STUBBIES
A remarkable tale of mutual respect by Doug in London
Edited by strzeka
Several of my friends have been urging me to write my autobiography.
I don't think my life has been particularly interesting , but they
all think it will make good reading. In fact, although I know I have
had a very unusual life so far, I don't think enough has happened to
fill a whole book!
Today is my 34th birthday. This is a very special moment for me, and
so it is an auspicious day on which to start writing. Today I
celebrate exactly 17 years with legs, and 17 years with wheels. From
tomorrow onwards, I will have spent longer on my wheels than I spent
with legs.
But let me start at the beginning.
I was born in a large town on the south coast of England in 1970. I
had a happy and safe childhood with parents who were reasonably well-
off and provided me with all I wanted. I never liked sports, and was
always a bit scared of bigger boys. I usually preferred my own
company, and as a child didn't have many friends, or even want to
have many friends. I think now that this was an early indication of
being gay, but I'm not at all sure if this is logical.
At the age of 11, I passed the test to go to the local Grammar
School. This meant no longer walking to school as I had done to my
elementary school, but taking the bus. The first day at the new
school was fairly alarming: it was much bigger and more complicated
than anything I'd been used to before. But all my worries evaporated
when I got to the bus stop to catch the bus which would take me home.
There, waiting for the bus, was a middle-aged man with both legs cut
off just above his knees. He was wearing what I now know are
called "stubbies". His stubbies showed as thick steel rods protruding
from the cuffs of his very short trousers; the rods connected to
curved steel feet which had rubber soles; the "feet" appeared to be
back-to-front on his steel legs, as there was a greater length of
foot curving away behind the leg than in front.
He stood waiting for the bus, supporting himself with two short thick
wooden walking sticks. I was hypnotised.
When the bus arrived, it was the old style Routemaster bus with a
large open platform at the back. The step up to the platform appeared
to be far too high for the amputee to step up, so I watched with a
growing sense of excitement to see what he would do. Imagine my
shock when he turned to me, and offered me his two short walking
sticks.
"Hold these for me, would you?" he asked, handing me the sticks.
Dumbly I took them, and watched as he gripped the handrails of the
bus with two strong hands, and lifted himself cleanly up onto the
platform. He then turned and, smiling, held his hand out for the
sticks. Holding his sticks with one hand, and the handrail with the
other, he was clearly ready for the bus to move off. Obviously with
his little short stiff stubby legs, he couldn't take a seat on the
bus.
"Are you coming?" he said, and I realised that I was standing
dumbfounded on the pavement. Waking up, I jumped onto the bus and
took at seat which had a clear view of him. As the bus swayed on its
journey, I watched as he steadied himself and swayed on his stubbies.
I almost forgot to get off at my stop. Jumping up and moving to the
platform, I was very close to him. At age eleven, I still was
significantly taller than him, and glanced back as I got off.
"See you tomorrow?" he asked, as the bus roared away.
I stood on the pavement watching the receding bus, with trembling
legs. What was it about the encounter with the amputee that had
s truck so vivid a chord in me? He was at the bus stop the next day at
the same time. He remembered me and smiled, and when the bus came,
gave me his sticks to hold while he pulled himself on board.
At the end of the week, he spoke directly to me for the first time.
"Thanks for helping me. Are you going to be going home on this bus
every day?"
"Yes, it's the first one I can catch after school gets out."
"I catch it everyday at this time as well. See you on Monday."
And with that the bus came, I held his sticks, he climbed on, and off
we went.
Sure enough he was there on Monday. Putting both sticks into his left
hand, he held out his right to me. "I'm John Harding," he said. "Tell
me who you are."
"I'm Douglas Cox," I replied. "Everyone calls me Doug."
"Pleased to meet you, Doug. Here comes the bus!"
Our conversations were always very short, sometimes no more than 'Hi
Doug, Hi John' and then the bus would come. But we saw one another
day after day. Each day the same little ritual of me holding his
sticks as he clambered onto the bus; me sitting watching him swaying
on the bus platform; then me getting off and him calling, "See you
tomorrow."
Then one day, he said, "Would it matter if you missed the bus, and
went on the next one? They're only 10 minutes apart."
"No," I said, "I can tell my mum I got delayed at school. Why?"
"I want to talk to you about something, and the bus always comes too
quickly to have a conversation."
"OK," I said, just as the bus was coming. We both stood back and the
bus went without us.
"Look it's not a big deal or anything, but we've been meeting every
day now for several weeks, and you've always been happy to help me. I
live alone and need someone to come and do odd jobs now and again
that I can't manage. Could you come round on Saturday for an hour or
so?"
"I don't know," I replied. "I'd have to ask my mum."
"I thought you'd say that. In fact, I hoped you say it. If I give her
a ring and ask her, do you think she'll say yes?"
"I don't know," I hesitated, "Yes, probably. I could cycle if it's
not too far."
"I live in Dale Valley," John went on. "Tell you what, I'll give you
my phone number, and you get your mum to phone me."
He produced a card with his name, address and phone number, and when
I got home I explained to mum what had happened. I told her that I
had been helping this crippled man onto the bus each day, and that he
needed some help at home. Mum said yes, except that she would take me
in the car the first time, and come and collect me. That way she
could meet John.
And so it worked out that I started going to John's home once or
twice a month. Mum liked him, especially as he asked her in the first
time. Thereafter I went on my bike. Despite the age difference, we
became great friends. With hindsight, I wonder that nothing sexual
happened, but it never did. We really were great mates - in fact I
regarded John as my best friend.
At home in the evenings, I usually had a lot of homework to do. My
parents had fixed me up with a desk in my bedroom so that I could
work quietly while they watched the television downstairs. I started
to kneel upon my chair while doing my homework, rubbing my bent
knees and wondering what it was like to be John. In those days I had
very skinny legs, and was very supple, so could bend them back
easily, with my feet pushed close into to my ass.
Sometimes, at weekends when mum and dad were shopping, I would tell
them I had a lot of homework to do, and stay at home. Then I would
use a couple of belts to fasten my ankles firmly to my thighs. I
would pull on a pair of baggy shorts, and walk around the bedroom,
walking like John, but always with an ear for the car coming home and
mum and dad arriving.
One day I had some particularly difficult maths homework, and at the
bus stop, said idly to John that it was very hard. "Give me a ring if
you're stuck," he said, "I expect I could help you."
Well that developed into something quite significant. It turned out
he was a whizz at maths, and could always explain my homework well. I
got into the habit of staying with him on the bus all the way to his
stop on evenings when I had maths homework, and going home with him
to do it. My maths grades went through the roof - and he wasn't doing
my homework for me, he was just explaining it so well that I started
to understand and love maths more than ever before.
He was a teller in a bank, a job he could do sitting down all day,
and had been excellent at maths at school. He was quickly making me
excellent too.
One day, after I'd known him for over a year, I plucked up the
courage to ask him about his legs. And he told me the story.
John told me that he was been born in 1927, and thus only 12 years
old when the Second World War broke out. He has been born in the some
town, and was going to the same school that I was now attending. In
1943 he had been called up for National Service. and had been sent to
train to be in the army. After initially being very frightened, he
had started to enjoy army life, and with his academic background was
very quickly promoted to corporal.
The D-day landings in 1944 had coincided with his 17th birthday, and
in fact he was on a landing craft heading for the Normandy beaches on
the very same day that he became 17. He was one of the first ashore
on that momentous day, and had led his platoon, all young men much
the same age as himself, through the surf and onto the beach. They
had headed as fast as they could for the dunes, where he stepped on a
land mine. As he said to me, "I was one of the first onto the beach,
and one of the first off again!"
