The Week That Just Kept Coming

Content Note: Chronic illness, disability, medical trauma, grief, death of public figures, medical appointments, fever, vomiting, migraine, food insecurity, ableism, and the emotional reality of being physically unable to do what you planned.

🩹 Welcome to The Crippled Cryptid: Saturday Health Updates

Before we begin, a gentle heads-up.

These posts talk openly about chronic illness, disability, medical trauma, medical appointments, symptoms, recovery, medications, hospital visits, and the unfiltered reality of living in a body that doesn’t always cooperate.

Some weeks are heavy.

This one particularly has knocked me down a few too many times.

Some weeks are surprisingly gentle.

Some weeks involve a medical plot twist nobody ordered.

And some weeks… thankfully… nothing much happens at all.

That’s allowed here too.

You never have to read a health update just because it exists.

If you’re not in the right headspace today, skip it.

Come back later.

Or don’t.

No one will ever judge you for protecting your own peace.

If you’re new here…

Hi.

I’m Sky.

Professional Cryptid.

Writer.

Occasional chronic illness and disability advocate.

Former unwilling amateur cyborg.

Medically complex enough to make my chart look like a horror anthology.

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

I cope with sarcasm.

Stubborn hope.

Coffee.

Usually.

Not today.

Snacks.

And the occasional decision to narrate my medical life like it’s a particularly terrible field report.

This is the part of the week where we stop pretending the health stuff isn’t part of the story.

Because it is.

The Crippled Cryptid started during COVID, when the world got very small and staying home was the only option.

It grew into a place where I could talk about chronic illness and disability honestly.

And even though The Crippled Cryptid has grown into writing, folklore, adventures, dogs, community, and all the strange little things that make up a life…

I don’t want to forget where we came from.

So, we tell the truth here.

The good.

The bad.

The boring.

The painful.

The victories that look enormous from inside this body and completely ordinary from the outside.

And the weeks where the biggest health update is:

“Well… nothing caught fire.”

That counts too.

🐾 The Cryptid Support Department

Luna is usually nearby.

She is my Medical Alert Service Dog.

My guardian.

My enforcer.

My tiny chaos gremlin with a medical degree she absolutely awarded herself.

She notices the things I miss.

She tells me when my body is doing something suspicious.

She alerts.

She grounds.

She applies Deep Pressure Therapy.

She retrieves things when my hands stop cooperating.

And when I insist I’m fine when I am very obviously not fine…

she escalates.

Sometimes that means the word Mumther gets called in.

Because apparently Mama is not always qualified to supervise Mama.

Fair.

Then there’s M&M.

My Player Two.

My soft place to land.

The person who asks how I’m doing and actually wants the answer.

The person who knows when I need food, water, medication, rest, company, or absolutely nothing except someone sitting nearby.

She reminds me that survival is a team sport.

And then… there’s Binka.

Blitzø.

Binky.

Mr. Moo.

The giant spotted baby whose paws arrived approximately seven to ten business days before the rest of him.

He isn’t a service dog.

Today, he’s just a thirteen-week-old baby.

He’s not responsible for managing my health.

We don’t know what his future holds.

And I’m not going to turn him into something he’s not.

But Aunt Dee put it perfectly:

Luna is for helping.

Blitz is for healing.

Because somehow, this ridiculous puppy has healed something in me that I don’t have the words for yet.

He gets me up.

He gets me moving.

He gets me laughing.

He gets me smiling.

He gets me outside.

He gets me participating in life when my body would much rather stay horizontal.

He’s a little bit of joy with four enormous paws.

He’s basically physical therapy…

except the physical therapist has floppy ears, questionable judgment, and thinks everything should go in his mouth.

And that counts.

It counts as healing.

Maybe not the medical kind.

But the kind that reminds you there is still something worth getting up for.

So yes…

Luna helps me navigate my body.

Binka helps remind me that I still get to live in it.

Both matter.

This space is for chronic illness without inspiration porn.

Disability without apologies.

Medical reality without pretending it’s always neat.

Rest without guilt.

Progress without perfection.

And a life that is allowed to contain joy alongside pain.

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.

🩹 On Today’s Health Update: The Week That Just Kept Coming

This is one of those weeks that started badly… and then apparently decided it wasn’t done.

First, we found out that Dolly died.

