My emergency go bag reflects my constant alertness as a caregiver

There’s a nylon duffel bag that remains by my front door — but it isn’t for the gym, grocery shopping, or anything like that.

The bag is always packed with my phone charger, a change of clothes, and my mum’s insurance cards. You’ll also find a warm blanket and a notebook where I jot down my mum’s symptoms. But you probably won’t be able to read my handwriting, which is frantic, illegible, and often done in dark corners or in the middle of the night.

The duffel is my hospital go bag. I’ve kept it for almost three years now, since my mum was diagnosed with myeloma. As a caregiver accustomed to the unpredictable and invisible labor of caregiving, I regard this bag as a quiet guard stationed in the doorway.

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But the duffel is more than just a go bag. It’s a physical manifestation of my mind, which is on constant alert. The zipper is always partially open, reflecting my own preparedness.

The bag is a material answer to the question, “What if?” As long as it’s in the same room as me, I can’t fully relax. I’m never completely off duty from caregiving.

Packing a piece of home

However, this bag is a source not only of fear but also of comfort. Over time, I have added items to make it less scary.

In it, you’ll find a few sachets of Mum’s favorite tea and some chocolate bars we both love to indulge in. Tucked inside the notebook are a few photos of the two of us from when she felt healthier and stronger. And there’s one pen that writes well. The way it glides smoothly reminds me of how defiant I can be in the face of hospitals, insurance companies, government agencies, and crisis protocols.

These items are an act of silent resistance, transforming the bag from a tool for emergencies into a means of preservation. The photos remind us who we are, the tea comforts my mum, and the pen allows me to assert a bit of control in situations where I don’t have any.

The bag is a contradiction. It reflects our grief, sorrow, and dreams that were indefinitely interrupted by myeloma. But it’s also evidence of my commitment to cushioning those interruptions.

It says, “I am ready for the worst,” and whispers, “However, I am bringing the best of us along with me.”

This bag has weight, and it serves as a sort of anchor. Whatever happens, I am prepared to accompany my mum. And when I go with her, I’ll bring a piece of home with me.

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