Content & Trigger Warnings
Medical trauma • Skin injury • Bleeding • Adhesive reactions • Chronic illness • Hospital testing • Emotional distress
Welcome back to the Cryptid’s Den.
This is The Crippled Cryptid. A soft-lit corner of the internet where disability, chronic illness, service dogs, and everyday survival magic gather like familiar spirits who know when to sit quietly and when to laugh too loud.
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. I sigh too. Then I roll my eyes and ask for snacks.
Lately it’s been green cabbage with cabbage sauce (Marie’s Ceasar Dressing for those who don’t know) or Sam’s Club four-cheese spinach dip. Other than that, Keppra says I don’t want to eat a damn thing. (We hate Keppra.)
I live in a haunted meat suit with a deeply suspicious warranty. I spend a lot of time in Bed Jail™ and I am almost never alone thanks to my medical alert service dog, Luna. Part guardian, part shadow, part “excuse me, Mama. Sit your ass down. Now.”
This space is about showing up anyway.
Chronic illness without inspiration porn.
Disability without apologies.
Love without pretending it’s easy.
Returning cryptids, welcome home.
New cryptids, pull up a chair.
Welcome to the Lunatic Café.
Today’s special: The 6-Day Heart Monitor.
Before anyone sharpens their calendar and points out that it isn’t Saturday: I know. I usually save health updates for Saturdays. I also know I have a neurosurgeon appointment on Friday the 9th. This is not that update.
This is a while-it’s-still-bleeding update.
Because today was the day I finally got the heart monitor off.
And I need to talk about it while it’s fresh. And raw. And still very much attached to my nervous system.
The Rundown: Six Days With the Chest Monster
Day One:
Day one didn’t actively kill me, which frankly felt like a win.
We went to Sam’s Club with M&M and Matt. Got lunch somewhere we’ve never been before. Made it to the post office and the dollar store. The package made it where it needed to go and everyone was happy-ish.
The monitor behaved.
My skin was cautious but mostly cooperative.
Day Two:
Harder.
The device was already down to 11% by morning and wanted to take my skin with it. We removed it carefully. No ripping. No blood. A small mercy.
Turns out they were wrong about it having a 2 and ½ day battery life.
Day Three:
Downhill.
Naturally, this was New Year’s Eve.
If you think I wanted to ring in the new year with the chest monster from Alien strapped to me, think again.
My skin was furious. I felt like garbage. And Luna glued herself to me like we were sharing a nervous system.
Every time I logged symptoms, she was already there.
Boop first. Machine second.
That’s the thing about service dogs.
They know before the tech does.
Dinner plans shifted. The paella kit was scrapped. Bad seafood was not on the agenda. Instead, we did homemade pizza. Hawaiian for M&M and me. Pepperoni for the Yard Yeti. A garlic bread tear-apart ring with Guinness cheese sauce from the food bank we’d been keeping in the freezer for a special occasion.
Dinner of champions.
Stranger Things, however, disappointed me.
No spoilers yet. I’ll say everything on the 11th.
Day Four:
New Year’s Day.
January first. And I spent it in bed.
My favorite person. My dog. Snacks my body would tolerate, which was… not many. Keppra strikes again.
We binge-watched See on Apple TV+ and tried to keep things calm while my skin screamed at every plot twist.
I did not win that battle.
Day Five:
Stir-crazy.
I didn’t want my desk. I didn’t want Bed Jail™.
Every removal felt like relief. Every reapplication felt like punishment.
The nurse was wonderful on that very first day. We talked Stephen King and horror. She gave me an entire bag of “sensitive skin” adhesive dots.
They were anything but.
They were ripping me apart.
Day Six:
Freedom, technically.
While the device charged, we video-called family. There was coffee. There was love. There was joy.
The shower was awful.
Water felt like acid. Removing the adhesive took skin with it. Knowing it had to go back on broke something in me.
M&M made meatballs for dinner. We returned to See. We found out about a house fire in the neighborhood, only a few houses from our own.
And then there was today.
Sunday: Removal Day
At 11 a.m., I got the text from BioCare.
Study complete.
You may remove the device.
Plug it in.
Keep your phone nearby while it uploads.
Do you remember when I told you I’m not a good patient?
I meant it.
I was done on day three.
When it pulled every time I rolled over.
On day five when removing a glue dot made me bleed.
On day six when showering triggered my CRPS and POTS so badly I considered refusing to put it back on at all.
Because I knew what it was doing to my skin.
M&M wouldn’t have let me even if I tried.
With MCAS, repeated exposure doesn’t fade. It escalates.
Fight-or-flight locks in.
The body does not forget.
My chest is red. Raised. Bleeding. Torn like wet tissue paper.
There is no safe adhesive for me.
I don’t care what the box says.
These products were not made for bodies like mine.
If you think you have glass skin, I’m sorry.
We are not the same.
This is a monster I’ve lived with for years.
When it finally came off, I wanted to throw it.
M&M did not let me then either.
Instead, we followed instructions. The device charged. The app uploaded. I remained tethered to it a little longer.
Now I’m waiting for results. Apparently, they’ll be sent directly to my phone through the BioCare app, which logs symptom markers, time stamps, and heart rhythm data.
The nurse said I could return the device Monday. We don’t have a car. I’m not spending $50 on an Uber to return the thing that shredded my skin, stole my happiness, and made it near-impossible to sleep for 6-days. Almost 7.
It will go back.
Just not today.
The Aftermath
I’ve had coffee.
I’ve applied lotion.
Aveeno cannot save me here. (To no fault of it’s own.)
My chest is the problem. Clothing touches it. Hair touches it. Existing touches it.
This is the part people don’t see.
The aftermath.
The waiting.
The hope that the suffering mattered.
I don’t know what I’ll do if it wasn’t worth it.
I was short with M&M after removal. I needed silence. Her love language can feel like hovering when my nerves are on fire. That doesn’t make it wrong. It just means I needed space.
I want to say this clearly, because it matters to me: being in pain explains why I snapped, but it doesn’t excuse it. I know M&M was only trying to love me the way she knows how- staying close, staying ready, staying present in case I cracked. I didn’t need fixing. I didn’t need watching. I needed quiet. And I hate that the only way my body seems to ask for quiet is with teeth.
I’ve apologized, and I’ll keep apologizing- not because she demanded it, but because love deserves repair. Chronic illness doesn’t just hurt the body. It strains the people who choose to stay. And I see that.
I see her.
There are parts of this journey I have to walk alone.
And there are parts I come back from because someone waited for me.
If you’ve done this test, I’m so sorry.
If you have MCAS or adhesive reactions, how do you get back to baseline?
Because right now, I don’t have words.
Today I said I was waiting for the device to finish its destruction.
Truly, it was an accident. A slip up. A malformation of words but… let’s be honest here.
I stand by that.
Love you. Now say it back.
-Sky
© The Crippled Cryptid
Disability, honesty, and a little chaos.
If you’re here, you belong here.
If today was heavy, thank you for carrying it with me.
If you’re reading from Bed Jail™, give your service dog an extra scritch for me.
🔗 https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa
There’s never pressure to donate. Reading, sharing, or simply staying is more than enough.
But if you’d like to support my ongoing journey toward health, stability, and mobility, you can do so here:
💜 https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-skys-journey-to-health-and-mobility
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