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I never used to really understand the appeal of Instagram. It sounded like something I’d like, but I just couldn’t get into it. I’d posted a few photos from my adventures, but whenever I went onto it I used to mainly get quite questionable content on my feed. I eventually learned that you have to train the algorithm by liking the sort of content you actually want to see, which back then was mainly sea kayaking related. I still didn’t use it very much though.

Since my amputation I’ve found a new purpose for engaging with Instagram as it’s allowed me to connect with similar amputees. I’ve found seeing their progress and the adventures they’re getting up to be inspiring, which has encouraged me to post my own content in the hope that this might be useful to others.

It’s six months since my operation and I’ve noticed something about how I use Instagram. When looking at my own feed, I don’t ever scroll down to my pre-amputation pictures and I’m engaging less and less with sea kayaking content. I realise there is a connection with some other little things I’ve noticed as well. For example, I’ve changed my profile picture on all my social media accounts as I didn’t like the one I’d been using before as it was the ‘old’ me. I’ve also noticed that whenever I go into our garage, I seem to avoid looking at all the bikes, kayaks and canoes which I’m not currently using.

There is another related symptom of whatever this is. Every year since our kids were little I’ve made a compilation video of our various family highlights. I’ve still not made one for 2024 and it’s almost 2026! I realise that I’m struggling to engage with old photos and videos of me. It’s not so much seeing me with my old leg – it’s more to do with seeing that person, who is no longer around.

I don’t regret the amputation at all. The previous version of me was in a lot pain, and I’m only now beginning to realise the extent to which this was affecting me. However, whilst the old me wasn’t able to walk much – he was able to go out kayaking, canoeing and cycling on a very regular basis, which was a big part of who I was.

I share this observation with my psychologist and she again expertly talks me through this. She explains that this is probably a form of grief as whilst I will hopefully be able to do more of those activities again in the future, as I’m not currently able to I’m slowly coming to terms with the loss of who I was before. She advises me to to just notice this for now and not to push myself to get through it.

This was a number of weeks ago now, and I am beginning to work my way through whatever this was. I’m increasingly able to engage with old pictures of myself, which is helped by managing to get out in a canoe a couple of times. I’ve even managed to include a pre-operation photo in this post – this was my last kayaking trip before my amputation.

I’ve still not made that 2024 video though…maybe it’ll have to be a joint one with 2025 this time!

I’m on my lunchtime walk through the woods, which wasn’t something I was able to do before.

It’s about six months since my amputation and things are going well. I’m in a lot less pain now, and crucially, my pain is lower than it has been for years. As a result, I’m beginning to feel that I’m transitioning from ‘recovering from an amputation’ to ‘being an amputee’.

I’ve also been back at work for a couple of months now and I feel different. After having been off work for so long I’d planned on my return to mainly listen to begin with and slowly regrow my confidence, but that’s not what’s happening! I seem to be more confident than I was before the op and I find myself getting stuck in from the outset.

I’m so surprised by this turn of events that I’m keen to understand why. I speak to my coach, my manager and do some reading which leads me to a few conclusions:

• I’ve got through this major life-changing event which has grown my confidence to overcome future obstacles.
• I’ve got a different perspective now on what’s worth worrying about.
• The chronic pain I was living in before, and the resulting lack of sleep, was probably affecting me much more than I’d realised.

Whatever the reasons, it’s a liberating feeling which is very hard describe.

In amongst all this it really dawns on me that maybe I have achieved something. I’ve been so focused on getting through it day by day, I’ve never really seen it that way before.

I take a moment to enjoy the feeling, then I get back to work.

I’m stressed. Again! What is it this time?

It’s Monday evening and I’m in a right grump. It doesn’t seem right as I’ve had an amazing weekend doing lots of things for the first time since my op, but something’s not quite right. It could be that I’ve had a frustrating evening trying to update my wife’s laptop, without success. But that doesn’t quite add up.

I take myself off to bed early and try to enact some of my learning from the book Radical Acceptance. I let myself feel whatever it is I’m feeling and try to explore what’s really going on.

It’s the future that’s unsettling me.

Up until recently I’ve tried really hard to stay in the moment as much as possible. I’ve tried not to look too far ahead or set myself goals which are outwith my control. But that’s becoming a little unrealistic as normal life increasingly returns.

This past weekend we’ve been giving some thought to what we might do next summer. We normally pootle around Europe in a campervan loaded with bikes and boats each summer and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to manage that next year. If I’m not able, we’ve been wondering if we might need a different campervan. Or a different plan all together.

