Friends, I’ve had a rather sleepless week, mostly from dealing with what I’m positive is a broken arm, but also from learning all the ways scuba can kill me. Let’s explore!
First, I’ve self-diagnosed a stress fracture somewhere in my right shoulder. Based on extensive online research, including but not limited to, Web MD and Wikipedia, discussions with co-workers and family members, none of whom are medical professionals, and my own anatomical intuition, I’m 80 percent confident I’ve suffered a break. It was probably back in February, while doing stupid burpees or a HIIT workout without warming up properly (stretching is for the weak!). It’s continued to worsen, and now I have difficulty writing on the chalkboard, reaching over to smack my husband Doo when he’s snoring, and lifting anything heavier than my phone. I can’t get in to see a doctor until mid-May, so I’m going with the broken arm theory until proven wrong. And I’m telling everyone about it. Ad nauseam.
When I’m not flinching from the acute pain of turning onto my stomach at night, I’m wondering why on earth I decided to become dive certified. I mean, sure, I’ve always wanted to learn, and I did turn 50 this year – YOLO – but sweet mother, who knew how easy it was to get a brain embolism or to poison yourself with nitrogen or simply disappear in the vast ocean surrounded by jellyfish and woman-eating predators. I’m completing the online course, and every other slide is basically, “You might die!” Doo, unfortunately, offers little in the way of reassurance: “Yeah, you might.”
In summary, it’s been a fairly sleepless week.