Disappointment

 

DISAPPOINTMENT

Don’t believe everything you read in ads. Especially not for prosthetic limbs.

A tale of despondency by strzeka

 

It took three weeks to organise but finally everyone had rearranged work shifts, begged permission from significant others and otherwise generally made time for the event. Five of the lads were off to the lido for an afternoon of water skiing and an evening of beers on the beach with the exception of Max who had promised to stay stone cold sober as the designated driver. Everyone and their water gear packed into Max’s superbly renovated red and white Volkswagen Kleinbus and bantered their way the twenty kilometres to the only lido with a lake big enough to allow speedboats. Dave had already reserved the same one as last summer, paid the deposit, and undertook to remain sober until everyone had disembarked.

 

Max pulled in to the parking lot and extended the roof. The five guys battled for space as they removed their jeans and hoodies. Mitch removed his hearing aids and dropped them into a Pringles tube where he kept spare batteries and other bits. Mitch insisted he was not deaf but hard-of-hearing. In spite of that, the others would have to shout at him for him to make themselves understood. They were used to it. Everyone was ready for the water and jumped out of the van, bouncing with energy and excitement. They walked across to the jetty where the Skylark III was hitched and waited while Dave settled affairs in the boat rental office with the owner, Rodney Phillips. Next was the water ski kiosk. Two pairs of skis would be enough. Everything was ready. They climbed into the Skylark and Dave fired the engine into life. He looked at his mates to check everyone was secure and slowly reversed the boat away from the dock.

 

There was a ski jump in the middle of the lake. It was not especially large but provided an extra thrill for those daredevils who tried it. It was almost inevitable that a jumper would fail to land properly and would need to be picked up. It spoiled the fun. The guys agreed not to try it this trip. The jump was a useful marker around which it was easy to maintain a steady course.

 

The guys would take turns on the skis in alphabetical order. Al was first up. Dave stopped the boat and Al sat on the edge, struggling to get the unwieldy water skis on. He dropped into the water and Dave lowered him the tow rope. Al paddled away from the stern and Dave set the boat into motion. The rope tightened and Al rose up and out of the water, sliding over its glittering surface. Dave steered the Skylark in a wide anticlockwise arc centred on the ski jump. Al was following behind, maintaining his balance and grinning like a madman. The exhilaration was overpowering. Dave held his course. He could sense that the steering was less responsive than it had been the previous summer. There was more play somehow. Al was in the water. Dave circled back to pick him up. Al half-heartedly agreed to swap places with Ed. Dave waited while they changed places and returned to the wheel. This time the throttle also felt loose. Dave pushed it further and it engaged, thrusting the Skylark forward and pulling Ed to his feet behind the boat.

 

After nearly an hour, it was Mitch’s turn. He dropped into the water over the back of the boat and paddled away with the tow rope. Dave checked that he was a safe distance away and engaged the throttle, which was beginning to feel decidedly clunky. The boat shot forward, dislocating the hapless Mitch’s right shoulder, leaving him screaming in pain in the water. The Skylark sped ahead in a wide arc, circling the ski jump. Dave pulled on the throttle in an attempt to slow the boat but it was unresponsive. He tried pushing it forward and the boat’s speed increased further. The control was still unresponsive. Mitch quickly disappeared from view, a low figure in the water, unable to swim with his injured arm, treading water after kicking off the waterskis which bobbed to the surface beside him. Dave gave up trying to slow the boat and concentrated on steering. To his horror, he found the steering wheel malfunctioning in the same way as the throttle. He could make the boat turn more sharply but not straighten her course. He did his best to keep the Skylark away from the ski jump. The boat had almost completed a revolution around it. Suddenly Mitch appeared fifty metres ahead. He was prone in the water, his dislocated right arm held out from his body, floating on the surface. He was trying to swim on his back to the shore, a hundred and fifty metres away. Dave screamed at Mitch to watch out. Mitch heard nothing, not Dave’s screams nor the powerful motor of the Skylark bearing down on him. The stern of the speeding boat struck him and a chunk of flesh flew into the air behind the boat.

