It's been a month since that fateful day. The day the wet pavement slid away from under me at warp speed leaving nothing but a dislocated shoulder and an incomplete race season.
Since then it's been baby steps. Tiny, microscopic baby steps. At least that's how it feels. I have this overwhelming urge to do something strenuous. I've hiked up Hi-Dee-Hoe a couple times, but that's about the extent of it. I ask my physical therapist every visit "how long until I can do P90X?"
"How long before I can do push-ups?"
"How long before I can climb Mount Everest?"
"How long before I can be me again?"
The answer is always the same; "Soon."
Despite my impatience, the shoulder is progressing nicely. The pain that was once constant has become so infrequent that it surprises me when it comes. Luckily, it goes just as quickly. My range of motion is about 90% and improving. I've started resistance training that the therapist has made increasingly harder each session. Progress! Slow, steady progress.