IT NEVER RAINS
Excerpts from the autobiography
By Wesley Stokes
Edited by strzeka. (Please see The Limbs which will provide background for these excerpts)
Chapter Three (excerpts)
[…]
I was just about to present a forecast when the itching began. I was wearing new socks and off–handedly thought that they should have been washed first. There might be something in the fabric which my skin was reacting to. I wanted to take my shoes off and scratch but there was no time for anything like that. I completed the segment as usual, trying to ignore the maddening itch. As soon as I returned to the dressing room, I whipped off my shoes and socks and scratched my feet. It brought temporary relief. I put my socks and shoes back on and shortly left for home.
I went barefoot for the rest of the evening. Kelvin and I relaxed on our sofa, me with my feet curled under me. They still itched occasionally but I was engrossed in the film and paid little attention to my feet. At bedtime, I glanced at them and realised I had scratched so much I had drawn blood in two places. The itch was almost gone and did not disturb my sleep.
But it continued. I cannot claim to have grown used to it because it was a continual annoyance but I was wary of scratching any further sores. I tried a couple of ointments which brought slight relief for a few minutes. After a week or so, I noticed one morning that the torment was gone. I was ridiculously happy about it, so much so that Kelvin asked what I was smiling about. He was happy for me too. I had become rather short-tempered because of the constant annoyance and although I was careful not to take it out on Kelvin, he had understood enough to be cautious. We had spoken less and there had been a definite change in the air. With any luck, the whole episode was behind us.
A few days later, I noticed the numbness and onset of paralysis. My toes felt different when I massaged them. Not exactly cold but somehow unresponsive and I was surprised at how little sensation there was. I am not particularly ticklish, but fondling my toes and the soles of my feet should feel tender. I could sense pressure. I tried wriggling my toes to bring some circulation back in an attempt to warm them. The big toes moved but the other four stayed in place. I was tired of the whole business and paid it no more attention. I had other things to think about. We were starting a new research project at work and I was trying to plan a course of study with an eye to the practical implications for urban centres around the country. My toes were very much a lower priority.
It is time to make an uncomfortable admission. I am one of those rare people who have a fetishistic interest in physical disabilities, mainly amputation. I am fascinated by the myriad ways in which a missing limb has been remedied throughout the centuries, from so-called pirate hooks for a missing hand to hand carved wooden peg legs for those missing a leg. It happens rarely but when I see the distinctive limp of a man wearing an artificial leg on the street, I pay very close attention. I watch his gait, the movement of the false leg and I look at the general demeanour of the wearer. I used to be ashamed to derive pleasure from enjoying someone else’s misfortune until I was mature enough to realise that no-one could read my thoughts and I was safe with my fascination as long as I never spoke of it. So when I noticed that I had become paralysed from my ankles to my toes, I was excited and interested rather than horrified and upset. My own flesh and blood was creating something very similar to the lower part of an artificial leg. If it continued, I would be walking with unfeeling legs and feet, exactly like an amputee with two artificial legs without needing to go through the inconvenience of amputation.
It would be an exaggeration to claim that the new sensation, or lack of it, was a carefree descent into a fascinating disability, one which I had fantasized about many times over the years. My feet had lost all sense of touch. I could still move my toes and ankles with my hands. They were not rigid but I could no longer move them voluntarily. My feet had begun to drop slightly and I corrected this new fault by wearing boots which I could bind tightly to keep my feet at ninety degrees. Even so, I began to find it a little difficult to walk. I could no longer propel myself forward with no toe or ankle movement. The solution was traditional enough. I needed a pair of walking sticks. I had no idea where such items could be purchased and a quick search on-line threw up the name of Smith’s Umbrella & Walking Stick Shop in Holborn. One Saturday, I suggested to Kelvin that he accompany me for a ride into town. We could pick up a couple of walking sticks, wander through Soho and have a meal out. By lunchtime, I was the proud owner of a pair of matching walking sicks, the cheapest possible, the same kind as foisted on pensioners by the health service. I happened to find them desirable objects despite their conspicuously light unvarnished wood and utterly basic shape. Smith’s were kind enough to adjust the length of my sticks so I would be as comfortable using them as possible. I noticed how my hands were now occupied with holding the sticks’ handles. I had, in a sense, disabled myself still further. Not only were my feet immovable and senseless, I had also lost the use of my hands. I did not find it distasteful. The handles were smooth and a comfortable size. We walked along Charing Cross Road while I imagined everyone looking at a strangely familiar face from somewhere who walked with not one but two walking sticks. I found it exciting. We had an enormous lunch in a Chinese restaurant. It was the last time we would dine out as full-bodied men.
Chapter Four (excerpts)
[…]
I waddled back to the bedroom and lay down next to Kelvin. As always, he put his arm under my head and I fell asleep enjoying the familiar scent of his masculine sweat. During the night, we moved apart but we always touched. My hand on his chest. His hand on mine or on my head. Kelvin always wanted to touch my face and head. It was a gesture so tender and full of love that I endured it even when it was not especially comfortable. Kelvin was, and still is, my world. The only man who had understood me and tolerated me. Although, let it be said, I am not a promiscuous man and had little experience before I met Kelvin and we clicked.
Kelvin shook me awake. It was time to get up, more or less. He was ten minutes early but I expected him to throw himself across my belly and tousle my hair and scratch my stubble. He had the most extraordinary expression on his face and threw back the quilt, pointing at my feet. I was horrified. They were black and blue, my lower legs were a sickly green shade and there was a disgusting smell which only intensified when I tried to pull myself up. Kelvin pointed at my feet and claimed they had not been in such a condition the previous evening. That much was true.
