Welcome Back to the Cryptid’s Den
Welcome back to The Crippled Cryptid, where disability, chronic illness, service dogs, and everyday sorcery gather under twinkling lights and a slightly crooked tree, mugs warm, ghosts friendly, and snacks suspiciously peanut‑buttery.
If you’re new here: hi, I’m Sky.
Professional cryptid.
Unwilling amateur cyborg.
Medically interesting enough to make half my providers sigh when they open my chart. Honestly, same.
I live in a haunted meat suit with an out‑of‑date warranty, currently held together by Keppra, vibes, and a Service Dingo™ with very strong opinions.
Returning readers, welcome home.
New cryptids, welcome to the Lunatic Café.
Today’s special: Christmas prep.
I can’t say there’s a whole lot of Christmas prep happening in our house this year. Truthfully, I can’t say there’s been a whole lot of anything happening in our house this year.
I am, regrettably, in Bed Jail™ more often than not thanks to Keppra. If you missed my post on side effects, here’s the speed‑run version:
• Exhausted, but unable to sleep. When I do sleep, it’s nightmares and the Hat Man. M&M and Luna have both filed HR complaints.
• Appetite: missing, presumed abducted.
• Cravings appear briefly, like cryptids themselves. Blink and they’re gone.
• Dizziness: a long‑term resident.
• Bathroom trips are now group activities. If I go, Luna goes. Sometimes M&M supervises. These excursions are… memorable.
So yes. Festivity has been limited.
The most Christmas‑y I’ve managed so far was last Friday, when I hauled myself out of bed and made family Christmas cookies. Or candies. Or something that exists in the liminal space between the two.
They’re one of those old recipes that’s been passed down longer than I’ve been alive, so to avoid arguments, I simply call them Christmas Balls. Chocolate and peanut butter are involved. That’s all that matters.
Even on Keppra.
We planned to make gingerbread cookies and sugar cookies too. We planned to build a gingerbread house. The universe laughed.
The first gingerbread house arrived smashed via Instacart.
I complained, loudly.
M&M cried. Someone got cussed out. (No one makes my girl cry.)
That wasn’t even the last of Instacart’s transgressions that day. First, they blocked us into the house with groceries we didn’t order. Three twelve‑packs of soda. Multiple bags wedged against the door. They smashed the live sage plant meant for a pork roast, brought the wrong pork roast, the wrong Christmas lights, and then crushed M&M’s gingerbread house. Yeah, I cussed them out. And I’m not sorry.
The second gingerbread house we picked up ourselves at Trader Joe’s on the way to my cardiologist appointment. That one requires homemade royal icing, and my body has vetoed that plan. We also received a mini gingerbread house from the food bank.
So now we have two gingerbread houses and zero energy.
But I’m still hoping that both get made because these are the kinds of memories I want to make with M&M. Messy, sticky, candy‑coated memories that come alongside bad‑tasting frosting and construction gingerbread.
Thanks, Keppra. I am looking forward to our breakup. I’d say it’s you but… it is 100% you. You bring way too much baggage to this relationship.
The house is decorated. At least that got done.
It didn’t get done on the first of the month like I’d planned- if we’re honest, it got done late, and we’re still picking and choosing little things out of boxes. Like the snowman table runner that I love.
This year, the absence of Bear is impossible to ignore. Last year I got to film Luna and Bear opening their stockings, marveling at their new toys. The joy in that little ritual is a memory I keep tucked close, a warmth I can still feel. This year, Bear’s stocking sits with Luna, passed down to her, a quiet placeholder for the big Bear-shaped hole in our hearts.
We did get Luna a little gift when our friend brought us to the store for the prime rib- a toy that looks like a string of Christmas lights and a tiny Christmas sweater with a reindeer on it. She’s the littlest reindeer, they say, but no toy, no sweater, no amount of cookies or cheer can fill the space Bear left.
