Closing the DRG Chapter, Counting Tomorrows, and Learning That Recovery Is a Team Sport

Content Notes: Chronic illness, disability, post-operative recovery, surgery discussion, medical trauma, medical negligence, chronic pain, seizures, hospitalization, grief, and emotional healing.

Welcome to The Crippled Cryptid: Saturday Health Updates

This is your gentle heads up before we begin.

These posts talk openly about chronic illness, disability, medical trauma, hospital visits, symptoms, and the beautifully unfiltered reality of living in a body that doesn’t always cooperate. Some weeks are quiet reflections. Some weeks are heavier than we’d like them to be. Please check in with yourself before reading, and come back when you’re in the right headspace.

No one will ever judge you for protecting your peace.

The archives will still be here when you’re ready.

Some stories ask us to lean in.

Others ask us to step away for a while.

Both are okay.

If you’re new here…

Hi.

I’m Sky.

Professional cryptid.

Former unwilling amateur cyborg.

Occasional chronic illness and disability advocate.

Author.

Bookworm.

Collector of too many mugs and not nearly enough bookshelf space.

Medically complex enough to make my chart read like a horror anthology. I cope with sarcasm, stubborn hope, whatever snacks survived the week, and an alarming amount of coffee.

Or at least I would…

If my cardiologist would stop calling POTS the “TikTok disease.”

Most days are lived inside a haunted meat suit with a questionable warranty and a decades-long feud with my nervous system.

Some days the haunted meat suit wins.

Some days I do.

Most days we agree to call it a draw.

I spend a lot of time in Bed Jail™, but I’m rarely alone.

That’s where Luna comes in.

My medical alert service dog.

Guardian.

Enforcer.

Professional Service Dingo™.

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

She’s the voice that says,

“Hey. Sit down.”

And when I inevitably pretend I didn’t hear 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.

Truthfully?

When you’re the kind of cryptid who’s exceptionally talented at ignoring your own red flags, you need a spirit guide with teeth.

Then there’s M&M.

My Player Two.

My soft place to land.

The one who somehow always knows when to hand me ginger ale, warm soup, another blanket, or simply sit beside me without trying to fix something that can’t be fixed.

She quietly gives the ninety percent when I only have ten.

Not because she has to.

Because she loves me.

And somehow, she never lets that love feel heavy.

Then there’s the Yard Yeti.

Luna’s favorite ball launcher.

The undisputed king of three-in-the-morning grilled cheese sandwiches.

The quiet voice that says,

“Be safe.”

Every single time we leave the house.

This morning I wandered upstairs, and he eventually caught me sitting at the dining room table with my MacBook and a fresh cup of coffee, looked at me for approximately two seconds and asked,

“What are you doing up here?”

Reader…

He was correct.

Luna agreed.

Apparently recovering from spine surgery does not include writing blog posts at the dining room table.

I remain unconvinced.

They’re currently winning.

He’s also accepted the extremely serious responsibility of helping research names for the gorgeous little harlequin puppy who’s coming home on the last Sunday of this month.

There are already toys waiting.

Little thrifted bowls with stories we’ll never know.

Treats tucked away in the pantry.

A Rocket Pop collar we absolutely did not need…

…which naturally means we bought it.

This space has always been about chronic illness without inspiration porn.

Disability without apologies.

Honesty without pretending everything ties itself into a neat little bow by the end.

Some weeks are victories.

Some weeks are survival.

Most weeks are somewhere in between.

There will almost certainly be dog hair involved.

There will definitely be sarcasm.

And if you’re willing to pull up a chair…

There’s always room for one more at the Lunatic Café.

Today…

We’re talking about post-op healing.

Today’s Health Update Comes From the Back Table

The place where I seem to write about ninety percent of these blog posts.

Only this time it comes with fresh bandages, smoked butterscotch coffee, and considerably more pain than usual.

If you missed Thursday’s update…

I had my foraminotomy.

The surgery to finally remove the remainder of the DRG stimulator that should have been completely removed back in March of 2024.

The stimulator I was told had already been fully removed.

The one I was assured meant I could safely have MRIs.

The one I spent almost two years believing was no longer part of my story.

Only…

None of that was true.

Late in 2025, after another car accident, and later when seizures made getting an MRI more important than ever, I learned there was still abandoned medical hardware in my spine.

It’s hard to explain what that realization feels like.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

There’s something profoundly unsettling about discovering your body has been carrying someone else’s mistake while you were being told everything was fine.

There wasn’t anything I could do until I met with a neurosurgeon.

