The Tougher Side of Retirement: A Season of Care and Gratitude

Retirement, they say, is the time to slow down, enjoy the fruits of one’s labor,  travel or pick up hobbies set aside during the busy working years. While that picture still holds true in part, our reality right now looks a little different — less about leisure and more about love, resilience, and responsibility.

Over the last three years, John and I have walked a long and emotional road. We supported three of our elderly parents through incredibly challenging health issues — hospital stays, diagnoses, tough decisions — and ultimately, we stood by their sides and provided whatever support we could until they passed away. Those experiences left deep imprints on our lives. We grieved, we learned, and we grew in ways we never expected. The emotional weight of witnessing decline, while holding space for love and dignity, has been profound. In the midst of supporting parents, we also dealt with the sudden loss of John's sister.

And just as we began to catch our breath, a new phase began.

Lately, my days are once again filled with hospital visits, appointments, and coordination of care — only now it's other loved ones needing support. Being present during hospital stays — advocating, comforting, simply showing up — has become a central part of our routine. It's a deeply emotional and often exhausting role, but it's one I wouldn’t trade. When someone you love is going through a health crisis, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. 

At the same time, we are navigating the care of our aging 90-year-old mother, who still lives independently. She's incredibly strong-willed and proud of her autonomy, which I deeply respect. But it also means we (along with my siblings) carry a quiet vigilance — checking in, helping with errands, taking her to appointments, and making sure she has what she needs to stay safe and well.

I’m the legal guardian and power of attorney for my younger brother, who has Down syndrome and requires full-time care. He lives in a group home in our town, where he’s well looked after. We're grateful that his care setup allows us to see him often and bring him home for overnight visits whenever possible. At the moment, he’s in the hospital — thankfully, it’s a precautionary admission — but it still means we've had to cut our long weekend short to return home and be there for him, as well as support the dedicated staff who are with him. At the same time, we're navigating another difficult situation, as one of my other brothers is in a hospital in a different city, facing very serious health issues.

It’s a lot. And truthfully, it’s the side of retirement I wasn’t prepared for. I remember watching our parents enter their retirement years — largely free from the responsibility of caring for aging parents. By the time they retired, most of their own parents had already passed away, with just one exception. We envisioned a similar kind of freedom for ourselves — a season of life where we could come and go as we pleased, ready to take off at a moment’s notice. But life had other plans. While our retirement hasn’t turned out the way we expected, I’m grateful that we have the time, health, and ability to offer whatever support is needed. Being present for our loved ones is a gift — one that we don't take lightly.

Some days feel overwhelming. But in the midst of the fatigue and the worry, I feel something powerful: gratitude.

Gratitude for the Canadian healthcare system — not perfect, but deeply humane. I'm thankful for the doctors, nurses, and support staff who treat not just illness but people. For the fact that we don’t have to make financial decisions before medical ones. For the safety net that allows my loved ones to receive the care they need, without the crushing burden of cost. It’s a blessing I don’t take for granted.

This chapter of life wasn’t exactly what I envisioned when I retired. But it’s meaningful. It’s real. I’m learning that retirement isn’t just about what you do; it’s about who you become. Right now, I’m becoming a caregiver, an advocate, a steady presence in the storm.

And in the quiet moments — holding my brother’s hand, sharing a peaceful cup of tea with my mother, or simply being able to help — I find something else: love, purpose, and the quiet strengthening of the bonds that matter most.