Chumby Snores

When I first started this journey as an amputee, almost three years ago, I had a very simple, perhaps naive, mental image of how it would go. I thought I would go to the clinic, get measured for a prosthetic limb, and that would be it. I’d have “my leg,” and we’d walk off into the sunset together for the rest of my life. I saw it as a permanent piece of hardware—like a car or a kitchen appliance. You buy it once, and you’re set.

I soon learned that the reality of life as an amputee is much more fluid. In these first few years, I’ve discovered that a prosthetic limb isn’t a static tool; it’s an ever-evolving interface that has to keep up with a body that refuses to stay the same size. Currently, I am in that familiar state of limbo—awaiting approval for yet another new limb—and it’s given me time to reflect on why I’ve already been through so many.

The Shrinking Reality

The “problem,” if you can call it that, is actually a sign of progress. It’s all about the “stump” (or residual limb). In the beginning, the limb is often swollen from surgery and carries muscle mass that it no longer needs to move a foot or an ankle. As you start walking and becoming active again, that limb begins to change shape and volume with surprising speed. It “matures,” which is a polite way of saying it shrinks.

The “Socks” Game

As the leg gets smaller, the socket that fit perfectly a month ago suddenly feels like a loose boot. To manage this, we use a range of adjustments. We start with liners, and then we move to “socks”—specialised ply-knit covers worn over the liner.

On a cold morning, I might start with a 3-ply sock. By the afternoon, as my volume shifts with activity and temperature, I might need to layer on a 5-ply or even an 8-ply. It’s a constant game of Tetris played with your own anatomy.

There have been times where the fit was so precarious that the comedy of the situation took over. I’ll never forget the day in the office foyer when a colleague asked what I was doing. My deadpan response—“My leg has fallen off”—turned a loose bolt and a failing fit into a “minor surgery” story that left us both laughing.

Albert, Bertha, and the Art of Replacement

Eventually, however, the leg shrinks so much that no amount of socks can fill the gap. The alignment goes off, the stability vanishes, and you find yourself back in the casting chair.

When I finally moved into my “definitive” legs, I decided they needed more than just serial numbers. I named them Albert and Bertha, after my parents, Albert Bernard O’Brien and Bertha Ann Dunn (aka “The Wet Leg”.)

I remember the first outing with the waterproof limb in December 2024. Standing in the pool, I was mesmerised by what I called the “aquarium effect”—watching bubbles rise from the pylon as the water displaced the air inside. It was a strange, beautiful milestone that reminded me that while I lost a limb to sepsis, I gained a new way of interacting with the world.

Awaiting the New Step

Right now, we’ve reached the limit of what socks and liners can do, and so I am hoping for NDIS approval of a new socket that better fits my current state of being. The wait for approval can be frustrating. It’s a period of “limbo” where you are physically ready for the next stage, but the bureaucracy has to catch up. Yet, looking back at the photos from 2023 and 2024, I see the progress. I see the transition from the “Enable” temporary leg to the personality of Albert and Bertha.

I’ve made peace with the “multiples.” They aren’t just redundant equipment or a sign of a “broken” process. They are markers of my recovery. Each new socket represents a version of me that has walked further, worked harder, and moved more than the one before it. I might have thought I’d only ever need one leg, but I’ve learned that to keep moving forward, you have to be willing to leave the old versions of yourself behind.