Recovery isn’t always measured in fewer symptoms. Sometimes it’s measured in the return of laughter, the click of puppy paws across the floor, and remembering that joy and pain are perfectly capable roommates.

This post discusses chronic illness, disability, chronic pain, spine surgery recovery, medical trauma, medical dismissal, and post-operative healing.

Some Saturdays are lighter than others.

This isn’t one of those Saturdays.

If today isn’t the right day to read about difficult bodies and complicated recoveries, that’s okay. This little corner of the internet will still be here when you’re ready.

Take care of yourself first.

We’ll save you a seat at the Lunatic Café.

Always.

☕🖤

Welcome to The Crippled Cryptid

If you’re new here…

Hi.

I’m Sky.

Professional cryptid.

Former unwilling amateur cyborg.

Author.

Bookworm.

Service Dog Mama.

Occasional disability advocate.

Medically complex enough to make my chart look like a horror anthology with entirely too many sequels.

I cope with sarcasm.

Stubborn hope.

Whatever snacks survived the week.

And what most people would probably describe as an alarming amount of coffee.

Personally…

I think it’s an appropriate amount of coffee.

My cardiologist might disagree.

He’s also under the impression that POTS is the latest “TikTok disease,” despite years of testing, documentation, specialists, and an Apple Watch that has accumulated enough heart rate data to qualify as its own memoir.

So…

We’re simply going to acknowledge that we’re not always reading from the same chapter.

And look forward to meeting my new one in a couple of months.

Most days are spent wandering around in a haunted meat suit with a questionable warranty and a nervous system that’s been filing complaints since approximately birth.

I spend a lot of those days in Bed Jail™.

Thankfully…

I’m rarely there alone.

First, there’s Luna.

My medical alert service dog.

Guardian.

Enforcer.

Professional Service Dingo™.

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

She’s the tiny blue heeler who politely reminds me to sit down before my body reminds me much less politely.

When I ignore her alerts, she upgrades from,

“Excuse me, Mumther…”

to

“MUMTHER. WE ARE NOT NEGOTIATING TODAY.”

Yes. She shouts, in all caps. Just not in ways the average person can recognize.

Some people have guardian angels.

I have one with fur.

And opinions.

Many, many opinions.

Then there’s M&M.

My Player Two.

My soft place to land.

The one who quietly shows up with ginger ale, soup, medication schedules, heating pads, and enough love to make impossible days feel survivable.

She carries ninety percent when I’ve only got ten.

Sometimes less.

Recovery has never been something I’ve done alone.

Neither has surviving.

And you know what? That’s all thanks to her.

Then…

There’s the Yard Yeti.

My little brother.

Still somehow the tallest creature in the house.

Professional ball thrower.

Official Luna Hype Man.

Occasional furniture mover.

Unofficial emotional support cryptid.

And finally…

Potato.

Born May 28th.

Half Great Dane.

Half Anatolian Shepherd.

One hundred percent oversized feet.

The tiny mystery I’ve been quietly hinting about over the past few weeks.

Turns out…

Those giant paws finally found their way home.

This space has never been about pretending disability is beautiful.

It isn’t.

Some days it’s ugly.

Some days it’s exhausting.

Some days it’s funny enough that all you can do is laugh through it.

Here…

We don’t perform recovery.

We don’t perform gratitude.

We don’t perform inspiration.

We simply show up.

Exactly as we are.

There will probably be dog hair involved.

If you’ve been here before…

Welcome home.

If you’re new…

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

Welcome to the Lunatic Café.

The coffee’s probably cold.

Someone left dog toys in the hallway.

And there’s always room for one more.

One Week Later

It’s strange how quickly time moves after surgery.

Before it happens…

Every appointment feels enormous.

Every countdown lasts forever.

Then suddenly…

You’re a week out.

Wondering why putting on socks feels like an Olympic event.

Last Thursday was surgery.

Now comes the part no one really prepares you for.

Healing.

Not the glamorous movie montage version.

The real version.

The version where bending hurts.

Standing hurts.

Sitting hurts.

Rolling over in bed becomes an engineering project.

Sneezing feels like betrayal.

And sleep becomes less about comfort and more about negotiating temporary ceasefires with gravity.

The surgeon started me on steroids because of inflammation and post-operative pain.

I don’t particularly enjoy steroids on the best of days.

After spine surgery…

Let’s just say we’re tolerating one another.

Begrudgingly.

I’ve also discovered something fascinating.

