Stockholm winter tour - the group comes up from downstairs
“Did you have a cold or a hot shower this morning?”, my neighbour asked me as we chatted in the downstairs carpark tonight. “Cold”, I told her. And that’s when she went on to explain the nature of the electrical problem affecting our apartment block today which had rendered the electronic gate to the carpark immobile, and which had caused us all to have a cold shower.
I don’t think I’d been as cold even in Sweden just over 12 months ago. I shouldn’t complain, though, as I had a terrific day with lots achieved and lots of happiness in my life.
And best of all? Tonight I had a lengthy warm shower.
You remember how “in the olden days” you were limited by the number of photographs you could take on a roll of film? It was generally 12, 24 or 36. I remember when a roll of 36 film was expensive to buy, and even more expensive to process. As a child, I would generally only be able to afford 12, and occasionally 24. 36 seemed like such a luxury to a young boy from the country.
Fast forward to 2017, and today I went on a photowalk where we were instructed to take no more than 36 shots. “Only 36?”, I thought to myself, adding “This will be a challenge since I regularly take 80 to 100 shots in a single day”. The Local Guides Meetup Sydney Photowalk was one of a number of similar walks held around the world today with the same common instruction.
Today, a group of about a dozen wandered from Milson’s Point, to Cockatoo Island, to Darling Harbour, Barrangaroo, Circular Quay, and many points in between. It was a fun day, hanging out with a couple of blokes I already knew, but also getting to meet some new people I would never have otherwise had the chance to meet.
I’d have to be honest and say most of the people on our photowalk had no intention of sticking to the 36 rule. Many of us had participated previously in photowalks, and many of us were “snap happy” to say the least. Even so, it was good to have in our mind the idea that you should think more carefully about the photographs, rather than take hundreds, as is so easy in the days of digital photography.
As I sipped on my glass of red wine, I looked around last night at the people in Canberra’s Bar Rochford. They were all well dressed, and aged late 20s to late 30s, and they were probably working in the public service, or in politics, I concluded, without any real basis for making such a judgement.
I wondered, for a moment, about whether or not I would have been one of these people, albeit twenty years ago. As I recall, I sat the public service exam, though I don’t recall what happened next, as my heart pursued a career in radio instead. With an interest in politics and policy, I could quite well have become a senior public servant by now. Maybe I would have ended up in foreign affairs or something like that? Anyway, it was just a brief moment of reflection as I sipped on a glass (actually two) of excellent French wine.
It was the second time this week in Canberra where I’ve been in a bar (and I’ve only been here since Tuesday night). On Tuesday night, I caught up with a former colleague, now working in commercial radio here. It was terrific to reflect on old times, and to catch up on where our lives are up to now.
Otherwise, it’s been work, hotel, work, hotel for most of the time I’ve been here. And that’s fine, because I’m really enjoying the work, and I’m really enjoying Canberra. I’m dividing my time roughly half the week here, and half the week back home in Sydney.
And earlier in the week, I needed to be home. It’s now compulsory to have safety locks on all apartment windows in NSW, where it’s possible a child could fall and possibly be killed. In my apartment block, there are 32 apartments, which kept a couple of blokes awfully busy for a couple of days.
For me, it meant working from home, as I awaited “my turn”. This was totally awesome because a) I got so much more work done b) the line between what I wore to bed the previous night and what I wore to “work” the following morning was “somewhat blurred” and c) I got to have lunch at my favourite local restaurant. Work/life balance, for sure.
Next week in Canberra? There’s a good chance of snow, apparently.
One year ago today, my life was forever changed. Friends Jo-Anne, Andrea, Ross, and my neighbour Alexis, along with emergency workers, broke into my apartment and saved my life. A day later, and witrhout them, I would either be dead, or have quite significant brain damage.
Other close friends and family Sue, Michelle, Karran, and Michaela were soon by my bedside. Over the next few weeks, the outpouring of love and support from so many people filled me with immense gratitude. As I celebrate this anniversary, I’m forever grateful to each and every one of them because it’s…
My Stumpiversary
Since arriving back from an overseas holiday, I had been feeling unwell, which I had put down to the flu or maybe COVID. More seriously, as a result of a cut foot, an infection was rapidly taking over my body, resulting in sepsis and a lower right leg amputation.