 

The guys were close to panic. None of them had a phone with them, except for Dave who was battling with the controls. They were half a kilometre from the boat rental hut, the closest place with a phone. Dave suddenly regained his senses and screamed at anyone to get his phone out of his hoodie’s pocket and call for help. The Skylark completed another full circle, avoiding Mitch by ten metres. Al and Ed dived overboard and swum back to Mitch. He was barely conscious, his blood staining the water. His right arm was slashed and almost severed. His right leg was not visible. His other limbs were fine and there were no other obvious injuries. They were seventy-odd metres from the shore. The two swimmers began to tow Mitch awkwardly towards the narrow beach. The Skylark continued its insane pirouette behind them. Max called the emergency services with the locked phone and calmed enough to explain briefly what had happened. An ambulance was on its way. Someone should be ready to direct the medics. Max asked Dave for his password to open the phone and found the number for the boat hire. Rod Phillips would wait for the ambulance and ferry the medics across the lake in a powered dinghy.

 

Mitch was unconscious when the medics reached him. Al and Ed stood back while a medic applied tourniquets to Mitch’s ruined limbs. He lifted the body into the dinghy and they returned to the dock and to the ambulance. Phillips grabbed his tool bag and set out again to rescue the three men trapped on the Skylark, which continued its insane circling. He threw the bag of tools into the boat and shouted instructions to Dave on how to open the console in order to gain access to the mechanism. Dave opened the throttle’s cover and peered inside. He could see the problem quite plainly. A bolt had sheared off from somewhere and was jamming the lever, preventing it from moving back into neutral. He scrabbled in the bag looking for pliers to pluck at the bolt and found a pair of needle pliers which might be able to reach. With his hand in the console, he could not see the bolt and tried several times to grab hold of it. Suddenly it was dislodged and fell deeper, out of sight. But the throttle was free. Dave pulled it into neutral and the Skylark slowed and stopped. Phillips pulled alongside and the three men clambered into the dinghy. No-one spoke. Dave, Malcolm and Max were too traumatised and Phillips was concerned about the damages he feared he was liable for. From what little he had been able to stomach on the beach, the lad they had pulled from the water was going to lose an arm and a leg, a stiff price to pay for a bit of fun waterskiing.

 

Mitch was given half a litre of blood in the ambulance on the way to Mount Pleasant Hospital. Doctors and surgeons were alerted that an emergency trauma patient was arriving imminently. Mitch was placed on a gurney and rushed inside where the medical professionals appraised his injuries. The lad’s right hand was maimed. The palm had been sliced through leaving only the thumb. There were compound fractures in the forearm and the elbow had been shattered. The upper arm bore a deep laceration. The leg was no more promising. There were lacerations up to the boy’s buttocks but there was severe muscle loss from the calf and the kneecap had been lost. It was Mitch’s kneecap which the others had seen fly into the air when the boat hit.

 

The medical staff withdrew to a conference room where they were served tea and biscuits while they discussed the viability of Mitch’s limbs. The older surgeons were adamant that the limbs could be salvaged. The leg could be fused and be viable with a leg brace and built-up boot. The arm might regain some function and the much truncated hand with its sole thumb would be more useful to the patient than a prosthetic hand. The younger staff members argued the opposite. They were less susceptible to conventional ways of thinking. They argued that modern prosthetics could provide a better standard of recovery from such debilitating injuries. One of the seniors was persuaded and threw the balance of the vote. The majority agreed that Mitch’s arm would be amputated above the elbow and his leg mid-thigh, where there was still viable tissue to create a sturdy stump capable of wearing a leg prosthesis. Two senior surgeons shook their heads in despair at their rashness, rejecting every pathway to retain as much of the patient’s natural limb as possible. Mitch’s reconstituted limbs with missing chunks of muscle and non-functioning joints and four missing fingers were off the agenda. The boy would have two stumps and two prosthetic limbs. The amputations began after preparations were complete. Mitch had not regained consciousness but his vital signs were positive and healthy. Two surgeons discussed the wisdom of retaining some of the lacerated flesh on Mitch’s thigh in order to provide an extra inch or two. The stump would be scarred and uneven but if the patient wore a conventional prosthesis, it would be rarely seen. They decided to retain as much flesh as possible and the resulting stump was criss-crossed with sutures closing the stump and holding deep lacerations together. Mitch’s arm was less of a conundrum. His elbow had been struck by the propellor and was shattered. The forearm was almost beyond saving and considering the one remaining digit on the patient’s hand, it was judged in the boy’s best interest to amputate an inch above the elbow, producing a long and muscular stump which the patient might also use without a prosthesis. With two ruined limbs reduced to stumps, Mitch was wheeled to intensive care for recovery, watched over by a male nurse who admired the sleeping boy’s features.

