Saturday Health Update:

Bruises & Buckley’s.

Content Notes: medical trauma, repeated IV attempts/needle sticks, bruising and pain, medical gaslighting, consent violations, chronic illness, frustration with medical systems.

Welcome to The Crippled Cryptid.

Disability, chronic illness, service dogs, and survival without the performance.

If you’re new here, hi. I’m Sky.
Professional cryptid.
Unwilling amateur cyborg.
Medically complex enough to make my chart a jump scare. I cope with sarcasm, snacks, and a lot of coffee.

Most days are lived in a haunted meat suit with a questionable warranty and a long-standing feud with my nervous system. I spend a lot of time in Bed Jail™, but I’m rarely alone thanks to Luna, my medical alert service dog.
Guardian. Enforcer. OSHA violation prevention officer.

There’s also M&M.
My Player 2. My soft place to land. The one who shows up when I can’t. She makes soup. She gives headpats. She watches shows with me. She keeps me tethered to the world when my body tries to float off without permission.

This space is for chronic illness without inspiration porn.
Disability without apologies.
Love without pretending it’s always neat or easy.
(But it always comes with at least a little dog hair.)

If you’ve been here before, welcome back.
If you’re new, you’ll find your footing.
Welcome to the Lunatic Café.

On today’s menu: What This Week Taught Me About My Limits.

Hello, and welcome to another Saturday Health Update.
The part of the week where I tell you what my body has been up to, what the medical system has been doing to it, and how I’m coping in the aftermath.

If you didn’t already know, I caught a cold.

Which means I’ve been mainlining vitamin C, elderberry, B‑12, vitamin D, and magnesium. None of these taste good. What tastes even worse is Buckley’s. For those unfamiliar, Buckley’s is a Canadian cough syrup that tastes like regret and despair but works disturbingly well.

Sorry Dayquil.

On top of being sick, last week I was supposed to have a PET scan. I mentioned this briefly before, including the part where they attempted to access a vein nine times and failed.

They did not listen when I told them I am a hard stick.
They did not listen when I told them I am allergic to adhesive.
They did not listen when I told them that only butterfly needles should be used.
They did not listen when I repeatedly asked for a portable ultrasound.

They assumed they knew better.
They did not.

As a result, I am now covered in bruises. Not just one or two. The backs of both hands and up both arms. The kind of bruising that makes existing uncomfortable.

Wearing my Apple Watch hurts. The same watch that alerts people if I pass out and fall. The same watch that monitors my oxygen and pulse.

Sleeping hurts. Sitting hurts. Moving hurts.

Nothing is comfortable right now. Even wearing hoodies hurts.

Luna can’t snuggle me without landing on a bruise and making me yelp.
M&M can’t hug me without causing pain.

I am miserable.

Even if I could sleep well, which I can’t because I can’t breathe through my nose and insomnia is already a frequent guest, I would still be uncomfortable. There is no position where my body feels neutral right now.

On Monday, the cardiologist called to follow up on last Wednesday’s failure. The call did not go well.

He said, “I see it was hard to stick you.”

Hard, as if I hadn’t called their office multiple times ahead of the appointment. As if I hadn’t explicitly warned them that letting me come in dehydrated was a bad idea. As if I hadn’t clearly stated that having the proper tools was not optional.

I did everything I was supposed to do. I drank nearly two gallons of water with added electrolytes in the twelve hours before the test because I know my body. I know my veins. I know what happens when providers ignore that knowledge.

During the appointment, I had four people examining my arms at once. One tech attempted an IV in one arm while another inspected the other. At one point, a tech asked for a larger needle than I am comfortable with. I said no.

No should have been the end of the conversation.

Instead, while my attention was elsewhere, he used a larger needle anyway. A 24 gauge. I knew immediately what would happen.

The vein blew.

I called him a jackass. That part didn’t make it into last week’s update.

He left for lunch. Another tech, who I later realized was likely his supervisor, informed him he would be speaking with him in his office shortly.

I don’t know what happened after that. I may have gotten him fired. I may not have. What I do know is this: when a patient tells you not to do something with their body, that is the end of the discussion. Consent is not conditional.

Compliance is not consent.

This wasn’t just inconvenient. It was a violation.

People in the medical field sometimes assume they know your body better than you do because they have a degree. They assume youth equals ignorance. What they forget is that I have lived in this body for thirty years. I know what works. I know what fails. I know what causes harm.

A week later, I’m still dealing with the consequences. People with Ehlers‑Danlos Syndrome heal slowly. Add anemia into the mix and bruises linger like ghosts. This is not something that disappears overnight.

I’m annoyed. I’m tired. I’m sore.

The cardiologist did not suggest repeating the PET scan at the same office. I’m glad. That was smart of him. Otherwise, I might have gotten a little nasty with him because when I asked to speak with him that day, I was told he wasn’t there despite M&M hearing from staff that he was there. If it needs to happen in the future, it will be done at the hospital, which frankly should have been the plan from the beginning.

For now, we’re moving forward with an echocardiogram on February 4th, followed by an office visit in March. Further testing will be decided then.

Part of me suspects I picked up this cold from that office. M&M was sick too, so it’s impossible to know for sure, but my immune system already behaves like it’s made of wet tissue paper. Getting stabbed nine times did it no favors.

Which means that while there are phone calls I should have been making this week, I’ve been focused on recovery instead.

Things like:

• Finding a new GP, preferably one knowledgeable in Ehlers‑Danlos Syndrome
• Finding a new pain management doctor, also knowledgeable in Ehlers‑Danlos Syndrome

Bed Jail™ isn’t always a punishment. Sometimes it’s maintenance. Especially when it’s unreasonably cold outside. The kind of cold that feels like you accidentally signed up for a free trial of Antarctica.

Which would be fine if I were a penguin.
I am not.

Luna’s toe beans are unimpressed.
So is my body.

If something here hit close to home, you’re not alone.
If you stayed anyway, thank you.
You don’t have to earn your place here.

–Sky

© The Crippled Cryptid
Disability. Honesty. A little chaos.
(We’ll be hiding under the blankets hoping for spring if you need us.)

🔗 https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa
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If you want to support the long, unglamorous work of survival and mobility:
💜 https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-skys-journey-to-health-and-mobility