His feet were blown clean off, leaving his legs in a dreadful mess.
His platoon, who had come to respect their young corporal, surrounded
him and did their best to apply tourniquets to his legs. John said
that he remained conscious through this time, and can remember being
carried back down the beach by two of his platoon, and taken back out
to a landing craft. He said that he thought he passed out once on
board.
He subsequently found out that he had been taken to the mother ship,
moored in the Mulberry harbour off-shore, and eventually back to
England. When he finally woke up, he was in the military hospital at
Haslar, near Southampton.
The crude tourniquets had saved his life, but damaged his legs
further, and by the time he was able to take note of his
surroundings, he has been given the surgery which removed both knees,
leaving him with long thigh stumps.
"So," he said, "My last steps on feet were in 1944 on a French beach,
on my seventeenth birthday. That's when I got stumped. I've walked on
these stubbies for 38 years."
"Do you mind?" I ventured to ask. "Do you get angry, or fed up?"
"No," came the surprising reply, "I don't. I fact I quite like the
way I am. It means I live a different life from most people. I like
the difference."
I looked at this fascinating man, sitting in an armchair, with his
little steel legs with their strange back-to-front steel and rubber
feet stuck straight out in front of him. Thirty-eight years on those.
"I got an army pension," he went on, "And went back to studying.
After the war ended, I went to university, got a degree in maths, and
then went to work for the bank. I've been there ever since."
"Have you always lived alone?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied, "Since my mother went into the home. My father had
been killed in the war, early on, when I was still a kid, and after I
lost my legs I lived with my mother for a long time. Then when she
started to get unable to look after us, and I couldn't really look
after her, she went into a home and I got this bungalow, specially
adapted to disabled living."
He swung himself forward onto his stubbies, and said, "Now that's
enough of my story. I'll put the kettle on and we'll have some tea
before you go home. Leaning on the furniture for support, as he
didn't use his walking sticks around the house, he waddled into the
kitchen.
"These legs don't feel right at the moment," he called, "I've lost a
lot of weight recently; had to, I was getting very overweight which
was putting a lot of pressure on my stumps. Now I've lost the weight,
my stump sockets are too wide for my legs. I'm going up to Roehampton
next week to get measured for new legs."
At home I continued to pretend to have my legs cut off at the knees,
always kneeling to do my homework, and bandaging my ankles to thighs
whenever I was alone. After many months of doing this, my knees had
become very pliable, and I was very comfortable with my legs doubled
in half.
It was about another month after John had told me his story, before I
went round again for help with maths homework, and he opened the door
grinning. "I've got my new legs," he said. "Look."
They didn't look any different to me, but clearly he was very happy,
and indeed was walking more briskly. "There's my old ones."
And there, propped in the corner were his old stubbies. For the first
time I saw how they were made. Thick steel bands rose up either side
of the leather bucket-shaped top part. There were laces all the way
up the bucket, with wide straps evenly spaced. Below the bucket the
steel braces came together into the thick steel rod which I had seen
sticking out below his trouser cuff. And on the bottom, the heavy
curved steel feet, with their thick rubber soles. I went over to the
stubbies.
"Can I try them on?" I blurted out.
"What?" - he didn't know if he had heard me correctly.
"Can I try them on?" I asked again, with my heart thumping.
"I suppose so." he said.
I took off my shoes and trousers, and knelt back into John's
armchair. I reached out and positioned his legs in front of the
chair, and slowly slid forward allowing my doubled-up legs to slide,
knees first into the stump sockets. John watched silently as I pushed
my weight forward, ensuring that my knees were fully to the bottom of
the bucket. My feet were thrust tightly up against my bottom.
Silently John came across the room, and started to pull the laces
tight. He then pulled the straps together and buckled them very
tightly. I stood up.
I knew at that moment what my destiny would be. I was 12 years old,
and the rest of my life was mapped out for me in those few moments.
For a while I was speechless.
There was a very long silence. I didn't know what to say, and John
was speechless too.
Slowly I turned to him.
"You don't mind, do you?" I said.
He was obviously deep in thought. "No," he said slowly. "How does it
feel?"
"Incredible."
"Can you walk?"
"I don't know." And I tried to rock to one side and move one leg
forward. It was very, very difficult.
And that was the beginning of a long period of my life, when I
learned to wear John's stubbies, learned to walk around on them, and
gradually found that I could move very like him. My knees became ever
more flexible, and my feet seemed at home pushed up against my ass.
Every evening at home I would kneel on my chair when I was doing my
homework, and once or twice a week a week, when I had maths homework
to do, I would go directly to John's to do it. When I arrived, I
would slip off my trousers and shoes, and get strapped into his
stubbies. I found a pair of shorts from home, and smuggled them out
of the house to take to John's to keep there to wear when I was
pretending to be a DAK.
I look back now with affection upon my adolescence. The times
together were very companionable; we were simply best mates.
One summer, when I about 15, the long summer holidays stretched ahead
and I wasn't very keen to join my parents on their usual trip to the
Lake District. When I mentioned this to John, he smiled. "I'm
thinking of a trip to Paris," he said. "I'm not sure how brave I am
to go on my own. Would you like to come with me?"
At this time I had been pretending on his spare legs for about three
years, and had it had become very normal to be disabled with him. I
looked down at my steel and rubber feet. "Like this?" I asked.
"If you want to," he said. "We'll go for at least a week. After all
these evenings here, learning to walk like me, I think you might be
ready to find out what real life is like as a cripple. Once we've
left home, you'll be committed to spending the whole time down on my
old stubbies. I'll get you some sticks or short crutches. We need to
do a lot of planning, it's not like getting into your father's car
and just taking off. You'd better start by checking it out with your
parents."
Surprisingly that was the easy bit. They had met John many times and
knew that we were good friends. When I asked to go to Paris with him
as his able-bodied helper, they we pleased to support me. They saw it
as a 'charitable' thing to be doing. Little did they know the real
reason.
It was arranged that the day my parents left for the Lakes, I would
go down to John's and help him pack. The following day we would set
off on our expedition. With hands full of sticks, for him, and short
underarm crutches for me, we couldn't carry conventional luggage, so
my suitcase, so carefully packed by my mother the day before, was
unpacked at John's and a rucksack packed.
We had spent many happy hours planning our route and accommodations.
That night I slept at John's, on the floor of his living room,
with 'my' legs lying next to me. I had strict instructions for the
morning. As soon as I was awake, I was to put them on, in the
knowledge that I would be wearing them all day, and every day for the
next ten days. I slept only fitfully, full of anticipation for the
morning.
We were to leave very early in the morning, and I was awake long
before the alarm, eager and excited for the adventure ahead. By the
time I heard John's alarm sounding in his bedroom, I was already
firmly strapped into my stubbies.
My parents had given some money to John to pay for my holiday, but
John had explained to me that he would be spending a little more than
they had provided, as we were to travel mainly first class. He had
told me how he had been nervous of travelling alone, and had had very
few holidays since he lived alone; and how he had never been back to
France since that fateful day in 1944 when he lost his legs. Over the
years at the bank, he had accumulated a significant amount of
savings, and so could afford to make the holiday a lot grander than
the plans we had shared with my parents.
A taxi had been booked to take us to the station, and at the crack of
dawn, with all the neighbours still asleep, we waddled out of the
house, with our rucksacks on our backs, and were waiting at the
kerbside when the taxi arrived. The driver loaded our bags into the
boot, and we heaved ourselves onto the back seat. As the taxi started
off, John reached out for me, and squeezed my hand.
