Two and a half years that never happened

It’s been two years, seven months, and four days since I last wrote a post on this blog. It feels at once much much longer than that, and much much shorter. All that time I just couldn’t write, couldn’t string a sentence together, couldn’t think of anything to say. I’d written about having Lemtrada, about coming to terms with MS, about how I tried to live with chronic illness – all of which I thought might be helpful for someone to read – but I didn’t have anything useful to share about living through a pandemic, nothing new to add to the discussions we were all having with ourselves and no answers for the questions we were all asking.

I wish I could say it was a learning experience and I’ve come away from it a better and wiser person but I haven’t. Though the pandemic has made my life better in some ways (well, one – working from home being a way of life that makes many things much easier for me) I think the emerging scars from two years of fear, worry and uncertainty will stay with me just as they will for everyone else. Thankfully I didn’t lose anyone I loved to coronavirus and for that I count myself very lucky.

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