybe God will let him make bridges, French drains, water gardens, and hook shots in heaven. Or maybe it will be something altogether better. I am excited to find out.

Friend, the truth is, even if you get what you want here and now, it will end if it is tied only to this life. You are already valuable, you already have worth. Don’t spend your precious days pining for something temporary, cling to the eternal.