"Alright, mate?" he asked.
I could only grin back and nod, speechless that the adventure had
really begun.
With short stubbie legs, which don't bend at the knee, one of the
hardest things to do is to simply sit down - or as most chairs were
higher than our asses, 'sit up'. Thus each change of transport was a
challenge. Onto to the train, first class seats reserved, we found
getting into those seats quite hard. John, with all his years of
walking with stubbies, knew every trick, and often I would have to
watch him to see how he did something before I could attempt it.
Our journey was complicated: a train to London; a taxi from Waterloo
to London Bridge stations; and then a taxi at Dover station to take
us to the ferry. (Remember this was 1985 - no Channel tunnel in those
days!) Once at the ferry terminal, we produced our new passports, and
were taken on board by a kind of golf-cart. Again, travelling by
first class, we were helped to the first class restaurant, and
struggled mightily to get up into the seats in the restaurant. We had
a late, but excellent lunch on board, which took up most of the
journey time across the Channel.
Another golf-cart to the train in Boulogne, and then we really were
in France, first class compartment to Gare du Nord. In all the years
I had been pretending at John's. I had never worn the stubbies for
more than three hours. Sitting on the train heading for Paris, I
calculated that I had been in the stubbies for twelve hours, and the
journey was not yet over.
By the time we arrived in Paris, I felt as though my lower legs and
feet no longer existed. It was becoming normal to slip forward from
the seat, grab my crutches, and swing down from the train onto the
platform. Paris! My knees were about 9 inches above the tarmac of the
platform, and that was as close as I would ever get to touching the
ground in this city.
Rucksacks on backs, John led the way to the taxi rank. My schoolboy
French, which was not too bad, was considerably better than the few
words John knew in French, so from now on it was up to me to do the
talking. In case I could not be understood, I had the name of the
hotel on a piece of paper, but to my relief the taxi driver
understood me, and after some hesitation, we managed to clamber into
the taxi and headed towards our hotel.
From the windows of the taxi we glimpsed sights we had only seen in
picture books, and as we drew near to the Champs Elysee, got our
first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. I grinned at John; he nodded.
"Yep, going up there tomorrow!" he read my thoughts.
The hotel, four stars, close to the Arc de Triomph, knew in advance
that they had two severely disabled guests arriving. John had booked
a small suite on the first floor, with adjacent bedrooms and a small
sitting room. The hotel was far grander than any I had stayed in
before. A cute young bellboy carried our rucksacks as if they were
Loius Vuitton, and rushed ahead of us up the stairs. We stood at the
bottom and looked at one another. "I don't do stairs," said John.
"I don't know how," I replied. The concierge saw the problem, and
rushed across, with a torrent of French beyond my comprehension and
much gesticulating. To one side, but slightly out of sight was a
lift - a grand wrought iron affair, and we were elevated slowly and
grandly to our suite. The bellboy was already there with the door
open and our bags inside.
He lingered for a tip, which John produced, and then turned to me and
winked. For a moment I had a horrific thought that he had realised I
was a pretender, but then a much more interesting thought crept into
my mind. He fancied me! This cute, tall French bellboy, towering over
me by at least 2 feet, fancied me, a 15-year-old British cripple.
There were clearly going to be dimensions to this trip that I had
hardly dreamed about.
After settling into the room, we realised that we were very hungry,
having only had a light snack on the cross-channel boat. This was the
point when the reality of pretending kicked in. However much I would
have liked to slip out of my stubbies, stand up straight and walk
conventionally to dinner, I couldn't any more than John could.
So, it was with very tired legs, and with much leaning on my
crutches, that we set forth to find supper on the Champs Elysée. It
was at this time that I was able to reflect on the plight that John
lives in permanently - he can never change his mind - he is always
trapped in his stubbies, whatever he wants to do, however tired he is.
A very nice pavement cafe, and a balmy evening made our stroll worth
while, but my level of exhaustion meant that it was a real struggle
to get up on to the chair for the meal!
Slowly back to the hotel, and up in the lift to our rooms. It was
then that John had a surprise for me. Telling me to wait in my room
and not take my legs off, he waddled into his room and returned with
a bag in his mouth. Putting the bag on the bed, he told me to take
off my shorts and clamber up onto the bed. He then produced wide
crepe (ace) bandages and bind my ankles tightly to my upper thighs.
"Now when you take your stubbies off, you feet will stay up against
your ass," he said. "That's where they're staying all trip. You'll
not straighten your legs once in the next ten days!"
And with that he left me to get myself into bed. After a bit of
struggling, I finally lay on the bed, and put the light out. I
reflected on the events of the day, and realised that it had been
quite wonderful. The soft mattress made it possible for me to lie on
my back with my feet tucked under my ass. A hard-on, which had been
hovering all day, started to grow as I realised the full implications
of what I had let myself in for. We were to stay in this hotel for
ten days - and for the whole time I would be a DAK cripple; what's
more, my best mate had ensured that I would get no relief at night,
and I would stay a cripple for each and every 24 hours in France.
There was a light tap at the door. Thinking it was John, I called, in
English, "Come in!"
The door opened slowly. It was the hunky bellboy, not much older than
me, who had winked earlier. He crept towards me with his finger on
his lips to show I must remain quiet. He checked that the connecting
door to John's room was locked, and came back to the bed.
"I am sorry for my English," be began, "but I have come to make sure
you are OK. Is all OK with the room? Is all OK with you?"
I just smiled, amazed at this unexpected and not unwelcome turn of
events. He lay next to me on the bed, me under the sheet, him on top
of it. He stroked my knee stumps, sighing and smiling as he did so.
"My cute little English cripple," he whispered. "You are so
beautiful."
I couldn't think what to say, so again simply smiled. His hand came
into the bed, and he found my hard-on.
"I thought so, little cripple," he whispered, "let me help you with
this."
And snuggling close to me, kissing my ear, one arm round my neck, the
other feeling both my stumps and cock, he whispered sweet nothings in
French into my ear.
At first I was fearful that he would find out that I was not a real
amputee, but it became clear that he was not going to grope any
further, and I could relax fully and concentrate on this most amazing
experience.
As he brought me towards a climax, my stumps twitched, and my ankles
strained against their tight bandages. I pulled my arms out of the
bedclothes, and pulled him tightly towards me, and moaned softly into
his ear as I came into his hand.
Pulling his had out of the bed, he slowly licked my cum, smiling with
eyes twinkling as he did so.
"Good night, sexy cripple," he said. "Sleep well and have good
dreams."
And he slipped quietly out of the room.
I as lay there basking in the glorious post-sex glow, I realised that
I had not spoken a single word the entire time he had been in the
room. I drifted off to sleep with a broad smile on my face.
The next day dawned bright and sunny, and through a small gap in the
curtains, I could glimpse Paris waiting for my crippled body to
emerge into the sunlight.
I stretched and rubbed my stumps, amazed that I had slept so well
with my feet so tightly bandaged to my thighs. A smile crept over my
face as I remembered the wonderful visit by the bell boy.
The phone by the bed rang. "You awake yet?" came John's voice.
"Only just," I replied, "And I have a story to tell you over
breakfast."
"Well get into those legs, and join me downstairs."
I eased myself over the edge of the bed, and lowered my knees into
the waiting stubbies. Without John's help, I could now lace and strap
myself in fairly quickly. Once tightly secured, I removed my night
bandages, and I was soon waddling into the bathroom, where I could
just about reach to pee into the toilet. As a typical 15-year-old, I
didn't spent much time in the bathroom, so a quick wash was all that
happened. Soon I was dressed in tee-shirt and my baggy shorts, and
crutching to the lift. In the lobby I found John with croissants and
coffee.
