In case of emergency, break glass

An essay on the emotional maelstrom of caregiving, from the frontlines

Three years ago, the day after a 35-day caregiving stint at the hospital, I packed my hospital go-bag before I went to bed, expecting to head back sooner rather than later. The next day I packed my hotel emergency go-bag, and I’ve reinventoried and restocked both periodically as the seasons change and granola bars petrify. The hospital bag has had a few car rides - for me and for others - and has the sorts of things you wish you had once you’re in a triage room in the ED which hasn’t been restocked since the late 90’s. Tissues. Hand lotion and sanitizer. Snacks, and two bottles of water. A brand new toothbrush and paste and chapstick. An ancient National Geographic, as well as a tiny notebook and pen. And of course, the phone charger.

I’ve pilfered a few things over the years, since the bag has mostly gone unused, and am both grateful and regretful about my fastidious packing and laissez faire poaching. It seems I’m a squirrel by nature, hiding things from myself for future use, guided by a story of winter physically etched deep in my bones. This is a problem that is not unique to me - two winters ago I was party to a television show about people attempting to survive the arctic tundra in isolation, for sport. One such contestant found an excellent source of fish, which he methodically smoked and stored for later parts of the winter when the ice would become too think and food would be scarce. Unfortunately, he neglected to actually eat much fish, somehow coercing himself to ration and hoard - eyes fixed on the prevention of future suffering at the expense of his current health - physical and mental.

If only we could stockpile sanity in the same ways - sunshine reserves in case of terrific wind - emotional full moons for dark nights of the soul. I fear the best we have is to relish the sweet moments as they come, which is not intuitive to me. On Thursday, after walking 28,000 glorious steps with a number of friends, my person said ‘hey, I miss you… want to go for a walk?’ And (with an internal sigh at the 18 miles I had already walked…) I said yes. We wandered along the creek path, like we do a few times a day with the dog, but this time it was just the two of us. We sat on a bench by one of the swimming holes and set about savoring the cool breeze laced with lilac and dogwood to the music of a jovial crew of firefighters behind us, readying their trucks for whatever adventure would call them next. Rubber boots and squeegees, checklists and a handful of off-color jokes.

It was only a few minutes - 4:37-4:41 according to my silly cyber ring, but so worth savoring. Memories like this are life rafts in the holy terror of caregiving. The dark water and deep woods of anything remotely scary. A buoyant refuge we carry through heavy moments.