The Bag That Goes With Me Everywhere

Everything I Carry So I Can Keep Going
What I Carry for Appointments, Emergencies, and Everyday Survival

Content Notes: chronic illness, medical settings, hospitals, seizures, anxiety, disability, service dogs.

Welcome to The Crippled Cryptid.
Disability, chronic illness, service dogs, and survival without the performance.

If you’re new here, hi. I’m Sky.
Professional cryptid.
Unwilling amateur cyborg.
Medically complex enough to make my chart a jump scare. I cope with sarcasm and snacks.

Most days are lived in a haunted meat suit with a questionable warranty and a long-standing feud with my nervous system. I spend a lot of time in Bed Jail™, but I’m rarely alone thanks to Luna, my medical alert service dog.
Guardian. Enforcer. OSHA violation prevention officer.

There’s also M&M.
My Player 2. My soft place to land. The one who shows up when I can’t. She makes soup. She gives headpats. She watches shows with me. She keeps me sane.

This space is for chronic illness without inspiration porn.
Disability without apologies.
Love without pretending it’s always neat or easy.
(But it always comes with at least a little dog hair.)

If you’ve been here before, welcome back.
If you’re new, you’ll find your footing.

Welcome to the Lunatic Café.

On today’s menu: The Bag That Goes With Me Everywhere.

Is This Just a Me Thing?

When you’re going to the doctor or the hospital, do you bring a bag?
Or do you just bring yourself and your hope?

Because I always bring a bag.

I got the funniest looks recently when I went in for a cardiac PET scan. The tech who came to get me looked genuinely startled by the amount of stuff I had with me. Which, fair. But also… this is survival, not overpacking.

It wasn’t always like this. Back when I had my own car, I kept a lot of my “just in case” supplies stashed in the Jeep. Extra meds. Snacks. Chargers.

Plural. Multiple.
Life preservers for my body.

Since the car accident in October of 2025, we don’t have another vehicle yet. That means Ubers. Friends. Family. Borrowed time and borrowed rides.

So now, I travel heavier.

Prepared is not the same as dramatic.

Especially when you never know how long it’s going to be until the next Uber picks you up.

The Things That Used to Live in the Car

Before the accident, before the Ubers, before losing the quiet convenience of a trunk, I still carried a bag. It just lived in the Jeep instead of on my body.

Like a lot of people, we had a proper car emergency bag. Jumper cables. An emergency blanket. Road flares. The responsible, practical stuff you’re supposed to have.

But mine went further.

We’re Jeep people, we understand emergencies.

I had bungee cords.
An actual blanket. Not foil. A real one. The kind I used in hospital rooms and waiting areas when the cold seeped into my joints and refused to leave.

I had extra clothes. Just in case.
Emesis bags.
Snacks. Meds. Chargers.

It wasn’t paranoia.
It was experience.

When you live in a body that can turn on you without warning, “just in case” stops being hypothetical. It becomes memory.

Losing the car didn’t change what I needed.
It changed where I have to keep it.

So, the bag got heavier.
Closer.
More constant.

This isn’t me becoming more dramatic.
This is me adapting.

My appointment was at 1:15pm. Because of the Uber, we arrived at 12:30. We checked in, found a corner, and tried to get comfortable. I had just enough time to sit down and reattach one of the buttons on my bag.

It’s Baymax.
The pain scale Baymax.

My mom got him for me from the Disney Store when Big Hero Six came out. Early 2010s. He has a known habit of escaping backpacks. I reattach him often.

I’ve read all the internet advice. Super glue. Pliers. Tape. Extra pins. None of it works long-term. And honestly, I change bags too often for glue to be practical.

One thing is certain: pain scale Baymax stays.

Do I care that I’m 30? No.

Do I care that Disney is apparently “only for kids” according to some people? No. No, I do not.
I am chronically ill, and he is funny.

I’ve even been known to point to him, and use him as a pain scale in the doctor’s office a time or two. Doctors who get it, are good enough to laugh. We like those kinds of doctors.  

The Things That Live on My Bag

There’s also Greggy.

Greggy is a Build-A-Bear that M&M and I found at Goodwill last year for $1.50. He wears scrubs. He has the mask, booties, everything. He looks like he’s holding an x-ray with a heart on it. He is named after Greg House from House M.D., one of my longest-running comfort shows.

Is he technically part of the bag? No.

But he is part of what comes with me.

Especially lately. Especially since the seizures.

Greggy comes to appointments. He sits on my lap in waiting rooms. Sometimes he gets tucked under my arm when things feel like they’re tipping from “routine” into “too much.” He doesn’t fix anything. He doesn’t need to. He reminds me that comfort is allowed. That coping doesn’t have to look clinical to be legitimate.

