Valentine’s Day (aka Smugged Up Day) is drawing ever closer.
Confronted by oceans of red roses, snuggly-wuggly teddy bears and soppy cards, I am sending a different sort of Valentine’s card this year.
Gone are the painfully awkward days when I had nothing – nothing – to display on my desk at school/work. The shame. Despite firing off 3 for £1 cards to all and sundry, in particular the guy who wore Grolsch bottle tops on his shoes at the height of Bros-fame (younger readers, you may have to google this).
Nope, this year, especially after today, my heart most definitely lies with the NHS. I am in love.
To cut a long love story short, I had an appointment with an endocrinologist this afternoon. I was, of course, the 1 in 3 who got thyroid problems after Alemtuzumab. To my delight, my weight dropped two stone in six weeks, nothing short of miraculous. I sent The Teenager up into the attic to ferret out boxes of clothes I had consigned to the Skinny Era. However, my ever-vigilant GP spotted the trend in my blood results and put an end to my fun.
Anyway, I had the most wonderful consultant today, and, buoyed up by his kindness, I waxed lyrical about the NHS. We’re so lucky in this country and it’s something I try not to forget. I have a great neurologist, a fab team of MS nurses and the knowledge that any problem I have will be swiftly addressed.
In short, I am counting my blessings. Despite the horror of this week, when I lost my beloved cat and companion, I know that I am in good hands.
So, this year, despite being a Sad Singleton the Wrong Right Side of Forty (with a Teenager and Compost Heap), I will be celebrating. I may even treat myself to a romantic dinner for one. But in the back of my mind, I will always remember just how fortunate I am.