When my husband retired at the end of March, I thought our “golden season” had finally arrived. We weren’t the type of couple who waited for retirement to live — we had already raised our kids with adventure, built traditions around sports and travel, and carved out time to make memories long before “someday.” Retirement was supposed to be an extension of that, a slower, sweeter chapter where we could do even more of what we loved.
Then, just weeks later, my husband was accidentally diagnosed with stage 3 kidney cancer. We were at the hospital where he had a scan for possible appendicitis. When they confirmed that, the nurse then said, “And you know about the massive tumor on your left kidney, right?” We did not.
The news stopped us cold. One day, we were planning trips, and the next, we were sitting across from doctors, navigating medical terminology, surgery, and treatment plans. Even with a lifetime of choosing presence, I was reminded again how fragile time really is.
Since his diagnosis, we’ve been living in uncertainty
A cancer diagnosis is a roller coaster you never want to ride. Some days you cling to hopeful words from a doctor; the next, you’re spiraling over the delay of scan results. The waiting, the not knowing, it’s almost unbearable.
We’ve lived in that constant back-and-forth since the day we got the news. Optimism collides with fear on a near-daily basis. You try to keep moving forward, but the ground never feels steady.
His diagnosis was a reminder of a lesson I thought I’d learned
I’ve written before about losing my dad before he could retire and how that shaped everything about how my husband and I chose to live and parent. We built our family life on the philosophy that “someday” isn’t promised.
That mindset gave us rich experiences — from turning our son’s hockey tournaments into family road trips, to creating mother-daughter holiday adventures in New York City, to building a second home in our college town, where our kids grew up steeped in football tradition. We lived intentionally, knowing time wasn’t guaranteed.
But even after years of living in the present and not postponing joy, my husband’s cancer diagnosis was a jarring reminder that there might not be more time. Retirement was supposed to give us that cushion, but suddenly, even that felt uncertain.
We’re focusing even more on living in the present now
Since my husband’s diagnosis, we’ve doubled down on living in the present, not in the sense of chasing bucket-list extravagance, but in truly seizing the everyday moments.
Morning walks. Floating in our pool. Dinners out. Laughter with friends. Calls with our kids. These things were always important, but now they feel sacred. We still dream and plan — but we don’t put things on hold. If we can do something now, we do it. If we can’t, we find something to plan to look forward to.
We’ve let go of the idea that retirement was a finish line we were racing toward. Instead, we’re focused on presence, gratitude, and connection in every way possible.
What I thought would be our golden season began not with freedom, but with fear. Yet even in that fear came a powerful reminder: no matter how intentionally you live, time is still fragile.
If there’s one lesson I hope people take from our story, it’s this — even if you’re already living fully, don’t assume you’ll always have “more time” to do the things you dream about. Retirement isn’t a guarantee. Neither is next year. Neither is tomorrow.
Live now. Deepen traditions. Make memories. Hold the people you love even closer. Because even when you think you’ve made room for joy, life can change in an instant — and what matters most is what you choose to do with the time you’re given.
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