I’m trying to think through multiple possible futures with no real idea how likely each of them is. I’m then spending too much time researching multiple possible solutions for each of these futures and it has all become too much.

When I share all this with my psychologist later she describes the psychological load which many disabled people face when trying to plan for multiple possible eventualities. This is exactly how it feels.

Back on that stressed Monday evening, I’ve now unleashed a flood. By letting myself really experience what I’m feeling I’m overcome with a wave of emotion. Some of it is the weight of the psychological load, but some of it is grieving for the futures which will never be.

My stress turns into anxiety which continues to haunt me the following day. I’ve learnt from previous experiences of anxiety how to cope with it, and I’m lucky that I happen to be seeing my psychologist that very afternoon. She helps me see it all from a different perspective, which really helps.

Facing the future for the first time was overwhelming, but I now see that it was a necessary step. I can’t live in the moment for ever. As a family we need to be able to make plans, and I’m getting better at joining in with this without it becoming all consuming.

We decide to keep our beloved campervan for now and see what comes.

It’s new leg day!

Whilst I’m getting on well with my current leg, I’ve had it since six weeks after my operation so it’s absolutely massive.

After the amputation your stump is very swollen and very gradually it comes done over time. So when you get cast for your first leg, they have to make it big enough so that you can get it on. As the swelling reduces you have to wear more and more ‘socks’ to pad out the space. Eventually you reach a point where they add more padding into the leg itself, but I’m now at the stage where it’s time for a smaller leg.

As I’ve been making such great progress with my first leg, I’ve got grand expectations about how much I’m going to be able to push on once I’ve got my new, better fitting, leg.

It’s not as good.

The fit just isn’t right, and there isn’t capacity in the workshop to do anything about it. I just have to put up with it.

It occurs to me that where I went wrong was having an expectation of what a new leg will be like. I expected it to be automatically better than my old one, but this was never guaranteed. The problem isn’t that my new leg isn’t fitting great yet, it’s that I had the wrong mindset going into the process.

Next time, I’ll be more careful not to get my hopes up.

I should be enjoying this!

I’m out on my prosthetic leg and I’m halfway across the beach. It’s a few months since my op and this is the first time I’ve attempted this. This beach is not easy to access so it’s a long time since I’ve been here and it suddenly occurs to me that I should be appreciating it more.

It’s not that I’m not enjoying it. Each time I’ve gone out on my leg and made some progress, it feels amazing. But that’s a different type of enjoyment. What I mean is that rather than enjoying making progress with my rehab, I could actually just be enjoying walking on the beach like everyone else.

Later when I share this with the psychologist who is supporting me she comes up with the perfect analogy of learning to drive. Those of us who have been driving for many years can enjoy going for a drive, but someone who is only beginning to learn to drive doesn’t. They’re so focused on all the various aspects of driving that they’re not generally able to enjoy it. Once driving becomes second nature, we can look around and appreciate the passing scenery.

Learning to walk with a prosthetic is much the same. Every step involves a huge amount of concentration and there isn’t much bandwidth left over. But as walking gradually becomes innate again, you can look up and soak in the view.

Back on the beach I do exactly that. For a small moment I’m not ‘practicing my walking’ but rather ‘going for a walk’.

The distinction seems small, but for me it’s massive.

I’m so exhausted. It’s a not a pleasant form of tiredness, I feel drained. I didn’t think going on holiday would be so hard!

It’s about four months since my operation and we’ve gone abroad on holiday. After being stuck in the house for almost a year, apart from my hospital stints, we decided it would be good to get away in the summer. We normally spend much of July each year pootling around Europe in our campervan, but that’s not really an option this year.

We’ve therefore decided to take it easy by booking a wheelchair accessible villa in Menorca. It’s absolutely perfect, but after about three days I’m broken and questioning if we’ve done the right thing.

Before we came away I felt ready for it. I’ve been working hard on getting to grips with my prosthetic leg and psychologically I feel good too. I was quite anxious about the travel, but that’s to be expected and it all worked out to plan in the end.

I realise that whilst I’ve made a lot of progress since the operation with those two aspects of recovery, I’ve forgotten about a third. My overall wellbeing and fitness is much lower than a year ago and I’m just not able to do as much as I would like. I simply can’t do everything we want to do as a family.

I remember hearing about spoon theory and decide that I need my own currency for working out how much I can manage each day. We decide to call my version “stumpies” and we work out how much each activity costs me and what my daily limit should be. When we add up the past few days it’s little wonder I’m so exhausted!

I go for a nap.