"So," he said, leaning towards me and speaking softly, "you've been a
cripple for a full 24 hours. How does it feel?"
I hesitated before replying. Was he ready for my enthusiasm at
pretending to be in the same predicament as him? "Wonderful." I
replied at last.
"Good," he said, "because if you were starting to hate it, our whole
holiday would be in jeopardy!"
"And there's more to tell you," I said enthusiastically. "You'll
never guess what happened after I got into bed last night..." And I
told him the story.
"You've never mentioned this before," he said as I finished telling
him, "but you're coming out to me as gay. Do you think you really
are?"
"Oh yes," I said with all the confidence of youth, "I've never told
anyone ever before, but somehow it seems OK to tell you. You don't
mind do you?"
"Mind? Of course not. I'm happy for you to be yourself. Just as much
as you love being a cripple, so I imagine you'll love being gay.
You're a very complicated young man, and I'm glad to be a friend to
help you find yourself."
Again, I was quiet. This trip seemd to be turning into thoughtful
silences. It was hard to know what to say to this good, kind,
crippled man who understood me so well.
"Come on," he said. "Paris is waiting!"
After breakfast we left for our trip to the Eiffel Tower. This was
early August, and a bright clear sky meant that the views from the
top would be spectacular. Unfortunately several hundred other
tourists had realised the same thing, and the line to go up in the
lift was very long indeed.
Standing waiting, I was worried if I could manage a couple of hours
or more in the line, when an attendant spotted us and came over to
move us to the front of the line. I has not expected that there would
be such advantages being a cripple, and was to continue to be
surprised many more times on this trip when our disabled status got
us preferential treatment.
The windows of the first lift up to the second level were low enough
for us to see out, but the second lift, vertically from level two to
the top had only high windows, too high for us to see. We emerged at
the top, only to discover that the windows from the enclosed platform
were too high to see anything. There was nothing for it but to haul
ourselves up the steep stairs to the upper, open platform. Getting a
helpful passer-by the carry our sticks and crutches, we used our arms
and the hand-rails to clamber up the steps. Suddenly I had a memory
of my first ever meeting with John, many years ago, when I held his
sticks so that he could haul himself onto a bus. Now someone was
holding my crutches for me, so that I could in turn haul myslef up.
We turned, gasping for breath, and then continued to gasp at the
view. All Paris was spread out before us. As we wandered around the
viewing platform, the able-bodied tourists made way for us, so that
we could see through the railings.
"Do you remember that first time you held my sticks for me?" said
John.
"You're telepathetic," I replied. "That was exactly what I was
thinking of."
John grinned. "One small step onto a bus, one giant step onto the
Eiffel Tower!"
We had decided that our energy level was not going to make it
possible to embark upon more than one major adventure in a day, so
once we had drunk our fill of the views from the Eiffel Tower, we
returned to ground level, and set about finding a cafe for a rather
late lunch. Nearby we found a pavement cafe which we could access
fairly easily, appropriately called Tour d'Eiffel, and we struggled
up on to little metal chairs which were stunningly uncomfortable.
A taxi back to the hotel after lunch, and time for a siesta. As we
waddled through the lobby, I looked around for my bell boy of the
night before, but he was not to be seen.
In the lift up to our rooms, John asked me if I had had a bath or
shower since we had arrived. Sheepishly I admitted that I had
not. "But," I reminded him, "I don't know how."
"What do you mean?" he said. "You put on your ankle/thigh bandages,
take everything else off, and drag yourself into the bathroom.
Clamber into the bath, get clean, then clamber out. Once you're dry,
put on dry bandages. I'll leave the connecting door between our rooms
unlocked so that I can come and rescue you if you get stuck. But if
you want to be a proper cripple, you need to try and work this kind
of thing out." And he grinned, knowing that I was going to have to
struggle enormously, to do the very thing that he had done daily for
years.
And I did. I tied my bandages tightly, then removed my legs; I
undressed and dragged myself to the bathroom. I realised that I
couldn't reach the shower controls, so ran a bath instead. This was
the first time I had tried to move about without the stubbies on, and
it was both very difficult, and very exhilarating. At last I was
ready to fling myself into the water, with little plan of how I would
get out again. I washed, and then looked round for a towel. I had
left it on the other side of the bathroom beyond reach. I decided to
let the water out of the bath, then clamber out. At one stage much of
my weight was hanging on the taps, and I was afraid I would pull them
out of the wall, but eventually I crashed to the floor, and was able
to drag across to the towel. I sat back on my haunches, and dried
myself as best I could. I then removed the wet bandages and put on
dry ones for the night. I remained truthful to my endeavour and
didn't straighten my legs at any time. I then dragged myself across
the floor and scrambled up onto it.
No sooner I had regained the bed, than there was a knock at the door.
Hastily pulling the covers up, I called, "Come in" and sure enough my
lovely bell-boy appeared. He smiled, and walked over to the
connecting door to lock it.
Hearing the click of the lock, John's voice called out, "It's OK, I
not likely to come in. I've taken my legs off, and I'm not getting
out of bed for anything!"
The bell-boy grinned, and came over to the bed, snuggling quickly
against me. "Oh my little English cripple. You are so pretty. Tell me
your name?"
"I'm Douglas," I said, "Call me Doug. And tell me your name."
"Phillipe", he whispered in my ear.
"Oh Phillipe," I whispered, "I am so pleased you have come back
again."
Thinking back, I imagine he was about 19 or 20, but at the time, I
was bowled over by this experienced sexy older Frenchman who seemed
to think I was very attractive! Again he was content to fondle my
stumps, and bring me to a climax. Perhaps he knew how inexperienced I
was, but he was kind and gentle, and made me feel so good.
After I had come, we lay side by side on our backs, his arm round me
pulling me against him. "Mon petit cher handicapé," he whispered in
my ear, "You are so cute with your lovely...." and he trailed off,
not knowing the word.
"Stumps," I said, "My lovely stumps."
Suddenly he sat up. "Tomorrow is my day off," he said, "I will take
you out. You would like to go to the Louvre? We can get a wheelchair,
and I will push you round."
"We must take John," I said. "We can't leave him here."
"OK," he replied, "I will like to be with two English cripples,
especially with one of them so sexy."
The next morning saw the three of us in a taxi heading for the
Louvre. I was disappointed to discovered that it appeared to be one
huge building site: this was 1985 and the pyramid which was to become
so famous, was under construction. Getting around the Louvre with all
the building work was very difficult: John and I both had borrowed
wheelchairs, and Phillipe had his work cut out getting us both
through all kinds of tricky obstacles around the building works. We
could never have visited without Phillipe, and John took to him very
well. At one point, when Phillipe had gone ahead to see how
accessible the toilets were, John leaned over to me.
"You won't see my in a wheelchair very often," he said, "But we
couldn't have done it any other way! Phillipe's lovely, and he
certainly has the hots for you! We'll go back to the hotel for a
siesta, then take him out to dinner."
I smiled at John, "Thanks," thinking all the while of the time after
dinner when Phillipe came back to the room. How long could I keep up
the pretence? If he found out that I was a pretender how would he
react?
For the time being, however, I sat back and enjoyed my first time in
a wheelchair, little knowing that I would eventually be wheelchair
bound permanently.
