No Cure for Being Human
In her book No Cure for Being Human (And Other Truths I Need to Hear), Kate Bowler captures the compelling journey of her cancer diagnosis and the grueling treatment that followed, alongside the difficult transition into the mysterious, fragile and scary, yet sacred “new normal” of remission. Of course, in God’s providence and grace, disease is sometimes fully eradicated. It disappears from the scans; the odds are defied. But in many cases, we don’t truly know the final verdict until the very end. Someone may have had stage II cervical or prostate cancer, undergone treatment, and then lived another 8, 15, or 25 years before dying from something unrelated. Only then, in hindsight, can we say with certainty, “The cancer was defeated.” Otherwise, even after tests, surgeries, and radiation, there often remains a quiet awareness of its possible return. And yet, despite that uncertainty, we are called to live—moving forward fully and fiercely.
Remission, then, is a strange, two-sided gift. It is filled with gratitude—at least as I imagine, never having faced it myself—but also shadowed by fear. After doing the hard work of rebuilding a life disrupted by major illness, there remains the possibility of bad news returning. It’s a distinct brand of uncertainty—not about career paths or geographic locations, but about life itself. I once underwent a three-hour neck surgery, but that pales in comparison to discovering a malignant presence in one’s body that may not be treatable in time. It’s like trying to evict a squatter who, inexplicably, you learn has ridiculous protections that complicate the process.
Bowler eventually earned tenure at Duke Divinity School, where she serves as a professor of history. No Cure for Being Human, however, begins just as she is starting there, eager to establish herself after completing her Ph.D. At the same time, she was stepping into life as a wife and new mother to a son with loads of curious energy. To be diagnosed at 35 with stage IV incurable colon cancer is, by any measure, a devastating interruption or detour. Even more, it is as close to a death sentence as you can get.
A buddy of mine, who is also living with terminal cancer, once told me, “You know, it is so much work trying to stay alive.” We both burst out into laughter, as she updated me on her health, chemotherapy, and summer retirement plans—that’s just who she is. Deeply grateful to God for the time she has, she is also honest and even humorous about the reality before her. She can frown, laugh, cry, and pray—all within the same conversation. No one can do your dying for you anymore than they can do your living. However long (or short) our time, we decide what to do with it.
In its own ways, illness is relentless. It has no regard for our feelings, plans, or fears. Life itself, too, can feel unpredictable and unfair. You might manage a chronic condition through discipline and care, only to be struck by something entirely separate. Healthy and relatively young people die unexpectedly all the time, believe it or not. Last year, my 90-year-old great-aunt died in a house fire, likely caused by an electrical issue at her home. She had survived so much—a long teaching career, cancer, the loss of her husband and nearly all her siblings—only to go out like this? A few years ago, I eulogized a beloved church member. After 16 months bravely battling pancreatic cancer, she passed away at 49, leaving behind a husband and two sons.
The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away—for His glory and our good—even when the timing and means feel misaligned. Bowler, a brilliant scholar by all accounts, is strikingly candid in No Cure for Being Human and her other writings. She names the doubts, confusion, and frustration—whether it’s the emotional toll or the often exhausting complexities of healthcare coverage and clinical trials. More than anything, she lays bare the deeply human experience of facing death, and the difficult work of trying to die well in Jesus’ name.
As we all, in our own ways, encounter the fragility within and around us, Bowler’s work serves as a meaningful guide. It invites us to acknowledge what is inevitable while still fighting—wholeheartedly—until the final bell tolls.