Winter came for my joints, my sanity, and my MRI results, in that order.
Welcome back to The Crippled Cryptid–
The world is cold, my body is colder, and Luna’s toe beans have filed HR complaints against the entire month of December. This is a space where chronic illness, service dogs, and the strange magic of survival all huddle together against the winter wind. Grab something warm, settle in, and let’s talk about the latest chapter in the Medical Nonsense Chronicles.
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Winter has me feeling like I’ve been drafted into a frostbitten boss battle I never agreed to. My joints are staging interpretive protest art, my autonomic system has wandered off to do whatever it does in December, and Luna is conducting Very Important Sniffvestigations to determine whether the cold is personally rude or just cosmically clueless.
Still, we show up.
We breathe through the static.
We adjust the heating pad like it’s tactical gear.
And we keep choosing ourselves, again and again, even on the days our bodies feel like haunted house attractions run by gremlins with poor management skills.
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The MRI Saga, Episode 437: No News, Just Rage
If you’ve been following this cursed storyline, you already know it has the emotional pacing of a medical soap opera written by gremlins during a blizzard.
Saturday’s update didn’t even graze the surface, so buckle up.
On Friday, somewhere between Birthday Pie for the Yard Yeti, handing him his Ghostface mug and tortilla blanket, and finishing cheeseburger casserole, M&M and I ended up in an Uber to the hospital. Shoutout to my aunt for unintentionally unlocking Side Quest: Hospital Visit.
The task was simple in theory: get the x-ray the hospital required so my Sunday MRI wouldn’t get canceled.
The universe replied: “lol no.”
The scan finished, and M&M delivered the news: Veronica from MRI had called to cancel. Again.
Apparently, after fifteen attempts to reach RN Jessica, (we don’t like her) Veronica finally got her. And yes, according to the surgeon’s notes, there is Platinum Iridium and contacts left behind from my DRG explant twenty months ago.
Wild, considering I have LiveWell messages from Jessica saying:
• Veronica had “no right” to speak to Abbott
• Abbott’s information was “wrong”
• I was “perfectly fine” for the MRI
It’s enraging to be told by one department that nothing was left behind while MRI is calling like, “Heyyy, so actually… metallic debris detected.”
Is it lawsuit material? My inner cryptid lawyer is stretching and pacing.
“Am I Difficult?” No. But I’m Tired.
Since Jessica insisted everything was fine, I asked her to schedule the new MRI so she could handle the back-and-forth herself.
This apparently triggered her Victim Mode.
She insisted I could “set it up myself,” that Veronica was “wrong,” and she was “very sorry.”
She promised to answer if MRI called back with questions.
She did not.
I send LiveWell messages like a stubborn carrier pigeon.
I call until the receptionist recognizes my voice.
Then Thursday happened.
While recovering from a seizure and blackout from Wednesday, Veronica called again to inform me I “shouldn’t be on her schedule at all.”
My stress soared into the stratosphere. And let’s be honest: when you’re recovering from unexplained seizures, “stress” is basically forbidden dark magic.
But when she learned I was already in radiology, she asked me to stay put and stepped away from her whole department to talk to me and M&M directly. She’d seen my ER visit, my messages, the confusion, the contradictions. She looked tired for me.
She spoke to us like actual humans, not problems to be managed.
That shouldn’t feel rare. And yet…
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Today in Medical Shenanigans
Here’s the current state of my body, summarized like a weather report from an alternate universe.
Symptom Roll Call
The winter trifecta has officially checked in:
• hEDS: Joints auditioning for interpretive dance. Ankles dramatic. Fingers crunchy. Spine offended.
• POTS: Blood pressure playing musical chairs. Standing equals respawning in low gravity.
• Fibro: Nerves shimmering with glitter pain like they’re hosting a rave.
• MCAS: Allergic to the concept of existence again.
• Kidneys: Background NPCs muttering about frost damage.
Migraines? Insert feral cryptid screaming here.
My body is a carnival. With questionable safety inspections. (And probably asbestos.)
The ER Arc: Concussion Edition
Saturday, after failing to reach my doctor, the on-call nurse said the magic phrase: You need to go to the ER.
Before that, we hit the food bank because survival waits for no one.
At the ER, the usual routine:
• Migraine cocktail
• CT scan
• Bloodwork
• IV magnesium (a first for me)
Turns out I’ve had a concussion since Wednesday. A bad one.
They… did not mention that earlier. They should have.
The concussion is likely worsening the migraines, so now I have:
• A new medication being delivered hopefully today if Walgreens can get their act together
• Follow-up with neurology on the 15th (already planned)
• A universal sticky note reading “see your PCP ASAP” (lets hope they call me back today)
• Orders to “take it easy,” which translates to Crockpot Sundays and Monday breakfast casserole
Small victories.
Luna’s Latest Alert Adventures
Luna is out here doing overtime:
• Alerting to heart rate spikes like a golden detective with a badge
• Interrupting pain spirals before I catch them
• Sitting on my feet like a bodyguard shielding me from meteorological betrayal
She also glared at an icicle today. Truly a professional.
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Meanwhile in Weather Hell
It snowed again Saturday night. Luna’s toe beans have declared mutiny.
Instacart failed to deliver the Aldi Christmas dog sweater I wanted in her size, leaving her both sweaterless and morally offended. I considered the pink nutcracker one. I could not do that to her. Luna may have a wardrobe, but pink is where I draw the line.
The Christmas tree remains unassembled in its cardboard sarcophagus thanks to the seven-hour ER detour. (Maybe tomorrow.)
At least we had Aaron, the ultrasound-wielding vein whisperer. We nominated him for a Daisy Award because the man was a legend.
May his future be paved with gentle breezes and tropical beverages.
What’s Helping (Even a Little)
• Heat packs arranged like a geothermal shrine
• Electrolytes by the gallon
• Slow movements
• Five blankets that feel like a hug from a benevolent cryptid
• The faint promise of breakfast casserole
What I’m Hoping for This Week
• A day where my joints follow the manual
• Fewer heart rate acrobatics
• Enough stability to write something
• Tiny comfort pockets
• A snack victory
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Closing Thoughts from the Snow-Cursed Cryptid
It’s been a brutal week inside a brutal year: the bad garden season, losing Bear, the car accident, the Cursed Leg Saga™, and now the health spiral. I keep hoping something will let up. I’m tapped out, iced over, and sore across multiple timelines.
But I’m here.
In my Nightmare Before Christmas onesie.
Coffee steaming beside me.
Luna snoring like a pocket-sized aircraft.
M&M hovering like a loving, annoying guardian spirit.
And that counts.
Thanks for braving the cold with me.
If you’re reading this from your own blanket fort of symptoms, hot drinks, and exhausted resilience, you’re not alone. We’re just a cluster of haunted meat-suits doing our best in a season that keeps throwing iceballs.
Stay warm.
Stay gentle with yourself.
And if winter is targeting you too, I’ve saved you a seat by the space heater.
© The Crippled Cryptid — Disability, honesty, and a little chaos.
https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa
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