When I embarked upon attempting my autobiography, I had no idea how
much detail of my life would come flooding back to me! That week in
Paris in 1985 was an extraordinary time of self-discovery - both of
my sexuality and my joy at being disabled. The long-term effects of
wearing John's spare stubbies, linked with the affair I had with
Phillipe, made the week so graphic!
I don't remember what we had for dinner, nor what we talked about,
with Phillipe's schoolboy English, and my schoolboy French; but I
clearly remember the way in which his hand would stray under the
table to feel and fondle the straps and laces of my bucket-tops. And
I remember the fear which I felt knowing that there was all the time
the possibility of him finding out that I was a pretender.
That evening, he came back to my room with me, and I realised that I
could hardly undress and get into bed without him seeing my feet
tucked tightly into my ass, so I took the initiative, and started to
make love to him fully dressed as soon as we were in the room. He
responded, and for the first time, I took another man's cock into my
mouth. Standing on my stubbies, sucking my French lover - I felt I
was in heaven. After a while he put his arms around me and lifted me
fully dressed onto the bed.
Laying side by side, we snuggled and wanked together, enjoying the
warmth of our bodies, turned on by having sex fully dressed, and both
of us highly aroused by my disabled situation. Some more bucket-top
rubbing and we came almost together. Giggling slightly, we lay
together for a while, and then he told me that he must go to bed, as
he had to get up early in the morning. He slipped away, leaving me to
doze for a while, and then realise that I was still fully dressed and
had my stubbies on still.
The next day, as I lay listening to the sounds of Paris, and
stretching and rubbing my strangely numb legs, the phone by the bed
rang. It was John. "Come in to see me when you're dressed," he said.
A little later, back into my stubbies and ready for the day, I went
into his room. He was still in bed. I had never seen him without his
stubbies on before, and it was quite odd to see his truncated body
lying there in the bed.
"I don't feel very good this morning," he said, "Perhaps something I
ate last night. Do you feel up to going out on your own?"
"Yes," I said. "What about some breakfast?"
"No, thanks, not until later. You go on and enjoy yourself. Come back
this afternoon for a siesta and see how I am. Where will you go?"
"I want to go up to Montmartre, and visit Sacre Coeur." A plan was
forming in my mind, but I didn't dare tell John.
"Take care," he said. "See you later."
After breakfast, I ventured out onto the Paris streets for the first
time quite alone. The clunk of my crutches echoed in the narrow side
street, and I admired myself in shop windows as I waddled past. I
walked past the taxi rank, and headed up toward the Arc d'Triomph. My
progress was slow, as always, but at last I got there and
contemplated the steps down to the Metro. With John, we had done
everything by taxi, but now I was alone, I was determined to have the
full experienced of being a cripple on the Paris Metro!
With both crutches under one armpit, and the other arm grasping the
handrail, I slowly descended into the Metro station. The greatest joy
of disability, I was discovering, was in taking my time to do
everything. It didn't matter how slow I was, I got to the ticket
hall, bought a pack of carnets, and continued my slow descent to the
platform. Line 12 would take me to Abbesses, and I awaited the train
with some apprehension, hoping I was capable of climbing on it. With
a great rattling it arrived, and the doors were opened by other
passengers, who then stood back to let me on. I knew there was no way
I was going to be able to sit on the seats, so I stood near the door,
both crutches again under one arm, and clung on tightly with the other
hand.
We rattled through several stations, and at Pigalle I knew I was
nearly there. I steadied myself, and got off the train at Abbesses,
only to be faced with lots of stairs. My progress was painfully slow,
but eventually I made it to the open air. I then found myself facing
a maze of tiny side streets. Consulting my map I started off towards
the funicular. When you are walking with such effort as I was then,
you can't afford to take a wrong turning, so I consulted the map
regularly. It was with some relief that I spied the base of the
funicular, and waddled up the ramp towards it. Groping in my pocket
for another of the carnet tickets, I went up to the line waiting for
the next tramcar. Once again, I was ushered to the front of the line,
and onto the next tram. At the top, there was yet another long ramp,
but at last I gained the level street in front of Sacre Coeur. By now
it was late morning, a blazing sun filled a cloudless sky and all
Paris was laid out before me. I stood and drunk in the view.
And it was then that I had an attack of panic. What was I doing,
alone, so far from the hotel, strapped into stubbies, with feet that
had not touched the ground for several days? Was I mad? No, I
realised, I was having fun!
Turning from the view of Paris, I heaved myself up the shallow steps
to the church of Sacre Coeur itself. A legless beggar, seated at the
door, looked at me, nodded, and watched me crutch past. I reflected
ruefully how much I would have liked to stop and talk to him; but my
knowledge of French in those days was very rudimentary, and I couldn't
even begin a conversation.
Inside, the church was strangely warm and quiet. I was conscious of
the creak and squeak of my stubbies and crutches. I loved the sounds
of my disabled walking. I moved into the nave, and stood transfixed
by the mosaic ceiling above the high altar.
Standing in that most famous of churches, with the candle light, and
the sun coming in through the stained glass, I leaned on my crutches
and swayed, moving my weight from stubbie to stubbie, crutch to
crutch. For a moment I shut my eyes. I had a feeling of extraordinary
joy and happiness. Despite putting myself into this situation of
being severely disabled, I was happier than I could ever remember
being before. What was happening to me? I smiled as I turned and
began to crutch towards the brightness shining through the doorway,
and that amazing view of Paris.
Stepping out of the porch, I saw that the legless beggar was gone,
and I watched as he wheeled himself in his wheelchair away to the
right, into Montmatre itself. I wished I'd seen how he climbed up
into the chair with no legs.
I waddled slowly down to the Funicular, and found another carnet
ticket. Despite the queue, I was ushered to the front and given
priority for boarding the tramcar. I was offered a seat, but declined
it; the short ride down the hill did not justify the enormous
struggle it would have been to get up on the seat! At the foot, I
retraced my route towards to Metro at Abbesses. Close to the Metro
Station was a small square with a couple of little cafes, with seats
on the pavement. Screwing up my courage, I hauled myself up onto a
seat, put my crutches on the ground, and pulled the table towards me.
I looked at my watch: it was one o'clock; I had had my weight on my
knees inside my stubbies since nine in the morning. I rubbed my hands
on the leather of my bucket-tops as I tried to work out what to order
from the menu.
After lunch, it was time to make the slow descent to the Metro; once
again, I stood on the train, and once more struggled up many, many
steps to the fresh air at the Arc de Triomph. My progress to the
hotel was very slow indeed. At one stage, when I had stopped to
recover my breath, it flashed though my mind that I had two perfectly
good feet strapped tightly up against my ass, and that I was actually
capable of conventional walking, which would have made the whole
day's experience so much easier. And then that slow smile spread over
my face again as I realised how much greater the experience had been
for me as a cripple.
John was sitting in a wicker chair outside the hotel, enjoying the
afternoon sun. "How are you now?" I asked. "Are you feeling better?"
"I wasn't ill," he grinned, " I just pretended to be sick to see if
you were brave enough to go off on your own. And to see how it feels
to be a cripple all alone in a city."
"It was fantastic!" I said.
"Get into a chair, and tell me about it."
I clambered up into another of the wicker chairs, and lay my crutches
down. "Well," I began, "I made it all the way to Sacre Coeur. And I
went by Metro. Lots of steps down and up! Look, I bought a book of
carnet tickets. I got right into the church. There's an amazing
mosaic ceiling over the altar. And I had lunch at a pavement cafe."
"And how do you feel? Were you frightened on your own? Have you had
enough of being a cripple?"
