Shades of grey

It's a funny experience looking inside one's own head, especially knowing that not so long ago it looked considerably different. But there it was, on the registrar's computer screen, in all its greyscale glory.

He'd made a big show of asking me how I was doing, whether I was back at work, reviewing the notes, showing me the scans. So far, so predictable.

And then he dropped the bombshell.

"As you can see, it all looks really good," he said in his heavily Anglicised Arabic accent, beaming, and prodding at my brain. "So I think all I can say is get on with your life. I'll discharge you from the surgical clinic."

I hadn't really been expecting this today, so the news took a few moments to sink in.

"So I don't need to come back and see you at all?"

"No. No more appointments. Of course, you'll continue to see the neurologist, but apart from that..."

"No more scans?"

"Well, maybe one in a couple of years just to check, but we'll let Dr Farmer take care of that."

And that, rather anti-climactically, was that. Not even a chance to say goodbye to the woman who saved my life. While her number two, her Metatron, was delivering the good news, Joan was attending to people still in need. My gratitude would have to conveyed be in third person.

Of course it's not the absolute all clear, not as long as Queen Square has me on file, but when surgeons say there's nothing more they need to do, it's a pretty significant step in that direction.

Now for the hard part...