The Road We Still Plan to Take

We Had a Very Specific Picture of Retirement

Long before cancer became part of our vocabulary, Sue and I had a picture in our heads of what the next chapter of life was going to look like.

There was a motorhome in that picture.

A big one.

There were open roads.

National parks.

Long stretches of time when we didn’t have to hurry home because Monday morning was waiting for us.

We had spent decades working, raising a family, taking care of responsibilities and saying the word most people say when life is busy:

Someday.

Someday we’ll have more time.

Someday we’ll travel more.

Someday we’ll spend weeks instead of days somewhere.

Someday we’ll see Yellowstone.

The Grand Canyon.

Alaska.

Someday we’ll stop planning the adventure and actually live it.

This Wasn’t a Casual Dream

We weren’t simply saying, “Wouldn’t it be nice to own an RV?”

We had researched it.

Budgeted for it.

Looked at motorhomes.

Thought about layouts.

Talked about routes.

Imagined what full-time or extended travel might actually look like.

The motorhome represented something bigger than a vehicle.

It represented freedom.

It represented the chapter we thought was waiting for us after all the chapters built around work and responsibility.

We thought we knew where the road was headed.

Then January Came

Cancer has a remarkable ability to take a calendar you thought you understood and rewrite it almost overnight.

Suddenly the conversations were different.

Biopsy.

Gleason score.

Imaging.

Surgery.

Pathology.

PSA.

Radiation.

Hormone therapy.

Follow-up.

The calendar that had once contained possible routes across the country now contained medical appointments.

And somewhere inside all of that was the motorhome dream.

Still there.

But suddenly much farther away.

We Never Actually Bought the Motorhome

There is an important part of our story that sometimes gets misunderstood.

Sue and I had not yet purchased the motorhome when cancer arrived.

The dream was still in the planning stage.

A very real planning stage—but planning nonetheless.

We had models in mind.

We had a timeline.

We knew what we thought retirement was going to look like.

And then, before we ever got to live that version of the dream, the phone rang.

For a While, the Question Became: Is This Still Realistic?

That’s a harder question than it sounds.

Because cancer doesn’t simply affect your body.

It affects confidence.

Timing.

Money.

Energy.

How far you want to be from your doctors.

How comfortable you are making plans months from now.

And sometimes whether you want to let yourself get excited about something that could still change.

Some weeks Sue and I talked about the RV dream as though cancer were simply a detour.

Other weeks, it felt very far away.

Not gone.

Just distant.

Then “Someday” Started Sounding Different

There is something uncomfortable cancer forces you to confront.

Time was never guaranteed.

Not before cancer.

Not after cancer.

The difference is that before cancer, it was easier to pretend otherwise.

You could assume there would always be another summer.

Another vacation.

Another anniversary.

Another chance to take that trip.

Another year to finally do the thing you’ve been putting off.

Cancer made that assumption harder to maintain.

And eventually I realized something:

Someday had become a dangerous word.

So We Started Looking at the Dream Differently

The original version was fairly simple.

Retire.

Get the motorhome.

Travel extensively.

Stay out as long as we wanted.

Come home when we felt like it.

Cancer introduced complications the original plan didn’t have.

During active treatment, I can’t simply pretend the medical calendar doesn’t exist.

Ongoing monitoring matters.

Appointments matter.

Knowing where my medical team is matters.

How I feel matters.

Flexibility matters much more than it did in the original plan.

So eventually we reached a conclusion:

The dream gets modified. It does not get canceled.

Maybe Full-Time Isn’t the First Version Anymore

One of the changes we’ve talked about is beginning with extended trips instead of immediately disappearing onto the road full-time.

That gives us something important:

freedom and a medical anchor.

We can travel.

Explore.

Stay somewhere long enough to actually experience it.

But also return when treatment or monitoring requires it.

That isn’t the original plan.

But I’m beginning to think one of the traps we fall into is believing a dream only counts if it happens exactly the way we first imagined it.

A Changed Dream Is Still a Dream

Maybe we don’t spend twelve months a year on the road.

Maybe the first trips are shorter.

Maybe routes get built around appointments.

Maybe there are months when travel simply doesn’t make sense.

Maybe we need more planning than the people parked next to us.