The thing is that I know exactly where I was.

I came downstairs, opened my laptop, opened Facebook… and just stared for a minute.

TMZ.

Then I went back upstairs.

M&M was coming down the stairs. She said she was coming down to grab something, and I think the words simply left my mouth.

“Dolly died.”

Unceremoniously.

I didn’t scream the way I did when Ozzy died.

I didn’t collapse.

It was just… quiet.

Softly.

Dolly died.

Because even though I didn’t talk about her often, Dolly Parton was one of those singers who held a certain place in my heart.

She didn’t come across my Spotify playlist every day.

But she held this little piece of me.

The piece that belonged to my childhood.

The piece I could look back on and immediately remember riding in my grandfather’s white van with the red lettering across the back.

The tool van.

The one that didn’t have back seats.

You could sit on the old milk crate if you wanted and pray nobody took a turn too fast, because otherwise the tools might decide to become airborne and clobber you.

And my grandfather’s rich, deep voice would sing “Coat of Many Colors” when it came on the cassette tape or radio.

And I know.

Some of my younger readers are looking at me right now like:

“Skyla, what the hell is a cassette tape?”

Congratulations.

I have successfully dated myself.

But that memory lives in Dolly’s music.

And then, just as easily, the next morning when I got home…

I found out Tim Curry had died.

The same day as Dolly.

The same age.

And suddenly two pillars of my childhood were gone.

My Pennywise.

Dr. Frank-N-Furter.

Darkness.

Rooster Hannigan.

Mr. Hector.

Long John Silver… because not just anyone gets to be an honorary Muppet.

Gomez Addams.

Nigel Thornberry.

Forte in Beauty and the Beast.

He was part of Rugrats.

The Goblin King in Scooby-Doo and the Goblin King.

If you look back through my childhood…

Gods.

He is there.

He is everywhere.

And then, like another knife to the heart, Peter Cullen, the voice of Optimus Prime and Eeyore, passed away at 85.

Then Hayden Panettiere.

My childhood walked out the door in a matter of days.

And it has taken a toll on my heart and soul.

Some people might not understand why it hit me so hard.

They might say:

“Skyla, you never knew these people. Not personally.”

No.

I didn’t.

But they grew up with me.

They built me.

They have a hand in the person I became… and the person I am becoming.

Tim Curry once said:

“Don’t dream it. Be it.”

And I am thinking about that every single day.

No one is going to make me see it less.

Hear it less.

Or think of it less.

Because of him, because of his work, I am fighting toward the things I want to do and the person I want to become.

And I think the hit that all of this has taken on me has something to do with the flare-up I’m in now.

🌧️ Friday Was Supposed to Be Ordinary

Friday was ordinary.

And that’s the funny thing.

I woke up at 9 a.m. to what felt like the entire house shaking.

The house that is almost 75 years old, mind you…

For one glorious moment, I thought someone had hit the house with a car.

Nope.

Just the road crew.

Finally.

They had been grinding down the road for what felt like a month, leaving us with that nails-on-a-chalkboard feeling every time they came through.

Fresh oil.

Grinding.

Noise.

And apparently Friday was finally paving day.

They were so loud they shook the house, shook me awake, woke up everyone… and woke up the puppy.

Binka was crying.

Luna was on edge.

And because I knew I was supposed to take BJ to market today (Saturday), I had planned to go to the food bank Friday instead.

We hadn’t been in a while.

And if you haven’t been to a grocery store in the United States lately…

Taxes.

Food prices.

Everything else.

It’s fucking wild.

Even if you shop like me.

Even if you hunt the deals.

Coupon every step of the way.

Have every single savings app known to man in your phone.

Buy in bulk at Costco and Sam’s Club.

Food is expensive.

So, we got the dogs up.

Took them potty.

Started their daily routine per usual.

M&M got to go back to sleep for a little while because she’d had a bad night the night before.

(And she takes care of me, so if I can take care of her in return… I do.)

I did a little writing because Night Blooming Flowers comes out in a few days.

Then I went downstairs to wake her up so we could go.

The road crew was sweet.

They let us out.

And that’s when things went… sideways.

🥫 The Food Bank

The food bank used to be one of the best.

They used to care about their disabled and elderly patrons.

Disabled and elderly people used to be allowed to “shop” first for our items.