"No," I said, "Quite the opposite. You're going to have to help me
understand my feelings. I really like it. I feel so happy, so good,
like this. It's ... I don't know how to say it ... it's just so good."
"You know, when I first lost my legs, everyone thought it was so
tragic. A handsome young man cut down in his prime. And yet, I never
really minded. I've always quite liked being a cripple. You realise
I've never said anything like this to anyone ever before, don't you?
But I wouldn't change my life. I'm happy as I am, on my stubbies,
living a crippled life."
I looked across at John, and out my hand out and held his arm. "I
think I am very lucky to have a friend like you," I said, "and I
really appreciate what you just said. Thank you for understanding."
A shout from across the road startled us out of the maudlin state we
were in, as Phillipe arrived. "You English!" he laughed, "Sitting
here waiting for your tea?"
"Alright," I replied, "Yes. Let's have tea!"
After tea and a siesta, we went to a nearby cafe for supper. To my
surprise, John ordered a bottle of champagne. "What's that for?" I
asked.
"It's a double celebration," he chuckled. "I've come out and told you
I'm a happy cripple; and you've told me how much you love being a
cripple too. Now I bet you've never been drunk before. Let's get
through this bottle and see if you can manage your crutches back to
the hotel."
I imagine I did get back to the hotel, and I think Phillipe came for
his nightly snuggle, but I don't remember much about the rest of the
that day!
The rest of the holiday passed as happily. We visited another art
gallery, and had borrowed wheelchairs again; we went on a Bateau
Mouche, despite the dangers of a steeply sloping gangplank; and on
the last evening we had dinner at the Jules Verne Restaurant halfway
up the Eiffel Tower.
At dinner on that last evening, John looked serious, and turned to me
and said, "We're going home tomorrow, and you'll have to take off
those stubbies when we get to my house. You've not straightened your
legs for nine days. You've almost forgotten your feet, haven't you?
How do you feel about going back to being able-bodied?"
I couldn't prevent a tear running down my cheek. "I don't want to go
home," I said. "I don't want to go back to ordinary living. I don't
want my feet back."
"I thought that's what you'd say. I think I know how you feel. But
it's not a choice. Tomorrow night, once we're home, you must take off
the stubbies, and straighten your legs. I want you to sleep with them
straightened out, so that you will be able to walk the next day up on
your own feet."
We had timed our journey home so that it would be getting dark when
we arrived at John's house. He paid the taxi and we hefted our
rucksacks up his front path. Inside a pile of letters on the mat
almost stopped the door opening. Bending down, John scooped them up
and put them on a low chair in the hall. "They can wait until
tomorrow," he said. "Now let's get you out of those stubbies."
"One more night," I pleaded.
"No," he said, "I'm not sure, but I think it will be very hard for
you to straighten your legs. I think a night's sleep with them
straightened will be essential if you're to go back to your parents
tomorrow. You'll sleep in my bed, and I'll sleep on the floor in the
living room."
With enormous reluctance, I sat in a chair and pulled my shorts down.
I unstrapped my bucket-tops, pulled open the laces, and pulled the
stubbies off. And then just for moment, I was stuck. I couldn't move
my legs at all. "Get down in the floor," instructed John. "Now try to
relax." And with that he started to pull my ankles away from my
thighs. The pain was appalling, and I cried out for him to stop. With
my knees at about ninety degrees, he did. "Now go and have a hot
bath," he said, "The hot water will help." And crying with the pain,
I crawled into the bathroom.
Eventually, I was in bed, my legs straighted and agonising. John came
into the room. "OK mate?" he asked, knowing of course that I wasn't.
"No," I said. "My legs really hurt a lot. And I don't want to go back
to ordinary walking." And then the tears really started to
flow. "I've had a fantastic time John. I don't know how to say thank
you. It's been wonderful. And I'm missing Phillipe!"
The next morning, my legs seemed to be a bit better, and very
gingerly, I got out of bed. I could stand up, and walk, but I was
still very stiff and it felt very awkward.
I walked slowly out to the kitchen, holding the furniture as I went.
Suddenly I remembered that I was now much taller than John, which
seemed very odd after ten days being at his height. He was standing
on his stubbies looking very subdued.
"I've been looking through the post," he said, "And there's a very
odd letter from the police. They want me to phone them. They don't
say why. Very odd."
He waddled out to the hall, where his phone was, and I could hear his
half of a long and serious conversation. There's was lot of, "are you
sure?" and, "yes he is" and, "I'll tell him myself." This went on for
some time. When John came back to the kitchen his face was even more
worried looking.
"Oh God," he said, "I don't know how to do this. I don't know what to
say. There was an accident while we were in Paris. Your parents were
in a car crash. The police found my name and phone number in your
father's wallet."
"What?"
"They've been killed, Doug. Oh I'm so sorry. The police are coming
round to tell us all about it, They've gone Doug. They're gone."
I don't know how a fifteen-year-old is supposed to react to suddenly
losing his parents. I just stood there, blankly staring at John. It
was good that this news had come when I was with such a good friend,
and a man who knew how to look after me on that strange day. My legs,
already feeling very weak from the days and days of being strapped
up, felt even weaker, and I sat down at the kitchen table. Tears
slowly trickled down my cheeks, and I stared blankly out of the
window.
I don't remember how long I sat like that, but eventually not one,
but two police cars arrived. From the first came two uniformed
officers; from the second a youngish woman, not in uniform. John let
them in, and they told me how my father had driven directly into the
side of a tractor emerging from a field. I was numb and in a blur.
After a while the uniformed officers left, leaving the woman, who
turned out to be a community liaison officer, sent to look after me.
She wanted to know about my parents' solicitor and all kinds of
things I was unable to think of, or didn't know. After a while she
took me home, and I showed her my father's desk where we found his
address book. This led us to finding his solicitor, and she rang him
from my father's phone. It turned out he already knew about my
parents dying, and was waiting to contact me. He asked the
policewoman to take me to his office. Walking from house to car was
very hard: I felt unable to move my legs properly. The policewoman,
seeing me wobbling about, said, "You OK? You're very wobbly. I expect
it's the shock."
Yes, I thought, that's a good line, it's the shock. I can't tell her
I've just spent ten days pretending to be a cripple.
Once I had lurched into the solicitor's office, things started to
make sense. "I'm Donald Looker," said a middle-aged man, coming into
the room. "I'm so sorry that we're meeting for the first time in such
sad circumstances. You may not know, but your parents made a will
some time ago, in which I am nominated to be your guardian should
they both ... er ... die."
I don't know what came over me, but suddenly I felt a need to be held
tightly, and getting up, I just staggered across the room and fell
into Donald's arms. And then I started to howl.
"Hey," he said, "Just hold tight. I'm here for you. We'll get through
this together. Hold tight."
What I sight we must have been - a teenage boy clinging to a total
stranger, dribbling snot and tears down his suit. Over my shoulder I
was aware of him telling the policewoman to go, and telling his
secretary that there were to be no more calls or interruptions that
day.
At last I calmed down, but couldn't walk at all. My damaged legs
would carry me no further. Donald helped me into a chair.
Once I was able to listen, he said, "Now, I'm going to take you home,
and you are going to stay with us for a time, while we sort things
out."
I explained that I needed to tell John what was happening. Donald
asked if I would like him to pick up John on the way, and I said yes.
I phoned John to give him time to get ready, and Donald then phoned
his home. The phone call was ambiguous, to say the least.
"Hi, Michael," said Donald, "Can you cope with four for dinner
tonight? Do you want me to bring anything in? Oh - and this boy's in
a state of collapse. It seems the shock has affected his walking.