 

The inevitable bureaucratic consequences of Mitch’s admission ground away in the background. The police had interviewed the lads to learn what had taken place and discover Mitch’s identity. His parents were notified and provided with the address of the hospital. Unfortunately they were unable to travel south, nor could they afford the expense of a hotel stay. Their boy would contact them when he was able. An investigation was prepared to discover how the Skylark could have failed so catastrophically. The rental owner assured the police and his traumatised clients that the boat had been overhauled and refurbished the previous winter and received official certification.

 

Mitch recovered from his own trauma. He discovered his amputations himself early one morning after waking. He noticed his arm stump first, club-like, wrapped in tight bandages. He stared at it in the semi-darkness of the ward, initially not comprehending what he was seeing. His arm without a hand. Without even his forearm. He shifted his position in bed by trying to push with his feet and felt another void. He moved his right leg and sensed the length of his stump. In semi-panic, he checked that his left side limbs were present and intact. Christ! He was a double amputee, missing an arm and a leg. He was reminded of one of the skaters he followed on TikTok, an Irish-American who had lost his left side limbs but continued skateboarding, propelling himself along with a tubular metal leg and waving a hook for balance. Was he going to have a tubular leg and a hook too? He supposed he would. And carry on as normal. It was too bad he had lost his right hand. He would have to learn to be left-handed now. He looked again at his long arm stump and imagined it wearing a sculpted chrome and red leather prosthesis with a steel electric hand like some manga superhero. The vision dissipated and he returned to the reality of his hospital bed, two bandaged stumps and the growing need to urinate. He reached around for an alarm button and summoned a nurse.

 

His next problem was more immediate and more urgent. Where were his hearing aids? He started to make the gesture to the nurse that he was deaf by covering his ears with his hands but moving his right stump caused a sharp pain and he froze. He waited for the pain to subside and spoke to the nurse, not able to gauge or control the volume of his voice.

            – I need my hearing aids and I also need to pee.

The nurse slowly mouthed something about it being OK to pee because there was something or other he didn’t understand. Seeing Mitch’s confusion, she lifted up the piss bag hanging from the edge of the bedframe. Mitch became conscious of the catheter inserted into his bladder for the first time and forced himself to release his stream while lying in bed. Meanwhile, the nurse had written a question on a block of post-it notes. Where are your hearing aids?

            – I don’t know. Let me think. I took them off and put them in my bag when we got to the lido.

            – Where is the bag?

            – I don’t know. It was in my mate Dave’s van.

            – Do you have Dave’s number? I could send him a message.

            – It’s on my phone. That’s in my bag too.

The nurse looked despondent. This was going to be more difficult than expected. She raised a finger meaning ‘Wait a moment’ and walked briskly to the office to find the patient’s file. There were scant details as yet but there were two phone numbers for a Max Edwards and a David Ellis which the police had provided. She had no idea who they were but dialled Max’s number. He answered quickly and listened to the nurse introduce herself and explain her problem.

            – Ah! It’s good that you called. I have Mitch’s stuff in my van still. How is he, by the way?

            – On the mend. I’m sorry. I can’t give out patient information over the phone.

            – No. I understand. So you’d like me to see if his hearing aids are in his bag, is that right? I’ll go and look in his bag but it’ll take a few minutes. Shall I call you back?

            – No don’t. I’ll call in half an hour. Will that be long enough?

            – Yes, that’s fine. OK, speak to you later.

The nurse wrote a note for Mitch saying that Max was looking for his bag. Max grabbed his keys and trudged out to his garage two hundred metres down the road. The blue carry-all was on the back seat. He picked it up and locked his van. Back home, he looked through the contents and found the phone but was unable to see Mitch’s hearing aids. He moved the Pringles tube and heard something rattle. He pried the lid off and peered in to see the two black hearing aids and a packet of batteries. He felt almost triumphant. He supposed Mitch would want them as soon as possible. If he left now, he could drive by the hospital and leave them at Reception or somewhere. He would arrange something when the nurse called back. Mitch would hardly need his bag with his cut-off shorts and trainers.

