Surprisingly (for the Swedish train system), the train back from Eskilstuna ran a little late. The turnaround between arriving home, and then heading to Ekerö left me with only a few minute to drop my bag off and have a shower. We were headed to the home of a Swedish-German couple I first met four years ago, Roger and Nici. They have a terrific house overlooking the water, including a wonderful small building right on the water. I guess in Australia, you would call it a boat shed, but it’s more like a summer house in some ways.
Over several hours we ate, drank and chatted. We also watched the weather change dramatically. At first fine, and then a few spots of rain, and finally sunny again. The light later in the afternoon in Sweden (and later at night) is like nothing we have in Australia. They have regular functions at the boat shed, and told a story here about how the weather for their Christmas Party was almost identical to that of their Midsummer Party, except it actually snowed at Midsummer, while Christmas remained fine.
That late night light was evident later in the evening, as I made my way, once again, to the spot near to the Hilton where I took a few more photographs. As you’ll see, there’ a certain magic seeing a blue sky at 11pm.
When Mitch Grant was 21 years old, his life took a sudden, irreversible turn. Just ten minutes after the New Year’s Eve fireworks, a motorbike accident on Lane Cove Road resulted in the loss of his left leg and a severe injury that left his left arm completely without function. Reflecting on his journey, Mitch stresses that recovery was never purely a physical battle. Instead, it was defined by a series of critical, paradigm-shifting conversations—some with family, some with strangers, and others with fellow amputees—that ultimately transformed his perspective from despair to purpose.
In the immediate aftermath of the trauma, Mitch underwent emergency surgery and was placed in an induced coma for four days to allow his body to stabilize, followed by four and a half weeks in the intensive care unit. Because of his heavy medication and fluctuating state, he struggled to retain information, forcing his parents into an agonizing cycle of repetition.
As Mitch recalls, “I would ask them, what am I doing here? Where am I… And then they’d have to tell me that I’ve had a motorbike accident. I’ve lost my leg… they had to do that three or four times a day for like three and a half, four weeks. To this day that still brings both my parents in tears when they talk about it”.
Recognizing the immense toll his condition was taking on his support network became his initial catalyst for internal strength. He realized he had two choices: succumb to depression and substance abuse, dragging his loved ones down with him, or resolve to “get up and get on with it”.
The true turning point occurred several weeks later on the hospital ward. After a highly distressing incident involving a bedpan—an experience that shattered his youthful sense of invincibility—Mitch retreated into a dark, isolated headspace. He pushed his parents away and refused visitors.
However, a desperate request from a nurse shortly after this low point changed everything. A 13-year-old boy in the adjacent room had recently lost his hand in a car accident and was struggling so heavily that he had been placed on suicide watch. Despite his initial reluctance, and questioning what a 21-year-old leg amputee could offer a young boy who had lost a hand, Mitch agreed to be wheeled into the room.
Their initial interaction was awkward and mostly silent, but Mitch left a standing fan in the boy’s room to help him cope with the summer heat. The following day, the boy requested Mitch return, sparking a genuine connection. Mitch notes, “We actually had a conversation for about an hour. We didn’t talk about being an amputee. We didn’t talk about our accident… We spoke about footy, spoke about school… We just spoke totally about random things, a lot about sport”. The boy was discharged shortly after, leaving behind a brief note of profound gratitude.
The impact of that simple exchange left a lasting impression on Mitch, who says, “And that was when I sort of realized, okay, it’s just a conversation, right? We didn’t have to talk about being an amputee… It was literally just a simple conversation. And it… helped me as much as I helped him… I realized the power of a voice and a story”. This human breakthrough proved that they did not need to dissect their shared traumas to provide mutual mental clarity.
Before the accident, Mitch was an apprentice carpenter. While his missing leg was manageable, the loss of function in his left hand made continuing in the trade unviable. Refusing to remain stationary, he shifted gears completely.
Alongside his father, he opened a gym franchise, hoping to create an inclusive community space where able-bodied and disabled individuals could train together.
His trajectory shifted once again when his mother relentlessly urged him to look into a revolutionary socket-free procedure known as osseointegration. After witnessing the fluid mobility of pioneering patient and Paralympian Brendan Burkett, Mitch chose to undergo the surgery. It eliminated the daily pain and instability of traditional sockets, making putting on his leg “as simple as putting on a pair of shoes”. This milestone led Mitch to volunteer as a global advocate for the procedure, eventually transitioning into his current primary career as a distributor of advanced prosthetic technology across Australia.
Holding a prosthetic arm and standing in front of some boxes of the many prosthetics he now distributes.
Through his global travels, Mitch has met individuals who continually reshaped his definition of resilience. One such figure was Michael Swaine, a British military veteran who lost both legs to an improvised explosive device (IED). Visiting Swaine in the United Kingdom provided Mitch with a sharp dose of perspective when Swaine insisted they walk to a local park with his young children and dog rather than take the car. Mitch remembers the interaction clearly: “He’s goes, ‘Where are you going?’ I go, ‘To the car.’ … And then he’s clicked and he’s gone, ‘You lazy bastard… You’re only missing one leg. I’m missing two.’ … This guy, he’s got two young kids… and a dog and he’s missing two legs and he’s taking the kids down the street to the park. Like, just blew my mind”.
