I’m 61 and I’ve got a year left to live, but I still plan to work every day

It’s been my job to help people prepare financially for later life, but despite my diagnosis, work remains one of my greatest pleasures

Born in London, Cambridge-educated Jonathan Clements was The Wall Street Journal’s personal finance columnist for 20 years before founding his own website, HumbleDollar.com. He advised readers to plan on living past 90 and save accordingly. “Most of us will live an amazingly long life and should not worry so much about dying young,” he wrote. Yet on May 21, aged just 61, Clements was diagnosed with stage four cancer. He lives in Philadelphia with his wife Elaine.
I knew the news would be bad. But I didn’t expect it to be quite so grim. In early June, my oncologist told me I might have just a year to live.
What should I do with those 12 precious months? I headed home from the appointment, grabbed a chair at the breakfast table, fired up my laptop, and settled down to another quiet day of writing and editing.
That might strike some readers as denial, a reflection of our work-obsessed culture, or delusion about the importance of my work. But I prefer another explanation: the pursuit of happiness.
Even before my oncologist offered her dire prediction, I’d been told I had stage four lung cancer that had metastasized to my brain, liver and chest – the result not of smoking, but of a defective gene. After I received that diagnosis, I sat on the edge of my bed in the intensive care unit, and found myself drawing up a list of my life’s good fortune: a close-knit family, a career doing what I love, financial security, a loving spouse who would be there to the end.
Those were among the things that had brought richness to my life over the prior 61 years. Why would I turn my back on them now? I didn’t want to waste my final months feeling angry at my bad luck, or despairing over the time I’d never have, or hunting for a cure that didn’t exist. Instead, I wanted to take whatever time I had left and squeeze as much happiness out of it as possible.
I’ve long thought of each day as a series of small, inexpensive pleasures: that first cup of coffee, my morning exercise, feeling the sun’s warmth on my face, corresponding with my website’s writers and readers, an afternoon nap, a walk at the end of the work day, an evening glass of wine with Elaine. Just because I was dying, why would I abandon these things that bring me joy?
Such simple pleasures aren’t just random unconnected moments. Instead, I’d contend they come with a robust academic endorsement. Over the past two decades, I’ve devoted a lot of time to reading studies on happiness that I feel has given me a roadmap for how to spend my remaining days. In particular, the research offers three key rules to live by: spend time with friends and family, do work we love, and strive for a sense of financial autonomy.
You won’t find many quibbling with the first rule. Spending time with those we love is a popular way to boost happiness. It’s one reason for the oft-repeated advice to devote money to experiences rather than possessions. Experiences are frequently enjoyed with others, adding to the pleasure they deliver.
What about my focus on doing work I love? To some, that won’t seem like the road to happiness. But work can indeed deliver great satisfaction. Thanks to the instincts we inherited from our hunter-gatherer ancestors, we’re a restless bunch, running fast on the hedonic treadmill in our efforts to get ahead. We love the feeling that we’re making progress.
Some readers might declare that work is just that – work – and certainly no source of happiness. But I would argue that says more about the jobs these people have than about work in general.
I’ve had the good fortune to spend almost my entire career engaged in work I love and I have no desire to stop now, despite the late hour. For me, a day of writing and editing passes all too quickly. I’m passionate about what I do, find the work challenging, feel I’m good at it and think it’s worthwhile – all necessary ingredients for what psychologists call ‘flow’, those captivating moments when we lose all track of time and the hours just whiz by.
An added bonus: my work continues to make me a little money. People have asked whether I regret the decades of frugality that allowed me to amass a seven-figure portfolio. Far from it. To be sure, my heirs will spend those savings, not me. But that nest egg has bought me something not sold in any department store. Thanks to the money I’ve amassed, money simply isn’t something I worry much about.
Moreover, I love the idea that my lifetime of frugality will also help my wife and two children to fret less about financial issues. This is another instinct we inherited from our nomadic ancestors: we’re hardwired to want our family to survive and thrive.
Since my diagnosis, I’ve spent countless hours getting my financial affairs in order, so it’ll be easy to settle my estate and my assets will pass to my heirs without a hitch. Others might view that as a tedious way to spend time.
I see it differently. While my destiny is in the hands of the medical gods, this is one small part of my life that I still control. Bequeathing a well-organised estate will be my final gift to my family. Our only immortality on this earth is the memory of others. I’m anxious to make sure those memories are good.
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