Holding Us Steady, Keeping Us Strong.
Content Notes: discussion of chronic illness, disability, caregiving dynamics, emotional labor, and the impact of illness on loved ones.
Welcome back to the Den.
The lights are still low.
The coffee’s gone cold.
Nobody here is keeping score.
And that’s okay.
We don’t keep score here.
Love doesn’t keep score.
This is The Crippled Cryptid.
A place where we talk honestly about disability and chronic illness, but also about the people who live in the orbit of it.
Today, I want to talk about the ones who don’t always get the spotlight.
Don’t get me wrong.
M&M has a special place in our openings, and I talk a little bit about the Yard Yeti here and there. But it’s rare for people to hear much more than that. Rare for the focus to linger. Today we should change that. When I tell you that we really do need more M&M and Yard Yeti appreciation posts, I mean it.
Today, I’m making good on that promise.
When you’re chronically ill or disabled, so much attention is rightly focused on survival.
Appointments. Meds. Mobility. Pain. Access.
Getting through the day without your body betraying you in a new and creative way.
That focus is necessary.
It’s not selfish.
It’s not indulgent.
But sometimes, in the glow of all that necessary attention, the people who love us fade quietly into the background. Sometimes, it’s easy for them to feel underappreciated and maybe even unloved- and no one wants that for their loved ones. Least of all me.
Especially when I know that it takes a village.
The partners who learn medication schedules they never asked for.
The friends who Google diagnoses at 2 a.m., or check in at 10 p.m. because they saw a Facebook post that made them wonder if you’re really okay.
The annoying older brothers who take time out of their day to drive you to and from appointments.
The beloved younger brothers who make 3 a.m. grilled cheese sandwiches.
The family members who learn when to hover and when to step back.
The ones who sit in waiting rooms, kitchens, and parked cars, carrying fear quietly so we don’t have to hold all of it ourselves.
They don’t get medals.
They don’t get awareness months.
Most of the time, they don’t even get asked how they’re doing.
And that matters.
Loving someone with chronic illness or disability means living with uncertainty by proximity.
It means plans that change.
Energy that runs out.
Watching someone you love hurt and knowing you can’t fix it, no matter how badly you want to.
That’s not easy.
It’s not easy for the people living it, and it’s not easy for the loved ones who watch. And acknowledging that doesn’t mean we’re apologizing for existing.
Love is not a debt.
Care is not a burden.
Support is not something we “owe back” by being easier to live with.
The people who stay do so because they choose to.
Over and over again.
In my life, that choice looks like a lot of different people, showing up in a lot of different ways.
It looks like M&M.
She’s the one who helps me with Luna. Who helps train her.
She’s the one who told me to take the chance on her in the first place.
Who looked at my fear and my hope and said, you’re not wrong, and meant it.
She validated my feelings before I even knew how badly I needed that.
She’s the person I know I can go to with anything. Always.
The one who caught me during my second seizure and called for help. The one who sits with me in every waiting room of every doctor’s appointment and hospital trip. She doesn’t make me do any of that alone, even when I know that they make her anxious.
It looks like the Yard Yeti.
BJ.
The one who does most of the yard work and the heavy lifting, hence the name.
The one who makes the best grilled cheese at 3 a.m. The one who makes the best air-fryer tater tots and French fries.
Who makes sure I eat when I don’t want to, even with the palate of a chicken nugget kid.
He makes us laugh. He watches Supernatural and Hazbin Hotel with us.
He’s a dork, and he’s the best little brother anyone could ask for.
I’m sorry I asked for a rabbit instead of you.
It looks like The Compass.
Matt. -who finally gets a nickname on the blog. I figured he finally deserves one now that Luna has decided that he’s a good person. It only took the silly baby a year and a half, right?
The older brother I mention in passing, but who deserves more than a passing mention.
He helps where and when he can when he isn’t working.
He drives us to appointments.
He has game nights with BJ, and I know that matters to both of them.
He helps people find what’s lost for a living, and somehow still finds his way back to us.
Just like he found his way back to us after being adopted, and I think that’s pretty special. Don’t you?
It looks like friends I won’t name, because there are a lot of them.
Because love doesn’t always need a roll call.
The ones who check in. Who remember. Who stay.
It looks like Aunt Lise, calling from Winnipeg.
So far away, especially with the world the way it is right now.
Her calls still reach us.
She always knows the advice we need. Always finds a way to pull me out of a bad mood and leave me smiling.
We know that she’ll always know exactly what to say when it comes to coffee, cooking, or recipes.
And it looks like my Aunt Dee, doing what she can from Texas.
Sending bird food. Electrolytes. Silly cards that make us feel loved.
Helping me with disability paperwork when and where she can.
Showing up in the ways available to her.
Doing her best. And that matters more than perfection ever could.
And it looks like Luna.
Who doesn’t understand diagnoses but understands me.
She understands my body on a level that even I don’t, catching alerts before any piece of technology ever could.
Not everyone has a crowd.
Sometimes it’s one person.
Sometimes it’s a phone call.
Sometimes it’s a dog.
That counts too.
Their love doesn’t erase my disability.
My disability doesn’t diminish their love.
Both things can be true at the same time.
So today, this is for them.
For the ones who show up.
For the ones who stay.
For the ones who carry some of the weight without asking to be praised for it.
If you’re chronically ill or disabled, maybe this is a moment to say thank you in whatever way feels safe and real. A text. A sentence. A quiet acknowledgment.
If you love someone who is, maybe this is permission to admit that it’s hard sometimes. And that naming that truth doesn’t make you a bad person.
And if you’re reading this and thinking about someone in your own life, someone who carries a little weight beside you, maybe this is your reminder to tell them. Not because they’re owed praise, but because being seen matters.
The Den is big enough for all of it.
If this felt close to home, thank you for staying with it.
If it named something you haven’t had words for yet, I hope it helped.
Returning cryptids, welcome home.
New cryptids, pull up a chair.
Love is not weaker because it’s complicated.
Sometimes it’s stronger because of it.
If today felt heavy, thank you for carrying it with me.
If it felt familiar, I’m glad you stayed.
If you’re here, you belong here.
Love you. Now say it back.
-Sky
© The Crippled Cryptid
Disability, honesty, and a little chaos.
🔗 https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa
There’s never pressure to donate. Reading, sharing, or simply staying is more than enough.
If you’d like to support the long, slow work of staying alive, stable, and mobile:
💜 https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-skys-journey-to-health-and-mobility
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