He stays.

I always have three other pins with me.

• A honey bee enamel pin with flowers, given to me by a former coworker after my mom died.
• A soot sprite from Spirited Away that says Stronger Than You Think.
• A handmade crocheted sunflower I picked up from a local free group last summer. It matched Luna’s service dog gear. It made me happy. It also reminds me of the sunflowers that grow off the edge of the deck every year from scattered bird seed that the birds drop from the bird feeders.

Hanging from my bag are things that don’t help me survive, exactly, but help me want to. That’s just as important.

A red and white manekineko with a bell for luck.
A green Chinese-style dragon we found at Savers. Resin, probably. Glittery. Definitely joyful.
A Squishable Mothman keychain.

Because really, what did you expect from the Crippled Cryptid?

His wings are also magnetic, and work as a good stand-in fidget toy for when I’m feeling anxious and uncomfortable.

You might also find pop-its. A pumpkin, a ghost, sometimes a bat Anxiety lives in my bones, and fidgets help. Especially in Ubers.

When I don’t feel safe, I don’t scroll on my phone. I watch the world. I look out the window. I want to see danger coming if it’s coming.

Call it paranoia. Call it weird.

I call it self-knowledge.

The Bag Itself

I have a preference: backpack purses.

This started when I worked as a bartender. Weight distribution matters. Pockets matter. Being hands-free matters.

I have a few leather ones. Some vintage. Some from the 90s. Like me.

One of my favorites is a tan, patent leather Sak bag I thrifted for $10.

Right now, I’m waiting on a new one from Amazon because it is cold. The kind of cold that makes you suspect Hell isn’t actually all fire and brimstone after all, it may actually be ice-based.

Illinois cold. Chicagoland cold. The air hurts your face cold.

I joke about accidentally moving to Canada and not telling anyone, but the truth is my body hates winter. The cold hurts. Luna’s toebeans don’t get extended outdoor privileges. Potty and back inside.

The new bag will still be decorated. I promise.

But the thought behind it is simple, if the cold is this bad for our skin and our pets’ skin, how bad is it for leather? So, a new bag was required.

But bags have requirements.

They must have pockets.
Because when I say I come with baggage, I mean it.

And if I’m honest, the idea of something new is exciting. Especially when that something new is a $50 coffee-colored vegan leather bag that was on sale for $20.

What I Carry for Luna

Since I love my girl, let’s start with her things.

I should tell you before we get into this that when we had the Jeep, Luna had her own bag in the back. Something that lived there for outings, so we didn’t need to think too hard about extras.

Inside there was:

• A tennis ball

Because even on outings we would find time to stop at a dog park sometimes and throw the ball for everyone’s favorite Service Dingo!

• An extra collar
• An extra leash
• An extra pop-up water bowl
• Extra poop bags.
• Baby wipes.

Service dogs have supplies too. This is very important.

Luna always has water.

I’ll say that again, just because I don’t want you to think that she only has water when it’s warm outside. Luna always has water. The difference is just the temperature of the water that we bring based on the time of year.

We carry a 36oz powder blue Yeti Rambler bottle covered in stickers from small businesses and places we love, including Mars Cheese Castle in Kenosha, WI. If you’ve never been, you should go.

This information isn’t important to anyone but us but, we got it from a Free Group kitchen clean out haul someone was doing, and it matched her first service dog vest. It’s very special to us. We love it. Especially since it matches her current daisy collar, and the main pop-up bowl that she uses consistently when we go places.

She has poop bags and a DogBuddy portable pooper scooper. We are not the people who leave poop behind. It’s not something we like when other people do it, so we’re not going to do it to other people. And yes, if you see us out, and you realize you forgot your poop bags 100% ask us for one whether we have Luna with us or not- we’ve got you!

She has treats. Lots of them. Because service dogs are not robots, and they deserve payment for working. Also, treats boost morale. A small clip-on treat pouch that attaches to my keys, my cane, or my bag. In time I’m sure I’ll find ways to clip it to the walker and the wheelchair too!

Sometimes kibble, if it’s a long day or an overnight situation.

Sweaters. Multiple. She hates being cold and has a wardrobe.

She also has bandanas to match.

Her harness is always on when we’re out. While labeling isn’t legally required in the US, where we live currently, I choose to keep her clearly marked. It protects her focus and my safety.

Distracting a service dog can mean a missed alert.
Missed alerts can mean medical emergencies.

If her handler says it’s okay, then it’s okay.
Otherwise, let working dogs work.

What I Carry for Me

Medications.
Always. Daily meds. Extras. Rescue meds. Inhaler. EpiPens. Nurtec. I carry them because I’ve needed them. Because I don’t know when I will need them, and when I’ll be out too long that I might need to take them.

