Nomadic Nurse Diaries

Dear Thin Lines and Second Glances,

There’s something about small, unexpected encounters that sticks with you. They’re like little bookmarks in the story of your day, reminding you that life is full of surprises—even when you think you’ve seen it all. This is the story of a man named Dick.

It started on a day like any other—me, Poppy, and the girls heading out to a local park for a bit of fresh air and exploration. After feeding the girls their breakfast, I made myself a strong cup of coffee and set out on a mini adventure with Stella, coffee in hand. The morning was crisp, the kind that makes you feel alive as the cool air hits your face. We walked down to the lake, Stella happily trotting along on her leash, and that’s when I saw it—a sliver of black lying on the cold, tan sand.

At first, it was just a shadow, a shape that didn’t quite belong. But as I got closer, I noticed a bicycle lying on its side next to the black mass, and that’s when it clicked. A man, bundled up with a backpack, had clearly slept on the beach the night before. His bike, his only companion, was tipped over beside him. It was one of those moments where the world feels a little heavier, where you see someone else’s life laid out before you in a way that’s raw and unfiltered. I left the man alone, respecting his space, and continued on my walk.

Stella and I had a great time, though. We met a group of preschool kids with their camp counselors. Stella was the star of the show, sitting so calmly as the kids came up for pets and giggles. She’s a sweetheart with children, which always warms my heart. After the impromptu puppy playdate, I decided it was time for a bathroom break. I put Stella back in the van and walked back towards the park’s restrooms.

That’s when I saw him again—the man from the beach. This time, he was pacing under the shelter by a picnic table, his bike leaning against one of the pillars. He looked like he was deep in thought, or maybe just trying to shake off the chill of the morning. As I walked past him down the long sidewalk towards the bathrooms, I kept my head down, not wanting to intrude. But as I made my way back towards the van, I knew I’d have to pass him again.

This time, our eyes met, and I offered a quick, “Hello.” He nodded and returned the greeting, and I kept moving, not wanting to linger. It was a brief encounter, but one that stuck with me.

Fast forward a week or so, and I found myself back at the same park, this time for dinner. The tall trees surrounded me, their branches swaying gently in the evening breeze, while log cabin-style buildings dotted the landscape, giving the place a cozy, rustic feel. I was just settling in at a picnic table, enjoying the sounds of the woods and the peace that comes with it, when I heard some chatter. At first, I thought nothing of it—just some folks passing by—but then the voices came closer.

I turned to see two men riding their bikes, their clothing tattered and their hair unwashed. It didn’t take long to recognize one of them—it was the man from the beach. His bike was still loaded down with his possessions, and despite their rough appearance, there was something about their camaraderie that struck me. They seemed like they’d been through some shit together.

Now, I’m not one to shy away from a bit of curiosity, so I did what any semi-sane, adventure-seeking nurse might do—I made eye contact, smiled, and gave them a little wave. “Hi, how are you? I think we’ve met before,” I called out, doing my best to sound friendly and not at all like the cautious voice in my head that was screaming, What the hell are you doing?!

To my relief, they smiled back. The man I didn’t recognize said goodbye to his friend and pedaled off, leaving just me, Stella, and the man from the beach. Stella, bless her overprotective little heart, barked up a storm as he approached, keeping him at a respectful 15 feet away. Who knew my sweet pup had such a flair for the dramatic?

Without asking or waiting for any kind of invitation, he came and sat down at the picnic table across from me, which did nothing to help the pit in my stomach that was now making itself quite comfortable. It wasn’t like I had a ton of options at that moment, so I did my best to keep things light. “I think I’ve seen you at this park before. Do you come here often?” I asked, trying to make small talk like this was a perfectly normal situation and not at all nerve-wracking.

He paused, like I’d just asked him to solve a math problem in his head. There was a hesitation, a moment where I could see the wheels turning as he decided whether or not to engage. Finally, he nodded and said, “Yeah, I come down here quite often.”

I smiled, trying to ease the tension. “I live in my van,” I said, pointing toward Poppy. “I’m <my name>, by the way.”

He reached out his hand, and I shook it, feeling the roughness of his skin against mine. “My name’s Dick,” he said, his voice a bit steadier now.

We ended up sitting down at the picnic table together, and that’s when I remembered the feast I’d over-ordered from McDonald’s earlier. After days of subsisting on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I’d decided to treat myself to some good ol’ fast food. Of course, my eyes were bigger than my stomach, so I had more than enough to share. I offered Dick a McDouble, and he kindly accepted. We chatted for a while about life, steering clear of any direct mention of his homelessness—because sometimes, the things you don’t say are just as important as the things you do.

At one point, Dick told me about the time he was caught in a whiteout on a highway in North Dakota. He nearly died that day, he said. The snow was so thick he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, and the wind howled like something out of a nightmare. He ended up seeking shelter under an overpass and fought through the night, not knowing if he’d survive until morning. As I listened, I couldn’t help but think about the resilience it must have taken to survive that kind of ordeal.

You know, I have this motto—something I picked up while working in a major city’s hospital: The only differences between me and a homeless person are untreated mental illness and a few bad decisions. It’s a truth that keeps me grounded, a reminder that life can turn on a dime, and we’re all just trying to make it through the best we can.

As I sat there with Dick, sharing a meal and a moment of connection, I couldn’t help but feel grateful—for my van, for Stella and Watson, for the ability to navigate this crazy life with a bit of humor and a lot of heart. I may not have all the answers, but I do have a pretty damn good story to tell. And today, Dick became a part of that story.

Until next time,

Your ever-curious, sometimes-brave, Nomadic Nurse