The Week the Heart Monitor Learned Who Was Really in Charge

A Luna Takeover

Content Notes / Trigger Warnings

This post mentions chronic illness, medical devices, falls, skin injury from medical adhesive, seizures, and surgery planning. No graphic detail, but honesty lives here.
This post also addresses medical dismissal, seizure stereotypes, and the harm caused when non-convulsive seizures are minimized or misidentified.

Hi.

Hello.
Greetings.

It’s me. Luna Bean.
Medical alert service dog. Professional ball enthusiast. Snack taster. Full-time supervisor of Mama’s poor life choices.

Welcome back to the Cryptid’s Den. Or as I like to call it: the place where my mom tries to pretend she’s in charge while I quietly run quality control from the bed.

If you’re new here, quick orientation before we begin:

Sky is my person.

So is M&M but Mama #2 says that Australian Cattle Dogs have one favorite person.

She lives in a haunted meat suit with terrible joints, spicy nerves, and a heart that likes to freestyle without my permission. My job is to notice things before they go sideways, interrupt nonsense, retrieve help, and occasionally remind her to sit her ass down.

I take this work very seriously.

I am OSHA certified in Vibes.

On today’s menu: it’s Friday.
Which means it’s a Luna Takeover.
You’re welcome.

The Week of The Chest Sticker That Would Not Die

From December 29th through the morning of January 4th, my Mama was wearing a continuous heart monitor.

This was not a cute accessory.
This was not a fashion moment.
This was not a fun TikTok prop.

This was a clingy little triangle that attached itself to her chest like it paid rent.

It did not.

Mama was worried I’d hate it. She thought it would be loud, bulky, full of wires, and upsetting. She underestimated two things:

1. Me.
2. How much I hate being surprised.

I inspected it. I approved it. I ignored it forever after.

While the humans told her to press a button whenever she felt dizzy, had palpitations, or felt anything else was off, I was already there.

Booping. Staring. Sitting directly on her feet.

You know. The usual pre-alarm system.

I can smell when the bad things are going to happen before the silly machines know.

She didn’t even have to tell me. Her body always tells me first.

We spent most of those six days in Bed Jail™. This was ideal. Beds are my natural habitat. We watched See, finished Stranger Things with M&M, my other mama, and negotiated snacks around Keppra, which I have decided is my #1 enemy.

I do not forgive easily.

There were naps. There were snuggles. There were moments where Mama needed quiet and space, and I respected that by laying very still but emotionally available.

I am very good at that.

New Year’s Eve, Pizza Edition

Plans changed. They always do.

The paella plan was abandoned because seafood looked suspicious and Mama’s body voted “absolutely not.” Instead, the day stayed soft. Bed. Shows. Cuddling. Saving energy for pizza.

Hawaiian for Mama and M&M.
Pepperoni for the Yard Yeti.
Pizza crusts and salmon snacks for me, because I am the Best Girl™ and this is non-negotiable.

At midnight we did the countdown with silly hats, noisemakers, and fancy sparkling grape juice. I got to bark and be loud with them.

Aunt Lise was on the phone. She makes my mamas and the Yard Yeti laugh. We love Aunt Lise. She makes my mamas happy, and she makes everything feel lighter.

The heart monitor was still there, being rude, but it didn’t ruin anything.

It was a good night.
The kind you keep.

Cheese, Soup, and Adhesive Lies

New Year’s Day brought cheese fondue. The NuWave did its thing. Cheese did what cheese does best: emotionally stabilize the household. I received a holiday portion.

This was correct.

Sunday was chicken soup day, because when the heart monitor came off, Mama’s skin was… angry. There was blood. There was ripping. There were lies told by something called “skin-safe adhesive.”

For bodies like hers, this kind of reaction isn’t dramatic. It’s expected. Fragile skin, MCAS, and medical adhesives do not get along, no matter how many times the packaging insists otherwise.

And sometimes, Mama says that throwing a whole chicken minus the feathers and icky bits into a crockpot with water and veggies and spices is medicine too.

I have not met a single “skin-safe” product that understands my mom. If it could feel shame, it would.

We kept things gentle. Healing takes time. I supervised.

Even when Mama and M&M finished See on Apple TV+ and yelled at the TV.

There were tears. No one was happy with the ending.

Justice for Baba.

Monday Was Not Fine

I need to talk to you about Monday.

On Monday, my Mama had another seizure.

This one looked different. Bodies do that sometimes. Brains remix the playlist.

Same emergency, new packaging.

I was not with her.

I was downstairs, doing something perfectly reasonable and safe. Getting brushed. Being supervised. Existing exactly where I was supposed to be.

And there was another human in the house. Someone Mama thought was a friend. Someone who should have helped.

Instead, when Mama asked for M&M, her partner, my other Mama, the person whose voice and presence mean safe, he talked over her.

He said she holds her breath when she’s anxious.

