We thought we knew what the next chapter of our lives would look like.
After decades of working, raising a family, building a life together, and dreaming about retirement, we were ready for a new season. We imagined more time together, more travel, more freedom, and new adventures waiting just down the road.
Then came the words that changed everything:
You have prostate cancer.
In a moment, the future we had pictured became uncertain.
The diagnosis that changed our direction
My name is Mike Jones, and this is not the story Sue and I expected to be telling.
A prostate cancer diagnosis was never part of our retirement plan. Neither were surgery, pathology reports, PSA tests, treatment decisions, or the fear that comes with not knowing what the next scan or appointment might bring.
At first, we hoped the cancer was contained and that surgery would remove it.
But after my radical prostatectomy, the final pathology revealed a much more aggressive disease than we had expected. The cancer was Gleason 4+5=9, Grade Group 5. It had extended beyond the prostate, involved both seminal vesicles, reached a lymph node, and was present at multiple surgical margins.
The surgery was not the end of treatment.
It was the beginning of a much longer road.
Cancer changed more than my health
Cancer affected my body, but it also affected our marriage, our plans, our confidence, and the way we looked at the future.
There were the physical challenges of recovery, including incontinence, fatigue, and uncertainty about sexual function.
There were also emotional challenges that were harder to describe.
Fear.
Frustration.
Grief over the life we thought we were about to begin.
Anxiety before every appointment and blood test.
The strange feeling of trying to live normally while waiting for the next piece of information that could change everything again.
We even had to cancel the dream trip we had planned for our 30th anniversary.
That loss represented more than a vacation. It felt like cancer was beginning to take pieces of the future we had worked so hard to reach.
Sue became my soft place to land
I was the patient, but Sue was going through cancer too.
She attended appointments, listened to difficult conversations, helped me recover, managed her own fears, and stood beside me when neither of us knew what came next.
Patients are often asked, “How are you doing?”
Caregivers are often asked, “How is the patient doing?”
Those are not the same question.
Sue carried a burden that was often invisible. She tried to be strong for me while also processing what the diagnosis meant for her own life.
She became my soft place to land.
But I also learned that caregivers need care, support, honesty, and room to tell their own stories.
Cancer does not happen to just one person. It enters the marriage, the family, the calendar, the finances, the plans, and the emotional life of everyone close to the patient.
The question that changed everything
One lesson became clearer throughout this journey:
Ask one more question.
Ask what the scan may not show.
Ask what happens if the final pathology is worse than expected.
Ask about side effects, recovery, quality of life, additional treatment, and the options that may come next.
Ask for explanations in plain language.
Ask for another opinion when the decision is important.
Ask what your caregiver needs.
Ask the question you are afraid to ask.
We learned that one question can lead to better information, a different decision, a clearer understanding, or simply the courage to keep moving forward.
That idea became more than advice.
It became a movement, a mindset, and a way of life.
From pain to purpose
We could not control the diagnosis.
We could not undo what had happened.
But we could decide what we would do with the experience.
That decision became Jonesing For The Journey.
We began sharing our story because we knew other patients, caregivers, and families were facing the same fears and questions. Many were searching for honest information that went beyond clinical explanations.
They wanted to know what recovery really felt like.
They wanted to hear about the emotional impact.
They wanted someone to talk about marriage, identity, uncertainty, and quality of life.
They wanted to know they were not alone.
Our goal is not to tell anyone which treatment to choose.
Every person’s cancer, health, priorities, and circumstances are different.
Our goal is to encourage people to become active participants in their own care, ask better questions, seek reliable information, and make decisions that reflect what matters most to them.
I am not anti-doctor.
I am pro-patient.
Paying hope forward
Jonesing For The Journey is about more than prostate cancer.
It is about what happens when life changes direction without asking permission.
It is for patients facing a diagnosis.
It is for caregivers carrying more than anyone realizes.
It is for families trying to navigate uncertainty together.
It is also for anyone whose plans have been disrupted by illness, loss, transition, or unexpected change.
Through real stories, honest conversations, practical resources, and advocacy, we want to help others find hope and purpose in the middle of difficult circumstances.
We also want to pay hope forward by supporting organizations such as ZERO Prostate Cancer and helping increase awareness, education, advocacy, research, and patient support.
If our story helps one man schedule a PSA test, one patient ask another question, one caregiver feel seen, or one family realize they are not alone, then sharing it is worth it.
The adventure was not canceled
Cancer changed our plans.
It did not get to steal our purpose.
The retirement journey we imagined may look different now. There are more appointments, more treatments, more uncertainty, and more mile markers than we expected.
But there is also more clarity.
More gratitude.
More purpose.
More determination to make the time we have meaningful.
Retirement was not canceled.
It was rewritten.
We are still dreaming.
Still loving.
Still learning.
Still asking questions.
Still sharing the journey.
And still believing that hope does not require pretending everything is fine.
Hope is deciding that this diagnosis does not get the final word.
And so…the adventure continues.