Two weeks post-op, one yellowjacket from hell, a neurologist who tested every nerve I had left, and a long-overdue reminder that nobody is entitled to the last 10%.
Content Note: This post discusses chronic illness, disability, spinal surgery recovery, chronic pain and CRPS, seizures, medical trauma and dismissal, depression and anxiety, childhood abuse and neglect, difficult thoughts around survival and mortality, allergic reactions/MCAS, and medication. Please take care of yourself while reading. You are always allowed to skip something heavy and come back another day.
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 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.
Former 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.
Then there’s the Yard Yeti.
Luna Bean’s best friend.
The one who throws her ball the furthest.
My little brother, and still somehow the tallest creature in the house.
The one currently teaching little Blitzy that ear scratches might be one of the greatest inventions in recorded history.
And, of course, baby Blitzø himself.
Our eight-week-old Great Dane × Anatolian Shepherd mix, with just a sprinkling of Kangal on his father’s side.
He’s been a joy to have around for the past week.
Although I’m pretty sure Luna still cannot figure out whether she’s supposed to be his big sister, his mama, his parole officer, or all three.
I can tell that she loves him very much.
Our Pack and the Den have been expanding lately.
By paws.
By humans.
By chaos.
And somehow, despite healing from surgery and everything else happening around me, I’ve realized something I haven’t been able to say in a very long time:
I really like it here.
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, you don’t have to prove anything to exist here.
Welcome to the Lunatic Café.
On today’s health update:
Two weeks post-op, a new neurologist, a yellowjacket from hell, boundaries, and the same old medical bullshit.
So.
Where do we even start?
Because the truth is…
This is going to be one of those weeks where I have a lot to say.
More than I normally have to say.
And that’s saying something.
🩻 Two Weeks Post-Op: Healing Is Apparently Not a Straight Line
For the longest time, I was getting away with saying:
“No doctors. Everything is fine.”
And then here we are.
Two weeks out from a foraminotomy.
And I have to say:
Healing from a foraminotomy is not as easy as it sounds.
Recovery has been weird.
There are days when I don’t want to get out of bed.
There are days when my body feels heavy and everything reminds me that someone was, in fact, recently doing things to my spine.
And then there are days when I wake up and feel almost…
Normal.
Those are dangerous.
Because those are the days when my brain goes:
Look at us!
We are healed!
We can do activities!
And then I do the dishes.
Maybe straighten something up.
Walk around a little too much.
Do one normal-human task too many.
And suddenly I feel like I’ve scaled Everest wearing Docs and carrying a refrigerator.
I stop.
Take inventory.
And whisper:
“Fuck.”
Because I know.
I know I’ve pushed my body too far.
And I know that if I do not voluntarily sit my ass down, someone is going to make me.
Usually someone with mismatched eyes and very strong opinions.
🐕 Luna Note:
Mumther continues to demonstrate poor understanding of the phrase “post-operative recovery.”
Observed behaviors include:
- Standing when sitting was available.
- Doing dishes despite nobody issuing a dishes-related emergency.
- Attempting Things™.
- Saying “I’m fine” in a tone historically associated with Not Being Fine™.
Corrective action has included staring, following, blocking, and aggressive deployment of Concerned Eyebrows.
Further violations will result in mandatory Bed Jail™.
This matter is not open for appeal.
That’s the funny part about being disabled.
It occurs to me all the time.
There are moments when I truly believe I can do everything.
That I can accomplish whatever I put my mind to.
That nothing is going to stop me.
Because mentally?
I am ready.
I have plans.
Ideas.
Things I want to do.
A life I very much want to participate in.
And then the body creeps in behind me and whispers:
“Oh, you think so, do you?”
Like some comic-book villain standing behind a curtain with a comically oversized hammer.
First of all?
That is fucking rude.
Second of all?
Why the fuck does healing have to be so damn hard?
Why can one day feel almost easy…
And the next kick the absolute shit out of you?
Why can yesterday’s tiny victory become today’s price tag?
Because this isn’t the place you come for:
You can do anything!
Push through!
Never give up!
Mind over matter!
No.
Absolutely not.
This is the place where we tell each other the truth.
And the truth is that sometimes we don’t know how we’re doing what we’re doing.
Sometimes we don’t know where the strength is coming from.