I had my first known seizure without Luna or M&M with me in December of 2025 and it was terrifying. But I was prepared. Because I always am.

Chargers.
Plural. Multiple.

• Apple Watch charger
• A hand-warmer charger because I am cold and anemic
• A solar-powered waterproof charger with a flashlight and compass
• Another charger with a flashlight attachment

Could I use another one? Probably.

Pen and paper.

Over-the-ear headphones.

I can’t use in-ear earbuds the way I used to. My body changed. My tolerance changed. So, I adapted.

I usually bring my over-the-ear headphones and their case because they help with sensory overload, anxiety, and the particular brand of waiting-room noise that crawls directly into my nervous system. I do still own earbuds, and sometimes they come with me too, because flexibility matters and bodies are inconsistent.

But the big headphones are the main comfort item now. They create a bubble. They help me stay regulated when the world gets loud.

My iPad.
Kindle app. Writing. Drawing. Apple Health. Larger screen when my eyes and joints refuse cooperation. Games when appointments run late.

Candy, cough drops, ginger chews.
Joy and nausea management.

Snacks.
Applesauce pouches. Crackers. Awake caffeine chocolates. Salty things. Sour things. You never know when you’re going to be away from home too long and need a nibble.

Electrolytes.
Prime. Liquid IV. Gatorade packets. POTS-approved survival.

And of course, water bottles. Plural.

I usually have my 42oz Coldest water bottle with me. Baby Paws print from 2025. Black background, white pawprints that glow in the dark. Covered in stickers. Packed with ice, water, and electrolytes. That one is my emotional support hydration device and my most trusted companion after Luna.

I also have a 40oz BruMate bottle. Teal. Smaller. Currently undecorated, which feels a little suspicious, but we’re working on it. I think it might become my designated out-of-the-house bottle, while the Coldest stays home base. Systems evolve. Stickers will come.

Sometimes a portable blood pressure cuff.

Books, though reading on screens is easier for me now, post-seizure.

Lotion. Always.

I don’t know which condition it is but, I have noticed that in the winter my hands get dry and crack. That’s uncomfortable and I hate it. Some of my favorite brands are Aveeno and Hempz if you were wondering. Burts Bees, always.

My wallet, of course. Currently, I’m using one we found at Goodwill. It’s a tarot card. One side is modeled after the Moon card with a black cat, and the other side looks like Death. You know. A skeleton.

I’m spooky and disabled. A lot of my things have skeletons.

We like EDS puns, okay?

I also have a smaller, cards-only wallet for gift cards and business cards. A skeleton that looks like he’s either arguing with you or trying to convince you of something with the words: as far as I know, I’m delightful.

Hair ties. Hand sanitizer. A Halloween meds bag. A few scattered Zelda keychains.

Brush. Chapstick. Compact mirror shaped like Zero from Nightmare Before Christmas.

And sometimes, a pocket knife.

Because safety matters.

And of course, there are the days that the Nintendo Switch comes with us too because M&M is important. Obviously, she can carry her own bag if she wants to but, there are some days where she might just want to bring 1-2 things along, and those things have a place in my bag too.

That, and she’s really been enjoying Animal Crossing: New Horizons and their new update. Tulin came to her island, and she cannot wait to get all of the Zelda items for her island.

Seeing her happy makes me happy. So, if that means making room for her Kindle and the Nintendo Switch case, then that’s what I’m going to do.

Building Your Own Go-Bag

And that’s the thing… This isn’t just a hospital bag.
This is an everywhere bag.

You don’t need to copy mine. You don’t need to justify yours.

Maybe yours is:

• A leather backpack you’ve had forever
• A regular school backpack
• A tote bag
• A mini bag plus a car stash
• A mobility aid pouch

What matters isn’t the aesthetic. It’s the function.

Ask yourself:

• What does my body need on a bad day?
• What makes waiting rooms safer or less exhausting?
• What helps me recover if plans go sideways?

Start small.

Medications. Water. Snacks. Chargers.

Then add comfort.

A fidget. A book. A familiar object. Something soft. Something that reminds you that you are still a person, not just a patient.

Your bag doesn’t have to look serious to be serious.

Tell Me What You Carry

Is this a you thing too?

Do you have a bag that goes everywhere with you?
What lives in it?

Is there something you learned the hard way never to leave home without?

If you’re comfortable, tell me. In the comments. In a message. Anywhere.

We survive better when we compare notes.

If something here hit close to home, you’re not alone.
If you stayed anyway, thank you.

You don’t have to earn your place here.

–Sky
© The Crippled Cryptid
Disability. Honesty. A little chaos.

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If you want to support the long, unglamorous work of survival and mobility:
💜 https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-skys-journey-to-health-and-mobility