None of that changes why we wanted to go in the first place.

We still want to wake up somewhere we’ve never been.

We still want to see the country through a windshield instead of a screen.

We still want national parks.

Small towns.

Mountain roads.

Campgrounds.

Sunsets.

Coffee outside the motorhome in the morning.

And more ordinary days together that don’t revolve around cancer.

The Places Are Still on the List

The Grand Canyon is still there.

Yellowstone is still there.

The Sierra Nevadas are still there.

Alaska is still there.

And so is that promise Sue and I made to ourselves long before cancer became part of the itinerary.

We still intend to go.

Some Days I Carry the Dream

Marriage looks different when uncertainty enters it.

Sue and I don’t always feel hopeful on the same day.

There are days when I’m thinking too much about cancer and she’s the one reminding me that we still have plans.

Other days, I am the one looking at routes, motorhomes and national parks while she needs reassurance that the dream is still standing.

I’ve come to think that’s one of the things a long marriage teaches you.

You take turns carrying the hope.

You don’t both have to feel strong every day.

You simply try not to put the dream down at the same time.

Sue’s side of that journey is something we explored more deeply in The Co-Pilot.

The RV Dream Means Something Different Now

Before cancer, the motorhome represented retirement.

Today, it represents something else too.

Defiance might be too strong a word.

But there is definitely a little bit of refusal in it.

A refusal to allow every conversation to be about cancer.

A refusal to put every plan on hold until someone promises us nothing difficult will happen again.

A refusal to let uncertainty become the only thing determining what goes on the calendar.

The motorhome has become a reminder that we are still allowed to have a future.

Living Now Doesn’t Mean Ignoring Reality

I want to make this distinction because “live for today” can become a cliché.

We aren’t pretending cancer isn’t serious.

We’re not ignoring treatment.

We’re not packing the RV tomorrow and disappearing thousands of miles away without considering the medical realities.

Living now isn’t recklessness.

It is making room for life alongside responsibility.

Treatment can be on the calendar.

So can a trip.

A PSA test can matter.

So can a sunset.

Both things can be true.

The 90-Day Calendar Changed How We Plan

One of the biggest adjustments has been learning to think in shorter chapters.

Cancer monitoring can make it tempting to organize life around the next test.

You start telling yourself:

We’ll decide after the next PSA.

Then there is another PSA.

And another.

Eventually you realize there may never be a point when the calendar contains absolutely no uncertainty.

I wrote more about that feeling in The 90-Day Clock.

For travel, that means planning differently.

Not refusing to plan.

The Route Can Change Without Losing the Destination

That may be the biggest retirement lesson cancer has taught me so far.

We tend to become attached not only to our dreams but to the exact route we thought would take us there.

Retirement at a certain age.

A certain amount of money.

A certain kind of RV.

A certain start date.

A certain number of years on the road.

Then life changes something.

And because the original route is blocked, we start wondering whether the destination is gone too.

Maybe it isn’t.

Maybe you simply need another road.

We Are Still Planning

That may be the most important sentence in this entire story.

We are still planning.

Not pretending.

Not guaranteeing.

Planning.

There’s a difference.

We still talk about the motorhome.

We still talk about where we want to go.

We still imagine what mornings on the road might look like.

We still have places we haven’t crossed off the list.

And perhaps most importantly, cancer has not been given veto power over whether we are allowed to dream.

What I Hope You Take From This Retirement Story

You don’t need cancer to understand this lesson.

Maybe your retirement plan changed because of money.

A job.

A spouse’s health.

Aging parents.

Family responsibilities.

An unexpected move.

Or simply because the person you are today isn’t the same person who created the original plan ten years ago.

Changing the dream is not the same as giving it up.

Sometimes maturity is recognizing that the original version no longer fits.

And courage is building another version anyway.

Sue and I don’t know exactly what our eventual RV life will look like.

But we know this:

There are roads we still want to travel.

Places we still want to see.

Memories we still want to make.

And as long as we have the opportunity to keep moving, we intend to take it.

Watch the Story

I talked about this decision when the question was still very raw: could Sue and I still chase the RV dream after cancer?

Can We Still Chase Our RV Dream After Cancer?
Watch on YouTube