Sometimes there is no triumphant soundtrack swelling in the background.
Sometimes survival is not beautiful.
Sometimes survival is lying in bed with your phone face-down, half a sandwich nearby, a dog monitoring your vital signs, and deciding that existing is enough work for one day.
And sometimes?
We just are.
That counts too.
📵 My Phone Is Not a Summoning Circle
Recovery has also been teaching me something else.
Rest is not just about whether I am physically lying down.
Sometimes rest means putting my phone down.
Sometimes it means not answering a message immediately.
Sometimes it means sleeping at bizarre hours because apparently 2:17 in the afternoon is nighttime now.
Sometimes it means I saw your message, registered that it exists somewhere in the universe, and simply do not have the cognitive or emotional bandwidth to answer it yet.
And gently, lovingly, from one chronically exhausted cryptid to the rest of the world:
If someone isn’t answering their phone, let them not answer their phone.
One missed call does not need to become five.
An unanswered message does not need to become another message somewhere else because you noticed a little green dot and assumed that meant available.
Online does not mean available.
Awake does not mean available.
At home does not mean available.
Posting something does not mean available.
And especially when someone is sick, disabled, recovering from surgery, overwhelmed, exhausted, or simply running on fumes…
Silence is not necessarily rejection.
Sometimes silence just means:
I do not have anything left to give right now.
That doesn’t mean I don’t love the people in my life.
It doesn’t mean I’m angry.
It doesn’t mean something terrible happened.
And it doesn’t mean anyone needs to panic because I didn’t answer on someone else’s preferred timeline.
It means I am healing.
Sometimes healing requires being temporarily unreachable without writing an apology letter for it afterward.
And I think we’ve created this strange expectation that because everyone carries a tiny glowing rectangle around in their pocket, everyone must therefore be perpetually accessible.
We aren’t.
People are allowed to be unavailable.
People are allowed to sleep.
People are allowed to put their phones down.
People are allowed to recover privately for a few hours.
People are allowed to answer when they have the capacity to answer.
A boundary is not a punishment.
It is not abandonment.
It is not proof that someone stopped caring.
Sometimes a boundary is simply the fence around whatever little bit of energy a person has left.
And right now?
I need mine.
Because nobody is entitled to my last 10%.
Not doctors.
Not acquaintances.
Not friends.
Not the internet.
Not anyone.
The people who love me do not need me to set myself on fire to prove that I love them back.
Apparently, boundaries were going to become something of a theme this week.
Boundaries around my time.
Boundaries around my energy.
Boundaries around access to me.
And, as Thursday would remind me:
Boundaries around my own damn body.
🖤 What Keeps a Cryptid Earthside
There are days when the question isn’t:
How do I push through this?
It’s:
Why do I keep doing this?
And my answers are rarely grand.
Sometimes, for me, it’s the little brother who needs me.
The one whose father didn’t step up when he should have because he had his own demons to fight.
The one whose mother should have been there.
For both of us.
And because she was off doing whatever else…
She wasn’t.
And when she finally was, cancer was already busy stripping away what was left of the time we could have had.
So, I stepped up instead.
And I never stopped. And I never fucking will.
It’s for the green-haired M&M who I genuinely could not imagine my life without.
Believe me.
We have tried being apart.
Life apparently found that idea ridiculous.
It kept throwing us back together like:
You two belong together. Stop being stupid and stubborn.
Eventually?
We listened.
Because that is my person.
Above all else.
When I have 10% to give, she somehow finds the other 90.
Even if she has to scrape it from the depths of hell with a soup spoon.
Then she shows up with ginger ale, a comfort show, something warm to eat, and the quiet reminder that I do not have to carry everything alone.
It’s for Luna.
The dog the world didn’t want to take a chance on.
The dog someone once thought would make wonderful breeding stock.
Who instead became the most incredible Service Dingo™ I could have asked for.
The mismatched-eyed little guardian who learned my body well enough to notice things I sometimes miss myself.
And now?
It’s for Blitzø.
Who has been in this world for exactly eight weeks.
Eight weeks.
He knows almost nothing about how enormous and complicated the world is.
He knows food.
He knows toys.
He knows Luna.
He knows that cords are apparently delicious forbidden spaghetti.
He knows that the Yard Yeti gives excellent ear scratches.
