What Cancer Taught Me About Christmas

The problem with having cancer is that you meet other people with cancer.

And they die.

This truth is one of the many unwrapped realities that comes with a cancer diagnosis. Cancer doesn’t come in isolation. It drags along a community you never wanted to join, filled with stories of both courage and loss that blur the line between hope and heartbreak.

Some of those people become your friends. As a caregiver, you bond with others in ways you never expected. You share stories about treatment schedules and the endless logistics of managing appointments. You exchange tips — not for dealing with your own pain, but for helping the person you love face theirs. You find humor in the absurdities of hospital life, like the maze of hallways you can now navigate blindfolded or the vending machines that somehow never stock what you want. You find comfort in their victories, because every win feels like a collective triumph, and their losses hit you like your own. There’s a strange solidarity in it, a shared understanding that only comes from walking this road together.

When my wife was first diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer, the odds felt abstract. Percentages on a page, risks calculated by doctors. At the same time, we dismissed them, convinced that we would be the ones to defy the statistics.

It was around 15 months ago that she decided to see a doctor about a mild but persistent abdominal pain. We thought it might be something minor — appendicitis, perhaps. Instead, a CT scan revealed a tumor the size of a melon.

The months that followed were a whirlwind of surgeries, aggressive chemotherapy, and long hours in hospital waiting rooms. My wife faced each battle with courage and determination, enduring grueling treatments that took an immense toll on her body.

And then, finally, there was hope. After twelve rounds of chemotherapy, her scans were clear. The oncologist declared her in remission, and we dared to dream again. We started making plans, imagining a future where cancer was a distant memory.

But that future never came. Three months later, the cancer was back.

Facing the Holidays Again

This Christmas, cancer has found its way back into our lives, like an unwelcome guest. It’s hard to explain what it feels like to go through this again. The first time, it was all fear and adrenaline — a storm you somehow survived. The second time, it feels more like a shadow that you can’t escape, no matter how fast you run.

In this season, my wife and I are once again surrounded by the community we never asked to join. The friends we’ve made on this journey are a source of strength, but also a painful reminder of the fragility of life.

One of those friends is a woman who’s walked a similar path. She also has bowel cancer but, sadly, she is almost at the end of her journey. As Christmas approached, my wife asked her, “What do you want for Christmas?”

Her answer smacked me right between the eyes:

“Nothing. It will just end up in landfill in a few months’ time.”

The Weight of Her Words

Her response wasn’t said with bitterness but with the stark clarity of someone who understands that the true currency of our lives isn’t money, possessions, or even plans.

It’s time.

The kind of time that can’t be saved or spent later. The kind of time that’s slipping away, moment by moment, no matter how carefully you try to hold onto it.

Hearing her words made me pause and reevaluate the things we pour so much energy into during the Christmas holidays. We obsess over shopping lists, perfect decorations, and just the right gifts to place under the tree. Yet, when you’re faced with the reality of cancer, these rituals can feel fleeting, even hollow. They’re a reminder of how much we grasp for permanence in a world where nothing truly lasts.

For my wife’s friend, the most meaningful gifts aren’t things. They’re not wrapped in shiny paper or tied with ribbons. They’re the things that matter most but often go unnoticed: time spent together, laughter that echoes long after the moment ends, love that anchors you in the storm. These are the gifts that don’t end up in landfill. They don’t gather dust, break, or fade. Instead, they become part of you.

Her words carried a painful wisdom.

What do we spend our time and energy on? What are we truly giving to the people we love? Cancer has a way of cutting through the noise, stripping life down to its essentials. It reminds us that the greatest gifts we can give are often the simplest and most profound: presence, connection, and the willingness to show up for one another, no matter how hard it gets.

This Christmas, those words have stayed with me. They’ve reframed how I see the season — not as a time to gather things, but as a time to gather moments. Moments that matter, moments that last, and moments that remind us of what’s truly important when the wrapping paper is gone and the decorations are packed away.

The Christmas Bauble

There is a bauble that hangs on our Christmas tree. It was the first Christmas tree decoration my wife and I bought way back when we were married, seventeen years ago. The bauble is made of ceramic white, and it has words written on it in red glitter paint that say “Our First Christmas.” My wife and I clumsily hung it on the tree together way back at the beginning — before kids, before homes, and before hopes and dreams came crashing down.

This year, as we hung it on the tree, I found myself lingering. My fingers hesitated, brushing the chipped edge where it had been dropped a few years ago, the faded glitter barely legible now. It’s just a small, fragile thing, but somehow it feels like it holds the weight of everything we’ve built, everything we’ve fought for.

And as I stepped back to look at the tree, the thought crept in — uninvited, unwelcome: Is this our last Christmas together?

I don’t want to think about it, but the question is always there, just beneath the surface. This is the cruel reality of cancer. It doesn’t just threaten the body; it hijacks your hope, turning moments of joy into moments of grief for a future that hasn’t even happened yet.

The truth is, I don’t know if this is our last Christmas. I don’t want to know. I want to cling to the belief that there will be more — many more. But I also know that I can’t control what’s ahead. All I can do is hold tightly to what’s here, now: the sound of my wife’s laughter as she tells a story to our kids, the way that Christmas still brings my wife to life.

So I hang the bauble on the tree, just as we’ve done for seventeen years. I don’t know what next Christmas will bring. But this Christmas, I will celebrate. Sure, I will agonize over the unknown, but I will also cherish the moments that make up the miracle of now.

A Christmas That Matters

As I stare at that bauble, I think about my wife’s friend and her words: “Nothing. It will just end up in landfill in a few months’ time.”

I understand her clarity. The things we fill our lives with, the stuff we obsess over, so much of it is temporary — destined for the landfill. But as I look at that little bauble, I realize she’s only partly right. Not everything ends up in landfill. Some things, even fragile things, endure.

This bauble reminds me of something we so often forget: the things that truly matter — the love we give, the memories we make, the moments we hold onto — aren’t things at all.

This bauble isn’t valuable because of what it’s made of. It’s valuable because of what it carries: the story of us. The chipped edge tells a story of the clumsy love that hung it on a tree seventeen years ago. The faded glitter speaks of the countless times we’ve unpacked it, the trees it has adorned, the hands that have touched it — our hands, and the hands of our three children. It reminds me that what truly matters isn’t the bauble itself, but the love and memories it represents.

This is why, even in the face of uncertainty, I keep hanging that bauble. Not because it will last forever, but because it reminds me to hold tightly to what does — the moments, the laughter, the love that outlives the things we leave behind.

Do yourself a favour.

This Christmas, remember to hold onto the things that last.

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This post was previously published on Backyard Church.

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