Another contributing factor was the undiagnosed diabetes. Upon entering the hospital, I had a blood glucose level of 78, meaning there was a high risk of death or brain damage.
Each year over 8,000 people in Australia have some kind of amputation, with varying causes including accidents, cancer, and the combination of infections and diabetes. I understand rhe amputee population in Australia is steadily growing at a rate of 2.2% per year. Men are disproportionately affected, making up 72.9% of amputees compared to the general population. Australia also has a high proportion of diabetic-related amputations, ranking second within the OECD. It all makes sense.
My own experience is similar to that of Clayton, a peer support volunteer with “Limbs For Life” who called me during those early days in hospital. He described his own life-changing experiences following a walk on the beach, a cut foot and undiagnosed diabetes leading to his own amputation, with significant changes to his personal life and career.
Fueled by powerful pain medication during the early weeks of my hospitalization, I found it hard to think clearly. Simple emails and messages of support required multiple readings before I could even attempt a response.
I also had to put modesty concerns aside as nurses helped me with the most basic of human functions.
“How are you REALLY?” was a frequent early question from concerned family, friends, and medical staff. At first, their responses to my “I’ve had a couple of tough days, but mostly I feel pretty good” seemed laced with disbelief. I noticed there were two main ways in which people responded. First, there are those who take my positivity at face value, offering enthusiastic support like, “You’ve got this!” And secondly, there were others who approached the situation with a different perspective, perhaps wondering if the full weight of what happened might hit me later, once the hospital’s comfort and support system fade. And maybe that’s a possibility, even now, a year later.
In the weeks leading up to my illness, I visited Vietnam and Cambodia. Among the people I met there were some who had lost limbs to landmines. In the grand scheme of things, millions around the world have lost limbs, and they’ve faced this without the privileges I’ve had, living in an affluent country with a top-notch health system. “I feel lucky to be alive,” I told my friends, “like I’ve been given a second chance.”
The period at Sydney’s Sacred Heart Rehabilitation was more than physical therapy. Mindfulness techniques helped me manage the mental toll, while mirror therapy aimed to retrain my brain to accept the new reality of a missing lower leg.
In total, I spent close to four months in hospital. Preparing for discharge was always at the forefront of my mind, including whether I could navigate in and out of the apartment independently? Would I be able to shower independently? And what modifications, if any, might be necessary for me to live on my own? Would I always be in a wheelchair, or would the prosthetic allow me to lead a “normal” life?
A good friend, Michaela stayed with me on the first night home. Although I went to bed that night feeling fairly good about things, I quickly found myself in tears. “I don’t want everyone to worry about the tears on the first night,” I told her the next day. “I don’t want them to think I’ve fallen into a deep depression now that I’m home after the safety of hospital life,”. “The tears are perfectly normal,” she said. “Maybe there will be more tears in the future, and likely there will be difficult days.”
Early on, I realised it wouldn’t be a simple linear progression from amputation to wheelchair to prosthetic. As I’ve read in online amputee forums, many people find their prosthetics don’t fit well, or they cause irritation to their stumps. Recently, after heavy rain, the lift in my apartment block stopped working, which meant it was harder for me to get in and out of my apartment. It was a reminder that I could easily find myself housebound, despite my apparent current mobility.
The National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS) has provided me with a range of supports, including a transportation allowance, allowing me to catch taxis and ride shares. Mostly though, I use public transport where the interactions have been both good and bad.
Sometimes people don’t instantly notice I still have mobility requirements, especially now that I’m walking independently, without crutches. Even though my prosthetic remains fairly obvious, many people never look down (especially when they’re using their mobile phones).
After four months away on sick leave (as a long-time public servant I’m lucky to have plenty of reserves), I returned to work part-time in November. At first, it was really hard balancing work with managing my diabetes and the additional demands of an amputation. I got tired pretty easily. It often felt like twice the effort compared to someone without an amputation. For example, walking 5,000 steps for me is akin to 10,000 for others.
