The Best Five Years of My Life

“Aside from the cancer, this has been the best five years of my life,” he’d said to his brother-in-law before passing. His words were shared at his funeral, and they stuck with me. Five years ago, my nephew Michael was diagnosed with glioblastoma, a type of brain cancer. It forced an early retirement as a pediatrician.

After surgery that removed only a portion of the tumor, Michael resumed running every day, and filled his time making memories with his wife and five children—on the snowy slopes, wakeboarding behind a ski boat, and simply hanging together. 

He died two weeks ago, after living much longer than he was supposed to.

Halfway through our southern-Utah-national-parks road trip, Dan and I detoured to attend his funeral near Salt Lake City. After the service and spending time with family, we drove south to pick up where we left off our road trip.

Later that day, Dan and I settled our adventure van into a campsite, and then took a walk. I had been thinking about what was said at the funeral and how all five of Michael’s kids stood up and talked about their dad—telling humorous stories and sharing heart-tugging remembrances.

As Dan and I walked, I told him that these past five years of our marriage have been the best five years of my life. And by that, I mean: even though I had a good and happy marriage before I was widowed, still … those were the years when I thought we had a lot of time left.

Those were the years when we saved, and stayed out of debt, and lived on a single income so I could work at a non-profit that paid $400 a month; the days when we almost didn’t take that Alaskan cruise for our 25th anniversary because we needed a new computer.

And now that I’m up-close-and-personally acquainted with how short life can be, and since God graced me with a second chance at love, and since Dan and I are both aware that this later-in-life season will be shorter than we want, we’re living full and serving others and taking road trips and enjoying every hike and every family gathering and every Friday date night. Hence, the best five years of my life.

On our walk, Dan made a comment based on his firsthand experience from losing a spouse: “It forces a person to be more intentional about the remaining years, and about relationships and restoring them.”

The unexpected diagnosis, the death of a spouse or parent or child or sibling, the broken relationship—these events can force us to take a look at what remains after our losses, to determine if there are matters we need to be more intentional about.

Even though Michael certainly made memories with his wife and kids long before the cancer diagnosis, those were the years when maybe he thought he still had a long time to live. He was building a following of patients, and building additional clinics, and staffing the clinics—still making time for family, but also still brainstorming and developing and planning for the long-term.

What if?
What if we could live full out before the devastating diagnosis, or the loss of a loved one, or before any of the other many reminders that shout at us: LIFE IS SHORTER THAN YOU THINK!

What might that look like?

I think it could look like taking a step toward restoring what’s been broken, so much as it depends upon us (we’ve done our part, and now it requires God to make a heart change).

I think it could look like strengthening those most important relationships that God has placed in our lives—taking the time, making the memories, listening well.

I think it could look like getting outdoors—a road trip through national parks. A walk through the park along the river. A walk to the end of the driveway to check the mail. Or if you’re not able to walk to the end of the driveway, maybe sitting in the backyard Adirondack chair.

And while we’re outdoors, I think living fully includes speaking gratitude for the things that still remain—one more day of life, one more day to gather with family and friends, one more chai latte and taste buds to enjoy it.

These have been the best five years of my life, and I never want to take anything this precious for granted.