Until someone looked at the scans.

Listened.

Explained the options.

Believed what they saw.

Believed what I was saying.

Together, we made a plan.

Thursday…

Was that plan becoming reality.

More Than a Surgery

This wasn’t just another procedure.

It wasn’t another scar.

Another anesthesia nap.

Another hospital bracelet.

Another “see you in recovery.”

It was finally closing the door on something that never should have happened in the first place.

For over two years, my body carried someone else’s mistake.

That’s a strange sentence to write.

Even stranger to live.

When I woke up from my original surgery in March of 2024, I believed that chapter was over.

I believed what I had been told.

That everything had been removed.

That I was safe for MRIs.

That I could stop thinking about it.

Life kept moving.

My body kept hurting.

And then, late in 2025, I found out the story I’d been living wasn’t the truth.

There was still hardware in my spine.

Still waiting.

Still limiting the care I needed.

There’s something deeply unsettling about realizing your body has been carrying a secret you never agreed to keep.

A secret someone else accidentally left behind.

Thursday wasn’t simply about removing the last piece of a DRG stimulator.

It was about finally reclaiming a little bit of certainty.

A little bit of trust.

A little bit of ownership over my own spine.

For the first time in over two years…

My spine is finally mine again.

That sentence doesn’t magically erase CRPS.

Or Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.

Or POTS.

Or migraines.

Or seizures.

Or any of the other diagnoses that have decided to decorate my medical chart over the years.

I’m still disabled.

I’ll still wake up tomorrow inside the same haunted meat suit.

But this…

This was one thing that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Now it isn’t.

There’s an incredible amount of peace in that.

Recovery still hurts.

A lot.

But this pain has somewhere to go.

This pain has purpose.

And somehow…

That makes all the difference.

Healing After Medical Trauma

Here’s the part I don’t think people talk about enough.

I wasn’t afraid because I thought my neurosurgeon would do something wrong.

Quite the opposite.

I trusted him.

From the very first appointment, he listened.

He looked at the scans.

He explained everything without talking around me or over me.

After years of fighting to be believed, I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to sit across from a doctor who simply… believed me.

That should be ordinary.

It felt extraordinary.

The fear came from somewhere else.

Medical trauma has a funny way of following you into rooms where nothing bad has happened yet.

It whispers.

“Remember last time?”

“Remember what they promised?”

“Remember waking up believing it was over?”

Those ghosts don’t disappear just because you meet a good doctor.

They ride beside you all the way to the operating room.

Healing after medical trauma means carrying old ghosts into brand new places.

It means learning that trust isn’t something you magically wake up with.

It’s something that’s rebuilt one honest conversation at a time.

One appointment.

One answered question.

One kept promise.

Thursday didn’t erase what happened.

But it reminded me that good doctors exist, too.

And after everything…

I needed that reminder almost as much as I needed the surgery itself.

Somehow, It Hurts More When You’re Happy

Surgery is hard.

That’s true no matter who you are.

But this one hit differently.

Maybe because this was the first surgery I’ve had since finding my dad.

Since discovering brothers I never knew I had.

Since Father’s Day dinners.

Fourth of July cookouts.

Laughter echoing through the backyard.

Long hugs.

“I love you.”

“I can’t wait to see you again.”

Somehow…

It hurts more when you’ve finally started collecting reasons to hurry home.

When life already feels heavy, another hard day almost blends into the landscape.

It’s one more storm in a season full of rain.

But after you’ve spent months building something beautiful…

A family.

New traditions.

Inside jokes.

A future that finally feels exciting…

Walking into an operating room feels different.

Not because you’re weaker.

Because you suddenly have so much more to lose.

Or at least…

That’s what fear tells you.

Reality turned out to be much kinder.

Because when I woke up…

There were people waiting.

Messages waiting.

Love waiting.

For the first surgery in my life…

I woke up knowing my dad would be wondering how it went.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop being grateful for that.

Sometimes healing isn’t about the incision.

Sometimes it’s realizing your waiting room looks completely different than it did a year ago.

To Everyone Who Stayed

Before I keep going…

I need to say thank you.

Not because it’s expected.

Because it’s true.

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while…

You’ve lived through this saga with me.

You’ve watched me celebrate tiny victories.

You’ve watched me grieve setbacks.

You’ve watched me fight to be believed.

Fight insurance.

Fight my own body.

Fight the little voice in my head that wondered if maybe I really was asking for too much.

Some of you have been here since before the DRG stimulator.

Some of you arrived somewhere in the middle.

Some of you just wandered into the Lunatic Café this week.

