While the migraines settled in for another week, Luna reminded me that healing doesn’t always look like medicine. Sometimes it looks like a warm body pressed against your side refusing to let you face it alone.

Welcome to The Crippled Cryptid: Saturday Health Updates

Content Note: This post discusses chronic illness, disability, migraine, chronic pain, medical appointments, surgery preparation, medical trauma, service dog work, and recovery from surgery.

This is your gentle heads up before we begin.

These posts talk openly about chronic illness, disability, medical trauma, hospital visits, symptoms, and the unfiltered reality of living in a body that doesn’t always cooperate. Some weeks are soft reflections. Some weeks are heavy. Please check in with yourself before reading and come back when you’re in the right headspace.

No one will ever judge you for skipping a post here.

We understand that things get heavy, especially in spaces like this.

If you’re new here, hi. I’m Sky.

Professional cryptid.

Unwilling amateur cyborg.

Occasional chronic illness and disability advocate.

Medically complex enough to make my chart look like a horror anthology. I cope with sarcasm, stubborn hope, whatever snacks survived the week, and a concerning amount 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.

Tiny chaos gremlin with a medical degree she absolutely gave herself.

She’s the voice that says, “Hey. Sit down.”

And when I ignore her, she upgrades to, “Mumther, we are not negotiating with your bad decisions today.”

I like to joke that she’s the sassiest spirit guide there is, but when you’re a cryptid who is notoriously good at ignoring red flags from your own body, you need a spirit guide with teeth.

There’s also M&M.

My Player 2.

My soft place to land.

The one who shows up with ginger ale, soup, and the kind of quiet strength that keeps the world from tipping sideways when my body decides to startle everyone.

She gives the 90% when I only have 10%, and she reminds me that survival is still a team effort.

This space is for chronic illness without inspiration porn.

Disability without apologies.

Honesty without pretending it’s always neat or hopeful or easy.

There will probably be dog hair involved.

If you’ve been here before, welcome back.

If you’re new, take a breath.

You don’t have to prove anything to exist here.

Welcome to the Lunatic Café.

The Migraine That Moved In

This is one of those weeks where I think that if a migraine was a person, that person would be me.

Which is kind of funny because this was actually a week where I didn’t have many doctor’s appointments.

Obviously, I still had to leave the house. There was a pharmacy run and some grocery shopping, you know. The usual. The heat has been a lot. Illinois has been a lot.

One minute it’s hot.

The next it’s humid enough to make you question your life choices.

Then suddenly the sky opens up, and rain starts falling like it has a personal grudge.

My nervous system has been about as thrilled with that arrangement as you’d expect.

I don’t get much of a reprieve from the doctors, though.

On Monday I have allergy shots and my pre-op physical for the foraminotomy.

The neurosurgeon’s office told me I could get the physical done any time on or before June 15th, and this was the first appointment available.

Since the allergy clinic is literally a few suites away, I decided to mash everything into one day and get it over with.

Efficiency.

Or self-inflicted chaos.

Sometimes those are the same thing. It also saves gas so…

I’m mostly hoping the physical doesn’t involve bloodwork. And if it does, I’m hoping they’ll accept the results from two weeks ago.

I know that probably sounds oddly specific.

But if you’re chronically ill and have veins that enjoy playing hide-and-seek, eventually you become very particular about who gets access to the treasure map.

After enough years of being turned into a pin cushion, it starts making a lot more sense.

If I’m honest, I think part of me is already counting down.

The foraminotomy is getting closer, and even when I’m not actively thinking about it, it’s sitting somewhere in the background of everything else.

Like a browser tab playing music that I can’t quite find.

I’m hopeful.

Nervous.

Ready.

Not ready.

Which, from what I can tell, is probably the most normal way to feel before someone starts making plans involving your spine.

Luna’s Recovery Report

At the time of writing this, it’s Friday afternoon and Luna is laying at my feet.

If you’re wondering, she’s doing fantastic.

Honestly, if it weren’t for the shaved tummy and the visible stitches, you wouldn’t know she had surgery on the 3rd.

She hasn’t needed CBD or pain medication since the Friday morning after her spay.

Her bandage came off Monday.

She hasn’t needed the surgery suit.

She hasn’t needed the inflatable cone.

Because she’s a very good girl and has mostly left everything alone.

There have been a few scratches here and there, but let’s be fair.

If somebody shaved your stomach and then your hair started growing back, you’d probably be itchy too.

I think of it the same way I think about shaving my legs.

Nature eventually reminds you that follicles have opinions.

She’s healing beautifully.