 

The nurse called back exactly on time and was privately amused to hear about the Pringles tube. Max would drop it off at Visitor Enquiries on his way to work within the hour. The nurse thanked him for his trouble. Mitch had his hearing aids by nine o’clock and noticed how awkward it was to put the dome into his right ear. A few minutes later, the left device emitted several short beeps to indicate that the battery was almost dead. He thought about asking one of the staff to change it for him but decided he ought to learn to do these things for himself, one-handed. Everything about changing the battery was fiddly and awkward with his left hand. Peeling the protective cover off the battery took far too long. The hearing aid’s battery compartment was difficult to prise open. After a good fifteen minutes, there was a new battery in the left device and Mitch pushed the dome into his ear and flipped the device behind it. Almost immediately, the right one beeped. Mitch keened with frustration. Today he would wear just the left aid. And he had his phone again but no charger. Maybe the hospital had one he could borrow. It was down to seven percent power. He ought to send a few messages to his next-of-kin, as they said in hospital speak. What could he tell them? Am double amputee but on the mend. Everything OK. Ha! If only it were.

 

Messages could wait until he had some information himself. It had not been a shock to awaken in the night to find himself missing two limbs. He had realised while he was struggling to survive in the water that he would probably lose his leg and he had seen that his hand had been destroyed. Now he expected a doctor or someone to drop by and give him the low-down on his prospects for recovery and beyond. Someone did. An elegantly dressed woman, tall and composed, appeared mid-morning and introduced herself.

            – Hello Mitchell. Do you mind if I join you for a few minutes? My name is Natalie McGovern and I work in patient liaison.

She was also a trained psychiatrist specialised in post-trauma and limb loss. Mitch looked at her in surprise and cleared his throat.

            – Hello. No, I don’t mind.

            – Good. Let me find a chair. How are you feeling? I hope you are not in pain.

            – Not really. I think the painkillers are working.

            – Be sure to tell someone if you are uncomfortable. Do you remember why you are here? What were you doing before the accident?

            – I was water-skiing with some mates. After I ditched, the boat came around again and ran over me. And I assume the propellor chewed me up.

            – Yes. Do you remember it happening?

            – Sure. Of course I do.

            – That’s unusual, Mitch. Many accident victims blank out the events leading up to their trauma, you see.

            – Well, I can remember the boat hitting and then me flailing around in the water trying to stay afloat. I could see my fingers had been cut off and my leg was useless.

            – Yes. Unfortunately, there was too much tissue damage for the surgeons to salvage your limbs. They have amputated in such a way that you will have residual limbs very suitable for prostheses.

            – Residual limbs means stumps, right?

            – Yes, stumps. The medical profession prefers not to call them that, though.

            – Not much point trying to sugar coat it, is there? Do you think I’ll be able to go back to work with artificial limbs?

            – I expect so. What work do you do?

            – I’m a lab assistant at Glaxo.

            – And can you imagine yourself doing the work with an artificial hand or a hook? I’m sure an artificial leg won’t affect your ability to continue like before.

            – I’m not sure. I’ve lost my right hand. I was right-handed so I’ll have to learn a new way of doing everything anyway.

            – That is a disadvantage but not insurmountable. I’m sure you’ll overcome any problems. It could be that you’ll continue to be right-handed except your hand will be a hook instead. You’ll use it just as naturally as your hand after a little practice.

            – It would be nice to think so.

McGovern continued for a few more minutes, gently prying for any obvious psychological trauma. Part of Mitch’s apparent calm about his maiming was attributable to the tranquillising effects of the painkillers but she could not discern any imminent issues with the young man’s mental health. A period of depression was almost inevitable later, a phase which most new amputees succumbed to as they gradually realised the changes and restrictions imposed by limblessness and they confronted the disappointment caused by over-confidence in recalcitrant prosthetic limbs. She took her leave, promising that they would chat again later, and proceeded to create Mitch’s file.

 

Shortly after lunch, Mitch asked a nurse if it would be possible to charge his phone. He did not have his charger with him. The nurse took his phone and asked Mitch to remind her in a couple of hours. The nurse’s station had a variety of chargers with different connections. Mitch sorted out his thoughts about what he would tell his parents and mates about what had happened so far. He had no idea when he would be allowed visitors or what the visiting times were. It was something to ask the nurse when she returned with his phone. He also wanted his bag back from Max’s minibus. It had his keys in, for a start. Mitch settled back and dozed.