Kelvin opened the window to clear the air and started coffee. He came back to see if I needed help in some way. I had simply been staring at my hideous feet, not wanting or even daring to touch them. Kelvin finally held one of my feet and asked if I could feel anything. I could not. There was no pain, no proprioception. After getting over the initial shock, I got up and was relieved to find that I could still walk, after my fashion. We had breakfast and Kelvin persuaded me that it was high time I sought out a doctor.
I contacted our private family doctor and apologised for disturbing him. I must have sounded convincing because he made time in his schedule and insisted that I arrive that morning for a consultation. Without admitting it, he professed to not knowing enough about my symptoms but warned me that the situation was far more serious than I had thought. Almost apologetically, he mentioned the word ‘amputation’. I was surprised, positively. Having fantasized for years about somehow getting a stump of my own, the imminent prospect of a pair was a tremendous boost to my mood. He referred me to a colleague at Roehampton Hospital and Kelvin and I went there directly from his surgery.
Dr Bryant May met us as old friends, pleased to have a referral from someone as respected and learned as my doctor. I was as pleased to meet him. Roehampton is renowned for a certain aspect of surgery and I was building up my hopes of experiencing it myself. I hauled myself along with my walking sticks to his examination room and repeated what I had explained only an hour before. Dr May had recently read a report on a new syndrome, provisionally called RNDS, which was causing some raised eyebrows in the medical communities of Europe and the USA. It shared similarities with CRPS, but whereas that caused intense pain, RNDS had the exact opposite effect. I was the first patient presenting with the syndrome at Roehampton and Dr May was enthusiastic about seeing it for himself until I removed my boots. The odour was like the smell of death. Gangrene.
Dr May put on a face mask and neoprene gloves and studied my feet and ankles. He called two of his associates to inspect me. After a few minutes, they left to discuss my situation among themselves in private, leaving Kelvin and myself to wonder what the next stage would be. Dr May looked suitably serious on his return.
– We have no chance of salvaging your legs, Wesley. You have gangrenous tissue, or pre‑gangrenous tissue, almost to your calves. Under normal circumstances, I would recommend disarticulation of your lower legs, that is to say, amputations through your knees, but if you agree, I will endeavour to save your knees and leave you with short stumps to allow you to wear a pair of below knee prosthetic legs to replace your own.
I did agree. Ideally, I would have preferred two stumps half the length of my thighs but I felt it was important in the name of medical research to act as a guinea pig. I could envision myself walking on two rigid unfeeling prostheses because I had been walking on two rigid unfeeling natural legs for several weeks. Dr May filled out some forms on-line while I said good bye to Kelvin and I was shortly taken to theatre to have my rotting feet removed.
Next morning I was back to my usual perky self and curious to know what my stumps looked like. They were beneath tented sheets which confirmed that something serious had been done. Dr May arrived shortly after breakfast with two or three others and explained what he had done and what the prognosis was. I would be up and about on my prosthetic feet within a few weeks. Until then I would be in a wheelchair as soon as my stumps were robust enough. I endured the boredom of being bed-bound for a few days. I streamed a couple of series on my phone and researched the latest in prosthetic legs. The pair I was getting would be bog standard which I was perfectly happy to use. My stumps were healing well under the pressure bandages and I was promised they would be a good shape once the swelling subsided.
I returned home fifteen days after my amputations. Kelvin was overjoyed to have me back. He had been bored out of his mind on his own. He does not bear loneliness well. I sat in my chair with my short stumps hanging over the edge of the seat, gripped firmly in shrinkers to mould my flesh into perfect cylindrical stumps. I should have paid attention to the fact that my stumps were not sensitive. They were almost completely pain free. Since these were my first amputations, I had nothing to compare the situation with. I wonder now if Dr May and I jointly made the correct decision to leave some stump at this stage. It may have been advantageous to disarticulate as he had initially suggested. It may have saved me from a good deal of grief. We shall never know for sure. We know now that a more radical amputation at an early stage does indeed seem to stop the syndrome in its tracks. But as I have mentioned, I was the guinea pig.
Chapter Five (excerpts)
[…]
I was thrilled to be standing on my own artificial legs for the first time. The sockets fit perfectly, the rubber foot shells were pristine and the steel pylons linking them shone as I tested the legs between the parallel bars. It was a joy to be standing again after several weeks in the wheelchair but the sensation of feeling nothing below my knees was familiar. I found my balance quickly and tested the feet. There was a little ‘give’ in the ankles and some kind of force returned to push me onto my next step. The rubber feet were about as responsive as my own had been in the final couple of weeks. I was completely enamoured of the steel connecting pylons. So mechanical, so technical, so prosthetic. And they were mine. These were my legs now. I strode along the bars and twisted myself around on one foot. The prosthetist was smiling in surprise. I was probably doing better than any of his previous patients. After completing some paperwork and ensuring that I felt confident, he handed me my walking sticks and bid me good day. Two sticks were unnecessary. I used only one, holding the other horizontal in my other hand. Kelvin met me in our new e‑car in the hospital car park and drove us home.
Kelvin had seen my stumps many times before, of course, and was interested to see the simple replacements for my legs and feet. I changed into a pair of shorts after we arrived home so he could look at my artificial legs. I was fascinated by their simplicity. The ten or so inches of steel pylon was so hugely different from flesh and blood legs. I felt reborn. I was captivated by the rigid feet and how the toes pointed skywards at a forty-five degree angle. They looked so artificial. So inorganic.
[…]
And so after a week of recuperation and rehabilitation, I returned to work brandishing a walking stick and purposely exaggerating my rollicking gait. I noticed how different the sound of my footsteps was now. I hung my jacket in the cloakroom and made my way to the kitchen to say hello to my colleagues. They were pleased to see me, mostly. There was some discomfort on one or two faces. What do you say to a newly legless man? I decided to ignore the whole subject and asked what had been going on over the past few weeks. The conversation revolved around new software, office politics and a couple of juicy rumours. At the top of the hour we took our drinks to our desks and hunkered down to work.