Officially, she gets her tennis ball privileges back on the 17th.

Unofficially?

I may reduce her sentence slightly and allow supervised indoor ball activities.

The challenge is that Luna does not believe in moderation.

When she chases a tennis ball outside, she does it with the intensity of a professional athlete trying to secure a championship ring.

She runs.

She tumbles.

She launches herself across the yard.

Sometimes she rolls.

Sometimes she slides.

Sometimes I wonder if she’s secretly auditioning for football.

It’s adorable.

And I really need to start taking more photos and videos of it because frankly, the world could use more Luna content.

Some Dogs Choose Their People

Yesterday, I woke up with another migraine.

Not unusual.

What was waiting for me was Luna.

Curled against my chest.

Pressed along my side.

The second I lifted my head, she lifted hers.

The second I moved, she was awake.

She licked my cheek.

Checked in.

And refused to fully settle until I did.

When I laid back down, she laid back down too.

When I rested, she rested.

She wouldn’t relax until I did.

That’s who she is.

And I think that’s one of the reasons I love her so much.

Sometimes people see her sunflower vest and her beautiful mismatched eyes and immediately make assumptions.

They see a dog who doesn’t fit the traditional image they have in their minds.

And maybe that’s because she’s not one of the breeds people expect.

The thing is, some dogs are bredfor a job.

Some dogs learn a job.

And sometimes the right dog doesn’t read the rulebook.

Even after surgery, Luna kept alerting.

Kept telling me to sit down.

Kept trying to perform deep pressure therapy.

Without being asked.

Without being prompted.

Without being told.

Because she doesn’t really have an off switch.

Yes, I trained her.

Yes, I refined the skills.

Yes, I taught her how to communicate those instincts clearly.

But the foundation was already there.

Something connected the two of us from the beginning.

Something neither of us had to learn.

Sometimes I look at her now and laugh because this is the same dog who once believed every piece of trash she found was a priceless treasure and every rule was merely a suggestion.

The same dog who tested every ounce of my patience.

The same dog who somehow grew into exactly who she was meant to be.

She’s my soul dog.

I think some people spend their entire lives searching for that once-in-a-lifetime dog.

The one who changes the shape of your world simply by existing in it.

I wasn’t looking when Luna found me.

But somehow, she knew.

She’s a piece of my heart living outside my body.

A best friend.

A partner.

A teammate.

A tiny guardian with mismatched eyes and absolutely no respect for personal space.

And that’s why I’ve been hunting for the perfect service dog decal for The Great Pumpkin™.

Something that feels like Luna.

Because where I go, she goes.

Not because I decided it alone.

Because she did too.

If she sees me getting dressed, she’ll sit in front of her vest.

If she sees me heading toward the door, she’ll follow.

If she sees me heading toward the Jeep, she’ll sit by the back door and wait for me to open it.

Ready to go.

Ready to work.

Ready to be wherever I am.

I’ve loved every dog I’ve ever had.

Bear.

Rex.

All of them.

But this is different.

This is the kind of bond where she knows something before I do.

The kind where she understands what I need before I’ve figured it out myself.

The kind of connection that’s impossible to fully explain unless you’ve experienced it.

And somehow, every day, she keeps proving me right.

Even while recovering from surgery herself.

Even while healing.

Even while she should be focused on resting.

She never stopped being Luna.

🐾 Luna’s Notes From The Floor

Dear Friends,

Mumther says I am “recovering from surgery.”

I would like everyone to know that this is fake news.

I feel fantastic.

I have repeatedly informed the household that I am ready for Ball.

The humans disagree.

Apparently, there are “stitches” and “healing” and “medical restrictions.”

Personally, I think this sounds made up.

I would also like to report that Mumther continues to wake up with migraines.

This is unacceptable behavior and I have filed several formal complaints by laying directly on top of her.

The complaints have not been addressed.

Therefore, I will continue applying pressure until the situation improves.

Thank you for your attention to these important matters.

Sincerely,

Luna Bean

Future Major League Tennis Ball Player

🐾

Before You Leave the Café

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.

Before you go, a soft little check-in from the Lunatic Café:

Take your meds if it’s time.

Drink some water.

Eat something small, even if it’s just a few bites.

No gold stars required.

Just a reminder from one haunted meat suit to another.

-Sky

© The Crippled Cryptid

Disability. Honesty. Survival without the performance.

🔗 https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa

No pressure to donate.

Reading, sharing, and existing alongside me is already enough.

If you’d like to support the long, unglamorous work of survival and mobility:

💜 https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-skys-journey-to-health-and-mobility