No matter when you pulled up a chair…

Thank you.

Thank you for believing me when I wasn’t being believed.

Thank you for reminding me that I wasn’t crazy.

Thank you for celebrating victories that probably looked tiny to everyone else but felt enormous to me.

You helped carry this story.

More than you probably realize.

And now…

We get to turn the page together.

Recovery Is a Team Sport

I’ve said it before, but it feels worth saying again.

I have the best support system.

Not because they fix everything.

Nobody can.

But because they’ve never asked me to carry it alone.

I have M&M.

The Yard Yeti.

Luna Bean.

Aunt Lise.

April.

My Dad.

Kim.

Brothers I never thought I’d have.

And somewhere out there…

A tiny harlequin puppy who’s about to become part of this wonderfully strange little family.

We’ve been getting ready for him in quiet ways.

Not because he needs much yet.

Because we’re excited.

A pair of handmade red bowls we rescued from Goodwill.

We don’t know who loved them first.

We don’t know whose kitchen they sat in.

Who filled them.

Who washed them.

Who eventually let them go.

But I like to think the love they held doesn’t disappear.

It just finds another home.

Soon they’ll belong to a little puppy who has absolutely no idea how many people are already counting down the days until he gets here.

There’s a Rocket Pop collar we absolutely didn’t need.

Which naturally means we bought it.

A little bag of peanut butter treats.

A BarkBox pumpkin toy.

A squeaky pineapple that’s almost certainly going to become somebody’s favorite teething victim.

Healing has a funny way of making your body count hours…

While your heart counts tomorrows.

Mine has been busy imagining little puppy paws clicking across the hardwood floors.

Watching Luna try to figure out whether she’s gained a little brother or a tiny employee.

Introducing him to every toy she’s decided is acceptable to share.

Sometimes healing begins the moment you have something to look forward to.

And lately…

I’ve had a lot to look forward to.

Recovery Prescription: Chinese Food

When we finally made it home after surgery, M&M took one look at me and decided that if I was going to spend the day being, in my very professional medical opinion…

Tortured…

Then I was at least going to have the dinner I’d been craving.

So, after getting me settled…

She turned right around and headed back out.

The prescription?

Chinese food.

The Yard Yeti claimed sweet and sour chicken.

M&M and I both ordered wonton soup because if you’ve never had a breathing tube…

Allow me to save you the suspense.

They suck.

Your throat feels like you swallowed sandpaper.

Or gargled broken glass.

Warm soup is practically medicine.

There were teriyaki beef sticks.

Crab Rangoon for everyone because some things are simply non-negotiable.

Beef with snow peas.

House fried rice.

And finally…

After Aunt Lise has been telling us for what feels like forever…

We tried mooshu pork.

Friends.

She was right.

One million out of ten.

Absolutely incredible.

Someone still needs to explain why they only give you six tiny pancakes with enough filling for at least twelve.

That feels illegal.

We’ll definitely be ordering extra pancakes next time.

Looking back…

I probably won’t remember every conversation from Thursday.

I won’t remember every medication.

I won’t remember exactly what time I finally drifted off to sleep.

But I’ll remember sitting around the table with people who love me.

Takeout containers everywhere.

Everyone eating together.

Nobody making me feel guilty for needing help.

Sometimes healing looks like medications.

Sometimes it looks like warm soup.

Sometimes it looks like someone quietly making sure you don’t have to cook.

Sometimes…

It looks like Chinese takeout after spine surgery.

That’s love, too.

I know how lucky I am.

Not because my life is easy.

But because I don’t have to survive it alone.

Luna’s Corner

If you’re wondering how our fearless Head of Bed Jail™ Security has been handling all of this…

She’s taken her promotion very seriously.

The second I got home; she settled herself beside me like she’d been preparing for this assignment her entire life.

If I’m in bed…

She’s there.

If I’m on the couch…

She’s there.

If I somehow manage to sneak to the dining room table…

She’s under it with either a paw or her head resting on my foot, just in case I get any bright ideas.

She knows.

She always knows.

It’s one of those things that still amazes me.

There are moments where she’ll look up at me with those mismatched eyes and I swear she’s counting the number of spoons I’ve got left before I am.

She’s been getting extra treats.

Extra ball time with the Yard Yeti.

Extra forehead kisses.

She’s earned every single one.

I don’t know what I did to deserve a dog like her.

But I’m grateful every single day that she’s mine.

🐾 Service Dingo™ Report

Patient: Mumther

Current Status:

Still attempting unauthorized expeditions.