By midday, we were hungry and a group of us decided to stroll across the park to a Thai restaurant where we could help ourselves to a tasty buffet lunch. I noticed for the first time how slowly I walked now compared with the others. I pushed myself vigorously with my walking stick but the lifeless ankles and feet provided no assistance in walking. My knees and stumps were doing all the work. It was tiring to keep up with my friends, and to their credit, the stroll back to work was more leisurely. I felt no discomfort from my artificial legs but the quarter mile round trip was fatiguing. It could not be helped.
People were less repressed during the afternoon break. I ran into several colleagues from other divisions asking where I had been and who expressed shocked surprise when I replied matter-of-factly that I had had my lower legs amputated. For the first time, I pulled up my trouser legs for curious onlookers to show off my tubular steel legs. They were suitably impressed.
An hour later, I was due to present the forecast for distribution to local tv stations. The studio team were also surprised to see me back outwardly unchanged. I reread the script quickly to remind myself of the points to mention and five minutes later, the forecast was in the can, ready for syndication. Tv stations received emails from viewers thanking them for my return to their screens but no-one picked up on the unusual profile of my lower legs.
Chapter Six (excerpts)
Kelvin and I succumbed to temptation and decided to buy a small electric car. It was a two seater city car with a respectable range. The unspoken reason, hardly surprising, was that I found commuting uncomfortable. Despite the walking stick, I was never offered a seat on a bus or packed train and I certainly did not appear to be disabled. I found it unpleasant to have to hold tightly for the journey time balancing on my unfeeling feet. My knees also seemed less responsive these days for some reason. In short, a small car would solve my dilemma and be fun to own. Kelvin agreed to be my personal chauffeur every day, driving me to work each morning and collecting me again in the evening. We benefited from having the car at our disposal to eat out far more often. I was occasionally sorry that I could not drive the car myself but I did not believe my feet would be responsive enough and their rigidity was not suitable for controlling a car’s accelerator.
[…]
I had attributed the stiffness to the gradual change in size of my stumps. I was wearing three stump socks over the liners and I assumed that some minor change in pressure patterns lay behind the slight difficulty I was experiencing. However, I was managing well enough and decided to mention it to my prosthetist on my next visit. I did not mention anything to Kelvin. He would have been over-concerned.
About three weeks later, I was rolling a liner onto my right stump when I noticed that it was completely numb. So was my knee. I could bend that slightly. Suddenly I broke into a cold sweat. After many weeks of an increasing number of symptoms, all of which I had ignored or explained away, it was obvious even to myself that RNDS had returned. I was almost in panic. I prodded my stumps and knees and thighs, trying to determine how much tissue was affected. I was breathing heavily when Kelvin entered the bedroom and saw that something was wrong. I blurted out what had been going on while his face grew more and more concerned. He insisted I contact Dr May at Roehampton and a couple of hours later, he chauffeured me to the hospital.
Dr May was immediately concerned. He knew from the increasing amount of international literature that RNDS was proving to be insidious and not halted by amputations just above the affected tissues. There were cases in Europe which had been initially treated by disarticulations through the knee or pelvis which had so far halted spread of the syndrome. Dr May explained that the best course of treatment for me would be to undergo bilateral hip dislocations leaving me completely legless and reliant on a rigid body shell in which my legless torso could balance for support. I was completely against any such plan. I pointed out that my RNDS had only just begun and therefore it might be possible to arrest its spread by amputating halfway along my thighs. I was distraught at the idea of losing my stumps after only a year, if that, but I was prepared to relearn to walk on long prostheses. I wanted leg stumps, quite simply.
[…]
I looked down at my body, once again covered by a tented sheet. I could sense my new stumps. How close to my groin they were! It was almost as if they were part of my genitals. My new leglessness was exciting to think about. I imagined how I would look naked wearing two full-length artificial legs, how it would feel to swing them, how I might choose to wear stubbies when not in public and what it might feel like to scoot around at home on my backside using my hands after my stumps had fully healed. Fortunately, my wheelchair was still in storage, easily accessible for Kelvin to bring in.
[…]
I returned home in my wheelchair which barely folded into our car. I was not especially agile at leaping from the car seat into the chair and I was wary of knocking my stumps. They were in shrinkers and protected to some degree, hidden inside the cargo shorts which Kelvin had bought. It turned out that he had bought four pairs, three of which I had yet to see. When I got a pair of stubby legs, the shorts would be the ideal length, flashing a little steel and rubber as I rocked along. But the stubbies were still many weeks away. I had to wait for my stumps to shrink a little more before I could start thinking about new prosthetics and it would be even longer before I could be fitted with above knee legs.
Kelvin made a few sandwiches for me before he left for work each morning. It was awkward to cook from a wheelchair, another of the small irritations which can mount up and feel overwhelming. There was such a strong temptation to put an end to the silliness and simply stand up to cook. It felt like it should be so easy. A glance at the legs of my cargo shorts drooping over my short stumps put an end to my fantasy. I was a legless man, severely disabled, reliant on others for many things I had taken for granted, including frying a pork chop on our stove top. It was too pathetic. I spun around and propelled the chair to our bed where I lay back, pulled my shorts off and made love to my useless stumps until I climaxed.
[…]
I did not feel threatened by their enquiries into my status but there was now new impetus to acquire long artificial legs as soon as possible. If I could merely stand in front of the green screen for a few minutes while we taped the forecasts, I would be fulfilling my contract and the rest of the time I could continue wearing my stubbies at work. I contacted my prosthetist and explained the situation in the most persuasive way I could.
