Nomadic Nurse Diaries

Dear Raccoon Gods of the Signal Bars,

So, here I am, parked in the middle of nowhere, Washington—where the summer’s last breath is finally giving way to what I’m now realizing is going to be a very damp, very chilly autumn. I’ve had my first taste of the infamous Pacific Northwest winter, and let me tell you, it’s about as appealing as the $7 it costs to wash a load of laundry around here. Yes, you heard that right, seven bucks just to clean my socks and unmentionables. And don’t even get me started on the cost of drying! I nearly choked on my stale granola bar when I saw the machine charging by the minute—$0.25 a pop. I stomped out of there in protest, head held high, determined to hand-wash everything like some pioneer woman. We’ll see how long that lasts; I give myself three soggy socks before I’m back at that machine, quarters in hand.

Speaking of high-minded ideas gone awry, van life has been particularly fun lately—if by fun, you mean having every little thing go wrong at once. The other day, my kitchen drawer decided to break, sending my carefully arranged cutlery (and by that, I mean a few mismatched forks and knives I’ve collected along the way) crashing to the floor. And let’s not forget all those lovely glass items that are clearly cursed—RIP to my favorite mason jar and that candle I was definitely never going to light but liked the aesthetic of. Now I’ve got tiny shards lurking in every crevice, just waiting to sink into my unsuspecting foot. I’ve swept, vacuumed, and even resorted to using duct tape to pick up the stragglers, but those tiny glass ninjas are elusive. Nothing quite says “living the dream” like walking around on your tiptoes in your own home.

Then there’s the cell service—or lack thereof. Apparently, I’ve found the one place in America that hasn’t heard of 5G. Hell, they barely have 1G. To send a text, I have to wander into the woods like I’m on some epic quest for signal bars, praying that I get a strong enough connection before the raccoons start eyeing me like a late-night snack. Sometimes I get lucky and find two bars if the universe is feeling particularly generous. On those days, I like to imagine that the universe has forgiven me for all my past transgressions, including that time I tattooed my ass on a dare. (No regrets, just bad life choices.)

And let’s talk about storage—or, more accurately, the lack thereof. Every time I open a cabinet or drawer (the ones that still work, anyway), something inevitably tumbles out. It’s like my van is one of those prank cans where you open the lid, and a snake jumps out, except it’s just my overstuffed junk falling on my head. I keep telling myself that one of these days, I’ll figure out an organizational system that works, but for now, it’s more of a “shove it in and hope for the best” kind of strategy. It’s a miracle I haven’t been buried alive by falling camping gear yet.

Despite all this, I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. I mean, who would’ve thought I’d end up here, washing my clothes by hand in the cold, breaking all my glassware, and searching the woods for cell service like some sort of modern-day frontierswoman? There’s something oddly satisfying about it, though—a kind of twisted joy in the challenge of making this crazy lifestyle work, even when everything seems to be falling apart. Maybe it’s the stubborn part of me that refuses to give up, or maybe I’m just a little bit nuts (probably both). But hey, it makes for great stories, right?

So here’s to the cold, the wet, and the endless list of things that need fixing. Here’s to the challenges that make this adventure worth every busted drawer and shattered mason jar. And here’s to hoping I don’t step on any more glass today—because I’m seriously running out of Band-Aids.

Until next time,

Your not-so-graceful, but definitely persistent, Nomadic Nurse