She doesn’t.
He said she makes herself pass out.

She doesn’t do that either.
He said it wasn’t a seizure because there were no “zombie eyes.”
No dramatic shaking. No performance he could recognize.

Because if it isn’t what you expect, or how it looks on the TV it cannot be real.

As if seizures need an audience to be real.

Mama was confused. Crying. On the floor. She didn’t know how she got there. She said out loud after that she thought she’d had another seizure. That she thought she needed the hospital.

Again, he told the Yard Yeti, BJ, that it was just anxiety when he came into the room.
That she does this to herself.

He kept saying it until he left.

Even after Mama fell down the stairs, trying to get away from him minimizing what had just happened to her.

BJ is the one who went and got M&M.

When M&M saw Mama on the floor, crying, she did not debate definitions. She did not require theatrics. She did not ask for proof.

She knew.

She ignored him completely. She listened to Mama. She believed her. She stayed.

And when I was finally brought upstairs, I went straight to my person and did not leave her side for the rest of the day. Not when she was brought downstairs to her room and put in bed, not at all.

Not because I was told to.
Because that is my job.

And I am good at my job.

Mama didn’t go to the hospital. Not because it wasn’t serious, but because sometimes the system runs out of new answers. She’s already on three anti-seizure meds. She can’t get an MRI yet. The DRG wires are still inside.

So, we did what we could at home.

M&M stayed.
I stayed.
We made the house quiet and safe and watched her until the world steadied again.

I want you to understand this part very clearly:

Seizures do not have a single look.
Fear does not make them imaginary.
And being disbelieved can be as dangerous as the fall itself.

One more thing, because this matters more than people think:

Not all seizures look like television seizures.

Some people have convulsive seizures sometimes and non-convulsive seizures other times. The same person. The same brain. Different presentations. No shaking does not mean no seizure. Quiet does not mean harmless.

Confusion, loss of awareness, fear, and collapse are not “just anxiety” because they fail to perform on cue.

Bodies are not obligated to be consistent for strangers.

The Fall and the Run

One day, when the heart monitor needed charging like it was powered by spite, Mama fell down on the stairs.

I did not panic.
I did not freeze.

I ran.

Straight to M&M.

I got her.

I did my job.

And I want you to know something important: this didn’t happen by accident. This response comes from training, repetition, trust, and a whole lot of practice.

I am not guessing.
I am not winging it.
I am doing what I was taught to do.

This is why I’m here. This is why I exist in this house. Not just for cuddles and vibes and tennis balls, though those are essential.

I am a working dog.
And sometimes the work is scary.
And sometimes it saves lives.

Also, gentle reminder from me personally: when I’m wearing my gear, I’m working. I’m not ignoring you. I’m not being rude. I’m keeping my person safe.

You can admire from afar. I’ll accept compliments later.

New Tech, New Feelings

Because of all this, the humans made a decision. A big one.

There will be an Apple Watch. Series 7 arriving Saturday.

Nothing fancy. Nothing new.

Just enough.

It will track her heart.
It will do ECGs.
It will detect falls.

It will call for help when I am not there to get it for her.

Even when I’m not right next to her. Even when M&M isn’t home. Or Mama has to do the thing we all hate and go somewhere alone.

Mama doesn’t like needing things like this. She never has.

But needing something and being worthy of safety are not opposites.

I wish she’d remember that more often.

If you’re chronically ill and tech-savvy and have thoughts, opinions, warnings, or tips about Apple Watches, please tell her.

Especially if you have advice about bands, skin barriers, rotations, or ways to keep the skin gods calm.

She listens to you.

She listens to me too, but I don’t have thumbs.

What Comes Next

While you’re reading this, Mama is at the doctor meeting with a neurosurgeon.

Uncle Matthew is driving her so she doesn’t have to get in the scary Uber cars, because after Monday, we are not taking chances with confusion, falls, or being alone when her brain decides to surprise us again.

They’re talking about a laminectomy. About removing the rest of the DRG hardware so she can get MRIs again. So doctors can actually see what’s happening in her leg where the hairline fractures are.

So these seizures, convulsive or not, dramatic or quiet, can be taken seriously, tracked properly, and treated based on reality instead of stereotypes.

This isn’t about proving anything to anyone.

It’s about safety.
It’s about answers.
It’s about making sure the next time Mama says something is wrong, the system is capable of listening.

She said 2026 was the year her health improved. I think she meant it.

I’m going to help.

I always do.

Tomorrow is the Saturday health update. I hope it brings more good news than bad. And if you’ve been reading along quietly, caring from afar, thank you for being part of the safety net too.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a ball to yell at.

The weather is oddly nice in Illinois today, I hope it’s nice wherever you are too.

Love you. Now say it back.

🐾
-Luna Bean

© 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 us.
If you’re reading from Bed Jail™, please scritch your service dog. I insist.

Maybe a cookie too!

🔗 https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa

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