We used to be let inside first because they understood something very simple: our bodies cannot always do what everyone else’s bodies can do.

I cannot stand or walk for more than five to ten minutes without needing a break.

If I push past that, I can get dizzy.

I can fall.

I can pass out.

I can have seizures.

I’ll have flare-ups the same day, or the day after.

Sometimes these flare-ups will take me out for days or weeks.

That’s not laziness.

That’s not impatience.

That’s disability.

But the rules changed.

Now everyone is equal… for the most part.

Or so they tell you.

And we won’t get into all of that here because I could make an entire separate post about it.

Maybe I will.

Outside, we waited.

They’re supposed to let people inside an hour before they start giving out food, when they start giving out the numbers.

They didn’t.

At 1:30 p.m., we were still outside.

It was over 80 degrees.

It was hot.

There were bees.

And if you didn’t know, I’m allergic to bees.

And people were staring at me.

Apparently, there’s something “funny” about a 31-year-old with purple hair and a cane covered in stickers.

I don’t know.

But we stayed.

I sat on the curb.

M&M stood in front of me.

We talked.

A Tesla pulled up in front of us.

The driver moved the cones the food bank had placed by the door, got out, and went to the line.

M&M and I looked at each other.

We’re pretty sure those cones were there for a reason.

Part of me wanted to comment about how if you’re driving a car that costs more than my house, you probably don’t need to be at a food bank.

I held my tongue.

Eventually, they let everyone inside.

We were number 16.

Then they started calling numbers.

On Fridays, there are essentially two groups.

The people who have to wait outside for their numbers…

and the people from the church who are allowed to go ahead of everyone else.

They shopped.

Some of them left their carts in the parking lot.

The rules didn’t always seem to apply equally. Because you’re supposed to bring the carts back for others to use.

We minded our own business.

The coordinator asked why we were there on a Friday.

She knows us.

She knows we’re normally there Saturdays.

Saturdays usually work better for us.

No doctor appointments.

Less traffic.

But BJ’s new schedule means that isn’t going to work for a little while.

So, I explained.

There was a couple sitting in front of us.

At least, we think they were a couple.

They were mocking us.

Loudly.

Cackling.

Making comments about flies landing on us and apparently deciding that meant we must be dirty.

For the record:

My hair was down, loose, long, fluffy, and freshly washed.

M&M’s was too.

We were sitting beside a door.

And apparently my body spray had become a five-star fly restaurant.

Whatever.

The coordinator kept calling numbers.

The number she was calling still wasn’t coming.

So, I looked at her and said:

“Do you need me to call it for you? I’m louder than anybody else in here.”

And I gave the people mocking us a look.

Suddenly… silence.

Apparently, the moment people realize the disabled person in front of them isn’t going to quietly absorb their bullshit, they suddenly remember how to behave.

Bullies apparently prefer easy targets.

Once you show them you’re not going to sit there quietly and take it, the performance tends to end rather quickly. As if you’re not all there for the same reason.

Our number was called.

We shopped.

And then we went to the thrift store.

🛍️ The Tiny Victories

And honestly?

We found some really good stuff.

A wash bag for toiletries with hair clips and a reusable makeup remover still in the package.

A couple of shirts for the Yard Yeti that genuinely made his day.

Two Rae Dunn cups.

One yellow that says Beautiful Day.

For M&M, who likes to drink her coffee and tea out of cutesy motivational cups.

One black that says Candy Coma with orange inside.

I’m just going to let you guess who that one is for.

I found M&M a Cardcaptor Sakura figurine. Vintage, from when it first came out.

It was sitting by the plates, and when I picked it up and handed it to her, she lit up like Christmas.

It was her first anime.

And I found a beautiful leather vest.

We don’t know exactly how old the vest itself is, but the tag says genuine London leather.

On the back is a hand-painted naked blue devil woman, signed 1992.

It vaguely reminds me of Abbadon from Supernatural.

It fits the Yard Yeti perfectly.

He’s unsure if he’s confident enough to wear it outside of the house… but it was fun to laugh about how he now has the best tits in the house. We all laughed. We all think that it is beautiful, and that it was an amazing find.

And the artwork on it is truly one of a kind and beautiful.

Do we know if he’ll actually wear it outside the house?

Absolutely not.

But it was too pretty to leave behind.