Patient claims she was “just getting coffee.”

Patient also claimed she was “just writing for a minute.”

Investigation concludes these statements are suspicious.

Coffee privileges remain under close supervision.

Current security measures include:

✔ One paw on foot.

✔ Continuous visual contact.

✔ Strategic placement between patient and stairs.

✔ Emergency kisses as needed.

Humans continue delivering snacks.

Morale remains high.

Recovery is progressing acceptably…

As long as patient remembers that healing is not a race.

Respectfully submitted,

🐾 Luna Bean

Professional Service Dingo™

Guardian.

Enforcer.

Head of the Bed Jail Security Department.

The End… Sort Of.

I’d love to tell you this is the end of the DRG Stimulator Saga.

In a lot of ways…

It is.

The hardware is finally gone.

The surgery is behind me.

No more wondering.

No more asking myself if someone missed something.

No more carrying around a piece of someone else’s mistake.

One chapter has finally…

Finally…

Closed.

But stories like this don’t end the moment the stitches go in.

Recovery takes time.

Trust takes even longer.

There are still follow-up appointments.

Still muscles learning how to relax again.

Still nerves deciding what they’re going to do next.

Still a body that’s trying to figure out what life looks like after carrying around something that was never supposed to stay.

The scar will heal.

The memories…

Probably a little slower.

That’s okay.

Healing doesn’t ask us to forget.

It asks us to keep going anyway.

So maybe this isn’t The End.

Maybe…

It’s simply the first page of a chapter I’ve been waiting a very long time to write.

One where the question isn’t,

“How do I survive this?”

But…

“Now that I did… what do I want to do next?”

And if I’m being honest…

That’s a really exciting question.

One More Thing…

Before I send this little update out into the world…

There’s something I want to say.

To the version of me who woke up after that first surgery in March of 2024 believing everything had been taken care of.

You didn’t know.

You couldn’t have known.

You trusted the people whose job it was to tell you the truth.

That’s not something to be ashamed of.

And to the version of me who spent months wondering why something still didn’t feel right…

Thank you for listening.

For asking questions.

For refusing to believe that your own body was lying to you.

For continuing to advocate for yourself even when you were exhausted.

That persistence is why we’re here today.

Sometimes surviving isn’t loud.

Sometimes it’s filling out one more form.

Making one more phone call.

Scheduling one more appointment.

Asking one more question.

Until finally…

Someone listens.

Looking Ahead

The funny thing about healing is that eventually…

You stop measuring life by appointments.

Instead, you start measuring it by everything waiting in between them.

The tomatoes M&M keeps telling me about in the garden.

Purple peppers I haven’t seen with my own eyes yet.

A puppy who’s going to think he’s lived here forever within about five minutes.

More family dinners.

More Father’s Days.

More Fourth of Julys.

More books.

If You’re Reading This…

Maybe you’re recovering from surgery.

Maybe you’re waiting for answers.

Maybe you’re carrying grief.

Maybe you’re fighting to be believed.

Maybe today was simply harder than you expected it to be.

Wherever this finds you…

I hope you know this.

You don’t have to earn rest.

You don’t have to earn kindness.

You don’t have to earn help.

And you certainly don’t have to earn your place here.

The Lunatic Café has never required reservations.

Just honesty.

Pull up a chair whenever you need one.

We’ll keep the coffee warm.

Last Call at the Lunatic Café

The coffee’s getting cold.

Luna says I’ve been sitting here long enough.

M&M just asked if I need anything before she heads back downstairs.

The Yard Yeti has probably already noticed I’ve exceeded my approved sitting time.

Bed Jail™ is calling.

And for once…

I think I’m actually going to listen.

Thank you for walking through this chapter with me.

Thank you for celebrating the victories.

Thank you for sitting quietly through the setbacks.

Thank you for believing me.

For believing us.

I’ll see you next Saturday.

Hopefully with a little less pain.

Definitely with more dog hair.

And, if all goes according to Luna’s carefully supervised recovery plan…

Maybe even from the back table again.

Until then…

Take your meds if it’s time.

Drink some water.

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

Be gentle with your body.

Be kinder to yourself than the world has been to you.

And remember…

Sometimes the bravest thing you’ll do all day is let someone love you.

💜 Sky

Professional Cryptid

Former Unwilling Amateur Cyborg

Proud Resident of the Lunatic 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.
© 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 want to support the long, unglamorous work of survival and mobility:
💜 https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-skys-journey-to-health-and-mobility

Saturday Health Update | Healing Isn’t a Straight Line