The dedicated Wednesday off work for medical appointments and rehabilitation activities like swimming and physiotherapy has been a welcome relief. However, fatigue persists, sometimes forcing me to spend most weekends resting in bed.
My workplace (the ABC) has been wonderful, both at a personal level (lots of colleagues reaching out, visiting, and sending through gifts) and at a more institutional level by allowing me to work part-time. I’m optimistic about returning to full-time work later this year.
The amputee Facebook group I joined has been invaluable as a guide. Discussions there shed light on the varied experiences of returning to work for example. Some, like a bank employee facing ongoing medical challenges, have struggled for years even with a part-time return. Others, like a remarkable quad amputee, transitioned from part-time to full-time office work.
Challenges abound, though. One small business operator spoke on the group about a gradual return to running his business, until ultimately closing it due to compounded difficulties including pandemic-exacerbated mental health issues. However, there are also inspiring stories. A few weeks ago, the Sydney Morning Herald featured Joey, a young man from Newcastle who returned to work as a plasterer after two years. Now, he’s even training for the Paralympics! Go Joey!
For many, the journey back to work is arduous, and for some, it remains unattainable. The Facebook group truly helped me understand that everyone’s experience is different. There’s no single answer to the ever-present question for new amputees: “When can I return to work?”
As I approach my “stumpiversary” (as it’s sometimes known in amputee circles), I’m feeling both positive and reflective. I’m consciously aware of how lucky I have been, supported both institutionally and personally. But not everyone is so lucky. Many people struggle, find themselves isolated, or are unable to navigate the associated complexities.
Some Facts from Limbs for Life
In Australia, a significant number of people live with amputations, with estimates suggesting over 160,000 individuals as of 2019. This constitutes the highest physical disability in the country, particularly affecting those with major amputations (around 50,000). The amputee population is steadily growing at a rate of 2.2% per year. Interestingly, men are disproportionately affected, making up 72.9% of amputees compared to the general population. Australia also has a high proportion of diabetic-related amputations, ranking second within the OECD. The total cost of amputations in Australia was a substantial $1.7 billion in 2019/20.
Chinese Vegetables“Why did I buy that?”, was my first thought when I found a can of “Chinese mixed vegetables” in the cupboard.
“And is it still edible?” was my second thought.
After surveying the can, reading about the origin, the ingredients and so on I concluded it probably was still edible. “Edible yes” I concluded, but maybe not “advisable”.
It reminded me of when I moved from Wagga to Sydney and found some food at the back of the cupboard which I knew I hadn’t bought, and was presumably a left-over from the previous tenant.
In hindsight, the “Chinese mixed vegetables” were probably a “convenience buy”. At the time, I probably THOUGHT it was something that would assist in an easy week-night meal, but obviously never quite got around to using.
You know it’s a Monday night when you start doing the semi-regular process of cleaning out the kitchen cupboards, don’t you?
It’s perhaps one of those things you do when you’re quite busy and need a bit of time out to do something which maybe doesn’t require a lot of brain power. It’s what I call “stuffing envelopes” at work. In the midst of all the creative, strategic, blah blah stuff that you’re paid to do, sometimes you’ve just got to stuff envelopes to keep yourself both grounded and to give your mind some “time out”.
“I’m working quite hard at the moment”, I told a friend on the phone tonight to which he replied, “You ALWAYS work very hard”.
I’m kinda doing two jobs right now, both of them quite busy ones. As I left the office tonight I said to a couple of colleagues, “I think the tax payer got good value for money today”.
But in the midst of it all, there’s time for a bit of socialising. I have Swedish class on Wednesday night, a farewell drinks for a colleague on Thursday who is going to Melbourne to work on the 7pm Project (how GREAT is that!!), and then on Friday night, I’m off to a play.
In between, I’m hoping to see my friend, The Best Judge who is flying out to Sweden on the weekend for Stockholm Pride. Lucky bastard.
