A letter to the little life reminding us that tomorrow still exists.

Content Note: This post discusses chronic illness, surgery recovery, grief after losing a beloved dog, and hope after loss. While those things all have a seat at the table, this is ultimately a story about healing, family, and allowing yourself to look forward to tomorrow again.

Greetings, fellow Cryptids.

This is The Crippled Cryptid.

If you’re new here, hi.

I’m Sky.

Chronic illness author, disability advocate, and prior unwilling cyborg.

This week has been… a lot.

Healing from surgery has a funny way of shrinking your world. Suddenly your greatest expedition is making it to the kitchen. Time stretches strangely when you’re measuring life in medication alarms, ice packs, naps, and whether you’ve managed to sit upright for another five minutes before your back files a formal complaint.

Some weeks are measured in adventures.

Some are measured in doctor’s appointments, migraines, surgeries, recovery, and trying to remember that there are still good things waiting somewhere beyond all of it.

Lately, I’ve found myself counting down to the last Sunday in July.

Because when you’re recovering from a foraminotomy, you start measuring time differently.

Not because bringing home a puppy magically fixes anything.

It won’t erase chronic illness.

It won’t undo grief.

It won’t make difficult days disappear.

But it will bring home a tiny spotted puppy who has absolutely no idea that he’s already being loved by people he’s never met.

Sometimes hope arrives quietly.

Folklore likes to tell us that life-changing encounters announce themselves with thunder, prophecies, or glowing eyes in the woods.

Mine apparently arrived with puppy breath, oversized paws… and a spectacular nap.

Sometimes hope has oversized paws.

Sometimes hope is temporarily known only as The Potato™.

So today, instead of writing about everything that’s hard, I wanted to write about everything I’m looking forward to.

Don’t worry though.

Luna is still my Enforcer.

Still my Service Dingo™.

Still hovering over me with her very best “Mumther, you had better rest.” face every time I try sitting up longer than she approves of.

M&M still appears with the fluffiest pillows known to humankind, enough ginger ale to hydrate a small village, and enough snacks to convince me that recovery might not be completely terrible after all.

Then there’s the Yard Yeti.

My little brother.

Still somehow the tallest cryptid in the house.

Still Luna Bean’s favorite ball launcher.

Still capable of producing a legendary 3:00 a.m. grilled cheese exactly when morale is running low.

Healing is strange.

It asks you to hold grief in one hand…

…while quietly placing hope in the other.

Why “The Potato™”?

Every family seems to end up with a nickname before they end up with a real name.

Some babies become Peanut.

Some become Bean.

Apparently, ours became The Potato™.

The first time I met him at my cousin’s house, he climbed into my hands, sighed the biggest little sigh I’d ever heard from something so tiny…

…and promptly fell asleep.

Looking down at this sleepy little speckled lump, my brain produced exactly one coherent thought.

“Well… you’re a potato.”

Not a wolf.

Not a fierce future adventure dog.

Not a majestic cryptid.

Just the sleepiest little spotted potato I’d ever held.

The nickname stuck before we’d even picked his real name.

Some stories begin with destiny.

Ours began with a nap.

(Insert photo of the Potato™ asleep in my hands here.)

Dear Potato™,

You don’t know me yet.

You don’t even know your own name yet.

Neither do we.

Right now, you’re busy doing important puppy things.

Eating.

Sleeping.

Wrestling your siblings over a toy that probably wasn’t worth fighting over in the first place.

Discovering that your own feet occasionally get in the way.

You have no idea that somewhere in Illinois, an entire little family is waiting for you.

Your big sister Luna doesn’t know your name yet, but she’s already collecting tennis balls for someone to chase with her.

Your mamas have debated names, collars, colors, toys, and what your life might look like.

We’ve laughed over the fact that your first nickname appeared long before your real one did.

Your Uncle Yard Yeti is working on his own list of names too, even if he’s still pretending he isn’t completely sold on the whole puppy idea.

Truthfully…

I think he’s just still missing your big brother Bear.

You never got to meet him.

He left us last October, and not because he wanted to.

Dogs just don’t get nearly enough time with us.

Even when they deserve forever.

But there are pieces of him everywhere.

A blue plaid triceratops that’s still waiting for another puppy to love it.

Favorite walking routes.

Stories we still tell.

Habits we haven’t quite broken.

Dogs leave pawprints in funny places.

Some end up on the floor.

The important ones end up in the people who loved them.

For now, you’ll always be The Potato™.

You’ll always be Luna’s First Cow™.

Maybe someday you’ll outgrow the nickname.

…

Maybe not.

I have a few hopes for you.

Things I know will never change.

I hope you always feel safe here.

I hope you never wonder if you’re loved.

I hope our house smells like muddy paws after a rainy day because you decided every puddle deserved further scientific investigation.

I hope you discover that blankets are magical.

I hope you learn that the kitchen is where the cheese lives.