You'd better have your spare chair at the door." I couldn't figure
out what that was about!
After I was calmer, Donald went through the basics of what would
happen. I didn't really take it all in, and he would have to tell it
to me all over again the next day, but it was sufficient to know that
I was in the hands of another caring adult. With hindsight, I know
how lucky I was to find, first John and then Donald.
Mid-afternoon, and Donald packed up his office for the day, and
helped me out to his car. My legs were getting worse and worse, but
at least I could blame my weakness on delayed shock. Donald went to
help me into the front seat of the car, but I said, "No, put me in
the back, John will need to go in the front. He's disabled."
At John's house, I stayed in the car, while Donald went to get John.
They stood talking for quite a while, Donald sitting on an upturned
bucket. I was struck that Donald seemed very unfazed by meeting John.
Usually strangers are quite alarmed by the slight of him on his
little stubbies, but Donald wasn't. As they talked, they both looked
towards me. Clearly they had a lot to talk through, so I sat mutely
in the car, vaguely aware that tears were trickling down my face once
more.
Eventually John and Donald came over to the car, John hauled himself
in, and we set off for Donald's house. From John's humble dwelling we
found ourselves in the grandest suburb of the town, with wide tree-
lined streets. Donald swept into a curving drive and stopped outside
a grand front-door. The door opened, and a man in a wheelchair came
rolling out, pushing an empty chair in front of him. My life seems to
have been peppered by moments of being speechless - this was one of
them!
Donald introduced me to his partner Michael, and helped me into the
empty wheelchair. Donald pushed me into the house. Thus it was that I
entered into the house which would become so important for the rest
of my life. Meeting Michael explained how relaxed Donald had been
with John - he shared his life with a disabled man.
The house was large and spacious, but sparsely furnished. There were
no carpets, and few chairs. And then I woke up to the realisation
that this was the home of a man who lived in a wheelchair - so he
didn't want carpets, or need chairs. I've often wondered since if my
parents knew Donald was gay when they made him my guardian. And I
marvelled at the co-incidence of finding mature gay friends within so
short a time of coming out to John. Even more amazing for my twisted
mind was the discovery that this man Michael was not only gay, but
disabled too.
Once we were all in the hallway, Donald looked around. Michael in his
wheelchair was just setting off, presumably to the kitchen; John was
on his stubbies; I was slumped in Michael's spare chair. "Christ,"
said Donald, "I feel tall!" - and then went to put the car away.
Michael turned and indicated a room to the right. "I'll be back in a
minute. Make yourself at home."
John led into a large, but still fairly empty living room. An expanse
of polished wood flooring, a couple of chairs, and a grand piano (but
no piano stool!). For a moment I considered getting out of the
wheelchair, but then realised that I had an opportunity to stay it
for the rest of the day. John pulled himself into one of the chairs,
and I wheeled over to him.
"Are OK, Doug" he asked.
"Yes, I think so," I replied.
"Bloody hell," he said, "What a day. And you've finished up in a
wheelchair. I can't believe it!"
The next six months were a time of upheaval and change, and a roller-
coaster of emotions. Donald, Michael and John guided me through the
complexities of becoming an orphan, and were there for me when I felt
exhausted emotionally.
They helped organise my parents' funeral, and held me tightly when I
finally howled at the graveside; they repelled the advances of
various relations who, quite kindly, offered to take me to live with
them in various far-flung parts of the British Isles; and they helped
me back to my own school, met with the head teacher and ensured that
after all that had happened I was able to go back to school in the
Fall.
Living with my 'guardian', Donald, was at first like a holiday, We
agreed that I couldn't call him 'guardian', and we all were happy
with first names. Donald was a tower of strength, organising a large
room for me, with a desk for homework, and helping me sort out what I
wanted to keep from my parents' house. He found that my father, ever
a carefully man until that fateful moment when he drove into a
tractor, had three life insurance policies: one to pay for the
mortgage on the house; one to provide for me if he died; and one,
surprisingly, for me to buy a car! This meant that Donald could sell
my parents' house, and invest a very large amount of money on my
behalf.
Living with Michael was an education in itself. After knowing a great
deal about life with John, living on stubbies, I was now in everyday
contact with a man totally confined to a wheelchair. I saw how the
whole house, and garden, was geared to his needs. The kitchen was
designed entirely for him, and a lift had been installed to get him
up to the bedroom floor. Brick paths were laid around the garden, and
access to the garage, where his hand-controlled car lived, was easy.
In those first few days, when my legs were recovering from being
doubled-up in stubbies in Paris, I used Michael's spare wheelchair a
lot, and it came to be parked permanently in my bedroom. Thus it was
that I would sit in it when I was doing my homework. I felt safe, and
protected from the emotions of bereavement when I was in the chair.
I discovered that Michael was an excellent linguist, and earned a
living translating things from French into English and vice-versa.
Thus I had an excellent tutor to get me through my French homework,
and my French improved beyond belief. When I had a French
translation, or grammar to learn, I would wheel myself into Michael's
study, and we'd work on it together. He also was pretty helpful when
it came to English language and literature homework as well.
John became great friends with Donald and Michael, and remained my
closest mate. I continued to go to his house on nights when I had
maths, and slipped into his old stubbies whenever I was there.
We developed a tradition of having dinner togather, all four
including John, on Friday evening, and this naturally extended to
John spending Christmas with us.
Slowly during that winter, a plan began to form in my mind. With
Donald's help, I bought a large ranch-style property, not far from
Donald and Michael's house, and had it converted for disabled living.
The kitchen, modelled on Michael's, was totally accessible for a
disabled person, and the bathrooms were rebuilt. At last the time
came for John to leave his tiny home, and move in with me to the new
property. My birthday is in June, and we managed it on my sixteenth
birthday. John had been involved in all the planning and designing,
and there was a great air of celebration when we arrived at the new
house.
There was just one thing that John did not know about - the car in
the garage - with hand controls, for him to learn to drive. Michael
had helped me get this organised and delivered, and it was John's
turn to cry when he saw it for the first time.
"But it's your birthday," he blubbed, "And I've got all this!"
"And I've got all three of you," I told them, "And I can't believe
how my life has turned out, so far."
Little did any of them know that the grand plan that had formed in my
mind during that winter, was still incomplete. The final, and most
extraordinary part, was yet to come. In our new home, when we were
alone, I wore my stubbies a lot, and looked forward constantly to the
time when I would be a double above knee amputee.
During that summer, we all went on holiday together, Michael in his
wheelchair, John on his stubbies, but Donald and I walking. We went
to the South of France for two weeks: Michael's stunning ability in
French keeping us all happy, except when he made me do the talking!
As we wandered the promenade at Nice I would linger, and watch my
three best friends ahead of me, the wheelchair-man, the stubbies-man,
and the walker. And I would smile quietly to myself, knowing that
next time, I'd be a proper cripple, not just a pretender.
One day, during the following winter, while we were working on a
French translation, a chance remark led to me asking Michael about
the accident which had put him in the wheelchair. It turned out he
had been the pillion on a friend's motorbike. The bike had gone off
the road at speed, killing the friend. When Michael woke up he was
paralysed. I asked him how long ago this had happened. "I was just
seventeen," he said.
Seventeen! How could I suppress my excitement at this most spooky of
co-incidences! John had been seventeen when his legs were blown off
on a French beach; Michael had been seventeen when he had been
paralysed; and my next birthday would be my seventeenth. My resolve
was strong.
