The events described in this post took place in June 2025. This is part of the ongoing My Story series documenting Scott’s oral cancer diagnosis, treatment, and recovery.

The house had been alive since sunup. That’s just how summers work when you’ve got grandkids under your roof. Wyatt and Jaxon, Emma — our Angel Princess who chooses us every summer like it’s the most natural thing in the world — and the twins, Oliver and Olivia, six years old and absolute forces of nature. Brandy was downstairs in her apartment, heading into another long day, trusting us with everything she loves most. The way she always does.

I’d worked through the night, a long, grueling shift hauling freight. When the clock finally released me, I did what I always do — climbed up into the Jeep, got myself nestled into the seat, and took a long, deep breath.

Before I even put the key in the ignition, I called Barb.

Forty-two years since we were just two kids in high school, and I still get that feeling when her voice comes through the phone. That warm, complete feeling. Like everything in my life is exactly where it’s supposed to be.

She filled me in on the morning’s beautiful chaos. The grandkids were already eating us out of house and home, laughing and running wild. She rattled off the emergency supplies we needed before the day got away from us — the staples of a household running on love.

“Grab some chicken nuggets, milk, and bananas on your way home,” she said.

We talked for a few more minutes, dreaming a little about our cruise coming up in October — the Caribbean, the sun, something warm to look forward to after a long season of miles on the road.

“Love you baby. See you soon,” she said.

“Love you too,” I told her, and we hung up.

I threw on some Jimmy Buffett, pointed the Jeep across Knoxville toward Walmart, and just let myself drift right into full Margaritaville headspace. Worn out from the night shift, heavy-eyed but honestly? Full in all the ways that matter.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the produce section. Walmart. 9:40 in the morning. My body was running on that specific kind of night-shift exhaustion where your movements are slow and the world feels slightly blurred at the edges. I had the bananas in my hand, looking for the yellowest bunch for the kids.

And then the phone buzzed in my palm. Dr. McConnell’s name appeared on the screen.

I stared at it. Just a square of glowing glass, but in that single second, the exhaustion vanished, replaced by a sudden, cold drop in my stomach. It was quiet. Cold. And it moved faster than thought. Why is he calling me on a Thursday morning? Why now? My thumb hovered over the glass. I knew. Somewhere deep beneath the surface, before I even slid the bar to answer, the baseline of my life had already shifted.

I pressed answer and put the phone to my ear.

“Scott?”

The store didn’t know. That’s the thing I keep coming back to. The fluorescent lights kept humming their flat, indifferent hum over all of it. Somewhere behind me, a register beeped — beep, beep, beep — cutting through the air. A shopping cart with a rusted wheel squeaked loudly past my shoulder. Two women a few feet away were debating the price of strawberries, their voices bright and completely normal. The automated produce misters hissed softly, spraying a fine, cool fog over neat rows of lettuce. Just another ordinary Thursday.

Dr. McConnell’s voice came through, but it sounded distant, like he was speaking into a tin can from miles away. He said he wouldn’t normally do this over the phone. He said he’d already spoken to the UT Cancer Center. He said they’d be reaching out within the week to get me in within two weeks.

He was talking fast, trying to build a bridge of logistics, but then he dropped the anchor.

Cancerous.

The word didn’t just land. It detonated.

“OK,” I said. My voice sounded shockingly steady, like it belonged to someone else entirely. “Yeah, I kind of figured.”

I was forming the right sounds in the right order, playing the part of the cooperative patient, while inside my skull, my thoughts were screaming. UT Cancer Center? Two weeks? What about October? What about the cruise? I held myself completely, utterly still, because I knew if I moved even an inch, I would shatter.

He kept talking about appointments and next steps, but the words were just white noise. The whirlpool had opened up right there between the organic apples and the sweet potatoes. It started slow, then began pulling harder, swirling everything I loved into the drain. The lights. The sounds. The October sun in the Caribbean. The sound of the twins laughing downstairs. Barb’s voice telling me she loved me just twenty minutes ago. All of it spinning faster and faster, getting sucked down into that one, ugly, jagged word.

Cancerous.

And nobody around me went with it. That’s the part that almost broke me right there in the aisle. The women kept talking about their groceries. A little kid in a cart laughed in the next aisle — that pure, easy laugh that only exists when the world is safe. Every single person in that building was standing on solid ground, worrying about what to make for dinner, while I was being swallowed alive by something invisible, violent, and completely, utterly mine alone.

The call ended. The screen went black.

I looked down at my hand. My knuckles were white.

I was still holding the bananas.

Bright yellow. Ordinary. Bruised slightly at the stems. A grocery list item. Something for the kids’ breakfast tomorrow.

A year later, I still can’t walk past that produce section without feeling the floor shift under me.

I walked out of Walmart and into the blinding, warm sunlight of an early June morning in Knoxville, Tennessee. The air was soft, heavy with the sweet promise of summer. The kind of morning that usually makes you stop and remember why you love living here. Off in the distance, the ridges of the Smoky Mountains sat right where they always do — patient, permanent, and beautiful against the blue sky.

I climbed into the Jeep and shut the door.

The radio kicked on automatically, the way it always does. Guns N’ Roses.

Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.

I love that song. Always have. But sitting in that scorching parking lot, having just been handed a cancer diagnosis, with the Smokies on the horizon and Axl Rose’s haunting voice bleeding through the speakers — the universe has a mean sense of humor. The irony was a physical blow. I sat there for a long moment and just let it play, existing inside the strange, awful weight of it.

Then I reached over and slammed the volume knob to off.

The Jeep went dead quiet. And that was the whole drive home. Just me, and that word, and three minutes of road that felt like a lifetime.

Next: “Baby Doll. It’s Cancer.” — The driveway. The doorway. And the three words that changed everything for the woman I love.

Nobody Fights Alone.

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” — Philippians 4:13