 

He was standing at the front of a boat facing his friends. He was dressed in a double-breasted coat, breeches and wore a tricorn hat. In place of his right hand, he sported a large and heavy brass hook and he stood on a fluted wooden peg leg in the traditional style. He was giving his shipmates orders before satisfying himself that they understood. He went below deck, into his workplace laboratory. He strutted across to a densitometer and adjusted its settings with a curved steel hook. His pink plastic forearm poked out of his lab coat’s short sleeves. He returned to his workbench, smartly decked in a red and white gingham tablecloth with a dribbling candle stuck in a wine bottle sputtering in front of him. He picked up a pair of chopsticks in his hook and set about his meal. His heavy peg leg stuck out under the table. It was rigid right up to his balls for convenience. No athletics for him in future. He stood facing the bowler, chipping away at the sod with a cricket bat. He swiped the ball into the far distance with the power of his big brass hook and stumped up the course, displaying his magnificent mahogany peg leg. He reached the door of his favourite pub and entered still brandishing the ridiculous cricket bat. The pub’s customers fell silent as he surveilled them. He lifted his brass hook and pointed at his favoured table. The customers cleared the space and stood by, admiring his spectacular artificial limbs and the sheer style of the man. Mitch sat back in his sumptuous chair and relaxed. Someone tugged his arm.

            – Mitch? Mitch! Here’s your phone.

            – What? Eh? Oh, thanks. I must have dropped off.

            – Get as much rest as you can.

            – I wanted to ask you – when can I have visitors? What are the visiting hours?

The nurse explained the system and the fact that Mitch would be allowed visitors only after his doctor had given approval. Mitch grunted, worked himself into a sitting position and began the annoying process of typing text messages with his left hand. He would fare better if he could sit at a table but he was bed-bound for the foreseeable. How long did a leg stump take to heal anyway? Something else to ask the doctor.

 

Max replied to his text. He had put Mitch’s T-shirt and shorts into the laundry and his girlfriend had ironed them. He could bring the bag to the hospital as soon as Mitch was allowed visitors. Then the usual good wishes and hopes. What could you say to your mate who was suddenly a double amputee? Get well soon? Hope you’ll soon be back on your feet? Oh god what a shitty situation.

 

Mitch typed out a proper email to his supervisor at work. He had no idea if word had yet reached his workplace. He set out the facts as bloodlessly as possible, stating he had undergone two amputations rather than that he had been sliced up. He knew his workmates would manage without him for a few weeks. As long as they didn’t start on a new project before he got back, he would be able to pick up where he left off with no trouble. Assuming he could manage with his new artificial arm. Now, in the plain light of day, his future hook took on a greater significance. Would he be able to use it for anything useful? What if he was unable to carry on in the lab?

 

His doctor came to inspect Mitch’s situation the following morning. The sutures had done their job and the flesh was healing. There were no unexpected problems with the stumps and the patient appeared to be inured to his amputee status. The doctor pronounced his opinion that Mitch could join other patients on a normal ward and receive visitors. A nurse bandaged his stumps and shortly brought a hospital wheelchair which she left beside his bedside.

 

It took another three hours before Mitch was invited and assisted into the wheelchair and rolled to the last bed in a ward with six beds in, four of which were occupied by gentlemen of various ages. They looked at him closely as he was wheeled past them. They could see his arm stump poking out of his rolled-up pyjama sleeve. The nurse’s comments as he rose onto his bed indicated that he had a leg off too. There was only one other double amputee on the ward, a bricklayer in his thirties whose legs had been destroyed when a partially assembled crane collapsed. The nurse fussed around Mitch for a minute or two and marched off with the wheelchair. Mitch took his phone out of his jacket pocket, put it on the bedside table and looked around at his fellow patients. They had lost interest and were reading or on their phones.

 

They were an unsociable bunch despite sharing a similar traumatic injury. No-one wanted to be there and none had the mental energy to maintain an attitude positive enough to want to chat. The legless guy seemed almost friendly but was away for much of the day in rehab, strengthening the meagre remnants of his muscular, tanned legs. Mitch had visitors often enough but they were either doctors or nurses, examining his slashed and mutilated stumps. He learned that the deep gash in his thigh which was now closed and healing well had damaged the muscles so seriously that Mitch would have had difficulties walking pain free and without a limp. In that sense, it was good that he would shortly have a completely new leg which was guaranteed to operate reliably. His arm stump, long and cylindrical due to the loss of muscle tissue, was pronounced healed well enough for the preliminary stages of manufacturing a prosthetic arm to begin. After eight days of bed-rest, Mitch was wheeled away to meet his prosthetist, Al Dixon. Mitch assumed Al was short for Alan. It was actually short for Aloysius. It was a well-kept secret.

