Two days ago I saw Dr. R, the oncologist who’s monitoring my progress after having surgery for ovarian cancer a year and a half ago. I am one of the lucky few who were diagnosed so early that I didn’t need chemo or radiation therapy. Mine was called Stage 1A cancer. That said, I still have to go for testing every three months to make sure nothing changes.

Ovarian cancer is scary, because it has no symptoms. By the time it is discovered it has more often than not run rampant in a woman’s body. This makes me doubly lucky, since mine was discovered at such an early stage. And if the next battery of tests is good, then I get to move to six month visits with my oncologist.

According to the American Cancer Society, the five-year survival rate for Stage 1A cancer is approximately 94 percent. Even so, it’s weird to have one’s future doled out in various increments, and my visits with Dr. R always remind me of the tenuous nature of life.

Winter has arrived, and with it a tendency to hibernate. Today was so miserable that I hardly ventured forth. Instead it made me think about the phrase, “It ain’t a fit night out for man or beast.” W.C. Fields made this famous.

But what did this mean a hundred or two hundred years ago? Perhaps those hardy families stoked their fires as best they could, sat by their fireplaces until the embers died and then crawled under covers made of down. Maybe they played games in the evenings or turned to reminiscing. Or possibly playing the fiddle. It was a simpler time.

Now an evening that ain’t fit for man or beast most likely includes watching TV, surfing the Internet, and maybe sitting by a fire. But not one that is the sole source of heat for the home. (See paragraph above.) I suspect it doesn’t include much reading or doing crossword puzzles or any other activity that is particularly solitary. Instead perhaps it includes Netflix or On Demand or Tivo.

Even though the activities have changed, it’s still gratifying to know how to deal with a night not fit for man or beast.

Ludwig von Beethoven and I are friends on some level, although I’m not sure which one. I just know he haunts me in terms of my piano development. So I’ve returned to his “Moonlight Sonata” in an attempt to cull its many mysteries and reconnect with the composer.

I first attempted the Sonata about three years ago. I loved it then; I love it now. And I hope that what I’ve learned in the interim will enable me to play it better and make Beethoven proud.

That first time around it took me a year to dissect the nuances of the work; this time I hope to do it in three months. If muscle memory is indeed a fact, I should be fine. That said, I think I’ve also earned the right to complain.

The thing is “Moonlight Sonata” is not a rote piece of music. By that I mean that almost every measure has some change in the notes, whereas other music tends to repeat notes and chords. This means that Beethoven’s work requires more attention to detail, more scrutiny to note changes in a measure, more mental acuity. Which is why three months for a review is not unreasonable.

I just want to put Ludwig on notice that the next time I review his work, I plan to do it in record time.

Yesterday we removed the last of the Christmas decorations and stowed them for the next eleven months. Just as it’s fun to see the tree emerge and my snowmen collection follow, it always feels good to return our home to its pre-decorated condition. For every time there is a season . . .

Now we’re returning to our normal routine. Earl went to Bible study this morning at the crack of dawn; I returned to piano lessons at a more reasonable hour. I checked the scale to see if my New Year’s resolution of losing seven pounds had started to take effect. I also began to collect data for our upcoming income tax preparation, while Earl updated his calendar with various events. It was a most mundane day.

Perhaps that’s one thing that makes the holidays special. They’re a diversion from our usual routines. They can also be added work if those routines are stress-filled and over-scheduled in the first place. But this was not the case for me this year.

I quit my job in late July, a job that I loved but which was unusually stressful in December. So this was the first year in memory that I didn’t squeeze holiday preparations around my work. In many ways, they became my work. I visited with old acquaintances (not referring necessarily to age here), took time to reminisce, enjoyed a homemade fruitcake from a dear friend, saw another friend I hadn’t seen in a few years, enjoyed every moment without feeling fatigue. It was wonderful.

Because I enjoyed it fully, I’m not sad about putting the holiday away. Rather, I’m rejuvenated. I look forward to the routine, because for the past four weeks I didn’t have to tend to it.

Winnie the Pooh does not have a lock on blustery days, although his are more famous than mine will ever be. Regardless, today was blustery personified, and Earl and I hibernated. We didn’t get out of bed until after 9 AM, and then we didn’t leave the house all day. It was most unusual.

We watched the swirling snow from our windows, enjoyed the lights on our Christmas tree for one last time, and watched the Rose Bowl Parade. I took a nap, as if sleeping late didn’t satisfy me.

Tomorrow the world returns to normal with traffic jams, mail delivery, and forecasts of more snow. I’ve already got my gym bag packed to head to the swimming pool; I’ve got deposits to make at the bank; and I’m going to start on our income taxes.

Which is why a blustery day is a good thing.