Grief at the holidays is hard. It’s hitting me harder this year with my health, my limitations, and the smaller circle of family around us. Yet even in the hollow moments, remembering Bear’s joy reminds me why we try to make the holidays as full of love as we can, for everyone still here.
And tomorrow is supposed to be the fun part. The prep. The cooking we’ll do on actual Christmas, but certain things have to be done at least a night ahead. Like the cheeseball. The thing I usually can’t wait for before a holiday. This year we’re keeping it low key. Allegedly.
Here’s what’s on the menu:
• Cheeseball. The same one I grew up with. Honestly, I’d eat it every day that ends in Y. Especially leftover, turned into a grilled cheeseball sandwich.
• Pudding au chômeur, courtesy of M&M. She originally planned pineapple upside‑down cake like Thanksgiving, which I destroyed with enthusiasm, but this is special. She’s only made it for me once, and I’m thrilled. She told me the sweetest story about how it’s supposed to help people get home safe. Something about being made from the trees.
• Prime rib. A rarity. I’ve had it exactly three times, all in restaurants, all incredible. This year I found one at Meijer for $8.99 a pound and saved my food stamps for it. We usually do ham. This feels big.
Except for the year my Oma made duck and lied to us all, claiming it was chicken. It was… not good. Greasy. All of the things you don’t want to remember about holidays at a family member’s house.
• Cream cheese mashed potatoes. A non‑negotiable holiday constant. There is never a time or place these don’t belong.
• Corn. Because the Yard Yeti loves corn. Please imagine me rolling my eyes. If you didn’t know this about me, I don’t like corn unless it’s corn on the cob. I can forgive it in a few other dishes but, plain canned corn with butter? No thanks.
• Green beans. Because vegetables must occasionally be acknowledged. Even on holidays.
• Brown sugar carrots, also known as candied carrots. A tradition from M&M’s Aunt Lise, who makes our food bank days brighter and will be with us in spirit, via carrots and a video call where she will supervise the prime rib. This is not optional. I refuse to mess this up. For me. For her. For M&M. For my honor.
We were told to look for Yorkshire pudding mix as a side. Instacart suggested Jell‑O. We laughed for a solid five minutes.
Canada has Yorkshire pudding. Canada has VH sauce. The US has… audacity. And a few other highly suspect and questionable things but, it is the holidays.
Hopefully next year we’ll spend Christmas together.
We haven’t fully decided on deviled eggs yet. M&M said we could skip them after Thanksgiving. I may negotiate, because even while Keppra is kicking my ass, her happiness is still my happiness.
We’re also doing shrimp cocktail, another Meijer victory that made me feel weirdly powerful.
Because even without a car, even with Instacart limitations, even while sick, dizzy, and exhausted, I still managed to give my family a good Christmas dinner.
Even if I couldn’t give them gifts.
And that part hurts.
Most of my extra money has gone to Uber, getting to doctor appointments and the food bank, since the October car accident. It makes me feel like a failure sometimes. Like Christmas is supposed to be bigger. Brighter. More.
And then grief sneaks in and whispers impossible things.
Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to the food bank that day.
Maybe the crash wouldn’t have happened.
Maybe Bear would still be here.
That’s grief talking. Grief doesn’t care about seizures. Or holidays. Or logic. It just hits where it knows it can.
And if you need to hear this:
You don’t deserve that.
So, this one is for you. Anyone struggling this season.
We wish we could invite you all into the Cryptid’s Den. We hope you’re warm, safe, and fed.
And I hope that during prep and the actual cooking, M&M and I can make more cookies. Because the most holiday cheer I felt this year was standing in the kitchen with her, singing, dancing, tempering chocolate.
Was I sick? Yes.
Was I dizzy? Absolutely.
Did I have a Service Dingo™ breathing down my neck like a tiny bean‑cryptid who desperately needs a vacation? Without question.
But we were together.
And sometimes, that has to be enough.
Merry Christmas,
-Sky
© The Crippled Cryptid– Disability, honesty, and a little chaos.
https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa
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