            – How do you do, Mitchell. You can stay in the wheelchair or sit in an easy chair. Which would you prefer?

            – An easy chair would be more comfortable.

Dixon positioned the wheelchair closer to the area where patients and prosthetists usually sat to discuss things before getting down to business. Mitch carefully stood and lowered himself into an armchair.

            – So you’ve come to me this time to see about getting a new arm, right?

            – That’s what they tell me.

            – I was wondering if you’ve got any idea already of what you want. I dare say you’ve watched a video or two of other users of prosthetic limbs in recent days. Have you seen anything which strikes you as particularly suitable for you?

            – No, not really. I don’t know enough about artificial arms to know what they can and can’t do, so I don’t really know what to expect. I hope I can learn to use it well enough to return to work, though.

            – What work do you do?

            – I’m a lab assistant at Glaxo. Soil chemistry and that sort of thing.

            – Ah, I see. So not exactly strenuous work but a delicate touch is sometimes called for.

            – Yes! And I need to be able to write.

            – Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mitchell. But all this is useful information. It gives me some idea of what direction to take regarding choice of materials and so on. What would you like your arm to look like? You know black carbon is the most common material these days, especially for men, but you could have flesh-coloured sockets which have been making a come-back recently after decades in the doldrums.

            – I haven’t given it any thought.

            – Do you wear short-sleeved coats and T-shirts in the lab?

            – Yeah, usually. The room is temperature controlled at twenty-four degrees so it’s never chilly inside.

            – In that case, I suggest having the flesh-tone for your sockets. It will be less obvious than a glossy black arm. Unless you want to be a little extrovert with it but I see not point in calling unnecessary attention to your disability.

            – No. I wouldn’t do that.

            – And then we could make the cuff some contrasting colour. That’s the part which guides the cables and stops them from biting into your arm. Maybe a reddish mahogany colour or a deep tan leather would look good. Of course, we also have black leather and a basic brown. It’s up to you but you have to choose fairly soon.

            – When are you going to start making my arm?

            – Oh, right now. Today. Now, we need to decide on the wrist and the hook. I suggest a wrist mechanism which will allow you to switch the position of the hook quickly from vertical to horizontal and which also has the ability to swing inwards so you can access things close to you body. I am thinking of using a razor, for example. There are other wrists available, the most basic being a flat plate at the end of the socket which the hook screws into. After that, not much adjustment is possible. It’s perfectly acceptable for many things but perhaps you might be happier to have a little more versatility available.

            – It might be better.

            – We’ll go through the manufacturer’s catalogue before you make your decision. And your hook will be the standard design, which has evolved over the past century into a thoroughly useful, lightweight tool which will let you pick up an eyelash or carry a suitcase. There are other hook designs, of course, but to start with, the normal Number Five hook will be more than sufficient.

            – It sounds like it’s going to be a very useful and handsome piece of kit.

            – Well, I certainly hope so. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder but you will certainly have a prosthesis which will be both practical and unobtrusive. Are you ready? Let’s go over to the tech side and make a start.

 

Mitch stood on his one foot and sat back in the wheelchair. Dixon pushed him to a work area where the furniture was sparse and clinical and a bewildering amount of support equipment waited to play a role in proceedings. He explained that he needed first to make a virtual copy of Mitch’s arm stump which would act as the basis for creating a customised socket to which all the other components could be attached. He asked Mitch to remove his pyjama top and hold his arm stump in a horizontal position. He scanned the stump from several angles with a specialised camera which recorded a series of data points from which a computer program would later construct a virtual stump. The scanning process made plaster casts and moulds superfluous and saved two or three days in production time. Dixon scanned more data points with the stump in a vertical position and relaxed. Finally, he scanned Mitch’s shoulders and upper back.

 

Mitch watched the process in silence. There was really nothing to see. A man was taking pictures of his stump. He had been expecting to have his stump wrapped in plaster to make a mould. He had watched the process many times on his phone as fellow amputees were casted for their artificial limbs.

            – Right. That’s all there is to it. I’ll upload the data later this afternoon and work on the socket. Assuming there are no problems and no unexpected gaps in the data, the socket can be printed overnight and you can come in for a fitting tomorrow morning. And if you’re satisfied with the fit, I’ll add a forearm and a hook to a harness and with a bit of luck you’ll be wearing your arm by the end of the week. You can get a bit of practice in before we make your new leg.