We also found a reindeer costume for Binka for Christmas.

Luna already has her Christmas sweater.

Now he just needs a stocking.

Because apparently, we are those people now.

But in all honesty… we always have been.

I mean… let’s face it.

Even though Bear wasn’t here last year, his stocking went up.

We are 100% those people.

🌡️ And Then My Body Pulled the Fire Alarm

We hit the grocery store for bread and other necessities.

And this is where things started going downhill.

My flannel came off the second we left the food bank because it’s in a mosque and they don’t let you wear tank tops there.

Apparently showing your shoulders is taboo.

We’re in middle school again. Shoulders are the devil, I guess.

I was walking around in jeans and a tank top.

I started feeling too warm.

I assumed I was hungry.

I hadn’t eaten much.

Only some water with LMNT in it and some dry cereal at home.

So, we grabbed a cheap candy bar each at checkout.

We had grabbed subs for dinner.

An Italian for BJ, and an Italian for M&M and me to share, along with two cups of soup.

And while we were on the phone with Aunt Lise, showing her the cabbage that was somehow bigger than M&M’s head and almost the size of Binka…

I started feeling worse.

My stomach felt wrong.

Crampy.

Nauseated.

Fuck.

Part of me thought it might just be that time of the month.

TMI, I know.

I’m sorry.

But that’s as detailed as I’ll get with that.

I went downstairs.

I left M&M on the phone.

By 7:15, I’d been in the bathroom for almost an hour.

Vomiting.

Migraine.

More vomiting.

I’ll spare you the rest.

Let’s just say the fever eventually hit:

103.2°F.

By 9:15, it was down to 100.3°F with the help of two Advil Dual Action that M&M basically forced into me, my night meds, and a few ginger ales.

Along with time.

And eventually… my half of a sandwich.

Because, to tell you the truth, throwing up something hurts less than throwing up nothing.

And now I’m sitting at my desk at 11 p.m. on Friday night, waiting for my Apple Watch to charge for fifteen minutes.

Because I don’t know if I’m going to be awake in time to write this in the morning.

Because apparently, I need an electronic wrist babysitter before I go to bed.

And yes.

Come 8:30, when I had the chills and a 103-degree fever, it became pretty obvious that I wasn’t taking BJ to market in the morning.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t something I was going to pretend was business as usual.

So, he’s taking an Uber to the train station and taking the train to Park Ridge like an adult.

Because the Cryptid is benched.

🛏️ When Being Sick Feels Like Failing

Do I feel awful?

100%.

In more ways than one.

Because when my chronic illness benches me…

I feel like I’ve failed my family.

I feel like I’ve failed my little brother.

I feel like I’ve failed my dogs.

I feel like I’ve failed my girlfriend.

M&M had to do the entire night routine with the pups.

She had to pick up the things I couldn’t.

She had to keep things moving while I was curled up downstairs trying to get my body to stop rebelling.

And that guilt?

That’s one of the ugliest parts of chronic illness.

Because intellectually, I know I didn’t choose this.

I know I didn’t wake up and decide:

“You know what would be fun? A 103-degree fever and vomiting.”

I know my body isn’t betraying anyone on purpose.

But knowing that doesn’t always make the guilt disappear.

And then… there was Luna.

Did it stop Luna from curling herself into my spine while the chills wouldn’t stop and I was sobbing?

Hell no.

She ran constant alerts.

My heart rate was sitting around 125 according to my Apple Watch.

And she was the goodest girl.

She stayed.

She alerted.

She grounded me.

She did exactly what she was trained to do.

And Binka?

Binka wouldn’t stop crying for me.

Does that make him a service dog?

No.

Does it mean this baby has some wild little talents hiding in that enormous spotted body?

100%.

Because Luna’s alerts are silent.

He was in his crate.

He couldn’t see what she was doing.

But he was crying for me anyway.

And I find that interesting.

But he doesn’t need a job.

His only job right now is potty training, learning tricks, and being baby.

He gets to be a baby.

He gets to be ridiculous.

He gets to be a puppy.

He gets to be one of the reasons I smile.

And tonight, that’s enough.

🌙 Benched by the Body

Am I going to bed the second I get that “Apple Watch 100%”notification?

Bitch.

You know it.

This Cryptid is bed-bound.

I may not get up on time tomorrow.

