Cryptid Encounters: The Cardiology Chronicles 💀💓

Content Note: This post references medical procedures, seizures, chronic illness, hospital anxiety, and service dog work.

Welcome Back to the Cryptid’s Den

Welcome back to The Crippled Cryptid, where disability, chronic illness, service dogs, and everyday sorcery gather in waiting rooms and spend far too much time on hold with doctors’ offices.

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. Truthfully, I sigh too. Then I roll my eyes.

I live in the Amityville House of haunted meat suits with a highly questionable, aggressively expired warranty. Think the Clinton administration meets The Purge.

Returning readers: welcome home.
New cryptids: welcome to the Lunatic Café.

On today’s menu: Cryptid Encounters: The Cardiology Chronicles.

Tomorrow, I’m venturing back into the wilds.
Same cardiologist. New location.

This time, I’m being fitted with a five-day wearable heart monitor.

Luckily, M&M and I won’t have to summon an Uber for this particular quest, which lately has felt like playing Russian roulette with drivers.

You truly do not want my recent Uber reviews.

My older brother Matthew has volunteered as chauffeur, navigating the urban jungle with skill and patience. I am also actively plotting a detour to Trader Joe’s or Sam’s Club, because some things are not optional.

Salted maple cold foam deserves pilgrimage status. 🍁🥶

And if I’m being honest, after a cardiology appointment like this, I am not cooking. I’m going to want to retreat directly to Bed Jail™ and my watchlist. The plan is simple: baguette, spinach artichoke dip, rotisserie chicken, survival mode engaged.

The monitor itself is small. Unassuming. It sticks to your chest like the thing from Alien if you’re a horror fan, you know the scene and quietly listens. No trailing wires. No hospital stay. Just me, my body, and a device that wants receipts.

Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t apprehensive.

When M&M reads this, she’s probably going to throw something, likely a pillow, and shout, “I knew it!” because earlier she asked if I was scared and if I wanted to talk about it. I told her no.

I’m not scared. I’m just… aware.

I don’t like adhesives. Neither does my MCAS. Adhesives are one of my most reliable triggers, so knowing I’ll have something stuck to me for five days makes me nervous. It’s not just about discomfort. It’s about logistics. We still don’t have a car. If something goes wrong and I need to get to the ER I trust, I’m not getting there easily or quickly. At that point, I’m relying on the fire department, not my own choices.

That reality weighs heavier than the monitor ever could.

When I first saw the cardiologist, only the first seizure on December 2nd had happened. The one at home on the 12th hasn’t been discussed yet. That kind of information changes conversations. Treatment plans. The way people look at you across a desk.

Cue the nervous cryptid shivers. Eye rolls. Annoyance.

On top of that, I skipped my Xolair shot on the 22nd. The Keppra side effects had me spinning like a possessed carousel, and getting into a car wasn’t safe. Especially not one driven by an Uber we didn’t trust to begin with.

So now my MCAS is throwing serious side-eye at anything sticky. Which unfortunately includes most heart monitor adhesives. Adhesive chaos awaits.

There’s something deeply vulnerable about wearing your heart on the outside, even when it’s hidden under clothes. Every ordinary moment becomes part of the record. Standing up too fast. Laughing until you’re dizzy. Resting. Playing with the dog. Existing.

The monitor doesn’t care about context. It just listens.

And that’s the part I don’t quite know how to sit with. How does it tell the difference between danger and life? Between stress and survival? Between a medical episode and sprinting across the yard to protect Luna from aggressive neighbor dogs who are not contained, not fixed, and absolutely determined to cause problems?

(And don’t tell me to call animal control, I have. They never show up and do anything.)

But the instructions are clear. Live “normally.”
Keep things low-stress.

Which means I’ll probably be banished to Bed Jail™ more than usual this week. Meals will be leftovers, crockpot dinners, casseroles, or whatever M&M can handle solo. If we aren’t managing the heart monitor, we’re managing MCAS, and those two don’t always play nicely together.

Luna, The Best Girl™, and the Unknown

There’s also Luna.

She is, objectively, a good girl. The Best Girl™, even. My service dog. My shadow. My early warning system. And like me, she’s about to spend five days adjusting to something new we didn’t ask for. Something I jokingly call an uninvited houseguest.

I don’t know how she’s going to react to the heart monitor. The wires. The adhesive. The fact that my chest is suddenly broadcasting information she can smell but I can’t see. What I do expect is this: Luna is probably going to smell “the bad” constantly.

My MCAS hates adhesives. That means reactions. Fluctuations. Little chemical alarms going off in my body. Luna reads those changes before I do, and I’m bracing for a week where she’s confused by the frequency of it all. Not panicked. Just puzzled. Concerned. Wondering why the warnings aren’t lining up with an obvious emergency.

I’m also expecting confusion around the hardware itself. She’s trained to respond to my body, not accessories. These wires are new. I barely understand them, and that’s coming from a medically complex human who hasn’t even seen them yet. I don’t know how to explain to her that they’re allowed, that they’re not dangerous, that they’re part of the plan.

But then again, I didn’t know how she’d handle public access at first either. Or her first doctor’s appointment with me. Or crowded spaces, sterile hallways, beeping machines, and strangers who forget how to behave around a working dog.

And every single time, she rose to the occasion.

So, I’m trusting that she’ll do what she always does. She’ll observe. She’ll adjust. She’ll keep one eye on me and one ear on the world. She’ll remind me to sit when I push too hard, to breathe when my body gets loud, to rest when the data says “enough” even if my brain disagrees.

If this week feels strange, confusing, or heavier than expected, I won’t be navigating it alone. Luna will be right there with me, learning alongside me, doing her job in the quiet, steady way that makes everything else feel survivable.

And honestly? That makes the wires a little less scary.

And honestly? I think that’s what I need this week.

For five days, I don’t have to explain. I don’t have to convince. I don’t have to translate dizziness into metaphors or make fatigue sound palatable. The data will speak in its own language, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll say what I’ve been trying to say all along.

I may also be bringing my trusty Build-A-Bear, Greggy, dressed in blue scrubs and clutching an x-ray. Yes, it’s ridiculous. Yes, it helps. And no, I will not apologize. 🐻💙 Chronic illness requires coping mechanisms, and sometimes those coping mechanisms are plush and judgment-free.

If you must know, Greggy is named after Greg House from House M.D., one of my favorite medical dramas. Because who doesn’t love Hugh Laurie and a deeply flawed diagnostician with a cane?

So, here’s to five days on a tether. One heart logged and timestamped. A cryptid navigating doctors’ offices the way we always do: wary, slightly dramatic, armed with snacks and small plush assistants, still finding joy where we can.

If nothing else, I hope this little monitor captures the truth. Even if the truth is messy. Even if it’s inconvenient. Even if it asks for next steps I didn’t plan on.

Five days. One heart.

We’ll see what it has to say. 🫀✨

-Sky
© The Crippled Cryptid
Disability, honesty, and a little chaos.

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