            – When will that be, do you know?

            – It’s up to the surgeon to decide when your thigh stump has healed well enough to tolerate the pressures involved in using a leg prosthesis. I believe your stump suffered very deep lacerations in addition to the wound left by the amputation. We have to wait until they have all healed enough to be stable. But I understand that you are on the mend. I expect we’ll be working on your leg some time next week, but don’t quote me on that.

 

Dixon was an affable chap and genuinely liked producing artificial limbs for new patients in order to let them regain some degree of normality after their trauma. Mitch was encouraged by his manner and by the inclusive process of designing his new arm. It would be exaggerating to say he felt relief but he returned to the amputee ward with a new sense of enthusiasm. With any luck, he would not be as crippled as he had feared.

 

Mitch was allowed freedom to roam the hospital’s ground floor as far as the café by the main entrance and the large courtyard at the rear of the building. He sat in his wheelchair and pulled himself along with his foot. He wore his pyjamas and thought he looked like an inmate of some correctional facility. It would be good if he could have some of his clothes brought from his flat. Maybe Max could fetch some. He still had the carry-all Mitch had taken to the lido and his door key was in the side pocket. He typed a brief text message to Max asking him to call when it was convenient. He was allowed visitors now. If Max brought his bag and some fresh clothes, he would be Mitch’s first visitor.

 

Max called late in the afternoon.

            – Hi Mitch! What’s up? How’re you doing?

            – Hi Max. Thanks for calling. I’m OK. On the mend. Stuck in a wheelchair for the time being but with any luck, I should have a new arm next week.

            – That sounds good. I guess you’re looking forward to it. What did you want to talk to me about?

            – Well, I want some of my clothes. All I’ve got to wear is the hospital’s pyjamas and I look like an inmate on Alcatraz. I was wondering if you would mind nipping round to my flat and bringing me a couple of T-shirts and a hoodie and a pair of jeans.

            – I can do that.

            – Great!  Thanks. My keys are in my bag, in the side pocket.

            – Just a minute. I’ll check. Your bag is in our bedroom at the moment.

There was a pause of twenty seconds. Mitch could hear Max exchanging a few words with his girlfriend.

            – You’re right. Your keys are in the side pocket. So you’d like me to nip round to yours and pick up a few bits.

            – If you don’t mind, Max. I know it’s a bit of an imposition.

            – No no. It’s fine. Shall I bring the bag to the hospital this evening? What time is visiting hours?

            – Six to eight, if I remember right.

            – OK. See you then. Do you want anything else from home?

            – No thanks. A pair of trainers, if you can find them. The rest of the stuff is in the chest of drawers in my bedroom.

            – Alright. I’ll find it. See you later, Mitch. Take care.

            – Thanks. Bye!

 

Mitch sat in bed looking at his thigh stump. It was covered in a shrinker, partly to protect the tender flesh still repairing itself but mostly to form it into a regular shape which coud work an artificial leg and remain comfortable for many hours every day. It was a novel sight. The absence of his shin and foot was shocking, seemingly impossible. His missing arm and hand were shocking too but somehow the range of motion he retained in the arm stump compensated for some of the lost function. He tried to imagine himself fitted with artificial limbs. He knew what they might look like but could not yet envisage himself wearing them. What would he look like? How would he feel? What would others see and think of him? Mitch gradually accepted that what was done was done. He would have to prove to his friends and family that he was still the old Mitch. He had come a cropper but he would get over it.

 

Max poked his head around the entrance to the ward and looked for Mitch. The bed was the farthest, against the back wall. He marched in, carrying Mitch’s carry-all packed with the requested clothes and smiled at his friend, who at first glance appeared the same as ever. Only as he approached could he see the empty sleeve and the flat area on the bed where a leg should be. His smile froze in semi-panic at the sheer horror of the situation.

            – Hi Max! Thanks for coming, mate. Is that my stuff? Great!

            – How are you doing?

            – Alright, considering. You can see what’s happened. Lost an arm and a leg but I’m already being measured up for an artificial arm and the leg will be on the way as soon as this heals.

Mitch waggled his stump under the covers to demonstrate.

            – You’re a lot more chipper than I expected. We’ve all been worried about you. It’s been rotten not knowing.

            – I suppose so. Well, I’m allowed visitors now, so I suppose that’s a good sign. Will you let everyone know they can drop in if they feel like it?

            – I’ll do that. Is that your wheelchair the other side of the bed?