Years later, when Mitch welcomed his own child, the memory of that conversation and the security provided by his osseointegration surgery gave him the absolute confidence to carry his infant safely. Ultimately, Mitch views his entire trajectory not as a tragedy, but as a series of open doors. He remains driven by the fundamental belief that sharing an average, relatable story can completely alter someone else’s outlook. For Mitch, recovery is defined entirely by one’s mindset, concluding that “It’s a big mental game. It’s gotta start with you. It’s not a physical game”.
Note: The audio from this conversation with Mitch will appear in the Limb Shift podcast launching in October, and which will be available on this website, Spotify, YouTube & Apple Podcasts.
I was briefly reminded today of the seminal 1980s Australia book and film, “Puberty Blues”. It’s a book/film about surfie culture (and gender) set at Cronulla in Sydney’s South in the 1970s.
As I recall from my middle years in high school, it was a book that was “handed around” at high school because of the large amount of graphic sexual detail it contained. I’m pretty sure you needed a note from your parents to borrow the book from the school library. Within a couple of years of reading the book, it was on the big screen with Nell Schofield starring, and a fantastic soundtrack.
What brought back the memory of “Puberty Blues” was catching the train to Cronulla. Although I don’t recall exactly where they got on, I found myself at one point surrounded by a bunch of teenage girls and their surfie boyfriends. The lingo may have changed, but the conversation could have been lifted directly from the pages/script of “Puberty Blues” as they made fun of the “Muriels” of the world. In this case, it was a group of Middle-Eastern guys also in the carriage.
I mention Muriel because of the similarities with “Muriel’s Wedding”. Growing up on the NSW North Coast – not far from Porpoise Spit – I knew those bitches who made fun of Muriel. I could name every one of them. And while I wasn’t Muriel – though I did sit in my room and listen to ABBA songs – I knew the girls who were “Muriel”.
Although it’s often said we turn into our parents at about the age of forty, I suspect it’s actually much earlier.
I was on my way for lunch with the ex, and then to catch up with a friend for coffee and to “meet” her new baby (nine months old). Both experiences were lots of fun. Baby Emily and I have similar faces and hair-lines, so naturally we connected well.
On arriving back in the city, I helped a friend set up his television for the new digital services, and re-configured his internet connection over a month overseas.
“Oh God, what have I been listening to?” was my response when I realised on the bus tonight the headphone plug on my phone was loose, and that I had been giving everyone else a taste of my musical collection.
It was then I realised I’d been on a Magnus Carlsson “fest”.
Magnus is a Swedish pop star who was previously in the bands Barbados and Alcazar and who now performs solo. At the moment, he’s my “most played artist” according to Last FM. I think he’s great!
Along with Peter Joback and Andreas Lunstedt, he’s also fast becoming one of Sweden’s most famous poofs, having married his partner. As part of Swedish homework this week, we’ve all been given a gossip magazine to translate, and I’m translating an article about him.
So of course, I’d been listening to “I’m Happy, I’m Carefree And I’m Gay”, “Walking In My Shoes”, and his wonderful duet Swedish version of Donna Summer’s “On The Radio”.
All very camp, you must admit, though it was possibly “Wrap Myself In Paper” from Magnus’ Christmas album that sent me over the edge.
Or here’s the full song…
You know it’s christmas in a week and a day and I just can’t figure out what to give away So I just wrap myself in paper for you baby
Don’t you just love him?
No one on the bus seemed to object to the noise, though, which is a good thing.
“I’m glad I don’t have to use the Tube every day,” I told my Australian friend who has lived in London for almost exactly ten years.
The night before, she had been a wonderful guide and support, navigating us through the damp tunnels, the sudden stairs, and the grey, rainy weather of a weekday peak hour. For me, London is a place of deep unfamiliarity—it’s been 18 years since my last visit, and in that time, my physical reality has shifted completely. As a lower right leg amputee, the stakes of city travel have changed. The possibility of falling in the rain or losing my footing on a slick staircase is no longer a minor annoyance; it’s a genuine risk. I also have osteoporosis, and only twelve months ago, I broke my hip and had a full replacement after a fall on a simple footpath.
While my friend had coached me through the transfers the previous night, last night I was determined to make it on my own. We were due to meet at the ABBA Arena in the London Olympic precinct. She was travelling from work, and I was coming from a matinee show in the West End. Thanks to Google Gemini, I had a set of directions that involved a few different lines and changes. On paper, it looked simple; in reality, it was an exhausting gauntlet.
The mental exhaustion came from the sheer density of the crowd. The London Underground is the oldest subterranean railway in the world, and you can feel that age in its cramped, narrow carriages. Getting on and off involved a series of tactical decisions: Which hand goes on which rail? How far is the gap between the platform and the carriage? Because of the risk of falling, I absolutely needed a seat.
