Five Hundred, Twenty-Five Thousand, Six Hundred Minutes

It's been one year. . .

Twelve months. . . 

8, 765.81277 hours. . . 

It's been eight weeks on a couch.

A summer spent on physical therapy, tears, nausea, and relearning parts of my own body.

It's been two semesters of holding back in dance classes.  Of explaining to guest instructors why I must modify their choreography.

It's been dozens of sleepless nights, fueled by pain.

It's been countless attempts at the most basic of exercises: a push up.

Innumerable muscle spasms.

Five prescriptions for five different painkillers: none that worked.

Two medical complications.

One nerve blocker.

A list of fears and what-ifs that is longer than I care to count.

A thousand supportive smiles and encouraging words from loyal friends.

The best specialist this side of Dr. House

One amazing Physical Therapist.

Two slings.

Four ice packs.

Three procedures.

And it has been 525,600 minutes since my shoulder surgery.  Since I gambled on the one thing that might -  that would maybe - give me a shot at pursuing my dreams.  That could stop the spasms, the dislocating, the pain, the numb fingers and the twitching forearm.  I know many people have overcome more than this: and that I haven't even overcome yet - I am still six months away from knowing if the procedures even worked.  But I am here: one year in.  One year later.  One year stronger.

And I thank God for that.