“They’ve found a spot on your daddy’s pancreas.”
The tearful words my mama said to me on that Monday. Words that stopped me in my tracks. Even though we wouldn’t get the official diagnosis for a few more days, deep down I already knew. Based on the symptoms my daddy had been experiencing in the weeks prior, I knew this probably wasn’t going to be good news.
Before then, I didn’t know much about pancreatic cancer… only that it was one no one ever wanted to have.
But my daddy, he took his diagnosis head-on. With quiet strength, steady faith, and unshakable grace. If he was ever scared, he never let it show. He did everything the doctors asked, always trusting that God was in control.
He was the kind of man whose Bible stayed open on the arm of the loveseat —his favorite spot—where you could always find him reading and giving thanks, even in the middle of his pain.
He never complained. Not once. Even on the days I knew he was hurting, he’d just say, “I’m just a little tired today.” He carried the weight quietly, to protect those he loved from his own discomfort.
Grief is grief, and no loss ever feels fair. But when someone you love is fighting something like this, you start to experience anticipatory grief. It’s this slow, heavy ache that settles in your heart as you realize your time together is limited.
But even in that pain, there’s a small, sacred gift. It gives you time to make sure no words go left unsaid. Time to say “I’m sorry” for moments you wish you could take back. Time to thank him for loving you through every season—even during the times you might’ve been hard to love.
Anticipatory grief teaches you to slow down. To soak up every ordinary moment. To be by his side, and tell him just how much he means to you and to tell him that you get it now.
Being a parent yourself, you start to see things differently. You realize there were so many moments when they were simply doing their best to love and protect you—even if you didn’t understand it then.
It’s a heartbreaking kind of grace, knowing what’s coming, but still finding beauty in every moment you have left.
And then comes the actual grief.
The grief you thought you had prepared for, but quickly realize nothing could have prepared you for just how permanent their absence is.
You catch yourself looking for them in all the familiar places.
The spot on the loveseat, where you notice the worn spot on the leather of the armrest, right where his elbow used to rest.
Out in the backyard, piddling around on a good day.
Or the truck pulling up in your driveway bringing you a hot meal or taking care of your trash, because he showed an “acts of service” kind of love, even during his sickness.
But they never appear.
Only in your memories are you able to envision the presence that once filled your daily life.
The world goes on, but grief stays with you.
It softens, it shifts, but it never disappears.
The love doesn’t end when life does. It just changes form.
You see their features in your own face, in your children, and often in your way of thinking.
And every now and then, a song he loved will start to play, one that instantly takes you back to your childhood. So you realize his love lives on. In stories, in memories, and in the way your children still speak his name.
For just a moment, it’s like they’re right there beside you again…reminding you that love never really leaves.
by Laura Bagnarol 
by Traci Rhoades 
