April 25th. 

Used to be a date on the calendar. A gift like every day is, but, well, ordinary. Unremarkable. 

It wore the same color as its twenty-nine colleagues. 

Until that one time. 

That one time it appeared in the upper right in the Hopkins app.

McElderry Street garage.

5th floor.

Name. 

Social.

Birthdate.

“You can have a seat, and your name will be called.”

April 25, 2016. 

Pictures of a brain. 

And spine.

Selfies?

And lots of white spots. 

And questions. 

And a kind neurologist who answered them all.

And told me. 

“You have M.S.”

So began a journey. 

I’ve written about it before. Annual keyboard therapy. 

Most days are good. Or at least ordinary. Unremarkable.

Sounds familiar. And good.

But on the days that aren’t, I’ve got family. And friends. Loved ones. All of them.

And God. Loved One. I share my preference. He shares his plan. The present. 

Enough wrapped in trust. 

Daily bread is a miracle.

So, thank you. Drs. Levy, Mowry, Hessen, Bynum, and Panitz. 

Nichole. Jessica. 

Nayru at the pharmacy. 

And those manning the tube and playing Sinatra in my ears at Imaging.

I know I’m one of many in your routine. But from the long line, a thumbs up.

The arc of your life touches mine. Your ability brings calm. I’m grateful. 

And thank you, you. 

For your thoughts and prayers. That duet gets maligned sometimes. But I appreciate and need both. 

Shared anything helps.

In just a few hours, today’ll hand off the reins. That persistent name change made in the dark. 

But before tomorrow’s pronounced “today”, maybe a reminder. 

When the normal suddenly isn’t, those you have around you rise. 

Small or many, that circle matters. 

Nine years in, I’m glad you’re in it.