He knows that when he gets sleepy enough, somebody will eventually become a pillow.
But most importantly?
He knows that we are his people.
He knows he is safe.
He knows he is loved.
🐄 Moo Memo:
HELLO.
I AM BLITZØ.
I HAVE BEEN ALIVE FOR EIGHT WEEKS AND THEREFORE HAVE EXTENSIVE EXPERIENCE.
IMPORTANT HOUSE INFORMATION:
LUNA IS BIG SISTER-MAMA-SHERIFF.
YARD YETI HAS GOOD HANDS FOR EAR.
MUMTHER NEEDS TO LIE DOWN MORE.
CORDS ARE SPICY NOODLES BUT EVERYONE IS VERY UNREASONABLE ABOUT THIS.
I AM BABY.
THANK YOU.
And maybe that is why I keep doing the things I do.
Because they need me.
And because, if I’m being completely truthful…
I need them too.
I would find my way back from the edges of eternity for them.
Every single time, in every single world.
And maybe that’s exactly why I get so angry when medical care makes people feel small.
Because I have fought too damn hard to stay here to sit quietly while someone treats my existence like an inconveniently long medical history.
🧠 Thursday: Six Months of Waiting for This?
I’m two weeks out from a foraminotomy.
And Thursday morning started at 4:30 a.m.
Because apparently recovery needed a side quest.
I got up.
Got the Yard Yeti to the market.
Got home.
Got myself back out the door.
And went to an appointment with a neurologist I had waited almost six months to see.
Six.
Months.
I went there because I need help managing migraines.
Thunderclap headaches.
And because I still need someone willing to investigate why I have been having seizure-like episodes for almost a year.
Instead?
I felt like I spent the appointment trying to convince an old man in a white coat that I deserved to be sitting in his office.
Because apparently:
“You’re too young to be this sick.”
Well.
No fucking shit.
I would also prefer not to have accumulated enough diagnoses by thirty-one to make my medical chart qualify for its own cinematic universe.
And yet.
Here we fucking are.
The appointment started with him asking for my medical history.
Fair enough.
Except every time I tried to give it, I was interrupted.
“Well, you have pain management for that.”
“You’re seeing rheumatology for this.”
Yes.
I know.
I was there.
That’s how medical history works.
You ask.
I tell you.
Except eventually I couldn’t even finish giving him the full picture.
And yes.
I understand.
I am a complex patient.
I have a lot of medical history.
There is a lot happening in this haunted meat suit.
But complexity does not make someone an inconvenience.
A long medical history does not mean you stop listening halfway through it.
Thank you for making me feel like one anyway.
🧠 Mental Health Is Healthcare. It Is Also Not an Eraser.
Eventually, he landed on two words in my chart:
Anxiety.
Depression.
And asked if I was seeing a psychiatrist.
I said no.
I explained why.
And I want to be very clear here, because this distinction matters.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with seeking mental healthcare.
I believe people should have access to therapy, psychiatric care, medication, support, and someone safe to talk to whenever those things are useful to them.
Mental healthcare is healthcare.
Period.
I was deeply depressed as a child and young adult.
I was living in an unhealthy environment with abusive influences around me.
Those circumstances changed.
Those people are no longer part of my life.
And I have spent years working through what happened to me.
I also live with chronic illness and physical disability.
Those things can absolutely affect mental health.
Living in pain can affect mental health.
Losing independence can affect mental health.
Fighting insurance companies, doctors, pharmacies, symptoms, accessibility barriers, and your own nervous system before breakfast can affect mental health.
But here is the distinction that matters:
Mental-health diagnoses do not automatically explain away physical symptoms.
Anxiety in my chart does not erase seizures.
A history of depression does not explain away thunderclap headaches and migraines that have been happening since I was 9-years old.
Having experienced trauma does not mean neurological symptoms stop deserving neurological investigation.
Both things can exist.
Mental health can matter.
Physical symptoms can also be real.
One does not erase the other.
I told him my mental health was well managed.
I told him I was not interested in seeking psychiatric care because I did not feel that was what I needed. Personally.
I told him I was doing okay.
Did I tell him some days are harder than others?
No.
Because I didn’t think that was his business.
He had just met me.
And I already felt judged.
Maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe I walked in with purple hair, a cane, and a Halloween shirt and he made absolutely no assumptions about me whatsoever.
But that is not how the interaction felt.
And after enough years navigating medicine, you learn the difference between someone looking at you…
And someone actually seeing you.
⚡ The Seizures Are Not “Fainting Spells”
He also did not seem interested in hearing why I was leaving my previous neurologist.
I had undergone three days of testing for seizure activity.
Leads glued to my head.
The whole glamorous haunted-electronics experience.
I made posts about it.
Nothing diagnostic was captured.
I was told I did not have epilepsy.
But that does not answer the larger question:
Then what is happening?
I had multiple episodes that were serious enough to result in hospitalization.
Some happened in front of other people.
Some were witnessed by EMTs who then transported me to the hospital.
Yet my previous neurologist wanted me to continue Keppra despite side effects I did not like, while seeming uninterested in investigating the episodes further.
And he referred to them as:
“Fainting spells.”
That language mattered to me.
Because whatever the final diagnosis turns out to be, reducing what I experienced to “fainting spells” felt dismissive.
I am not demanding that a doctor diagnose me with epilepsy when testing does not support epilepsy. Quite the opposite, actually.
I am asking something much simpler:
If it isn’t epilepsy, then help me figure out what it is.
Help me figure out what is happening, and how I can fix it. Or how to manage it.
Until this foraminotomy, when the remaining DRG leads were finally fully removed, I could not safely move forward with the MRI workup we had been waiting on.
That mattered.
I explained it.
And then explained it again.
And again.
I believe somewhere around the fifth explanation, my remaining patience packed a tiny suitcase and left the building.
🦴 “Why Does Your Back Hurt?”
At one point, he started pressing on my back.
Asking if it hurt.
Asking why.
And I had to say, again, rather loudly:
“I had a foraminotomy two weeks ago.”
Two.
Weeks.
Ago.
To.
The.
Day.
Sir.
There are fresh surgical grievances happening back there.
Please stop poking the recently renovated cryptid.
Then there was my cane.
He asked something along the lines of:
“And you’re walking with the cane why? Because of the back surgery?”
No.
Not just because of the back surgery.
Because I have CRPS.
Because I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.
Because my hips and ankles do not always remain committed to the exciting concept of staying where anatomy intended them.
Because my mobility is impaired.
Because falling is dangerous.
Because the cane is a mobility aid.
Because I need it.
That should be enough.
He also tried pushing down on my CRPS-affected leg to test strength and became frustrated when I wasn’t pushing against his hand the way he wanted.
And once again, I had to explain what CRPS means for that limb.
The leg does not work the way he wanted it to.
Much less the way that I want it to. Thanks so fucking much.
That is part of the fucking problem.
A mobility aid is not a confession.
I do not owe anyone a courtroom defense for using one.
And a body that cannot perform an exam maneuver normally is not being uncooperative.
Sometimes the abnormal response is the information.
💊 About the Effexor
The appointment ended with a prescription for Effexor.
And I want to be precise here.
Effexor, or venlafaxine, is an antidepressant, but medications do not always live neatly inside one diagnostic box. It can sometimes be used for other purposes, including migraine prevention and certain types of pain.
So, my frustration is not simply:
“He prescribed an antidepressant; therefore he thinks everything is psychiatric.”
The problem is that I did not leave that appointment feeling like we had made a clear, collaborative treatment decision.
If he intended Effexor as migraine prevention?
Explain that to me.
Tell me why you chose it.
Tell me what symptom we are targeting.
Tell me what the expected benefit is.
Talk to me about the risks, side effects, alternatives, and how it fits alongside the medications I already take.
Because I had just spent part of the appointment explaining that I did not feel I needed additional treatment for depression or anxiety.
Then I walked away with a prescription I did not feel comfortable starting.
So, I am not going to start it blindly.
I will discuss it with the appropriate members of my medical team and make an informed decision from there.
Because this is another boundary.
I am allowed to ask questions about what goes into my body.
I am allowed to understand why something is being prescribed.
I am allowed to say:
“I’m not comfortable with that yet.”
I am allowed to seek another opinion.
I am allowed to expect informed, respectful care.
I am allowed to be complicated.
I am allowed to know my own history.
I am allowed to disagree.