Dr Fields pulled a few strings and invited me back to Roehampton for a fitting. My stumps had altered their shape since I had started wearing my stubbies all day so he re-scanned them. We discussed the best method of suspension to keep legs and stumps together and decided on liners with pins. I was satisfied with the decision. Dr Fields inspected my stumps closely and although he said nothing, I believe he was looking for some outward sign of RNDS.
Two weeks later, I returned. I brought a pair of my old jeans with me in the optimistic belief that I would be walking out of Roehampton Hospital on my new full-length prostheses. I had had great success with my artificial legs until then. My below knee legs had been easy to walk in after I found my new centre of gravity and the stubbies I now used were reliable and comfortable to stump around on. The long legs, though. It was not as easy as it looked. Dr Fields had, at my request, completed the legs with the bare minimum. Each socket had an aluminium pylon attached to it leading to a mechanical knee and another long pylon terminating in a rubber foot, currently wearing a pair of my tennis shoes. Dr Fields gripped my arm and helped me up. I gripped one of the parallel bars and pulled myself around to face the opposite end.
I practised kicking my stumps forward to operate the knee mechanisms. After many minutes, I was allowed to take a tentative step. The knee held as I stepped forward and stopped. Now it was time to repeat the process with the other stump. I thought about what I was doing, checked where the other foot was and that I had a good grip of the bars and kicked the leg forward. I leaned over onto it and came again to a halt. This continued until I had reached the end of the bars where I performed a seventeen point turn to face back the way I had come.
We spent the afternoon this way. Dr Fields had the patience of a saint and I relaxed after a while when I realised that he was not going to get angry with me for being such a slow learner. By the end of the afternoon, I was walking slowly, still having to think about what I was doing, planning every movement, but the unwanted halts had stopped. I was walking after a fashion but too confounded by the difficulty to feel smug. Dr Fields handed me a pair of aluminium elbow crutches and I found them to be better support than the parallel bars. I crossed the prosthetics lab a few times and Dr Field announced that he was satisfied that the prostheses were adjusted as well as they could be and that all I needed now was time, practice and patience. I called Kelvin and waited for him to arrive with the car. Dr Fields recommended that I change back into my stubbies but I wanted to show off to Kelvin just a little and after I had signed off for the new legs, we left with me wearing them. Kelvin carried my stubbies to the car while I crutched along beside him, not trying to use the prostheses to actually walk on. It was excruciating getting into the back of our small car. Kelvin was almost overcome with concern but I found it amusing. I was too exhausted to expend any more emotion on the situation.
Once again, I removed my jeans and sat with my new legs on view for Kelvin to admire. The glossy black sockets looked handsome, perfect protective replicas of my stumps. I removed them at bedtime and butt-walked to bed. Kelvin placed my stubbies by my side of the bed and climbed in next to me. I was too tired for anything other than sleep.
[…]
I took the legs and crutches with me to work the following Monday. I left them standing in the cloakroom, on view for anyone to see. I had been doing my best to walk on the legs in the manner they were designed for but over and over again I simply rested on two rigid artificial legs while using the crutches to move forward. It was a little self-defeating. I ought to have spent the time trying to master the legs without crutches but I felt unstable and did not trust myself. I tried to analyse what I was doing, how my stumps were moving to operate the legs. There was as much mental effort as physical. By Sunday afternoon, I was ready to call it a day. I needed much more practice but I had discovered that the crutches were a practical way of ambulating and that would have to do for the time being.
I changed from my stubbies into my legs for the forecast. As long as I could stand up straight and not topple over if I swung my body around as I gestured towards the virtual map, I would be fine. The cameraman took my crutches and I spread my arms in an attempt to remain standing.
– Are you OK, Wes? Are you going to be able to manage?
– I think so. We’ll have to see. I wish I had something to lean on.
– I could get you a stool if you want.
– No, let’s try it like this first.
The studio head ran the animations and I checked my position in my monitor. The cameraman moved slightly to the right. The chief came over to rearrange the way my trouser legs were hanging. There was very little inside them to bulk them out. We did two takes. The first was technically perfect but the chief pointed out that my expression was not the best possible. I knew what he meant. I was trying to concentrate on standing rather than amicably explaining the weather and it showed. The second run went better and we used that.
As a result of our experiences that afternoon, the studio carpenters made me a tripod with a kind of seat I could lean against. It was painted chroma green, the same as the screen, and was invisible on camera. The other alteration was to my legs. With some craftily placed foam rubber and duct tape, we made some cosmeses for my legs to bulk out my trouser legs. Now it seemed as if there might actually be something inside them. The foam rubber looked terrible but did its job. I changed back into my stubbies, put my cargo shorts on and left my legs leaning against my crutches in a corner of the cloakroom.
Chapter Seven (excerpts)
Kelvin had seemed subdued for a few days and obviously had something on his mind. He would talk about it when he was ready. Neither of us were touchy-feely people concerned with quasi-psychological wellness. But I forced the issue when I noticed he was rubbing and massaging his fingers.
– I can’t feel my fingers properly and they feel stiff.
We stared at each other, both petrified that RNDS had spread to Kelvin’s hands.
– How long has this been going on?
– About three weeks. No longer.
– Kelvin, I’m so sorry. If it is RNDS, you’re going to lose your hands. I just want you to know I’ll always be here for you. You’ve stood by me as I lost my legs. I’d never let something like that come between us.
Kelvin looked at me morosely but said nothing. I contacted Dr Bryant May and related what Kelvin had just revealed. After a few moments, he had booked an appointment for the following morning. We decided that Kelvin could attend alone. He was quite familiar with Roehampton Hospital and Dr May from his previous visits.
