Cancer: What Remains Must Be Guarded
Two years ago, I went through some medical examinations. I had had examinations before but nothing sinister emerged. I had an appointment to see the consultant for the results. We read a scripture that morning as we do every morning. It was Psalm 91: 1,2:
‘He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
Will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.’
I will say to the Lord, “You are my refuge and my fortress,
My God, in whom I trust.’”
I said to my wife, ‘we are going to get bad news today.’ She agreed. God had often given us messages through the scriptures that were specific. God continues to speak as he has always spoken, but at times, the right verse miraculously lands in our lap when needed and you know that God is having a bilateral conversation with you.
And sure enough, cells in the prostate that served me faithfully, turned hostile and have created a rebellion in the pancreas and liver and who knows where else.
The consultant who revealed this, looked at me and said, ‘You are very bravado about this.’
I replied, ‘Well, it’s like this, there’s a young man inside me. He has followed me around all his life. His age, I do not know, but he is always there. He comforts me and his presence convinces me God has eternity in view for me,’ I replied.
The truth is, God has set eternity in our hearts as written in Ecclesiastes 3:11.
Cancer arrives like a sudden winter.
It stills the ground, strips life back to essentials, and forces the soul into quiet reckoning. There is much to consider then; the unfinished conversations, forgiveness left unsaid, the careful tying of loose ends. What is needed most is space. Space to communicate with family who least understand me and my decisions. Space to think. Space to rest. Space simply to be.
Yet illness has a way of ringing bells. It was time for what the Swedes pragmatically call Döstädning or death cleaning and I am grateful to the young specialist nurse who insisted in checking my prostate during a routine over fifties consultation which resulted in causing me to buy out time due to an early diagnosis.
Paperwork has to be updated, files need to be kept, spiritual routines are still met and those items we hoard have to be sent to the council tip and valuable time must be spent with my wife whom I will leave behind. Of crucial importance was finding a place of spirituality, good Bible teaching, and a loving spiritual family where we can rest our heads. Having good people around is crucial.
But voices from the past emerge from long silence—people and family who have been absent for years suddenly reappear. Their concern may be genuine, but it is hard not to wonder whether their urgency belongs more to them than to the one who suffers.
When my first wife was dying from a brain tumour, I learned something sacred from her restraint. I asked whom she wished to see or speak with. Her answer was almost always the same:
“Keep away the heavies.”
By that she meant those who came carrying sympathy but left behind weight. They arrived seeking details—test results, timelines, clinical specifics—yet rarely spoke to her. Their questions circled the disease, not the woman. It felt like a thief entering quietly and leaving with something precious: her peace.
A physician once wrote, “The role of medicine is not only to prolong life, but to protect the quality of what remains.”
That protection must include the unseen terrain—the mind, the spirit, the fragile inner balance that illness disrupts.
Not everyone who offers solace truly brings it. Some presence drains rather than restores. As the old saying goes, “Not everyone who speaks kindly has kind intentions, and not everyone who stays close brings comfort.” Stress and cancer are poor companions, and the body already fights a hard enough battle.
At such a time, rest—physical and mental—is not indulgence; it is necessity. Vigilance becomes an act of self-care. Choosing the right visitors, the right conversations, even the right silences, matters. The gentlest companions are those who sit without prying, listen without extracting, and leave without taking anything that cannot be replaced.
In the end, love should feel like shelter, not another storm to endure.
Image by Copilot