(this article was written originally for RealCountry 96.3 magazine, November 2024)
Check out my section, Range & Roots in their monthly magazine!
This week, we had a follow-up doctor appointment for my son. He’s seven months old, and two weeks ago, he had emergency surgery on his large intestine. The doctors call it intussusception—essentially, a telescoping of the intestines, which is surprisingly common in kids under three.
While the event itself was nerve-wracking, we came away with a lot of newfound knowledge:
1. Wickenburg Community Hospital doesn’t often treat kids.
2. Unless it’s life or death, you’re faster than an ambulance.
Jokes aside, we’re incredibly lucky. Our little guy is already back to his usual self, only a bit tender around his scars.
They scheduled a follow-up appointment four days after we left the hospital, so I expected this week’s check-in to be routine. But, of course, nothing is ever simple out here. My calendar’s already packed with appointments, visitors, beef deliveries, and all the responsibilities that come with living far from Phoenix—and even farther from town.
Living remotely has its perks, but managing all the essentials can turn into a big production. We handle our own trash, for instance—a mountain of it from three homes, four kids, an Airbnb, and a pack of dogs. It adds up fast!
Being out here makes you hyper-aware of waste. Just existing as a functioning member of society generates so much of it. Running a business means supplies—boxes, plastic packaging, you name it. Running a household? We’ve got one kid potty trained, one recovering from intestinal surgery...and that’s a lot of trash! (Major respect to moms who manage cloth diapers—I tried, and I know now just how much effort it takes!) We raise most of our own meat, but that, too, needs wrapping and packaging. The dogs eat raw, so there’s more to toss out. And let’s not forget my husband’s ban on beer cans—only glass bottles, which become yet another pile of trash.
Needless to say, hauling trash into town is a hassle. Even with the windows down, my Mitsubishi Montero is not cut out for the job. So, we wait until we have enough to make a truckload and head in, dragging along the refuse from three other households. We do what we can to recycle, but that just means an extra bin to juggle.
Oh, how I dream of curbside trash pickup out here. But as soon as you get trash service, people start dumping...so, here we are!
With the truck packed, we hit our checklist: trash stop, post office, a package pickup at Wickenburg Computer, and maybe, just maybe, a quick detour to Tractor Supply if we have time. And if Bedoian is open for their cappuccino shake? Well, that’s a must.
Finally, with two kids under three and a truck loaded with trash, we’re on the road. My husband and I are reminding ourselves we’re on the same team here. At the dump, we get weighed out (a much better deal than paying by the bag), empty the truck, send off packages, pick up new ones...and watch as the boys drift off to sleep.
No shake today. Straight to the hospital!
The 90-minute drive along I-17 and the 51 is...well, let's just say it has its own charm. Imagine all the sarcasm I can muster dripping from this sentence—it’s a flood on my keyboard.
Once at the hospital, we have to wake the kids. One takes after his mom: no one’s getting a word out of him for the next half-hour. The other, bright-eyed and cheerful, is all smiles right away. They’re a funny little mix of both of us.
After checking in and wandering lost just long enough to look pitiful and get directions, we’re finally in our waiting room. And we wait. And wait. Half an hour after our appointment time, we’re called in. Progress!
The nurse checks vitals, measures, takes blood pressure. She casually mentions that removing the drain will make diaper changes easier, which leaves me baffled—we’d removed the drain two days after discharge, with our surgeon’s okay.
Then she asks to see the incision...so she can remove the drain.
Six-plus hours of travel for absolutely nothing. We left the office in under two minutes.
This is life off the grid and far from the city. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Each morning, I wake to the calls of quail and cactus wrens, with no neighbors in sight. I end my day with sunsets in peaceful silence, and the nights are filled with the sounds of owls and coyotes instead of traffic and sirens.
Sure, a trip to town takes a full day, but I wouldn’t change a thing.
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