[…]
Kelvin was not in a better mood when I returned from work the next day. He said Dr May had sent him for blood tests and examined his hands, tickling and poking them. There was a ‘tactile deficiency’ which would be dealt with once its cause was clear. Kelvin mentioned to Dr May how worried he was about losing his hands. The doctor was reassuring and said there was no reason to suppose that Kelvin had somehow caught the disease from me. In spite of that, there was a printed manual on our kitchen table, a guide published by the hospital for new bilateral hand amputees. It was open to the section describing the pros and cons of split hooks.
Kelvin was able to continue at work. He still had most of his range of movement in his fingers although they were numb. He had not mentioned his problems to anyone yet but was determined not to let the troupe down and would warn them in good time if it appeared that his hands would need professional treatment.
The feared morning came. I awoke to Kelvin’s sobbing in the bed beside me. He was sitting up looking at his discoloured and distinctly odorous hands. I kissed him and put a call-back request through to Roehampton. Two days later, Kelvin’s hands and forearms were amputated leaving him with two inches of stump below his elbows. With luck, the syndrome might be stopped in its tracks. Otherwise, he might well lose both arms. I was sorry for him. He would not be able to continue with his career and would feel helpless during the months it would take him to become proficient with his hooks. At the same time, I thought it exciting that my lover would also be a disabled man. I hope our joint misfortune would cement our relationship still further through mutual reliance. Kelvin had legs, I had hands. We would manage.
Having another invalid at home kept me busy. I was unable to drive and spent many hours shopping for provisions. I hauled myself up into buses and stumped around supermarkets on stubbies, trying to ignore the open-mouthed stares of other shoppers, most of whom were glad to reach items from shelves for me. I was quite accustomed to the attention I attracted and inwardly enjoyed it for the most part. There were occasional ignorant remarks from uncouth strangers. Kelvin tried to make the best of his helpless situation at home by reading and listening to classical music. He could use his phone with a touch-screen sensitive stylus. I bought a pack of four on my first shopping trip, strutting a quarter mile out of my way for them. It took me over an hour.
A nurse called in every morning between half past eight and nine to check on Kelvin and change his shrinkers. He was shocked to find two bilateral amputees at the same address but recovered his cool quickly. I always made preparations for three cups of espresso before he arrived and switched the machine on while he was tending to Kelvin. He always professed being in a hurry but allowed himself five minutes with us before leaving and I know we enjoyed his company and his insights into life without hands. Kelvin was grateful for his reassurance. Before the month was out, Kelvin had been fitted for prosthetic arms with hooks and became frustrated and impatient while they were manufactured. The Roehampton prosthetics department did a beautiful job and produced two sleek flesh-toned sockets completed with chrome components which half covered Kelvin’s elbows. The upper arm cuffs were leather, of a ruddy mid-brown. He returned wearing them and was pleased as punch, although he had been unable to open the door to the flat with a hook. He would learn. Kelvin seemed to gain a new lease on life. His mood improved and he set about applying all the advice he had been given to learning how to deal with everyday functions. He made arrangements to be re-certified as a driver and we were soon mobile again. His positive attitude was a tremendous relief for me. I could stop worrying on his behalf and enjoy watching my handsome lover using the hooks which I found fascinating and erotically pleasing. Kelvin was not shy about using his stumps for my pleasure in bed, either.
[…]
But all good things come to an end. We had both forgotten about RNDS in our enthusiasm so I was utterly horrified when I realised that my stumps felt clammy and itchy despite changing to a new pair of liners and a different lubricant. I tried not to worry Kelvin but he sensed something was wrong and I eventually admitted the situation. I called Dr May at Roehampton for a check-up and met him two days later. He did not have good news.
– I’m very sorry, Wesley, but the tests confirm that this is RNDS again. Are you ready?
He did not need to specify for what. The time had come for me to lose my stumps. I had cheated the disease for nearly a year and enjoyed being mobile on my stubbies but I would soon have to rely on a bucket to sit up and to scud around with short crutches.
– When will you operate?
He checked his calendar and sighed deeply.
– Next Tuesday. Come in on Monday noon and we’ll get you ready. I’m sorry, Wesley. You deserve better than this.
Chapter Eight (excerpts)
[…]
I could still become aroused by moving slightly inside my socket. The flap over my genitals was just snug enough for me to be able to exert pressure on it with my erect penis. I moved it from side to side by squirming and the friction on my glans led eventually to the expected result. It was a great pleasure to regain my libido after many weeks and now that my stump had healed, I made up for lost time. Kelvin found my body stump highly erotic and we took turns penetrating each other. I had to learn a completely new method of coitus. The absence of leg stumps was overwhelmingly exciting when in the act, forcing my chest and tummy to provide the movement necessary to satisfy our lust. Kelvin loved my legless rump and explored my anus with his stumps before entering me and pounding my stump.
After a two month absence, I returned to work in a wheelchair. Kelvin once again acted as my willing chauffeur and learned the best way to fold my chair and heave me into the back seat of the car with his hooks.
I negotiated my way back onto tv screens with the chief who had been initially dubious. I had the idea of converting the tripod I had leant against in my long legs into a kind of revolving platter onto which my socket could be placed. I could present the forecast and be turned to face the virtual map or the camera at the appropriate times with the help of a studio hand crouching just out of camera range. It was such an audacious idea that the chief laughed and agreed to give it a go. The carpenters set to work and the set-up was ready for me to test that afternoon. Our long-suffering cameraman lifted me from my wheelchair onto the disc where I ‘sat’ waiting to be rotated as required. I read through the script in the minutes leading up to the hour and checked my appearance in my monitor. My tripod was invisible. I was merely a good-looking guy with the familiar shirt, bow tie and leather waistcoat hovering in mid-air. The cameraman zoomed to fill the bottom of the screen and the studio hand kneeled just out of view. I greeted the viewers and said how good it felt to be back without stating the reason I had been away. My rotator gently spun me to face the green screen and I went through the motions of a weather forecaster. Then I was rotated back to face the camera and wished the viewers a good evening. The cameraman gave me the thumbs-up signal but now I had to wait for someone to pick me up before I could move anywhere. The cameraman returned me to my wheelchair and I secured myself with a Velcro belt to stop me toppling forward. I tidied my desk of papers and print-outs, archived the data, turned off my pc and waited for Kelvin to collect me. Everything felt like things were back to normal, other than the weather, naturally. It was the autumn of rain bombs and the severe flooding which made news internationally.