Apparently, there are people who…

Sit down…

Without planning the entire maneuver first.

People who stand up without mentally counting to three.

People who bend over without instinctively calculating whether whatever hit the floor is worth retrieving.

If that’s you…

Congratulations.

You’re living a life I genuinely cannot imagine.

Meanwhile…

I’ve probably said the word “fuck” somewhere around four hundred times today.

It’s become difficult to tell whether that’s pain management…

Or simply part of my personality now.

The hardest part hasn’t even been the pain.

Pain, unfortunately, is familiar territory.

It’s the waiting.

The strange limbo where everyone reminds you that surgery was successful…

But your body hasn’t caught up to the good news yet.

Healing doesn’t happen because the calendar says it should.

It happens slowly.

Quietly.

One careful movement at a time.

Then Wednesday Happened…

Originally…

My cousin asked if Potato could come over to meet Luna.

I immediately said yes.

Frankly…

I needed the morale boost.

What I wasn’t expecting was for the conversation to slowly evolve into…

“Well… he’s weaned now…”

“Mom isn’t correcting him anymore…”

“He could stay if you wanted…”

Reader.

You already know the answer.

Of course I wanted him.

This is the little potato I’ve been thinking about since he curled up in my lap and decided I was acceptable furniture.

The puppy I’ve been trying very hard not to talk about nonstop.

The puppy I’ve been quietly hinting at.

Then loudly hinting at.

Then practically announcing with a marching band.

Today’s post was going to come alongside a new sidebar widget that told you how many more days until he came home.

And suddenly…

He was home.

Now he’s learning everything.

His name.

His schedule.

His toys.

His people.

His very opinionated older sister.

The backyard.

The strange collection of cryptids he’s apparently been adopted by.

Meanwhile…

We’re learning him.

Learning what makes his tail wag.

Learning his little personality.

Learning which toys are favorites.

Learning that oversized paws somehow manage to occupy an entire room.

The house feels fuller now.

Louder.

Warmer.

More alive.

Joy Doesn’t Cancel Pain

Recovery still hurts.

The air has been smoky because of the devastating wildfires affecting Canada.

My heart goes out to everyone who has lost homes, communities, forests, wildlife, and pieces of their everyday lives.

Even hundreds or thousands of miles away, many of us are still feeling those effects.

Especially disabled people whose lungs and nervous systems already have enough to deal with.

I hope safer days arrive soon.

For all of us.

As for me…

I’m still healing.

It’ll probably be several more weeks before I feel anything close to normal.

Maybe longer.

I’m trying to make peace with that.

But something else happened this week.

Laughter came back.

Tiny puppy paws started clicking across the floor.

Luna found a little brother.

Our family grew.

And somehow…

My heart made room before my spine was ready.

Healing isn’t always measured by incisions closing.

Sometimes it’s measured by hearing laughter echo through the house again.

Sometimes it’s measured in tail wags.

Sometimes it’s measured by remembering that joy can sit beside pain without either one asking the other to leave.

Both belong.

Both are real.

And this week…

So was hope.

🐾 Luna Notes

Status Report from Professional Service Dingo™ Headquarters

🐾 Mumther continues attempting unauthorized activities like bending over.

🐾 I continue reminding her this is illegal.

🐾 Tiny Brother has arrived.

His ears are suspicious.

His feet are enormous.

He appears highly trainable.

I have accepted him under the following conditions:

• No stealing my favorite ball.

• No interrupting medical alerts.

• Unlimited wrestling privileges once Mumther heals.

Current household morale has increased approximately 847%.

Patient still requires supervision.

Mostly because she keeps saying,

“I can do it myself.”

Medical opinion:

No.

Signed,

Luna
Professional Service Dingo™
Head of Quality Control
Chief Medical Judgment Officer

If something here felt familiar…

I’m sorry.

And I’m glad you found us.

Thank you for spending a little piece of your Saturday here in the Lunatic Café.

Take your meds if it’s time.

Drink some water.

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

Rest when your body asks.

You don’t have to earn rest.

You don’t have to earn kindness.

You certainly don’t have to earn your place here.

From one haunted meat suit to another…

I’ll see you next Saturday.

With love,

-Sky

© The Crippled Cryptid

Disability. Honesty. Survival without the performance.

🔗 https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa

Reading, sharing, commenting, and simply existing alongside this little community already means more than you know.

If you’d like to help support my ongoing recovery, future mobility, and this strange little corner of the internet where disabled cryptids gather:

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