Last week was so promising, as physical therapy went.
But losing Holden threw a wrench into my whole week, so Friday I canceled my appointment so I could take the day to grieve.
I'm not sorry for that decision. I cried a good chunk of the day, so it was good that I was home or with Husband to just let all the feelings out as they came.
But before that - and the emotional eating of all the Cheetos in the land - I was set to have a good week.
How good, you ask?
Stephanie told me I could run.
OK, so technically she said "jog." And only for about a half mile.
But it was running, not on the Sproing, nonetheless, so I chalked it up to victory.
We ran at the middle school near our house; it has a dirt track, and Zooey happily loped alongside me as we logged the slowest half mile in memory (I didn't haul out the Garmin, but I'm pretty sure tortoises could have passed me). She didn't want to stop, but I'm glad we did, because later my hip was achy for some time before calming itself down.
I'd planned to do another run on Thursday but knew Wednesday night that wasn't happening. But Zooey and I've gotten out a few times for a walk, and I'm ready to start truly moving again.
Since the rehab center isn't open for Labor Day, I won't see Stephanie again until Friday, so in the meantime I'll do my home exercises and attempt to have two slow runs as well as my first swim since my lessons finished (with everything that happened with Holden, I haven't hit the pool, either).
Hopefully my nearly two weeks "off" won't reverse my progress, but if it does, I'll roll with it.
After all, each day that I'm moving, I'm still moving forward.
With a coonhound on my tail.