I may have to cancel things.

I may need help.

And for now… that has to be okay.

Because resting isn’t quitting.

Cancelling isn’t failing.

Needing help isn’t weakness.

Being unable to do something because my body has reached its limit doesn’t erase everything I have already done.

Sometimes the body wins.

Sometimes the body puts up the little red CLOSED sign and refuses to negotiate.

And sometimes the only thing you can do is listen.

So tonight…

I’m listening.

🌙 Before You Leave the Lunatic Café…

If something in today’s update hit close to home… you’re not alone.

If you stayed anyway… thank you.

You don’t have to earn your place here.

You don’t have to prove your pain.

You don’t have to be inspirational about it.

You don’t have to turn a difficult experience into a lesson before you’re allowed to talk about it.

Sometimes a health update is:

I hurt.

Sometimes it’s:

I survived.

Sometimes it’s:

I got better.

Sometimes it’s:

I got worse.

And sometimes…

it’s:

Nothing happened this week, and thank God.

All of those are valid updates.

Some weeks are enormous.

Some weeks are quiet.

Some weeks are full of appointments, medications, symptoms, tests, recovery, and enough medical nonsense to qualify as a limited series.

Other weeks are just maintenance.

Rest.

Hydration.

Keeping up with what needs doing.

Listening to the body.

Getting through the week without adding another emergency to the calendar.

Quiet isn’t failure.

Quiet is allowed.

Before you wander back into the woods, here’s your gentle reminder from the Den:

Take your meds if it’s time.

Drink some water.

Eat something if you can.

Rest if you need to.

Stretch if your body likes that.

Don’t stretch if it doesn’t.

Ask for help if you need it.

Accept help if someone offers it.

And if all you managed today was surviving… that still counts.

🐾 Luna’s Health Reminder

Your body is allowed to have limits.

Listen when it talks.

And drink the water.

I mean it.

🐄 Binka’s Health Reminder

DO ONE HAPPY THING.

Not because you earned it.

Not because you were productive.

Because happy things are good.

Maybe eat a snack.

Maybe watch something cozy.

Maybe go outside.

Maybe pet a dog.

Maybe be the person who gets to lie under six blankets and call it an excellent afternoon.

MOO MEMO:

YOU DESERVE HAPPY.

MAMA SAYS SO.

I SAY SO TOO.

🐄

💜 And From Me…

I’m still learning that healing isn’t always obvious.

Sometimes it looks like a better lab result.

Sometimes it looks like getting through an appointment.

Sometimes it looks like finally asking for help.

Sometimes it looks like getting out of bed.

Sometimes it looks like laughing so hard with your puppy that your body hurts for an entirely different reason.

Sometimes it’s Luna doing her job.

Sometimes it’s Binka making me get up because apparently the baby requires outside immediately.

Sometimes it’s M&M quietly asking:

“Do you need anything?”

And sometimes… healing is simply realizing that you’re still here.

Still making things.

Still loving people.

Still being loved.

Still finding reasons to laugh.

Still building a life around the body you have instead of waiting for the body you wish you had.

I’m not always good at remembering that.

But I’m learning.

And that’s enough for today.

Thank you for sitting with me through the uncomfortable stuff.

Thank you for letting the quiet weeks be quiet.

Thank you for celebrating the good ones.

And thank you for remembering that this is a whole life… not just a medical chart.

Love you.

Now say it back.

— Sky

© The Crippled Cryptid

Disability. Chronic illness. Honesty. Survival without the performance.

🐾 Luna: Helping.

🐄 Blitzø: Healing.

💜 Sky: Still here.

🔗 https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa

No pressure to donate.

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

For friends and family who have asked about ways to help with health-related needs, I also keep a Health Wishlist available.

There is never, ever an expectation attached to it.

No guilt.

No obligation.

No pressure.

Sometimes people simply want a tangible way to say:

“I’m thinking about you.”

If that’s you, the wishlist is there.

And if it’s not…

your presence still counts.

Your messages count.

Reading counts.

Sharing counts.

Existing alongside me counts.

If you want to support the long, unglamorous work of survival, mobility, recovery, and building a life anyway:

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

Take care of yourself.

I’ll see you next week.

Hopefully with nothing dramatic to report.

Honestly…

boring health updates are excellent health updates.

🐾🐄💜