That year my birthday was on a Sunday. Well in advance, I had started
going out on my bicycle to collect a Sunday paper for John, and on
the day of my birthday I went out as usual. It was bright warm June
morning, the kind that is so good to be out in the fresh air, early
in the morning. I dressed in an old black tracksuit, and pedalled
rapidly in the direction of the town centre, about three miles away.
By a quirk of planning, the shopping centre in my home town has a
railway line running through it, and there's a level crossing where
the pedestrian area crosses the railway line. A footbridge crosses
the tracks for those pedestrians too impatient to wait when the
barriers are down for a train to pass through.
I left my bicycle leaning against a lamp-post, and I didn't lock it
up. Knowing I would never ride it again, I was quite happy for
someone to steal it! Checking my watch, I knew that the next train
from London was due in just a few minutes. I walked quickly to the
level crossing and dodged onto the track. Being early Sunday morning,
there were few people about. I stood in the lee of the footbridge, my
black tracksuit making me almost invisible. In the distance I could
see the train approaching, and I could feel the vibrations in the
track. To my left, the level crossing barriers crashed down, and the
warning klaxons wailed. I waited until the last minute as I didn't
want the driver to see me and try to stop the train.
At the last minute I stepped out from the shadow of the bridge and
sat down, my knees on the rail, feet towards the centre of the track.
The noise of the train was thunderous, and the vibrations in the rail
horrific, as I laid back on the filthy track side and shut my eyes.
Everything hurt, and hummed and buzzed. I felt as if I was swimming
through a haze of pain and noise. It cleared a little and I found
myself facing John, Donald and Michael.
I vaguely remember going in and out of consciousness, and had no idea
how long it had been since that bright birthday morning when I put my
legs under the train.
Eventually, I found myself emerging from the soup of pain and noise.
"Are you awake now?" came John's voice.
"We're all here." That was Donald.
"We thought we were losing you." That was Michael.
"I'm here," I said.
"I feel so sorry," said John. "If only I'd not let you play with my
stubbies. If only we'd not been on that holiday to Paris."
"No, I think I should have stopped you from playing in the
wheelchair," said Michael. "If only..."
"I feel so awful," said Donald. "I agreed with your parents that I
would look after you, and now this has happened. I've not been much
of a guardian, have I?"
"What's the matter with you all?" I said. "Don't you see, I'm not
sorry about what I did. I'm pleased. I want to be like this. It's
what I'm supposed to be like. I knew long ago that I didn't want to
stay able-bodied. I knew my destiny was to be disabled. And now I am.
Please be pleased for me, not guilty."
"That's really hard for me," said John. "I still feel as though I've
been the cause of you doing this to yourself."
"John, I was keen to become a cripple when I was quite a little kid,"
I said. "Meeting you simply helped me understand what I wanted. You
must know more than anyone how happy I was in Paris, and how happy
I've been over the years pretending in your stubbies. Now I'll be
wearing stubbies of my own."
"Doug," said John, grasping hold of my hand, "You won't be wearing
stubbies. The train made a real mess of your legs. Your amputations
are very, very high. You have no thighs left, no stumps to put into
stubbies. You're going to spend the rest of your life in a
wheelchair."
"No stubbies? No stubbies?"
"Go back to sleep now," came Donald's voice. "We'll worry about the
future when the time comes."
The haze of sleep descended and rose and descended and rose many
times. Whenever I was awake, one of my three loyal friends was always
there, holding my hand. At last the day came when I was ready to sit
up.
With two nurses to help, my pillows were arranged, and my truncated
body pulled slowly up. I felt a bit giddy and sick after so many days
on my back, but gradually I got there. I looked down. I had no lap,
no sign of legs beyond the bottom I was sitting on. I reached down
with my hands and smoothed the bedclothes in front of me. Nothing
there. I put my head back and smiled. I had done it. Slowly and
nervously I felt my amputation scars. There were still sore, but I
could touch them. I felt slowly and carefully to find out the shape
of my new body. Either side of my balls was no more than a rounded
nub where my legs used to be. I could not remember a time in my life
when I felt happier.
I wasn't in hospital all that long. I think it was because I was so
happy with my transformed body, and that I was accepting and pleased
with the results of the surgery, that I healed all the quicker.
Each day one or more of my friends would visit. I sometimes wondered
if they were watching me for signs that I regretted my action, but of
course I did not, and gradually their guilt seemed, on the surface at
least, to go away.
I talked for a long time with Michael about life in a wheelchair. He
said that he had been angry at first, robbed of walking when he was
seventeen. But he looked at me and realised that I had no anger at
all, in fact I had very great happiness. He told me about going back
to the piano, and working hard to play well, and how he had played
long and furiously to work out his anger, and that it had worked. And
he told me how he still returned to the piano on days when he felt
frustrated by his paralysis. He spoke a lot about the security that
his wheelchair gives him; of how he feels unsafe when he's not in it;
and how he almost panics in the morning until he's safely seated. He
talked about balance, and told me that with virtually no leg stumps,
I would have to learn to balance in my new chair; he suggested that I
would probably need a waist belt to strap me to the chair to stop
falling out. And one day, he arrived pushing my first chair, a
wonderful sports model with a low back, no handles for a pusher, and
beautifully angled wheels. I was impatient to learn to use it.
Michael also talked a lot about how his chair feels like it is a part
of himself, and how I would grow to be bonded to my chair. I liked
that thought a lot.
Donald talked about my financial situation. Thanks to my father's
forsight, Donald had been able to invest from the life insurances, so
that I had a small income. With John's salary from the bank, we would
be able to maintain our home, but he worried about things like
gardening. I felt we could think about that later.
Donald also was the one who had quickly put the whole story
together. "You planned your amputations right from the start, didn't
you?" he said. "All the work about making your house disabled
friendly wasn't just for John. It was for you." I could do little but
smile, and agree. Yes, indeed, it had all been part of one grand plan.
John also visited frequently, but had the hardest time coping with
his guilt. Much as I reassured him that he was not to blame for my
predicament, and that I was very happy indeed about what I had
deliberately caused, he still felt guilty and responsible. He was by
now, 60 years old, and finding walking on his stubbies increasingly
tiring. He thus was considering retiring from the bank, and was
pleased to discover that his bank pension, together with his old army
disability pension, would mean that he had a reasonable income in
retirement.
Sometimes, as I lay in my hospital bed, I would watch him arriving,
with his characteristic waddle on those stubbies, walking as he had
done now for 43 years, and wonder at how I would be when I'm 60, and
had been in a wheelchair for 43 years. The thought made me glow with
anticipated pleasure.
I was a little frustrated by the heavy bandaging used around my
pelvis while my scars were healing. I could only get a rough idea of
my body shape through all the layers of bandage. When the dressings
were changed, I was always laying flat on my back, so really could
not see what was going on. At last the day came for the bandages to
be removed. For the first time since the amputations, I was naked.
I waited for the nurses to leave my room, then slowly moved my hands
down to my ass. I knew I was still sore, so I felt carefully for the
shape of my body. That first time I held my hands under my pelvis,
where my legs used to be, was ecstatic. The reality of my achievement
was tremendous: at last I had a wonderful body. Whenever I was alone,
I would rub gently under my pelvis, feeling the tiny stumps, each
containing just a round ball of bone from the very top of my thigh.
In those days I had never heard about Body Identity Disorders, but I
know now that I was experiencing all the wonderful feelings of a
cured BIID sufferer.
Lying there in the hospital, gently massaging my tiny stumps, I was
in heaven. And I knew, for certain, that I would always be like this.
I would never again have legs; I was now ready for the rest of my
life.
STUBBIES
