For 23 years, using the office bathroom was just part of my daily routine, like drinking coffee on the way to the office, opening the door, and turning on the computer. But on Saturday, my urine was bloody—painless blood. And as a physician I know that means the almost certain diagnosis of a cancer. First I tried some magical thinking: drank some water, tried again—still blood. Then I went to the other bathroom, drank more water. Still blood. A clear realization came over me: Today is the first day of the end of my life.

I went to the lab for blood and urine samples and then went out to lunch with my wife as planned. I was in my physician mode: Here is what it could be, here is what we need to do, here are the numbers. She was shocked, stoic, but most concerned and compassionate, as I knew she would be. I almost felt like I was comforting the spouse of a dying patient, as I have done so many times—until I remembered the patient was me.

I had a CT scan that afternoon, thanks to the kindness of the X-ray techs and the on-call radiologist. Would there have been any medical harm in waiting until Monday? Of course not, but emotionally I wouldn't have lasted. It's just not right to make anxious people wait; that's why in my office we never give out bad news on a Friday. And when we do bring in someone for bad news, usually we've already made the necessary follow-up appointment for that same day, if possible.

I called my wife and my sons with the news, both good and bad, but, at least for now, mostly good.

I spent Sunday with my wife, reflecting on our 25 years together. Never a major argument, never a consideration that things were not working. Lots of pleasure, lots of love, lots of fun times together. What would I have done differently, I wondered? Worked a little less, bought Microsoft stock earlier, made it to Alaska. No, life had been great, and if it ended now, I would feel privileged and blessed at how good it was.

My sons, Matt and Dan? Early on, Ruth and I had chosen to make them central in our family. We took them on every vacation, saw almost every soccer game they played, and in the recent college years drove for hours just to see them for a brief time. No regrets there. They are good boys and are becoming men of substance. I'll never think of the time I spent with them as a sacrifice. Those were my happiest moments.

I think about my work—more than 23 years of family practice and geriatrics. Difficult times? Sure. Angry patients, long days, sleepless nights, a malpractice case, some less-than-perfect care, some less-than-satisfying outcomes. But regrets? Honestly, none. I've loved it. After spending time with my family, seeing patients was and still is my greatest pleasure. How many lives had I touched, how many times had I had an impact? How often had I made a difference? I knew I would do it again without hesitation.

So as I contemplated my premature death, I was happy with what I had done and where I was. But it quickly became increasingly clear that I wanted more—more time with my wife, more time with my sons, and even with grandchildren if I could hold on a bit longer. More time with my patients. I moved into fighter mode: Let's find out what this thing is and let's go get it.