As for me? No plans for the weekend, though yet. Maybe more cleaning out of my food cupboards?
My last time at home was seven weeks ago when, in a semi-conscious state, I was transported to the hospital with the assistance of ambulance and police officers.
“What emotions or feelings might arise upon returning home?” my psychologist asked me this week. “I won’t know until I get there,” I replied.
And by “going home,” I don’t mean a permanent return at this stage. Many friends on Facebook have only half-read my post and mistakenly thought I was talking about leaving the hospital permanently. .
In the end, I didn’t experience strong emotions either way. Today, it was a “head over heart” experience.
For today’s brief visit to my apartment I was accompanied by a therapist and medical student. The purpose was to assess accessibility for when I can eventually leave the hospital. Can I navigate in and out of the apartment? Am I able to shower independently? What modifications, if any, might be necessary for me to live on my own? Activities such as getting in and out of bed, preparing coffee in the kitchen, taking a shower, and using my desk were all considered.
During these deliberations, the occupational therapist and I primarily focused on scenarios involving three modes of mobility: a prosthetic, a wheelchair, and a walking frame. Each of these options has its pros and cons. Factors like my reach height, overcoming the front door step of about 15cm, and maneuverability were taken into account. Some tasks can be accomplished using all these devices, including reaching the fridge. However, using a wheelchair presents challenges like surmounting the front step and accessing the kitchen counter.
“I’m going to recommend that you can’t return home without the limb,” the therapist told me, “as relying solely on a wheelchair would be too limiting. It would confine you to your house.” This is in step with all of the discussions I’ve had with the team here at the hospital.
The necessary modifications appear relatively minor. We discussed additions such as a shower chair, replacing my office chair with one that has lockable wheels, and acquiring an elevated armchair for better comfort than my couch. My apartment building is quite wheelchair-friendly already, featuring a remotely operated back gate and an elevator. However, we discussed the possibility of needing a ramp to access the apartment itself.
During my absence, friends and family thoroughly cleaned the house. I was impressed!!! And grateful. “You have a substantial collection of books and CDs,” Michelle noted, which prompted an internal reflection on whether I require additional storage space or, more likely, whether it’s time to make a donation to a charity store.
The other thing I’ll be selling sometime soon is my bike!
It was a so-so day at work, and so the first thing I did when I walked in the door – actually, the second thing I did, since the first was grab a glass of wine – was tune in to P3 – Svea.
P3 – Svea is an internet only radio station that only plays “ung svensk musik” (literally “young” but really they mean “new Swedish music”). It’s a reasonably eclectic – and therefore unpretentious – mix within the pop music genre, so you’re likely to hear everything from folk-inspired indie pop to rap and dance.
Thanks to P3, I’ve discovered a whole bunch of Swedish artists I would never have heard of just by following the charts.
The latest discovery tonight was a song called “Arrest Me ’til It Hurts” by a band (? – there’s only one bloke in the clip) called Deportees. The lead singer’s vocal style ranges from Prince to Chris Norman of Smokie.
Deportees – Arrest Me ’til It Hurts [Official Video]
It’s an interesting combination that works, especially with that great Swedish pop sensibility that’s made Sweden one of the world’s top music export nations. Wikipedia notes “The Consulate General of Sweden states they are the third biggest exporter of music in the world, after the United States and the United Kingdom”
Thanks to P3, I’ve discovered some other great performers, including Johan Brogert, Petter and Oskar LInnross, all of whom sing in Swedish.
Oskar Linnros – Från Och Med Du
Petter – Gör Min Dag feat. Magnus Carlson
Smalfilm – Johan Borgert
As the playlist notes, however, there’s an increasing number of Swedish performers who only sing in English, though others like Annika Norlin manage to combine both English and Swedish language careers. I discovered her Swedish language band Säkert! also thanks to P3 – Svea.
The station has no announcers: it’s an automated station that just plays music.
So yeah… a big thumbs up to Swedish Radio (SR) generally, and P3 Svea specifically for keeping me entertained and informed.
