Wherever I Go, I am a Stranger

Spring is the best time on High Plains, especially on the Northern High Plains. The snow has melted. If the springs rains came, then the grass has greened and the winter wheat is growing in the fields. Verdancy is everywhere.

The birds have returned and their sounds can be deafening. The mourning doves and prairie meadowlarks fill the evening with their calls.

The wind brings the scent of sweet clover and moisture. Later, in July, it will feel like a dusty blast furnace. But now everything is pleasantly fresh and new. It is a good time to get out of the City. The sense of possibility and abundance surround you as you walk down dirt streets.

Towns on the plains are of two camps, clod hopper towns or shit kicker towns. This roughly divides them between towns that rely on farming and those that rely on ranching, respectively.

Farming requires more machinery, more labor, and is more lucrative. As such, these towns have a more robust tax base and generally more funds for services. They tend to have greener lawns and more orderly, well-kept homes.

I am on shift in one such town today. School has ended for the year, children run feral throughout the town, down lanes of arts and crafts homes and mid-century ranches. It reminds me of my childhood.

Upon going out into the world, I found out that even in the 1980’s and 1990’s, I was living a childhood out of a different time. Now, these children are having an experience downright foreign in comparison to their urban and suburban counterparts.

In this little pocket of America, the end of school year does not simply mean a transition from one overly-scheduled, hectic routine to a different overly-scheduled, hectic routine.

It means the freedom to roam, make mistakes, get hurt, and learn and grow. Freedoms now so rarely afforded children in our society.

I sit in the well-manicured park next to the baseball diamond and let myself dream of a simple life in a little world like this. Where my daughter could roam the streets in relative safety.

Forever the Rolling Stone

Freedom so often means that one isn’t needed anywhere. Here you are an individual, you have a background of your own, you would be missed. But off there in the cities there are thousands of rolling stones like me. We are all alike; we have no ties, we know nobody, we own nothing. When one of us dies, they scarcely know where to bury him… We have no house, no place, no people of our own. We live in the streets, in the parks, in the theatres. We sit in restaurants and concert halls and look about at the hundreds of our own kind and shudder.

Willa Cather, O Pioneers.

It is a silly little fantasy. I am a stranger here. I always will be. Even if we moved in and I set up shop as the town doctor, I would always be an outsider. I would be a little suspect, I wouldn’t really “understand” the town. That is the way it is.

As long as I am temporary, the staff and patients treat me well. They treat me like a guest. They are very kind and obliging. On the other hand, I know cultures which place the most importance on hospitality towards guests are also often the most closed.

As long you are a guest, you have no rights in community decisions. You are otherized and compartmentalized into a nonthreatening entity, ever so politely.

So, I roam, continually a guest, an outsider, an observer. Nonetheless, the dream of simple little corner of Americana is a seductive one…

To Dream a Little Dream

When I discuss these little flights of fantasy with my wife, she sighs and rolls her eyes. She knows why a simple, pleasant, little life for us is only a dream. We are not simple, pleasant, little people – and I am likely the worse of the two.

I don’t know if we dream of bigger things, but we do not fit into molds well. We are not terribly pliable people. We have not melded back into the city well, either. The self-indulgence, easy conveniences, greed, commercialized spirituality, and glorification of self have rubbed us raw.

I often wish I could be satisfied with a simpler version of what life was about. I wish I could still believe working in healthcare is about helping people.

But some things cannot be unseen, some hurts cannot be unfelt.

Simplicity is Complicated, Too

The funny thing is, my life actually is much simpler now that I travel for work. I roll in, do my work, and I roll out. Back at home, I live a life with plenty of unstructured time spent with my wife and daughter.

Work is far less draining. I don’t go to meetings to be harangued about productivity, my life is not held hostage to a call schedule. Yet, I am perpetually a stranger at work, and in the City.

It turns out, after a certain age, most of the people in our lives we meet through work. And most people don’t have 10-20 days a month free to spend as they like – they are at work.

It is an odd paradox, my life is honestly much simpler than it has been in years. Yet, that simplicity has not necessarily made it richer.

Without the demands of Medicine following me day and night, I have had to let myself be a human again. To let myself do nothing, without guilt, which has been the hardest part, by far.

After 9 years of being fashioned into a bow and strung tight, always ready to react to some new crisis, it is hard to unstring oneself. Sometimes, I force myself to remember I was a whole person before Medicine, and will continue to be so if I were to leave it.

The Stranger, only Human

So, this is the trade-off. I am perpetually the stranger, but much more human. I am not defined my role and relationship to my career and coworkers. Now, two thirds of the time I am simply me, not Doctor HighPlains, but just a guy with a family.

I also remember grief and disillusionment have led me here. They have forever changed my relationship to the world. Initially, it is all destruction and chaos. That is the painful part.

The world expected the pain after we lost our first daughter, it expected me to hurt. But then, as the pain transmuted from a gaping, burning wound to an ember of love and sadness, the next part came.

The awkwardness of building of a new self and a new world. This struggle is harder for people to see and relate to. It is a constant tension. I make progress and lose it all within seconds.

And really, even though we are 18 months removed from the loss of our daughter, only now has the pall of crisis started to lift from our lives. We lost our daughter, quickly moved states, set up new lives in new jobs. Then, we had survive the stress and anticipation of another pregnancy.

We had the normal stress of a newborn baby, mixed with the guilt of feeling the pain of losing our first fade. Only now, has our breathing seemed to slow to a normal pace.

Without crisis and loss and disillusionment, who am I? The Stranger, forever it seems now, the Stranger. I have become, it seems sometimes, a stranger to everyone including myself.

So, I accept this task. The awkward, slow task of getting to know this new me in this new world. I am bad at it, but I am doing it.

2 thoughts on “Wherever I Go, I am a Stranger”

  1. Because we moved every couple of years on the plains…we were always outsiders. I am, still to this day. Transient as a Locums doc, transient as a fire pilot…I suspect I shall always be “not from here”

    Yet I value my time in the communities that are memories of my youth.

    1. I have a dual relationship with my home town. I have very fond memories of living the semi-feral life of a small town boy: running around in the woods, swimming in the river, catching fish, frogs, turtles and snakes. It was great and free in a way few kids got to experience even then. I also have many memories of the people making sure I knew we were outsiders.

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