Heartache in the Desert
Hi! I’m Sasha - I’ve lived and traveled in an RV for two years, and I write short stories about my experiences on the road. Each newsletter should take you about three minutes to read. You can share this, too, if you’d like.
Wanna check something else out that I’ve written? Here’s a snippet of how much I miss water from Oregon.
Yes, there’s been an interruption of Stories from an Anxious Traveler. I’ll fill you in soon, but for now, I will be releasing newsletters when I feel there’s a story worth being shared. They’ll continue to be published on (most) Mondays. Thank you for understanding.
Mostly, I dislike hugs. Mostly.
It was two weeks after we started full-time RVing when Bernadette, now known as raccoon-slayer, got ringworm. Having scraped her nose while digging, she’d continued snooting around, as energetic dogs do, in the desert of Southern Arizona in November. And then, with little warning, her nose turned quite the dramatic shade of Pepto Bismal.
The small country vet’s office had yellowed walls. The smell of hay and cats permeated the tiny building, and my eyes itched with the sudden inundation of allergens. Cats and I are not a good mix. No nurses. Just a vet and a receptionist. I finagled the dog’s mouth and body as the veterinarian did a basic check-up before letting us know the medication would be ready in an hour, and then promptly stepped out of the room without another word.
Jeremiah and I looked at each other, whispered. Were we supposed to leave? Return in an hour to pay?
I slid out of the room and made my way to the receptionist’s desk to the lady with teased bangs.
“Um, hi…” I began, “Can we just come back in an hour?”
“Do you have something else to do?” She asked
I shrugged and turned a palm upwards.
“Well,” she continued, “not much in town will be open, but you can wait in your car if you’d like.”
“Okay,” I said, “we’ll wait outside.”
But we didn’t. We decided to find a grocers, and meandered through the dairy and produce section, then drove the three miles back to the vet and waited in the car. Farm trucks had begun filing in, some with cow and horse trailers.
While waiting for Bernie’s nose spray medication to be filled, a woman in an oversized pink shirt exited the small building holding a bundle. I had watched her walk inside a moment earlier. Now, her body shook. Without saying anything, I opened the passenger door of the car, and stepped onto the gravel.
In a tiny town, in the desert, I reached my arms to the stranger in pink and her gray towel, and held her as she sunk her face into my shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
I would be lying if I said I remembered the cat’s name. I do not. But his body was pressed between ours.
“He was such a good cat,” she said, mumbling through her sobs, “He was a good mouser. I’ve had him since he was a baby.”
“I bet he was the best cat,” I said.
It’s worth noting something I’ve avoided writing about here, but an event that had a major impact on me. Less than a month before we started RVing full time, our 10-year old dog, Gordon, was killed. Imagine the softest lab. No, no: softer. A velveteen rabbit. Now, imagine he always looks up into the sky while on walks. Not forward, not down. Up. That was Gordon. Jeremiah and I treasured Gordon. Our everything. In November 2018, we were slithering through the deepness that is new grief.
I dropped my arms away after what felt like a normal amount of time to hug a stranger.
“Thank you,” she said.
I nodded, “It’ll get easier.” I didn’t know if I was lying. Sometimes, I still don’t.
She walked away, and with one arm, opened the passenger door of an old white sedan. She leaned forward. On the seat, she laid out the gray wrapped bundle before getting into the driver’s seat. I raised my hand in a wave as the dust gathered behind her car while she drove away.
I never saw that woman again, but over two years later, I think of her.
Stepping back into our car, I shuffled into my seat. Jeremiah looked up from his phone.
“How did you know?” he asked.
The bubbles of sadness gurgled in my throat, so I shrugged. Like hugging, I also dislike crying in front of anyone.
Bernie whined slightly in the back. I fingered the pink knock-off Benadryl in my pocket. It was going to be a sleepy day, I thought, as I placed it in my mouth and swallowed it dry. I leaned back in the passenger seat and sneezed.
Sometimes, you need to things you hate. Like hugging people. I wonder what would happen now, if I experienced the same thing, during the pandemic. Hugs are off-limits, just like laughing without a mask or standing close to someone in the produce section. If I were to see a woman outside of a country vet, holding a gray bundle, would I step outside, masked, willing to hold her for a moment and let her know it will get easier?
Probably. I think I probably would.
Thank you for traveling with me,
Sasha
Down the Rabbit hole
Chekhov’s Gun is the theory that you shouldn’t release a piece of information in a story unless it’s relevant. I worried that you might question the validity of me not enjoying hugs as relevant. Want to read more about Chekhov’s Gun theory? Here.
Ringworm is a persistent fungus that likes to hang out in certain soils, according to our vet of few words. It’s also easily transferred from animal to human, although we never contracted it.
Do as I say, not as I do: don’t dry swallow pills. In doing so, I’ve burned my esophagus so I couldn’t eat for days.
I didn’t forget about food deserts, but I am having difficultly pairing the huge problem into stories of about three minutes of reading, so I’m taking some time sorting through that.
A very special thank you to Rhishi Pethe and Rishi Dhanaraj for their actionable feedback on an earlier draft of this - incredibly grateful.