Management was not happy with the change of format. My face and upper body—all I had—now filled half the screen when I was on camera and they considered it too focussed on me. It was, they believed, as if I was trying to assert myself. My chief insisted that he had argued with them for several hours on my behalf but after ten forecasts, I was removed from presentation duties with apologies and sympathy and relegated back to the data centre. I was not especially disappointed. I knew I had been pushing my luck. And weather data at that moment was more captivating than being on tv.
So I settled back into office life for the full eight hours every day and received a five percent monthly bonus to act as an audiovisual advisor. I cannot remember having ever been asked for my advice on anything audiovisual but I appreciated the gesture. I was perfectly happy to be at my desk in a wheelchair again, permanently this time. I was more mobile than I had been on stubbies and usually wheeled along happily when a group of us went out for lunch instead of eating in the canteen. It was an odd feeling to be out in public wearing the bucket. I was naked inside it and could enjoy the occasional erection and socket friction without, I hope, anyone noticing.
[…]
I was suddenly much clumsier on a keyboard. I was an accurate typist but not especially fast. However, now I was having difficulty hitting the right keys and there was an electric tingling in my hands. Slowly it dawned on me. I would shortly be losing my hands. I was resigned to it, not nearly as upset as I might have been had I not seen Kelvin’s transformation into a bilateral amputee who used hooks with skill and enthusiasm. The only thing I could think of to worry about was trying to wheel myself around with a pair of hooks. I did not believe the combination would work.
I talked it over with Kelvin. We were both matter-of-fact about the outlook and Kelvin suggested it might be time to stop trying to adapt to continually increasing difficulties and call it a day. Stop working and apply for a disability pension. I thought about it for a day or two and talked it over with the chief. Much to the bureau’s credit, they took it upon themselves to organise a pension on my behalf to begin payment on receipt of a certificate of disability from a surgeon. It would probably be signed by Dr Bryant May at Roehampton.
My arms were amputated midway between my shoulders and elbows leaving me with about six inches of stump. It would be enough to allow me to use artificial arms and hooks and I stoically looked forward to healing enough for a fitting and then receiving my new long prostheses. The amputations were done higher up this time in the hope that RNDS would somehow not leap from my hands across my non-existent elbows. I spent seven weeks at Roehampton. I was completely helpless until I was fitted with arms and even then, it would be quite a challenge to function. It was always a shock to look down and see stumps instead of my hairy arms but I gradually began to appreciate their appearance and utility. If nothing else, they would anchor my harness. My prosthetist and I discussed what functions I wanted from my new arms and I decided on the most basic model in black carbon with standard hooks. There would be enough there to learn to cope with. Additional functions could come later if I wanted them on my next pair of arms.
I was put through the usual tests and games which all arm amputees must endure as they learn to operate their artificial arms. Not having my own elbows was an added difficulty. Having to continually remember to alternate between moving my forearm and opening the hook was initially mentally exhausting, although the prostheses themselves behaved perfectly. They had been professionally optimised and adjusted and I found them to be responsive and reliable. I quite liked the image I projected with bilateral shiny black arms topped with steel hooks. I felt that they complemented my style. They matched my black leather waistcoat.
My doctors and prosthetist judged me to be as ready as I would ever be to confront the outside world. Kelvin drove to Roehampton to collect me and spent half an hour discussing his own experiences with prosthetics with a small group of prosthetists. We returned home and immediately discovered that I was indeed completely unable to wheel myself around. My new hooks skittered on my wheelchair’s push rims. Kelvin was prepared to move me around and to place me on a chair or the floor, after which I was again immobile. My arms were longer than my torso socket so the hooks usually touched the floor. Kelvin looked into motorised wheelchairs and picked out a few possible models. They were not really suitable for our needs with the exception of the two wheeled upright chair which was eminently suitable and phenomenally expensive. Our hours of surfing the web uncovered a possible solution – a pair of levers which could be fitted to my current wheelchair so I could pull and push them when I wanted to move. I was not sure that I would have enough strength in my stumps but it was worth a try, and the lever-operated chair was a surprising success. My stumps were well up to the job, partly because my weight was considerably diminished.
Chapter Nine (excerpts)
During the next year, I worked on my book Never Too Late. It formed the focus of our lives, providing a reason to stay active and motivated. I was still in close contact with several colleagues at the weather centre. They provided me with long-range forecasts and the latest data from weather stations around the world. I collated the information and whittled it down to the probably effects for the British Isles. It was then a matter of imagining how to mitigate the results. I used voice input and notes which Kelvin kindly typed out for me. A new artificial intelligence program corrected my grammar and tidied up my run-on sentences. The first draft had been sent to my publisher and was undergoing further revision by an editor when the inevitable happened. I shucked my arms and looked at my stumps. They were both tingling and itchy. I could not feel them so Kelvin also removed his arms and held my stumps between his own. He nodded his head and said my stumps felt cool and clammy. RNDS was back. He donned his arms and contacted Dr Bryant May at Roehampton. I was invited in for an examination. Not unexpectedly, it was the last such examination I could logically undergo. I had two six inch stumps and would shortly lose them too.