And purple hair, a cane, psychiatric diagnoses buried somewhere in my chart, or thirty-one years on this planet do not make neurological symptoms less worthy of investigation.
🐝 Because Apparently We Needed a Yellowjacket Side Quest
And because this week apparently felt underbooked…
Tuesday brought us:
A yellowjacket.
I got stung.
My MCAS immediately decided this was an excellent opportunity to host a small internal riot.
My arm has been itchy.
The hives are finally calming down.
But Tuesday, they were anything but calm.
And the allergist gifted me with:
Methylprednisolone.
Fantastic.
I hate steroids.
I hate the way they taste.
I hate that they can make appetite behave like someone spun a roulette wheel.
Eat everything.
Eat nothing.
Feel nauseated.
SURPRISE.
And, of course, they can add insomnia.
Because you know what pairs beautifully with healing from spinal surgery?
✨ Not fucking sleeping.✨
Exactly what every neurosurgical recovery needs.
A little chemically enhanced ceiling contemplation at 3 a.m.
🐕 The Department of Morale
The dogs have been doing a lot of heavy lifting this week.
Luna patrols me like an underpaid hospital administrator who has discovered HIPAA does not apply to dingoes.
Blitzø wakes up every morning delighted to discover that the universe still exists.
Which, honestly?
There are worse philosophies.
🐕 Luna Note:
Current treatment plan for Mumther:
- Bed.
- Water.
- Medications.
- Food.
- Stop doing things.
- Puppy exposure as tolerated.
- Ball.
Step seven is primarily for clinical staff morale.
🐄 Moo Memo:
I HAVE REVIEWED THE TREATMENT PLAN.
I RECOMMEND:
- SNACK.
- BITE LUNA.
- GET TOLD NO.
- FORGET.
- BITE LUNA AGAIN.
- NAP ON PERSON.
- GROW.
PROGNOSIS:
VERY BABY.
Honestly?
Between the two of them, I may be receiving the most comprehensive interdisciplinary care available in the Midwest.
🖤 Two Weeks Later
So that’s where we are.
Two weeks after spinal surgery.
Some things are getting better.
Some days still knock me flat.
Recovery is not linear.
Apparently neither is patience.
On July 28, I have my surgical follow-up.
I’m hoping we can talk about how healing is progressing, what comes next, what I should still be avoiding, and whether everything is moving in the direction it should be.
I am also hoping nobody tries to give me more steroids.
Please.
I have suffered enough.
But if this week taught me anything, it is that healing requires more than incisions closing.
It requires boundaries.
Around my body.
Around my energy.
Around my time.
Around my phone.
Around the tiny scraps of capacity, I have left at the end of the day.
I am learning that saying “not right now” is not cruelty.
That not answering is not abandonment.
That questioning a doctor is not disrespect.
That using a mobility aid does not require justification.
That refusing to push through pain is not weakness.
That being a complicated patient does not make me an inconvenient person.
And that nobody is entitled to the last 10% of me simply because they want access to it.
That 10% is sometimes what keeps me fed.
Medicated.
Rested.
Healing.
Alive enough to wake up tomorrow and try again.
And tomorrow?
There will probably be a puppy chewing something he absolutely should not have.
There will be Luna staring into my soul because I stood up without submitting the proper paperwork.
There will be M&M.
There will be the Yard Yeti.
There will be coffee.
There will be dog hair.
There will be Bed Jail™.
There will be this strange, expanding Den full of humans and paws and noise and love.
And despite the surgery.
Despite the doctors.
Despite the seizures we still don’t have answers for.
Despite the yellowjacket who woke up Tuesday and apparently chose violence.
Despite this body being difficult and exhausting and occasionally held together by spite, medication, and orthopedic accessories…
For the first time in the longest time?
I really like it here.
Not because everything is fixed.
It isn’t.
Not because everything is easy.
It absolutely fucking isn’t.
But because this life is mine.
This Den is ours.
These are my people.
These are my creatures.
And healing does not have to mean racing back toward whoever I was before surgery.
Maybe healing can also mean protecting the life I have now.
Ten percent at a time.
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.
Put your phone down if the world has been too loud.
You are allowed to be unavailable for a while.
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 want to support the long, unglamorous work of survival and mobility:
💜 https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-skys-journey-to-health-and-mobility
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