I enjoy the feeling of leaving my trials behind.

Things get left behind in pieces rather than all at once. The crutches go back before the flinch does.

The appointments finish months before you stop bracing on the drive past the hospital for something completely unrelated.

So there is no clean threshold to enjoy. What there is instead is a run of small noticings: the first time the wristband surfaces in a drawer and you feel nothing much, the first week with none of it in the calendar. They arrive quietly and out of order, and they count.