It was a regular kind of Monday, except I probably spent a little too much time after work thinking about work. Grr.
On a positive note, I had a great online chat with my mate Paul who lives in London.
For every negative, there has to be a positive!
I also had a lovely time this afternoon sitting outside on the balcony listening to the birds in the trees outside my apartment. That was good too.
“A word of warning, it’s Valentine’s Day, and it’s pretty busy down on the street”, I said to my neighbor, as we chatted briefly today in the back laneway.
It’s ALWAYS busy on Valentine’s Day at our end of Crown Street. As a long-term single person, I always forget about it every year until I’m confronted by all the doe-eyed couples at nearby restaurants. As I sat and enjoyed a late afternoon beer at the nearby bar, The Nocturne, a young woman walked in with a huge box of roses. “Lay me down flat”, declared the text on the side of the box, which I thought was rather appropriate.
I actually had an early reminder about Valentine’s Day this year over dinner last night. Along with another similarly aged friend, we were with a long-term couple who told us they were going to a wedding today. “A wedding? On Tuesday? That’s a bit weird. Is it cheaper on Tuesday, or easier to get the synagogue?”, we asked them. As long-term singles, Valentine’s Day wasn’t anywhere on our radar. We laughed when they reminded us.
We had just seen the documentary film “You Can Go Now”, which was directed by our friend and colleague, Larissa Behrendt.
The film is about the life and work of artist, Richard Bell. Richard grew up in Charleville, in outback Queensland. As an Aboriginal man, he was “empowered” by living in Redfern during the 1970s, and since then has gone on to become an internationally famous artist.
He is a controversial figure in both the art world, and in the Aboriginal activist community. You can tell from the film he is the kind of person who would rub many people up the wrong way. He has a fairly wicked since of humour which I think many people may not understand. There was also a moment a few years ago where he wore a very controversial t-shirt in public.
Of the many issues canvassed in the film, I was most curious about the connection between the Aboriginal rights movement in Australia in the 1960s/1970s, and the Black rights movement in the United States. I was most curious about the connection there, and why there wasn’t more of a connection with Native Americans. Larissa explained the worldwide importance of figures like Malcolm X in empowering “black” people around the world, long before there was broader recognition through things like the Year Of The World’s Indigenous Peoples (1994). It’s a good film, and one you will eventually see on the Australian TV station, NITV.
Actually, I’m going to see a few documentary films over the next few weeks, and with Mardi Gras and World Pride about to commence, you might see a few more posts from me over the next few weeks than since the start of the year.
I met the owner of the recently reopened Mecca Cafe in Lismore and shared my family’s connection to the place. “My granny was a cook here, and my dad used to play in bands here,” I told him, recalling how it was a staple of the 1930s and 40s.
Even though those days were before my time, I still have fond memories of the cafe.
The Mecca had been closed for four years, and the devastating flood that hit Lismore a couple of years ago had caused significant damage, leaving the building empty. Many people wondered what would become of the space, but now, it’s finally back.
The Mecca has a rich history that stretches back to the heart of Lismore’s cafe culture. Established in 1933 by James Forrester and Cliff Gray, it quickly became a local landmark, celebrated for its unique “Art Moderne” style.
The cafe was a hub of activity and a true social institution, famous for its booths with individual jukeboxes—a detail that sparked a shared memory with another customer who came to see the reopening.
The owner and I had a great chat and discovered a serendipitous connection: he used to live in the same suburb as I do, at The Kirk, with Gretel aka “Madam Lash”, just around the corner from my house.
He also shared his own story of resilience, describing how he rebuilt his life after the flood. It was clear this cafe was a new, meaningful step for him.
While we spoke, other people were also coming in to see the revived institution, including memories of the jukeboxes!
The Mecca holds a special place in the hearts of Lismore residents, and it was heartening to see the smiles on everyone’s faces.
As I was talking with the owner, a thought crossed my mind: this would make a great story for the local ABC station, ABC North Coast. It turns out I wasn’t the only one who thought so. I later found out that Bridie from the ABC had left a note under their door, expressing interest in doing a story. It gave me a great feeling to know that there’s so much community interest in seeing a beloved part of our town brought back to life.
The need for an early morning pee woke me yesterday morning half way through a dream. In the dream, I was seated in a car alongside a colleague, heading towards the ABC studio located in Lismore. Our route, however, involved a detour via a non-existant bakery at North Lismore. “This spot used to be a newsagent and garage, which dad and I used to visit every morning” I told my colleague. There was nothing about the dream that was alarming or exciting.
Over breakfast, however, I realised this was the first “proper” dream I’ve had in the last five weeks, or at least the first “proper” dream I can recall. All the others have been a little weird, influenced by the pain relief drugs.
Another “conventional” dream I had this morning found me vacationing in Hobart. It was the first instance in a dream where I consciously aware of my missing limb.
