When we arrived at the hotel in Evanston, Wyoming, last night, there was no question how the evening would unfold. Tom went straight to the bed fully dressed, pulled back the heavy white covers, and slid underneath as if he had been waiting all day for that exact moment. Within seconds, he was curled up, shoulders hunched, shivering in a way that made me instantly uneasy. The room was warm enough, but this virus ran deeper than the thermostat could touch.
He said he was freezing. Not the casual kind of cold that comes from stepping out into mountain air, but the kind that settles into your bones and refuses to leave. I stood there for a moment, watching him, wishing I could somehow trade places or at least absorb a bit of it for him. It had been nearly two weeks since I had been sick myself, and now here it was, making its way through him with what felt like even more intensity.
Neither of us had eaten in 24 hours, which only added to the sense that we were running on fumes. I gently suggested that he try not to fall asleep just yet, worried that if he did, the night would become a patchwork of restless waking. He nodded, but exhaustion has a way of overriding even the best intentions. Within minutes, his breathing softened, and he drifted off despite himself.
Forty-five minutes later, I leaned over and woke him as gently as I could. It felt almost wrong to interrupt the little bit of rest he had found, but we both needed something in our stomachs. He opened his eyes slowly, disoriented for a moment, before remembering where we were and why.
We made our way down to the on-site restaurant. The dining room had that old-fashioned supper club feel, softly lit, a little worn in the best possible way, with booths that invited you to settle in and stay awhile. Under different circumstances, I might have found it charming in a more joyful sense. Last night, it felt more like a place to regroup.
We slid into a comfy booth and didn’t say much at first. There is a certain kind of silence that comes when both people are simply trying to get through the moment, and this was one of them.
Tom ordered a cup of chicken soup. When it arrived, he held the spoon carefully, as if even that small effort required concentration. He managed to finish the entire cup, along with a couple of small slices from the loaf of bread brought to the table. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and I was grateful for that.
I ordered a grilled chicken breast and made my way to the salad bar. I actually paused for a second when I saw it—a salad bar. I realized I hadn’t seen one since before the pandemic. There was something unexpectedly comforting about it, the simple normalcy of choosing a handful of toppings and building a plate. It felt like a small return to a world that had once been so ordinary.
We didn’t linger long. Less than an hour later, we were back in our room, and Tom went straight under the covers again, retreating into that cocoon of warmth he seemed to need so badly. He drifted in and out of sleep, the kind that never quite settles, until he finally took the nighttime cough medicine I had packed before we left.
Sometime in the night, I woke to the sound of him stirring. He reached for the medicine again, taking a second dose, then settled back down. I listened for a while, the rhythm of his breathing steadier than it had been earlier, and eventually fell back asleep myself.
By 7:45 this morning, he woke up and, to my immense relief, said he felt much better. Not perfect, but better. It was enough to lift the heaviness that had been sitting in my chest since the night before.
By 8:30, we had our few bags packed and loaded into the car, and we were back on the road once again. There is something about continuing forward, even when the journey feels uncertain, that brings its own kind of comfort.
We stopped to refill the car, another small task that somehow felt more significant than usual. In Vancouver, gas had been $5.50 a gallon, a number that had made us wince. Out here on the road, the highest we have paid so far is US $4.50, which felt like a victory, even if only a temporary one.
As I write this now, it is 11:00 in the morning, and we still have another six hours before we reach our stop for the night in Rapid City, South Dakota. Tom’s sister Rita lives there, and under normal circumstances, we would absolutely stop to see her and her husband. But with their recent health concerns, there is no question that we can’t risk exposing them to whatever this is. It is one of those difficult decisions that feels both obvious and disappointing at the same time.
Soon, I will start looking for a hotel close to the highway, along with a nearby restaurant where we can grab something simple and nourishing. For now, the road stretches out ahead of us, long and steady.
Driving through southern Wyoming has not been particularly scenic, at least not in the dramatic way we had hoped for. The landscape feels wide and barren, almost reserved, offering fewer reasons to pull over and take photos. And yet, there is still something about it. The openness. The sense of moving through a place that asks nothing of you except to keep going.
Today, that feels like enough.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 14, 2016:
