Fully Sick

I had a wonderful opportunity today to share my personal journey with over 400 professionals in the disability sector at an online conference. It was especially meaningful because a former colleague, now working with the organization, invited me to speak after following my story.

While regular readers of this blog may be familiar with my experiences, I wanted to share it here as a way of introducing it to a new audience. Rather than simply focusing on my own story, I invited the viewers to imagine themselves acquiring a disability later in life, something that happens to many people.

I think this allowed for a more engaging and thought-provoking discussion about disability awareness and inclusion.

The reality is something like 8,000 people in Australia every year undergo some form of amputation, and so my story isn’t unique. 

But I feel privileged to be able to tell the story to you today on behalf of many other people who can’t. 

But enough of me, I’d like you to imagine yourself in a similar position. 

Close your eyes for a moment. Take a deep breath, feel the ground beneath you, the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat. If you’re able-bodied, imagine the familiar ease with which you move through the world, the effortless grace of your stride, the way your body responds to your every command. The simple act of walking, of running, of dancing – these are movements you take for granted. 

Now, hold onto that feeling, that sense of wholeness, and imagine it changing. Imagine a life-altering event, an accident, an illness, a sudden twist of fate that disrupts the familiar rhythm of your existence. You’re going about your day, and then, in a flash, everything changes. 

Perhaps you’re driving home from work, and a distracted driver runs a red light, colliding with your car. Or maybe you’re hiking on a favorite trail when you lose your footing and fall, sustaining a severe injury. It could be a diagnosis, cancer, or a medical condition that slowly robs you of your physical abilities. For me, it was a cut foot, an infection that went terribly wrong with sepsis, combined with undiagnosed diabetes that put me into a coma. 

My story started when I visited Vietnam and Cambodia in June 2023. 

I’d like to share with you a short video I shot at Angkor Watt.  In the video there are three men seated in a pontoon, playing music. To the left and right of them, there are crutches, and on the right-hand side, there is one man with a prosthetic limb. 

Cambodia is a country with hundreds of thousands of people who are amputees, largely due to the land mines planted there during the civil war. 

The men in the video don’t have access to the public health and disability services we do in Australia, and that’s been a constant reminder to me in the 18 months since my own amputation. 

But let’s get back to you. You’ve found yourself in hospital. 

After a few days in a coma you wake u, the world around you is hazy and disorienting, thanks to the AWESOME drugs you’re on,  

Your vision clears, and you see concerned faces hovering above you – family, friends, medical professionals. They tell you about the accident, the injury, the surgery. The words wash over you, their meaning slow to register. 

And then, the news that changes everything. Your niece, her eyes red and filled with a mixture of sadness and relief, tells you that surgeons had to amputate your lower right leg. Your mind struggles to grasp the reality of the situation – but that’s probably just the drugs! 

This next video was shot a week or so later, and I’m still on some pretty serious pain relief. 

Days turn into weeks, and the news gives way to a rollercoaster of emotions. Denial, anger, sadness, acceptance – they come in waves, sometimes overwhelming you/ You grapple with the loss of your limb, the loss of a part of yourself that you never imagined living without. 

The hospital becomes your world. You undergo countless tests, undertake physiotherapy, and learn to walk again. 

In this video, I’m walking between bars at the hospital, well hopping really. 

Importantly at this point, you get a random phone call from a bloke from an organisation called Limbs For Life. His name is Clay, he’s a few years younger than you, but his story is remarkably familiar. You realise you’re not the only one. 

Many people know someone with an amputation, many don’t, so I thought I’d share this closeup photograph of my stump. In the photograph you’ll see a wound which was still healing. 

As the wound began to heal, it was soon time to think about a prosthetic.

Finally, after months of hospitalization and rehabilitation, you’re discharged. You return home, but it’s not the same. On the first night, a friend stays with you, and after a while she’s supporting you, as you sob, unsure if you can cope with this new reality.  

When you’re in a wheelchair, stairs become seemingly insurmountable obstacles. You worry about what you might do if the lift stops working. 

You venture out into the world, tentatively at first, and then with growing confidence. You’re walking down the street, the familiar rhythm of your steps replaced by the unfamiliar click-clack of your prosthetic leg. You catch your reflection in a shop window, and there it is – a glint of polished metal where your leg used to be. 

This is your new reality, a reality experienced by thousands of people every year, a reality that could just as easily become anyone’s. In Australia alone, roughly 8,000 people undergo amputations annually, with diabetes-related amputations being the fastest-growing cause of acquired physical disability in Australia. 

You realise quickly, the importance of connecting with other people in similar circumstances.

The main thing I noticed, and maybe you would too, is the world operates in a different way when you have a physical disability.  

You see the uneven footpaths, the lack of ramps and accessible entrances, the stairs that seem to loom everywhere. You notice the best access points around town are at the poker machine rooms – always good for people in wheelchairs. You write a letter to your local council for the first time EVER, advocating for better accessibility in your community. 

You also notice the stares, the whispers, the well-meaning but sometimes awkward attempts at assistance. Children point and ask questions of their parents, their curiosity unfiltered. Adults avert their gaze, unsure how to interact with you. You learn to navigate these social encounters with a mix of patience, humor, and sometimes, a touch of defiance. 

Public transportation becomes a source of both frustration and anxiety. You struggle to board buses and trains, the narrow aisles and lack of space making it difficult to maneuver with your prosthetic leg. Drivers, impatient and often unaware of your needs, sometime take off before you’ve had a chance to sit down properly, nearly causing you to fall. 

The fear of falling, of being thrown off balance, becomes a constant companion. You find yourself relying on the kindness of strangers, hoping that someone will offer you their seat. And sometimes, they do. But sometimes, they don’t. You have to summon up the courage to ask, to assert your needs in a world that often overlooks them. 

You encounter those who occupy the designated disability seats, their eyes glued to their mobile phones, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. You wonder if they will ever understand the challenges you face. Maybe when they’re older, maybe when they’re heavily pregnant. 

You set goals for yourself, determined to reclaim your life and your independence.  

You return to work part-time after about five months, incredibly grateful for the support of your colleagues over the last few months, the cards, the visits, the wishes,, but also acutely aware of the added physical and mental demands you now face.  

Simple tasks that once seemed effortless now require twice the effort. The fatigue is relentless. You say to the boss, “I need to have a nap in the afternoon, but I wouldn’t be the only manager who has ever done that???”. He laughs in recognition. 

You wonder if you’re still valued, if your colleagues see you the same way they did before. You notice the subtle changes in the way some of them behave, the way they sometimes talk to you more slowly, as if you’ve somehow become less capable, and not just because of your physical changes. 

But you also experience unexpected moments of connection, the shared understanding with others who are also amputees You discover someone at work who you’ve known for 20 years is also an amputee, though you’ve never noticed before. You get a message from another colleague who is a Paralympian, offering you tips and advice about prosthetic limbs, and offering to go for a swim with you. Hey, she’s a Paralympic swimmer!!!  

You meet a woman at the bar who recognizes you from rehabilitatio, when you were there with her mother. You meet a man on the tram who offers you his seat with a knowing smile, as the person next to him is also an Amputee. You meet a woman at a busy bar offers you a seat and later, lifts her dress to reveal her own prosthetic limb. 

These encounters, often unexpected and deeply moving, are a reminder that you’re not alone on this journey. They remind you that there is strength in shared experience, that you are part of a community that understands your struggles and celebrates your triumphs. 

You discover a resilience you never knew you possessed. You develop empathy for others, an appreciation for the small victories, the ability to find humor. 

You learn to navigate a world that wasn’t necessarily built for you, to advocate for yourself, to embrace your new reality. You discover a hidden community of amputees, each with their own unique story of resilience and adaptation. You find strength in their stories, inspiration in their triumphs, and comfort in their shared understanding. 

This is a journey that anyone could face. An accident, an illness, a sudden twist of fate – life can change in an instant. And when it does, we are all capable of incredible strength, resilience, and adaptation. 

But we can also disappear into dark spaces, overwhelmed by the challenges and the complexities of navigating a world that wasn’t designed for you.  

The world of disability support, with its bureaucracy and its endless forms, can be daunting for many people, especially for those who lack the skills or the resources to advocate for themselves.  

I feel lucky to have the communication skills to be able to tell my story and advocate on my own behalf, but also recognise I’ve met many others who don’t have that experience.  

So please keep an eye out for people who might need your help a little bit more, who might not always be able to advocate on their own behalf.  

PS – I received some lovely comments.

• Thanks for such an informative presentation.  Lots of work apparent – and the bonus is it was fun.
• Thank you, James for sharing your experience. Great presentation [that] demonstrates exercising choice and control!
• Wow James, what a change in your life you’ve had to undertake. Well done for not giving up and using your traumatic experience to encourage, educate and inspire others to not give up – adversity and resilience. Thank you for sharing your journey. It is great to see you have overcome challenges and are using you own experience to help others.
• You are phenomenal James!! Thank you for sharing your journey.. Keep trekking on!!!
• Thank you for a very informative and inspiring session.
• Thank you, James for your truth. Go forth and live, laugh and love.