thetravelingwithers.com

There’s a specific moment every time Ross leaves for Minnesota that I’ve come to recognize. It usually happens after the suitcases are packed but before we walk out the door. The house is still moving – someone can’t find a shoe, someone needs a charger, someone is asking how many sleeps until he’s back home – and yet, underneath the motion, there’s this strange stillness. Not panic, no spirals, just this feeling of being suspended in the air.

It feels like we’re holding our breath in our throats.

Scan trips are different than other travel. We are a road-trip family. We love movement. We love loading up, grabbing snacks, arguing about playlists, and watching the highway unfold in front of us. Travel usually feels like freedom.

Minnesota for MRIs and CT scans does not feel like freedom. It feels like standing on the edge of information.

The routine is familiar now. We know the airport flow. We know the drive to Rochester. We know the hotel. We know the shuttle to and from the hotel. We know which waiting area he’ll text me from. We know where he’ll get his coffee afterwards. On paper, it’s organized and efficient. Experience should make it easier. Shocker… it doesn’t.

Sometimes scan days carry questions. And even when things have been stable – especially when things have been stable – there’s that whisper: Will it still be true?

The Wither kids feel it too, though no one names it outright. They hover a little closer the night before (especially Cheddar, Ross’ orange tabby). They’re a little more tender when they hug him goodnight before the trip. Even the house feels different, like the walls are listening.

When he walks to the airport terminal doors, I always watch him until I can’t see him anymore. It’s not dramatic. I’m not crying into my coffee mug. I just sit there in the car, aware that loving someone through cancer rearranges your nervous system in ways you don’t fully understand until you’re living inside them.

The scans themselves are quick. Machines hum. Images taken. Data collected. It’s clinical, efficient, and impressive. But the waiting on test results… the waiting stretches.

There’s a particular kind of courage in waiting for results. It isn’t loud courage. It’s not the kind that gives speeches or raises money or posts inspirational graphics. It’s the quiet kind – a prayer. The kind of quiet where you still make dinner. You still answer emails. You still drive the kids to and from school, and wherever else they need transportation. We still smile and laugh at something funny the kids say. But underneath it all, your body still remembers what is at stake.

We’ve built a life that is bigger than appointments and imaging reports. We have wrestling tournaments, Mardi Gras floats, home improvement plans, and a Great Dane who takes up entirely too much space in the hallway. We have work, writing, and school projects, and the ordinary, beautiful noise of six humans living life together.

Cancer is part of our story, but it is not the author of it.

The truth is, life has a way of putting us all in waiting rooms eventually. Waiting stretches time. It magnifies thoughts. It exposes what we cling to. We don’t always get to choose how long we wait.

If you’re in a waiting period of your own right now, I hope you know this: the fact that your throat tightens means you care deeply. And caring deeply is NEVER a weakness. It’s love.

So, every time Ross leaves for Minnesota, I remind myself:

We pack the bag.
We check the flight.
We hug a little longer.
And… we keep living in the in-between.

Over time, we’ve learned that we can’t suspend inhaling forever. So we choose our lens carefully. We remind ourselves that scans are tools. Information is power. Fear does not get to be the loudest voice in our home. We have four kids – the house is never truly quiet and, if it is, it’s suspicious.

Do we still feel that nagging tightness in our throats? You betcha. But we don’t let it choke us. Not because we’re fearless. But because we refuse to stop breathing.

We are incredibly grateful for the researchers, advocacy organizations, and quiet behind-the-scenes work that make these scan trips possible — and for the village that continues to carry us. We do not walk this road alone.