When my husband officially stepped into retirement at the end of March, I was filled with a quiet but profound sense of anticipation. I truly believed that our long-awaited ‘golden season’—the era of unhurried days and new memories—had finally arrived. We had never been the type of couple who postponed life’s adventures while waiting for that elusive “someday.” Long before retirement ever entered the picture, we had already lived vibrantly: raising our children amid a spirit of curiosity and courage, weaving our family traditions through shared passions for travel, sports, and exploration, and deliberately carving out time to create a lifetime of moments that would become the foundation of who we are. Retirement, in our minds, wasn’t an endpoint or a retreat; it was meant to be an abundant continuation—a slower, sweeter chapter that would allow us to immerse ourselves even more deeply in the experiences that had always brought us joy.
But that vision shattered only weeks later. By sheer accident, during what seemed like a routine hospital visit to investigate possible appendicitis, my husband was given a diagnosis that turned our world upside down: stage 3 kidney cancer. I can still vividly recall the surreal moment when the nurse, in an almost offhand tone, mentioned, “And you’re aware of the large mass on your left kidney, right?” Of course, we were not. Those words pierced through me, stopping time itself. One day we were happily finalizing travel itineraries and making dinner reservations for newfound leisure; the next, we were sitting across from a panel of doctors, straining to digest complex medical terminology, balancing surgical options, and mapping out an uncertain landscape of treatments. Even though we had spent years choosing to live in the present—to savor life consciously—I was reminded once again how delicate, how painfully fragile, time truly is.
Since that moment, our existence has felt suspended in uncertainty. Cancer has a way of transforming the rhythm of your days—it is an emotional roller coaster that no one ever volunteers to ride. There are mornings when a doctor’s encouraging words seem like a lifeline, whispering hope into fear’s dark corners, and then there are nights when the anxiety of pending scan results feels suffocating. The waiting, the unrelenting not-knowing, becomes an exhausting emotional landscape of peaks and valleys. From the very day we first heard the diagnosis, our lives have been defined by this oscillation between optimism and dread. On most days, it feels as though hope and fear coexist inside us, colliding with the force of tides. You keep putting one foot in front of the other, but beneath that fragile progression, the ground trembles—never quite solid, never quite still. Yet through it all, we have tried, as best we can, to remain anchored in optimism, to keep faith in what we still have rather than what we fear we may lose.
The shock of his illness reawakened an old lesson—one I thought I had already fully internalized years ago. I have often shared the story of losing my father before he ever had the chance to retire, and how that loss fundamentally reshaped the way my husband and I built our lives, raised our children, and organized our priorities. It instilled in us a deep, guiding belief that ‘someday’ is never guaranteed. That conviction became the heartbeat of our family philosophy. It’s what inspired us to transform our son’s hockey tournaments into family road trips rich with laughter and discovery; it’s what led us to create cherished mother-daughter holiday adventures in New York City, filled with bright lights and shared wonder; and it’s what motivated us to build a second home in our beloved college town so that our children could grow up immersed in the traditions, camaraderie, and spirit of fall football weekends. Every one of those choices reflected a conscious decision to live intentionally, to invest meaning into our everyday lives because we understood that time is both precious and perishable.
Yet, despite years of practicing presence and rejecting the notion of postponed joy, my husband’s diagnosis struck us anew with its cruel reminder: there might not be as much time as we once imagined. Retirement had always symbolized a comforting buffer—a period of expanded freedom and security where we could finally exhale—but suddenly, even that hopeful concept felt fragile, perhaps illusory. The sense of permanence we had associated with that chapter had dissolved, leaving us face to face with life’s unpredictable impermanence.
Since receiving this life-altering news, we have leaned even more deeply into the practice of living fully in the present. Our focus is not on dramatic or extravagant gestures—there’s no desperate attempt to chase every item on a bucket list—but rather on the quiet, genuine moments that make existence truly meaningful. Morning walks that allow us to greet the day together. Long, tranquil afternoons spent floating in our pool. Simple dinners out, where conversation flows easily and laughter returns like an old friend. Phone calls with our children that stretch into shared affection and reassurance. These moments, once ordinary, have now become sacred rituals—portals to gratitude and love. We still dream, we still plan, but with an entirely new rhythm. We no longer set aside joy for later; if something can be done now, we do it. And if it can’t, we look for the next best thing to anticipate, understanding that hope itself can be a form of nourishment.
We’ve abandoned the idea that retirement is a finish line to cross triumphantly. Instead, we view it as an ongoing journey anchored in presence, gratitude, and genuine connection. What I once envisioned as a golden season filled solely with leisure and freedom began, instead, cloaked in fear. Yet even amidst that fear, there emerged an undeniable truth: no matter how intentionally one lives, the passage of time remains exquisitely delicate. Life, I’ve realized once more, is both fleeting and luminous, and that fragility is precisely what gives it meaning.
If there’s one message I hope others take from our experience, it is this: even if you already strive to live fully, never assume you will always have more time. Retirement is not a promise; next year is not a certainty; even tomorrow isn’t something we can claim as our own. So live now—create and deepen your traditions, preserve your laughter and your love, and hold close the people who give your life its texture and meaning. Because even when you believe you have already made space for joy, life has a way of changing in an instant. And in those unpredictable turns, what truly endures is how fully you have chosen to live in the time you are given.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/husband-retirement-kidney-cancer-diagnosis-2025-10
