I decided to swim as my aerobic activity. Sunscreen applied and soaked in, I wrapped my robe around myself and stepped onto the coir doormat.... and a pricker made itself at home in the sole of my right foot, the one that lives below the bullet holes.
I hobbled over to the pool, descending gently on one and a half legs. I soaked and poked and prodded and pulled but success eluded me. So I swam my laps, got my heart racing, cooled down, and hobbled back and found my tweezers.
I sat down, crossed my leg, and confronted my lack of flexibility.
On the steps in the pool, in the water, I could bend enough to examine the situation. On land, trying to open out into cobbler pose, I was an utter failure.
On a chair, with my ankle resting on my other knee, I tried to look at my wound. I failed. I sighed.
I took a deep breath, entered my Pilates Space, folded my ribs and bent my spine in a gentle curve. Slowly, steadily, with oppositional energy flowing between my hip and my rib cage, I lifted myself up and over.
And then, there it was.
The sole of my foot was available for minor self-surgery as my hip groaned and creaked and cracked and made all kinds of unusual noises. Remembering my RIC physical therapist's admonition to Assess the threat value of the sensation, I recognized that although it was weird and loud and scary, it didn't hurt. Since she'd reassured me that I was incapable of doing further damage to myself unless I fell off a building, I kept pressing out and down and tried as best I could to ignore the cacophony.
I pressed, I pulled, I tweezed... twoze? ... and I was splinter-free with my hip turned out to a position it hadn't assumed since I was perforated, six and a half years ago. It's been a long time coming. I'm very glad it's here.