So, it's officially 122 days since I shattered my shoulder. 122 days, 10 hours and 28 minutes. Not that I'm counting...no siree. I'm writing this blog post for as much my own benefit as for informing friends and family of what progress is happening, so I apologise in advance if this rambles a little in places; I need to get some stuff out of my head. The good news is, my surgeon hasn't put scalpel to skin (yet) and is extremely pleased with my progress to date. I have a reasonably functional amount of movement in my shoulder with strength returning incrementally as I work through exercises with my physiotherapist. Speaking of physiotherapists, she is also really happy how healing has progressed and reassures me, on nearly every visit (twice a week!), I am a lot better off this early in my recovery than most people who have shattered their shoulders. My family doctor, who is managing my recovery, is also impressed with progress so far; and he used to be an orthopaedic surgeon too.
Ok, I get it. I'm doing "great" according to the experts, and I should be punching the air and pointing at my reflection saying "You're the man!". Reality is I'm increasingly impatient and wanting this whole "recovery" piece to be a closed chapter in my life, allowing me to move on. The problem is, I have just enough mobility and strength in my shoulder to forget how badly screwed up it is. Then I'll reach for something, pick up something (like a cup of coffee) or move a little differently and I'm almost completely overcome with shooting pain from my shoulder down my right arm. If I'm really unlucky, I'll need to sit down and catch my breath; it's that painful. It's that pain that is preventing me from confidently getting back to things I enjoy, like SCUBA diving, cycling and hitting the gym, you know, simple stuff an average person might do outside the office.
I went snorkelling with the family today and it was awesome! I loved being back in the water and floating around, sharing my underwater world with my wife and children. It was great! Then a group of SCUBA divers showed up. They were obviously students and making a bit of a mess of things if I'm honest. Despite being in the ocean, they looked like a few more pool sessions were needed! The odd part for me was that where before I would feel excitement for these "noobs" and know they are starting a wonderful adventure that can keep them engaged and excited for life, instead I was angry. The thought ran through my head "If they can't even do it properly they shouldn't be there, I should be the one diving". Ouch. I quickly gave myself a kick in the metaphoric nads and strong rebuttal, but it commenced a thought pattern I need to get out of my head. I'm sitting here wondering if I really did (do) enjoy diving as much as I think I did (do). Now, there's something only a seriously dessicated diver can ponder.
So here's the bit I'm tired of: I'm tired of not being able to do the things that make life exciting. I'm tired of not being able to push my limits in the water and on land (sorry, physio doesn't count...they keep telling me to stop over doing it!). I need something to get my blood pumping! I need something that stretches me mentally, physically and emotionally. For me, SCUBA diving scratches that itch, and right now I feel like I'm covered in itching powder and wrapped in a straight jacket :(