Hello again, Den Dwellers.
Welcome back to the Cryptid’s Den, where the lights are soft, the humans are medically complicated, and I, Luna, am on duty at all times. If you hear rapid footfalls behind you, no you didn’t. That’s just me doing my job.
If you’re new here: hi! I’m Luna.
Certified Very Good Girl.
Professional Service Dingo™.
Full-time medical radar.
Part-time snack quality control.
If you’re returning: welcome home. I’ve been expecting you. I always know when someone is coming. (It’s a gift.)
Today is Friday, which means it’s my turn to report in for the Cryptid Pup Chronicles. Please imagine me sitting very politely, tail tucked just so, absolutely vibrating with important information.
First things first: it has been cold here in Illinois. The outside has been rude. The inside has been… tense. Since Mama’s first seizure on December 2nd, and then again on the 12th, I have decided that I’m going to be treating personal space as a highly questionable suggestion, not a rule.
Mama cannot stand up.
Mama cannot reposition.
Mama cannot attempt to acquire snacks.
Mama absolutely cannot go to the bathroom alone.
Every time she moves, I bloom into existence like a mushroom after rain. One moment I am resting. The next, I am up. Watching. Listening. Sniffing the vibes.
Dizzy spell? Boop.
Migraine creeping in? Boop.
Muscle cramps, spasms, nausea, or anything that smells even a little suspicious? Immediate boop, followed by my most serious face.
The bruises from the ER trip and hospital stay are finally fading. Sort of. I watched that very closely. I do not trust blown veins.
The Keppra side effects, however, have decided to make themselves very comfortable. This means that every time Mama tries to exist upright, I must either tell her to lay back down right now, or alert M&M with my patented stare. If the stare fails, I escalate to pawing. If necessary, I deploy the nose.
It is very effective.
Mama once thought I was coming home just to be a pet.
Or maybe a friend for Bear.
Incorrect.
I am a lifeline.
I see what she can’t feel. I feel what she can’t sense. I hear the body whispering secrets and I do not keep them.
Because of this, I haven’t really had any days off this week.
Saturday, the Yard Yeti used birthday money to summon Pizza Hut, because Mama was not allowed to cook after being in the hospital. This was a wise decision. I was compensated with cheese-stuffed crust. As I should be.
The whole day was spent entirely in Bed Jail. Under blankets. Keppra was being especially loud. Boop alerts were constant. Dizzy spells. Spasms. Nausea. I suspect I can smell nausea before it arrives, because Mama always looks surprised when I alert first.
That day we watched all of PLUR1BUS. M&M and Mama are desperate for another season. I watched too, but mostly I watched them.
After that, we moved on to Silo. Two seasons vanished in less than two days. When you are bedbound, closely supervised by an anxious service dog and an even more anxious partner, your choices are limited. Saying no was not one of them.
We loved it. We yelled at the TV. When it ended, there was the familiar silence that follows finishing something too good too quickly. She gets that same look when books end and the brain is cooperating just long enough to notice the wait ahead.
Then came Severed. Very good. We are trying to go slower with this one. I am skeptical but supportive.
A movie followed. Emancipation.
Mama had no words.
I do not have words for it either.
The room was quiet after. Humans can be unimaginably cruel to each other. I stayed close.
We now have an extensive AppleTV+ watchlist, because boredom is dangerous. If Mama lies still too long with pain and nothing to focus on, they start plotting household chores. This must be prevented. M&M and I are aligned on this.
Keppra has also stolen her appetite.
Favorite foods? Rejected.
Pizza? Ignored.
Homemade chicken soup? Insulting.
I don’t understand this part, but I am trying very hard anyway.
Before I finish my report, there are a few very important details my readers deserve to know.
I am compensated fairly for my labor.
Pizza nights mean I receive crust tributes. Not the boring kind. The good kind. Sometimes stuffed with cheese. I accept these payments graciously, from bed, while maintaining eye contact to ensure future compliance.
Homemade crockpot chicken soup is also a shared experience. Whenever Mama can manage a few bites, I am nearby, supervising, occasionally receiving tiny samples. This is team-building.
Most of my work is done from bed these days, which is honestly ideal. I get snacks, snuggles, and full-body contact naps while remaining on high alert. If she so much as sighs differently, I am awake.
Also, for the record: I hate the cold.
The cold is offensive to my toe beans. The ground is rude. The air bites. I do my outside business quickly and return inside with great urgency, where toasty heated blankets exist and my humans apologize to me.
So that’s the report.
Not much adventuring. A lot of vigilance. Many boops. Zero days off.
But Mama is still here.
And I am still watching.
That’s my job.
And I love it.
One more thing, before I hand this report back to the humans.
There were plans I had opinions about.
There was supposed to be a gingerbread house. There were whispers of Christmas cookies. I was prepared to supervise very closely. Unfortunately, Mama’s body said no this week, and when Mama’s body says no, the answer is no. We will save those plans for later. I am patient. I can wait. (I will not forget.)
If you see Mama around the Den feeling a little sad about unfinished holiday magic, please know this: rest is part of the work. Staying alive is the most important tradition we have right now. I will make sure the gingerbreads wait.
And finally, there is something new my readers should know.
Today, which is Thursday, M&M said a thing Mama did not want to hear.
She said Mama is probably going to have to start bringing the wheelchair places.
Mama did not like this information. I could smell it immediately. Sadness smells sharp. Fear smells quiet.
Mama’s mobility has been getting worse, especially since the seizures. Her body does not always listen to her anymore. I have noticed. I notice everything.
This means I have new homework.
I already know how to work when Mama has her cane. I understand the rollator walker too. We have practiced that dance. But a wheelchair is different. Different height. Different movement. Different balance. I will have to learn where to stand, how to block, how to alert without getting under wheels, and how to keep Mama safe while the world stares.
I am not worried.
I can learn.
Mama also has a laminectomy coming up at some point, so the DRG lead tips can finally be removed from her spine. That is a sentence I do not like, but I will be there for it anyway.
The good news is this: a consultation was finally scheduled today. January 9th. Mama cried a little. Relief smells warm.
Change is hard. Wheels are loud. Bodies are complicated.
But Mama is still my Mama.
And I will adapt.
🐾
🐾
-Luna Bean
© The Crippled Cryptid
Disability, honesty, and a little chaos
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