Christmas arrives early with the best present deliverable. The results are in and gift-wrapped in the form of a letter reporting that the lumbar findings are ‘pretty normal’. The default worry button in my head hovers over the ‘pretty’, but just fleetingly, and the grey cloud of MS shrugs itself off my shoulder and moves on.
It’s Christmas and my birthday rolled into one (which is apt as Christmas and my birthday are rolled into one on a yearly basis – the joy of being a December baby). I’d a few mojitos lined up even before the news came in and the next couple of weeks are suddenly looking a bit blurry. I’m not sure entirely what the overall picture is – does not having MS now exclude the risk of it developing in the future? – but questions are parked up until neurology appointments scheduled for that suddenly-brighter time called ‘the future’.
I wake up to a crisp carpet of gleaming snow and the coldest day in seven years and we go for our morning stroll. It’s supposed to be brief cos I have a 101 things to do before meeting a friend for the first of those mojitos, but the stroll turns into a two-hour stomp on the Foel because we’re alive and because at least 97 of those things can also park up until ‘the future’. At the trig I take photos – of course, because this is my sunrise-sunset-spring-summer-autumn thinking spot and the only season I haven’t yet stood here in is ankle-deep snow. Lionel, in his warmest Santa-red coat, is lolloping undaintily through glistening white as only a greyhound without the confines of a racetrack and a starting gun can, and I think I know how he feels.