As I packed for a trip to Maine this week, I noticed that my packing list looks a little different than it did just a month ago.
Alongside hiking shoes and sunscreen are a cane, compression socks, and medications. When I look at excursion options, I find myself paying close attention to phrases like uneven terrain and steep inclines. Instead of asking, “What would be the most adventurous?” I’m asking, “What will let me enjoy the experience without overdoing it?”
It’s a different way to travel.
Remembering back, this isn’t the first vacation I’ve planned around life’s limitations.
When John was diagnosed with colon cancer, we had been looking forward to celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary with a trip to the south of France. Instead, we canceled it so he could begin treatment.
At the time, it felt like another loss in a growing list of losses.
But sometimes life has a way of giving us something different instead of simply taking something away.
Rather than traveling overseas, we reserved a private room at a local restaurant and invited everyone who had been at our wedding twenty-five years earlier. We laughed, reminisced, and celebrated a marriage that had already been richer than either of us could have imagined.
It wasn’t the anniversary we had planned.
It was exactly the anniversary we needed.
Several months later, after John’s surgery revealed that his cancer had spread farther than anyone had expected, we knew life had changed again.
The future looked different.
Our travel needed to look different too.
Instead of choosing a vacation that required long days of sightseeing and miles of walking, we booked a Baltic Sea cruise.
It turned out to be one of the best decisions we ever made.
The ports gave us opportunities to experience new countries, fascinating history, and beautiful architecture. On days when John had the energy, we explored. On days when he didn’t, the ship became a peaceful place to rest and simply watch the world drift by.
When we wanted to see more of a city without exhausting him, we climbed aboard hop-on, hop-off buses. At airports, we requested wheelchair assistance so John could save his strength for the experiences that mattered most instead of spending it navigating long terminals.
Cancer had changed what was possible.
It hadn’t taken away our ability to experience joy.
One afternoon in Kiel, Germany, we found a café, ordered lunch, and toasted the day with a German beer.
I snapped a picture of John giving me a thumbs up, a smile spread across his face.
Looking at that photo today, I don’t remember how far we walked that afternoon.
I don’t remember whether he needed a nap afterward.
I remember his smile.
I remember how grateful we both were simply to be there.
Sometimes the best memories aren’t made because everything is perfect.
They’re made because we choose to embrace what is instead of mourning what isn’t.
When John was first diagnosed, someone recommended Cheryl Sandberg’s book Option B. The central idea is simple: when the life you planned is no longer available, you make the life you have the best it can possibly be.
That idea stayed with us.
We knew cancer had taken away our Option A.
We refused to let it take away our joy.
So we adjusted.
We slowed down.
We rested more.
We traveled differently.
And we kept living.
As I prepared for Maine, I realized I’m facing another version of that same lesson.
This trip won’t include long hikes over rocky trails. I’ll gladly skip uneven paths if it means I can still watch the sunrise from Cadillac Mountain, wander through Bar Harbor, share meals with friends, and breathe in the salty air.
Recovery is asking me to travel differently.
That’s okay.
Apparently life has more than just an Option B.
I think I’m living my Option C now.
And just like before, I intend to make it the best it can possibly be.
Because whether we’re navigating illness, caregiving, grief, recovery, or simply the unexpected turns life brings, joy doesn’t disappear when our plans change.
Sometimes it just asks us to take a different route to find it.