[…]
I was moved into semi-private accommodation at Roehampton. I was such a labour-intensive patient that it would have been unfair to expect Kelvin to tend to me all day every day. Instead, I had two male nurses, either of whom was with me for most of the day. They were both cheerful and business-like, unfazed by the shocking sight of my limbless torso. I was gently lifted into my socket and placed in a wheelchair rather than being confined to my bed. I was recovering from bilateral amputations again, not ill requiring bed rest. I was visited by my prosthetist who determined that I was going to present his team with quite a challenge if I requested a new set of artificial arms. I no longer had stumps to control them. It might be possible to develop some kind of yoke which would lay across my shoulders instead of a harness. It would be fitted with tiny sensors or toggle switches which I could use to operate forearms and hooks by reorienting my shoulders. It was a new departure. Other limbless men had learned to use prostheses by twitching their chest muscles, into which sensors had been grafted. I was personally not interested in that particular technology. I came to an arrangement with the prosthetics department that I would co-operate with them on the design and testing of a new solution to providing prosthetic assistance to amputees who had undergone disarticulations.
Kelvin visited every day. After I had recovered from my amputations, I spent several hours with the prosthetics team in their laboratory. It was a far more interesting environment than the four walls of my admittedly comfortable quarters and I was grateful for the company. I was placed on an office chair with castors and my shell was secured with a Velcro belt. I was then at the same eye-height as the team rather than being rather lower in my wheelchair. I could see what they were working on and it was easy for me to be moved next to someone for a discussion or to look more carefully at a computer screen. After a few days, I felt myself to be part of the team. I returned to my room mid-afternoon and was placed horizontal for a quick nap. Kelvin was usually watching me when I awoke and would spend the rest of the afternoon and evening with me. He was initially subdued at seeing my helpless torso encased in its black carbon socket but his mood improved along with my own as I recovered a sense of purpose to life.
It was possible for us to continue working on the revision of Never Too Late. New data from polar research stations on the jet stream’s effects on the stratosphere had been attracting attention and its implications would be useful to incorporate in a new chapter. Kelvin patiently watched me reading and scrolled at my signal.
Almost every evening after my nurses had finished their duties and left, Kelvin stripped naked and released my torso from its shell. He doffed his prostheses and hugged me tightly in his stumps. We rarely spoke. The intimate closeness, the touch of skin on skin, its warmth, its male scent were all confirmations of our strengthening love. He masturbated me with his fleshy stumps, the sight of which never failed to cause me to become erect. We experimented with coitus with me balancing on Kelvin’s back straining to enter his anus, urgently arching my torso to find release. The struggle to instinctively grip my man for better traction was an additional excitement, no longer having even vestiges of arms. The sensations across my legless stump urged me to seek fulfilment. My utter limblessness at such times was the height of erotic power and vulnerability, incomparable to any other experience.
[…]
My first harness therefore comprised several parts. It was essential to find the precise dimensions and location of the slight muscle movement I had available in my shoulders before we could realistically construct a rigid yoke. The harness was in three parts – a central brace around my neck and two wide epaulettes on each shoulder. The parts were printed from data scans of my upper torso. We experimented with various sensors and microswitches, watching resistances both physical and electrical on monitors as I flexed my remaining muscles. We discussed the design of my arms, taking into account their size and weight and strength. As always, nature had beaten us to it. My upper arms would be cylinders, as would the forearms. From the outset, no-one, least of all me, had any intention of demanding anything more than the most basic artificial wrist and hand. Standard electronic aluminium hooks would be permanently fixed to the ends of the forearms and I would rely on those.
Microswitches proved to be the more reliable alternative. We discovered the most advantageous positions for them and printed a trial yoke. I suggested a design which would stretch across my shoulders at the back with flanges which would rest against my upper torso at the front. If I had no assistant, I would theoretically be able to work my way into my prosthetic arms from below. We tried several versions before arriving at the final design which I am currently wearing and then turned our attention to the arms.
We discussed the pros and cons of movable upper arms. The team was adamant that it was technically possible to include a shoulder joint but I was concerned that needing to select operation of shoulder joints, elbows and hooks would be time-consuming and fatiguing after a couple of hours. We arrived at a design which incorporated rigid upper arms into the yoke. The right upper arm was set at a twenty-five degree angle, the left at forty-five degrees. This meant that I would be able to manipulate objects in front of me on a desk with my left hook and tend to more intimate functions like feeding myself with my right. I would need only to use my shoulder switches to preselect which motor to operate in a similar way to the method necessary for operating my old prostheses.
It was easier said than done. We spent several weeks concentrating on minute adjustments but finally the first operational prototype was ready for testing. I sat on a lab table in my torso socket feeling almost regal, about to be bestowed with the highest honour in the land – prosthetic hooks. My new prosthesis was fitted across my shoulders, rigid arms pointing down. I shook the equipment into its most comfortable position and shrugged my right shoulder. The right arm rose slowly accompanied by the whirr of its stepper motor. I relaxed for a second and flicked my shoulder to switch the function. I tightened my shoulder muscle to open the hook. I felt as if I had won the lottery. I had arms again! Albeit severely restricted in movement and excruciatingly slow to operate. I was ecstatic. The technical team applauded me and I would have loved to return the compliment but my arms could not move laterally. I could not clap.
It was only natural that the next phase of my rehabilitation was making me mobile. I already knew about reciprocating legs. They were stubbie legs fixed to the base of a torso socket and operated by the user rocking his body from side to side. As the pressure on each foot released, it swung forward a few inches and the user could slowly traverse a flat unimpeded surface. The rocker feet were commercially available and an order was placed. The base of my new socket needed to be adapted to accept the feet. We decided to add runners on each side of the base into which we could slide a separate holder to which the feet were attached. In this way, my socket would remain suitable for sitting in a wheelchair by simply removing the auxiliary base.