I hope Luna Bean teaches you how to play politely, how to share a ball, and how to bark exactly once at suspicious squirrels before deciding they’re probably not worth the paperwork.

I hope she teaches you confidence.

I hope you teach her something too.

I hope you grow into exactly who you’re supposed to be.

Not Bear.

Not a replacement.

Not someone carrying impossible expectations.

Just you.

Even if my cousin said you’re showing incredible potential for service work.

That will be your choice, and yours alone someday.

Because Bear already wrote his story.

And Luna wrote hers too.

Someone once decided they didn’t want her.

Then changed their mind when they saw the incredible dog she was becoming.

By then, it was too late.

She had already found us.

She came into our lives for free through Facebook.

Today she’s my Service Dingo™.

My medical alert dog.

My shadow.

My guardian.

My best friend.

Now…

You get to write your own story.

Maybe you’ll love hiking.

Maybe you’ll hate getting your feet wet.

Maybe you’ll become convinced that every cardboard box is secretly haunted.

Maybe you’ll inherit Luna Bean’s professional opinion that every bumblebee deserves a full security escort across the backyard.

Maybe you’ll decide sticks are better than toys.

Maybe you’ll believe every blanket secretly belongs to you.

Whatever makes you… you…

I hope we celebrate every bit of it.

I hope your world is full of adventures.

Jeep rides with the windows cracked just enough for the wind to carry every fascinating smell.

Trips to new parks.

Ice cream after difficult days.

Camping beneath impossible numbers of stars.

Quiet mornings on the porch.

Snowstorms that make the whole backyard feel brand new.

I hope you discover that people can be kind.

That veterinarians usually have cookies hidden somewhere.

That grandparents are excellent at sneaking treats when they think nobody’s looking.

And that your Grandpaw throws a tennis ball better than just about anybody.

Luna already knows that one.

I hope you learn that home isn’t a place.

It’s your people.

I hope you never know hunger.

Or fear.

Or loneliness.

Mostly…

I hope you know what Bear knew.

That you were wanted long before you arrived.

I fell in love with you the day I met you.

You probably don’t remember me.

That’s okay.

You were busy being six weeks old.

Busy discovering the world one clumsy pawstep at a time.

I was simply the strange human who couldn’t stop smiling every time you wandered back over.

Then you climbed into my hands…

…curled into the smallest little ball…

…and fell asleep.

Somewhere between holding you and watching you dream, I realized I’d already started making room for you.

Not instead of Bear.

Not because I’d stopped loving him.

But because love has never worked like that.

It doesn’t divide itself.

It grows.

There will be days when life feels heavy here.

Chronic illness doesn’t exactly RSVP before it shows up.

Some mornings your mama won’t be able to get out of bed very quickly.

Some afternoons plans will change because bodies are complicated.

You’ll learn that sometimes the bravest adventure is simply staying home together.

That’s okay.

Because love doesn’t measure itself in miles traveled.

Sometimes it looks like sitting quietly beside someone who needs company.

Sometimes it’s bringing a toy they didn’t ask for.

Sometimes it’s resting your head against a knee and reminding someone they aren’t facing today alone.

If you grow into that kind of dog…

You’ll already be extraordinary.

So, hurry up.

But don’t.

Stay little just a little longer.

Play with your siblings.

Take naps in impossible positions.

Be wonderfully, gloriously unaware that your future family already talks about you every day.

We’ll be here when you’re ready.

Waiting with open arms.

An excited Service Dingo™.

A Yard Yeti who absolutely will fall in love with you.

A Jeep that’s ready for adventures.

A house that’s slowly becoming home again.

And enough love to last your whole lifetime.

We can’t wait to meet you.

Love,

Your family

Until Next Tuesday…

Thank you for spending another Tuesday with me in our little corner of the internet.

Life has a funny way of asking us to hold grief and hope at the same time.

Some days, that feels impossible.

Other days, it looks like buying another dog bowl.

Laughing over a nickname before you’ve even picked a real one.

Imagining the sound of tiny paws racing across hardwood floors that have been just a little too quiet.

Maybe that’s healing.

Not forgetting.

Not replacing.

Just making room for another story.

Maybe healing isn’t a finish line.

Maybe it’s planting tomatoes you’ll have to protect from curious noses.

Maybe it’s buying one more tennis ball because you know Luna is going to insist on sharing.

Maybe it’s allowing yourself to become excited about tomorrow again.

And after everything this past year has held…

I think that’s something worth celebrating.

Until next time, my fellow Cryptids…

Stay spooky.

Stay kind.

Hug your people a little tighter.

Throw the ball one more time.

And if you’re waiting for something wonderful…

I hope it finds its way to your door soon.

Love always,

Sky 🖤

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.

© The Crippled Cryptid

Disability. Honesty. A little chaos.

(Maybe a little dog fur.)

🔗 https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa

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