I remember the fire-and-ice zing of cold-water immersion on my skin, usually with dawn firing up the gun-metal sky along the eastern horizon. This was one of our daily rituals, with me and Karyn finding a dam or ocean or river – or our pool at home – to surrender to three minutes of breathing and burning. This is one of many things I cannot wait to do again once I heal.
There are loads of other (mostly outdoor) experiences I crave intensely, too, but right now it is time to give thanks. Two weeks on from my accident in Groot Winterhoek, and I am well on my way to full recovery. The pain has dropped to levels where I only need meds twice a a day, with dull aches in the fractured ankle and wrist (the broken scapula currently causes the most discomfort). My ribs are fine as long as I don’t laugh or cough and, most importantly, the internal bleeding in my right lung seems to have stopped.
My life has become quite cat-like (not as in fast-snap reflexes, but more in how I lazily follow the sun around, all while focusing on breathing, languid self-massage, unraveling my muscles, and stretching those limbs that have some range of movement). There is major emotional trauma locked up in the injuries, though, with flashbacks and heart rate spikes part and parcel of the physiological release.