As well as the metaphorical, this dream perhaps holds a more literal interpretation, reflecting my ongoing conscious thoughts and concerns about future travel plans. I was planning on visiting Hobart this year, but that’s clearly not going to happen in the short-term at least. So, maybe the dream was my unconscous way od starting to “scope out” something extremely relevant to my conscious state?
This week has brought news of my successful application for assistance under the National Disability Insurance Scheme. While the extent of coverage remains unclear, we will have a “planning meeting” in the next couple of weeks.
We also had a meeting this week with the people who will actually make the prosthesis for the bottom half of my right leg. Intellectually fascinating, as well as of personal interest, we talked about everything from construction techniques to the import of certain components from Germany, and of course, how it attaches to my body.
At the meeting, I told the story of friend of a friend, Lisa. Crystal Love, a transgender performer, originally from the Tiwi Islands, who boasts a leopard skin print prosthesis, matching Crystal’s dark coloured skin.
In keeping with the idea, one of the team suggested laser-printed leg hair to match my other leg. “I’m happy with pale-skinned white bloke”, I told them.
Following a process of “shrinking” the limb (a technique to ensure optimal fit), a fitting session will follow, culminating in the crafting of the prosthesis. There will then be some further modification, if needed.
In next week, a home assessment is slated, aimed at evaluating the accessibility of my apartment, and what we might need to do to make moving home as simple as possible.
After several weeks where not much has happened, as my body has been healing, it all seems to speeding along now.
The week ended with a lovely visit from Ross and Andrea. But not just a visit, Andrea also made some decorations for my hospital space.
You may recall the wonderful gift I received last week of a book (and associated paper) about origami.
It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be, amd so far I’ve only completed one piece, and I’m quite proud of it. I’m a “visual learner”, and have relied more heavily on Youtube than the instruction book. That’s why I’ve held back on an initial commitment to make pieces with all my visitors.
PS. I also had an unexpected visit by a reader of this blog, who I first met 16 years ago. It was such a delight.
When former Australian soldier Sonya Newman reflects on the life-altering medical crisis that led to her amputation, she offers a perspective that is as refreshing as it is characteristically blunt. Speaking with her today for The Limb Shift podcast (to launch in October), I was struck by an honesty and candour that lingers in my memory several hours after our conversation finished: “Limb loss can also open doors and show you a better side of life… I think it’s been actually beneficial for me, if I could say that strangely”, she told me.
As a combat fitness leader who spent two decades in the Army, Newman’s world was upended by a routine knee surgery that snowballed into a multi-year nightmare of chronic pain and infection. Yet today, she operates a bustling 250-acre farm outside Darwin, cares for dozens of animals, and represents Australia internationally in para ice hockey.
Newman’s journey began with a standard procedure to address knee damage sustained during her defence service. “I went for an arthroscopy to, to fix my knee,” she explains. “I had a simple surgery… got a staph infection”.
What followed was a gruelling two-year medical saga consisting of three failed total knee replacements, two failed joint fusions, bending rods, and excruciating treatments where doctors placed silicone balloons into her empty joint cavity to inflate them over six months.
By age 36, the debilitating reality of non-stop opioid regimens and unstoppable bone infection brought her to a breaking point. The final decision to amputate was born out of a desperate need to reclaim her life. Newman recalls walking into her doctor’s office with an ultimatum:
“I said, look, get me to Sydney and make it happen. I’ve got a chainsaw if you don’t… I went into my doctor’s office and said those words. Exactly”.
When her doctor warned her about the extreme risk of further infection, she replied flatly: “What have I got to lose?” She was on a plane within days. “As soon as they were offering almost the, the miracle fix that, that quick end, it was actually pretty easy,” she says. “It was like, alright, let’s go make this happen. You know, I’m done waiting now”.
Following her initial surgery at Liverpool Hospital and a transfer to Holsworthy Barracks for rehabilitation, Newman threw herself into physical fitness. As an active soldier, sitting still was never an option. “The moment I got to Holsworthy Barracks, I was on a rower for like two or three hours a day,” she says.
Her ultimate lifeline arrived in the form of the Invictus Games. While she successfully tried out for a number of sports – including swimming, wheelchair basketball, and rowing – the true healing power of the Games wasn’t the trophies—it was the military camaraderie. “It was actually the mateship coming back into being around the same sort of people,” she reflects.
The community of fellow wounded veterans provided an environment of unapologetic, dark defence humour that allowed her to process her new reality. Newman fondly remembers training camps where “the boys would steal each other’s legs and take off down the street” to the horror of onlookers. It was also this group that pushed her to master navigating the world in a wheelchair, leading to a memorable mishap in a Canadian hotel lobby:
“The very first time I did it, this guy named Bear stood behind me… He’s like, ‘don’t worry, I’ll catch you if you fall, chook, you’ll be right.’ And sure enough, the bottom of the escalator… I fell. And I’m in the middle of the lobby of this hotel over in Canada, and everyone just stops and just picks me up and goes, ‘What? Hasn’t anyone ever seen an amputee fall out of a wheelchair before?’ … That’s what got me over the other side, basically”.