In Sydney, this is rarely an issue. I almost always wear shorts, and the sight of my prosthetic is usually a visible “pass” that prompts people to stand up before I even have to ask. The biggest issue I’m finding is getting people to look up from their mobile phones and notice me. Lots of other people with disability and generally older often complain about this. But in the London chill, tucked behind long pants, my disability was invisible. I found myself standing in a packed carriage, swaying unsteadily, scanning the faces of those in the priority seats. I was looking for a flicker of eye contact, a moment of recognition that I was struggling, but everyone was buried in their phones or staring at the floor.
Eventually, I had to speak up. “Excuse me, could I please have a seat? I’m an amputee,” I said to a young man in a designated spot. He looked up, confused, his eyes trailing down to my perfectly normal-looking denim jeans. I felt the heat rise in my neck as I realized I had to justify my existence. “I have a prosthetic leg,” I added, my voice a bit tighter. He moved, but there was a lingering look of skepticism, as if he thought I was just a tired tourist trying a cheeky line to get off my feet.
A few stops later, after a change of lines, the same dance happened again. This time, I had to explain the hip replacement too, just to be sure they understood the fall risk. Each exchange felt like a mini-negotiation of my dignity. I’m not sure they all believed me, and frankly, I shouldn’t have to convince a stranger of my medical history just to travel safely.
It was during that second train leg that I reached a conclusion: I needed to stop explaining and start showing. I resolved that for the rest of my time on the Underground, I would roll my jeans up. Back home, showing the leg takes zero explanation; it is a silent, immediate communicator of need. By revealing the carbon fibre and the socket, the social friction simply evaporates.
It’s a strategy I’ll carry through to airport security later this trip, too. There’s no “surprise” when the metal in my leg or my hip sets off the scanners if the officers can see exactly what they’re looking at. There is a certain power in making the invisible visible—it’s not about “showing off” the disability, but about reclaiming the ease of movement that comes when you don’t have to talk your way into a seat.
The physical exhaustion of London is real. Only about a third of the 272 Tube stations have step-free access. At Russell Square, the PA system warns you of 176 steps if the lifts are out. To a man with a prosthetic and a metal hip, that’s not a staircase; it’s a cliff face. In my entire journey, I didn’t see a single person using a wheelchair, which speaks volumes about how difficult this “heritage” system is to navigate.
By the time I reached the shimmering lights of the ABBA Arena, I was spent. But I had made it. I had navigated the world’s oldest maze on my own terms, and as I sat in those brilliant disability seats they’d organised for me, I felt the satisfaction of independence. Next time, though, the jeans are staying rolled up.
I caught up with some friends tonight who’ve recently bought an apartment together.
They lived together for a long time, and then lived alone, and now they’re back living together.
And this time, they’ve bought an apartment together which they’re slowwwwwwly getting ready for inhabitation.
You might recall I helped last year in the removal process, which was quite speedy.
Getting the apartment ready is a far slower process, as they’re spending most weekends looking for curtains, carpet, organising painting and so on. I’ve learned some interesting things through their efforts, such as Birkenhead Point being a waste of space as a shopping centre, and IKEA selling non-standard Australian size quilts and sheets.
Anyway, it was great to be the first Australian citizen to see their apartment, and it looks great.
Aside from that, it’s been a day of work, and also visiting my friend who is in hospital at the moment. He’s in better shape now than he was before I went home to Lismore, though still not well.
“I can’t hear you and I can barely see you”, a colleague laughingly told me last night, as we sat opposite each other at Sydney’s legendary live music venue, The Basement. For a moment, my colleague and I were in stitches when we realised why we spend most nights at home, despite our youthful days of going to see live bands and going out clubbing,
We were there for the final of the ABC Radio/ABC TV band competition, “Exhumed” which has been going to air on my employer, ABC Local Radio, and which goes to air as a five-part television series later in the year on ABC TV. As the website describes it…
This is not The Voice. We are not looking for a great undiscovered singer. It’s not X Factor or Idol – we are not about to create a new pop sensation. This is about recognising that there’s a lot of great passionate, inspired music making going on that we want to celebrate.
Of all the bands who played in the Sydney final last night, there was only which I really liked musically. It was a band with a Tanzanian-born lead singer who sang in Swahili to a musical accompaniment that sounded very “Southern African”. Although musically-speaking I didn’t really like the others, I absolutely loved the passion they all brought to the stage. The winning band was called “Self Tort” whose lead singer/songwriter (I thought) had both elements of Van Morrison and Neil Murray in his song-writing and performance. It was a fun night.
The Onesie
On the way home on the bus I shared another great laugh with two women. As we passed the queue of young people lining up outside to enter the Oxford Art Factory, we laughed out loud and grabbed our phones to quickly snap a photograph when we saw what they were wearing. The onesie is the latest fashion creation of today’s young adult which sees them dressing in child-pyjama-like animal costumes. Yes seriously.
Every generation has its fad that it later looks back upon and laughs about (ours was high-hair) but this one takes the cake! :) It looks like I’m now officially middle-aged.
