The last week or so has been crazy busy. Though part of me thinks “I’ve been busy, but haven’t really done much”, I really have. I’ve been to the theatre, I’ve had wonderful dinners with colleagues and with friends. I’ve also gone on some wonderful walks around my neighbourhood. And another adventure is about to commence. In the meantime, here’s some photographs from the last week. Hopefully the captions mean something.
The delivery of meals at Sacred Heart Rehabilitation, within Sydney’s St. Vincent’s Hospital, operates like a well-oiled machine, at 7 am, 12 noon, and 5 pm. To prepare, there is a daily ritual that involves completing a green paper form, and ticking boxes for meals spanning the next 36 hours. This system works pretty well, with the only exception being when my room became a COVID case zone, necessitating phone orders which sometimes went a little awry.
A fellow patient told me during our morning gym session you can make special requests beyond the printed menu. She , like me, is a prune enthusiast who, despite their omission from the menu, successfully obtained some by simply writing the word “prunes” on the menu. I’m now inspired to follow suit. It will help keep me “regular”.
As we did our physiotherapy, a group discussion in the gym began, dissecting the menu’s merits and flaws. A physiotherapist championed the “orange jelly” as a standout item, while my preference leaned towards the high-protein, high-energy porridge. Our consensus deemed the zucchini frittata tasteless and the scrambled eggs rather pedestrian. The salads are excellent!
Considering the diverse dietary requisites and the huge output, the food is pretty amazing.
“Prune Lady” remarked, “I’ve become quite the connoisseur of hospital cuisine during my four-month tenure.” In reply, I suggested that perhaps we could do a TV show, travelling from hospital to hospital :)
In the meantime, here are some of the meals I’ve enjoyed.
I mean, you don’t eat chips for their nutritional value, do you? They might be low fat and low salt and healthy, but what’s the point of chips if they don’t taste like chips? Twisties are great, of course, but they do sit a little oddly with beer, you must admit.
So it was our usual Wednesday night at the pub sitting around telling silly stories, remembering funny anecdotes, and flirting with the bar staff who, apparently refer to us – lovingly – as “The Mothers Club”.
On a Wednesday night, however, we’re the only regulars at the pub.
And when it came time for badge draw, we realised pretty quickly we had about a one-in-six chance of winning. Graeme is now $100 richer, which I’m sure will go towards his travel plans for later this year.
It’s been a while since I tried a new sport, especially after my experiences with wheelchair fencing and wheelchair basketball. Don’t get me wrong, they’re fantastic sports, but since I don’t typically use a wheelchair, they never really clicked for me. It’s tough to get into something when the fundamental equipment doesn’t match how you move in daily life. But today, I decided to give something else a shot: assisted standing tennis.
This isn’t your typical tennis. It’s a version of the game designed for players with physical disabilities who play while standing, often using prosthetics, like me. The rules are modified to make it more accessible. For example, players can take an extra bounce, or even three bounces depending on their specific needs. It’s all about adapting the game to the person, which feels much more inclusive than forcing a person to adapt to the game.
The biggest hurdles were my balance and a fear of falling. My physiotherapist and I talk a lot about the challenges for lower-limb amputees, and these sessions always focus on building core strength and stability to improve my movement and reduce my fall risk.
Those were exactly the things I struggled with today. The fear of falling was particularly bad, especially after I broke my hip earlier in the year. When the ball came toward me, my instinct was to freeze. I just couldn’t figure out how to move quickly without feeling like I was going to topple over.
Despite my awkwardness, it was a genuinely great experience. Everyone, from the organizers to the other players, was incredibly welcoming. I even ended up playing with a kid who was probably around 11, and he was absolutely incredible—a far better player than me!
People were so helpful, and someone even loaned me a racket. Marita, the organizer, checked in with me to see how I was doing. When I explained my struggles, she was so understanding. She mentioned that there’s a physiotherapist who specializes in this sport, and I’ll be following up with her to see if I can get some specific lessons/advice.
This experience has already given me a new goal to work on with my own physiotherapist. I think that with some targeted practice on my balance and strength, I could actually get the hang of this. It’s a huge relief to find a sport that feels like a real fit, and I’m excited to see where this journey takes me.
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.
And tonight was a normal Monday television night.
It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m at work. The last week or so has been a blur. As it was a week dominated by work, I’m struggling to remember much of what happened, aside from work.
As for my social life? The highlight, I guess, was going to the Central Coast last night for the monthly dance put on by “Coastal Connections” at the Wyong Tennis Club. It was a last minute decision to go. I was sitting at home watching the new ABBA DVD, and was reminded of a quote from “Muriel’s Wedding”. When I lived in Porpoise Spit, I used to sit in my room for hours and listen to Abba songs. But since I’ve met you and moved to Sydney, I haven’t listened to one Abba song. That’s because my life is as good as an Abba song. It’s as good as Dancing Queen. It was the sudden realisation that I live in Sydney, my life is pretty good, and that I should not spend a Saturday night alone at home watching “The Bill”, that made me decide it was time for an adventure. So, I called Graeme, asked if he wanted to go and we caught the 5.17 from Central Station.
As inviting as the nearby caravan park looked, Graeme had booked accommodation at the Central Coast Motel, just down the road from the Wyong Tennis Club, where the dance was to be held. We were told it was about 800m from Wyong Railway Station so we thought it would be okay to walk. It wasn’t. It was quite a long 800m through parkland. nyhow that was okay. We booked in, watched a little of “Perfect Match” and then, thanks to the Wyong Tennis Club Courtesy Bus made our way to the dance.
We realised almost straight away that we had arrived far too early. There were still traces of the so-called normal tennis club crowd enjoying their roast dinner and poker machine activities. We sensed straight away the guy on the door wasn’t too happy about the two crowds mixing, so he made a big point of us having to be signed in by a member. After fifteen minutes or so a couple of lovely ladies arrived. We explained the situation. They signed us in. And so there we were… we played Keno, we drank beer, we chatted and waited… and waited…and waited. And then finally some other people arrived.
Overall it was a good fun night and we spoke to quite a few locals. Some of them were quite lovely. Others were quite insane. Some of the boys were cute, the music was mostly Top 40 style pop, which went down a treat – they played “Crying At The Discotheque” and the beers were cheap. What more could you want?
Graeme has a different “take” on things. Unpublishable, really!!!
Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.