Despite her drive, transitioning back to her full-time role in the Army proved to be an uphill battle against systemic mindsets regarding injured personnel. Newman details the immense daily pressure of attempting to meet rigid timelines when simply dressing in a modified uniform took fifteen minutes. The breaking point arrived when she was told, “if you can’t do it, we don’t need you”. “That just, it almost crushed me because I felt like I’d tried everything up to that point,” she admits.
After discharging in December 2018, Newman experienced a severe mental health crisis. “I thought I was going to be in a better place being away from work and everything, but I, I crashed,” she reveals. “In January the following year, I woke up from a coma in the hospital… because I’d got to a point that I didn’t want to be here anymore”.
With the swift intervention of the Department of Veterans’ Affairs (DVA), medical specialists in Sydney, and her partner Jen, she received the comprehensive psychological support and stump revision surgeries required to manage debilitating nerve pain. Newman notes that while mental health fluctuates, developing coping mechanisms has been her saving grace.
Crucial to her recovery was the shifting dynamic within her home life. Newman credits her wife, Jen, as being “rock solid by my side,” though she candidly notes the difficult transition out of a patient-caregiver relationship: “I said to Jen a couple of times like, ‘you’re not my nurse anymore. Like, can you just be, can you be my partner? Like, can you be my wife now, you know?’”
Today, Newman lives an incredibly active, bush-centric lifestyle just outside of Darwin. Alongside her family, she manages commercial dog kennels and works a sprawling rural property populated by cattle, camels, and goats. “I’m probably working harder now than I did for the twenty years I was in the Army,” she laughs, detailing days filled with fencing, concreting, and fixing tractors.
Living and working in the extreme tropical humidity of the Top End presents unique challenges for an amputee. Newman has to remove her prosthetic six or seven times a day to wash away sweat and prevent severe rashes. “I have like—so we have, um, suction and a pin system and I’ve still had it fall off on the motorbikes,” she explains. “I’ve had to go back through the paddock and find my leg a couple of times”.
If managing a farm in the tropics wasn’t enough, Newman has also developed a self-described “new addiction”—para ice hockey. Recruited internationally through connections made during her Invictus days, she now proudly plays for the Australian national team. Strapped into a sled two inches off the ice, she relishes the high-speed, full-contact nature of the sport. “Bring back the biff. Well, hockey never, hockey never lost the biff. And that’s what I love about it,” she says enthusiastically.
Ultimately, Newman’s focus is on setting a powerful example for her fourteen-year-old son, Douglas, and twelve-year-old daughter, Ashley. Her guiding philosophy is beautifully straightforward, serving as an inspiration for anyone facing sudden adversity:
“I just want to show my kids that they can keep going and do whatever doesn’t matter what life throws at you. Have a crack, have a crack. That’s it… sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But I guess it’s, it’s taken me to some amazing places to be honest”.
Sonya’s interview will appear later in the year when the Limb Shift is launched during Amputee Awareness Week (October).
I often see Paul Capsis at the local supermarket. He obviously lives in my area, given the number of times I’ve seen him at Coles. In contrast to his performance on stage, he often seems like a shy man when I’ve seen him buying milk. But on stage, he’s loud, outrageous, and fills the space. He is a great stage performer, as I’ve seen tonight at Slide Nightclub for the launch of his latest CD.
He sang half a dozen songs tonight, across a broad spectrum of musical genres that included jazz classics like “Feeling Good” and “Cry Me A River” through to a Janis Joplin number, and even, “I Would Die For You” by Garbage. “It takes a lot of talent to be able to scream in tune”, I commented to my friend who came along with me tonight. It was a reference to his performance of a number by Joplin, who Capsis described as one of his favourite performers. Seconds earlier he was singing in a very deep masculine tone. Seconds later he was in falsetto. And then before you knew it, his voice was rich and thick doing something different again,
In between songs he likes a laugh. He made a reference tonight to being how surprised to see people out on a wet night in Sydney. “It rains and we don’t know what to do”, he joked, knowing the whole audience understood completely.
Minutes earlier, a bloke from Melbourne asked me “don’t you have cloakrooms in Sydney?” Although I’d wanted to say, “honey, we don’t need ’em”, I’d directed him upstairs. I hope he understood Paul’s reference. Maybe. Maybe not.
On stage, Capsis really comes to life. It’s such a contrast to the man I see at the local supermarket. Either way, he seems like a lovely gentle soul.
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The small things make life beautifull!