Why am I so suddenly so stressed? You would think getting your leg amputated would be the most stressful thing you could do in a year, but apparently not!

It’s now three months since the operation and my blood pressure is through the roof. I’m beginning the process of formally returning to work and getting ready to go abroad on a holiday, but I’m surprised just how much these two things are affecting me.

Then I remember, it’s a long time since I’ve had to think about more than one thing. It seems strange to say, but in many ways I think the amputation process has been harder on my wife than it has been on me. Throughout it I’ve been almost completely focused on the operation and my recovery, whereas my wife has had to deal with that along with absolutely everything else it takes to keep a family running – and her full time job!

So while I’m still spending a lot of my time thinking about my leg, I’m beginning to have to deal with some other things too. Not only is this normal, it shows I’m making progress and returning to life. As with all other things, it will get easier with time.

And obviously, a huge thank you to my better half for everything!

It’s about three months since my amputation and I’m getting on well with the prosthetic leg. To begin with it was very challenging to use as my stump was so swollen. Every morning I would have to squeeze it into the leg and add lots of ‘socks’ throughout the day as it shrunk. By the end of day it wasn’t too painful, but it swelled back up overnight and I’d start the whole thing again the next morning.

Things have settled down a bit now and I’m able to wear the leg for most of the day but over the past few days I’ve noticed that I’ve been finding taking my leg off at the end of the day increasingly psychologically challenging.

When I came round following the surgery I was surprised how much of a shock it was that the leg was gone, especially as I’d been waiting for months for the op. However, over the following six weeks I’d very much got used to being an amputee. What’s odd now is that for much of the time it increasingly feels as though my leg is back!

It’s 11pm and there’s a storm. I’m lying awake in bed listening to the howling gale and the crashing rain. It’s one of those unexpected, but violent, summer night storms. Everyone else in the house is fast asleep. I suddenly remember that we’ve left the windows in our spare room wide open and I become concerned about the computers on the desk below that window getting damaged by the rain.

My wife is fast asleep. She’s not been feeling well and I know she’s very tired and needing a good sleep. I decide I can’t wake her, but it’s going to be too much faff to put my leg on and walk through to the spare room. I decide to crawl through and sort it.

I’ve not had to crawl for weeks now and it comes as a bit of a shock. I’ve not felt this vulnerable for some time. I realise that as I wear my prosthetic leg longer each day, and I’m able to do increasingly more with it, a larger and larger gap is opening up between how I feel with it on compared to how I feel when I take it off at night. It’s almost as if I’m adjusting to the amputation again, every night.

I’m not sure there’s much I can do about this, but at least knowing that’s what’s troubling me each evening feels like a step in the right direction.

Whilst my disability is now very obvious, I’ve actually been disabled for quite some time now. Before my operation I increasingly walked with crutches and used a wheelchair rather than attempting to walk long distances. In order to limit the amount of walking I had to do, I would often wait in the car whilst my family went on errands.

Just now, apart from the change in the appearance of my left leg, things seem much the same on the outside. I walk with crutches or sticks and if needing to go a longer distance I use a wheelchair.

Today my son and I nip up to the high street to go to a couple of shops. As we park and unclip our seat belts he offers to go to the shops on his own. But I’ve deliberately come with him in order to practice my walking.

It dawns on me that whilst things seem the same, I’m actually in quite a different place. Rather than walking as little as possible, my challenge now is to gradually increase the amount of walking I’m doing so I hop out of the car and join him.

Over the coming days I notice that the other members of my family also offer to do things for me and I take the opportunity to point out this shift in mindset.

We live on the coast and before my operation I did quite a bit of sea kayaking. Nothing too adventurous, but I would get out on the water as often as the conditions would allow.

Since the surgery I’ve tried not to think too much about how and when I’ll be able to get back out on the water. However, the road to the swimming pool I go to takes me past one of my favourite stretches of coastline to paddle.

Today the sea is perfectly calm and it looks like a glorious day for a paddle. On the way to the pool I end up pondering how on earth I’ll be able to get back to paddling the way I used to. It just feels frustratingly far off right now.

I have a great swim and on the drive home I look out again across the glassy water and it occurs to me that maybe I won’t get back to paddling the way I used to. Maybe on some of the days I used to go for a paddle, I’ll now go for a swim instead. I’m sure I will get out on the water again, but it might not be in the same way I used to.

Rather than upsetting me, this realisation is almost a relief. I can stop trying to get back to what I used to be, and focus on accepting how I am now and making the most of it.

My life is different now. Hopefully in many positive ways, but there will be compromises which I didn’t have to make before – and that’s ok.