One Friday afternoon just after lunch, I was asked to stay in the lab rather than return to my room for my customary nap. I thought nothing of it although there had been no talk of any new developments where my input might be needed. My colleagues were unusually reserved during the meal. I began to suspect that something was up. I was wheeled back to the lab which had been tidied as best as possible and positioned in the centre of the room. My colleagues gathered in a semicircle in front of me. The chief arrived shortly, placing a hand on my left shoulder. He faced the group and made an announcement, the gist of which was that as a token of the lab’s appreciation and in lieu of proper wages, it had been seen fit to acquire a gyroscopically stabilised two wheeler electric wheelchair. One of the young technicians drove it in and parked it facing me.
– Do you want to swap places, Wes? This one is for you if you want it.
I was too stunned to speak. It was exactly what I had wanted when Kelvin and I looked into electric wheelchairs. It was even the same model. This one was black with chrome trim. I looked up at my young friend and whispered It’s beautiful. He stood up from the wheelchair which remained perfectly stable and put his arms around my socket. He lifted me onto the chair and carefully placed the fingers of my right hook onto the joystick. The crowd broke into applause.
Chapter Twelve (excerpts)
Following the publication of Never Too Late, I was caught in a whirlwind of publicity. I was interviewed for local radio at home, televised direct from our living room and invited to Brunel University to give a lecture on meteorological research. Kelvin dressed me in my trademark white short-sleeved shirt and bowtie and the leather waistcoat. I ‘sat’ on my two-wheeler and slowly turned myself from side to side as if I was still on legs. Jamie [Wesley’s live-in carer] was always present to one side, always in my line of view. He scrolled remotely through my pc presentation at Brunel displaying the information which we had collated and he had typed. As a result of my public appearances for my book, I soon found myself in another round of interviews concerning RNDS and the prosthetic solutions which I used to live my life as independently as possible.
– You lost your limbs in a short period of time. Did you have any suspicion at the outset of the eventual outcome.?
– None whatsoever. My feet were affected first and after the initial operations, I was back on my two feet just like before. The only difference was that I removed them before going to bed. I had no idea that I had not seen the last of RNDS.
– You continued working after your following amputations.
– Yes and the ones after that. My legs were shortened allowing me to use long artificial legs which I always had trouble with. I preferred to use a wheelchair in public or my short stubbies at home. RNDS recurred sooner than on its first return and within a year I became completely legless.
– How do you feel now about losing your legs?
– It’s difficult to know and even more difficult to explain so that someone else would understand. I was already quite used to using a wheelchair. The only difference now was that I was no longer able to balance on my backside well enough to sit in it.
– But you’re in your chair now. What are you balancing on?
– My body is in a rigid corset with a flat base. It hugs my ribcage and waist tightly for support and my carer places me onto the wheelchair every morning. From then on I am able to move around as well as if I still had legs. This chair can climb over kerbs and other obstacles and it can go up and down quite steep slopes or over rough ground. So as far as mobility is concerned, I don’t miss my legs. I can get about as well as I ever did.
– That’s remarkable. Very impressive.
– It’s an impressive piece of equipment.
– You control it with a joystick and your right arm’s hook. Are your artificial arms as responsive?
– No, they aren’t. Not even near. My first arm amputations were fairly radical. I was left with short stumps at my shoulders and was fitted with long prostheses with hooks similar to these. They were really quite disabling at first. Difficult to use mechanically and I found it difficult to control the hooks with my short stumps. However, I was learning how to adapt to being severely disabled and reliant on artificial limbs and I gradually noticed that I accepted my limitations. I had my man with me at all times. Despite being an amputee himself – he has lost his hands – we were able to lead fairly normal lives. After my carer Jamie joined us, we were far more inclined to relax and simply enjoy the sensations of limblessness.
– Can you explain what you mean?
– Do you remember how I explained that Kelvin and I learned to sit back and take it easy? That’s how it is to lose limbs. First it seems like an impossible imposition, having to learn to use such an awkward piece of equipment which is actually attached to your body. Gradually, you gain acceptance and if you are lucky, you even begin to enjoy operating an artificial limb or two. They become as intimate as your former flesh and blood limbs, part of yourself. You accept their limitations and admire their capabilities. Those are the sensations I mean.
– They are uniquely felt only by amputees.
– Exactly. I feel quite happy sitting talking to you gesturing with my left hook. I am comfortable and my artificial body parts are doing what I want of them.
– I understand you designed your own arms.
– Yes, that’s right. The prosthetics team wanted to create a less expensive rig which would allow someone like myself to use a pair of hooks and I was the guinea pig, so to speak. I suppose I was responsible mostly for designing the yoke across my shoulders which replaces a conventional harness. It fits quite tightly but there is room enough inside for me to be able to move my shoulders slightly to operate my arms with tiny toggle switches.
– So it’s not really a bionic system?
– No, not really. It’s still powered by body movements like conventional prostheses which is what I wanted, having used them before.
– Thank you for talking with us, Wesley.
[…]
The feedback which both I and the media company got from that interview persuaded me to start writing It Never Rains. I have been quite honest and come out of my shell concerning my previous body image dysmorphia and my pleasure in being so totally reliant on a prosthetic body shell and my arms. My superb two wheeled gyrochair is a tireless replacement for my artificial legs and I love the sensations of being completely legless. I am very pleased with the shape of my lower body and its potential for carnal pleasure.
I have enjoyed writing so much that I aim to continue. There is much new and unfortunately alarming information which the public needs to understand about climate chaos and I am planning a review of the things which have led us to our current situation. I am going to call it To Say You’re Sorry, which seems a logical sequel to my first book. I hope it is as well received as my previous work.
IT NEVER RAINS
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