            – Yeah. Why?

            – Well, I thought we could go and have a coffee if you’re allowed out.

            – Yeah, I’m allowed out. Sorry I’m in these lousy pyjamas. You won’t be embarrassed to be seen with me, will you? 

            – No, I won’t. Come on, let’s go.

Max watched Mitch throw his covers off and push himself around with his left hand. He jumped along the bed into a suitable position and twisted himself into his wheelchair.

            – Lead the way!

 

Max paid for a couple of frothy coffees and some doughnuts. He listened to Mitch describing his daily regime, the interruptions in the night, the mediocre unsalted food, the tedium of waiting for lacerated flesh to heal and his hopes for his new limbs. He learned more about the process of fitting a prosthesis than he thought possible. Mitch was obviously enthusiastic to be getting an artificial arm within a few days and expected to be using it for everything a few days later. He found the whole idea fairly repugnant but Mitch was looking forward to learning how to use his hook and expected to be able to function at work as well as before.

 

            – So they’re holding your job open for you, is that right?

            – Yeah. There’s someone who can cover for me if necessary but I’ll be able to go back as soon as I’m comfortable on my leg.

            – When will you be getting it, do you know?

            – It will be a couple of weeks before my stump is healed well enough for them to start taking measurements but it shouldn’t be too long before I can go back. Four or five weeks, at a guess.

            – Let’s hope you’re right. Listen. I have to go. I was really only supposed to drop your bag off. Her indoors will be waiting. It was great to see you, Mitch. Do you want me to push you back to the ward or can you manage?

            – I’m fine, thanks Max. Give my love to April.

Max collected the remains of their coffee break and disposed of them. Mitch watched him until he was out of sight and dragged himself back to the ward. Maybe some of the over-optimistic exaggerations he had told Max might actually happen.

 

Days passed in the mind-numbing way of hospitals. Dixon invited Mitch to try out the fit of the test socket he had printed. It was transparent plastic. Contact points between the socket and stump were plainly visible, along with the vicious scar left by the Skylark’s propellor. Dixon drew a patchwork of lines on the outer surface and sent Mitch back to the ward. He spent three hours making imperceptible adjustments to the virtual socket and completed the model with loops and screw holes for the cable and harness as well as the robust connection to the elbow mechanism. The final print might be ready the next day and Dixon could work on assembling the prosthesis. The cylindrical forearm was a standard size with a normal friction wrist connector and a standard general purpose hook.

 

His scheduled overnight print failed. Dixon found something resembling a section of roof guttering containing a pile of abstract plastic shapes. He sighed and rescheduled another attempt for later in the day.

 

Mitch gradually received more frequent visits. Nurses regularly checked his stumps as before and reapplied shrinkers. His doctor inspected his arm stump with satisfaction and his leg stump with concern. The flesh was knitting well. The stitches were removed, leaving a criss-cross quilt of livid scarring. With luck, the creased and marred skin would recover well enough to tolerate the punishment dealt by daily use of a prosthetic leg. The underlying muscle tissue was also healing. Its deformation would cause considerable pain if it were still attached to a knee. Its main function post-amputation was to act as cushioning and protection for the tip of Mitch’s severed thigh bone. The surgeon declared that the stump was robust enough for the preliminary stages of limb fitting. It need not be bandaged any longer but he recommended that Mitch continued to wear the shrinker. Mitch had also inspected his ravaged leg stump enough to know that he would always wear a shrinker. The naked stump was not his best feature.

 

Dixon’s late afternoon print was underway. Laser light pinpointed locations in a vat of tinted polymers which would solidify when exposed to ultraviolet light. In a few hours, Mitch’s upper arm socket would be ready for work on the prosthesis to continue. Dixon checked that the print had not already failed and left for home. Everything was otherwise ready and waiting. Mitch’s arm would be ready within twenty-four hours.

 

All of the guys who had gone to the lido had visited Mitch at least once. They arrived for the first time with fear in their eyes, expecting to see a helpless and depressed invalid, maimed far beyond what a decent bloke in his early twenties should have to endure. But Mitch was his old self, cracking off-colour jokes about his stumps and disability in general, conspiring with his friends to prank outsiders with his artificial limbs as soon as he got out. He showed them his stumps, demure in their flesh-toned shrinkers. He gestured with his arm stump when he spoke. His friends left after an hour or so, relieved that Mitch was recovering so well and determined to make the best of a bad lot. He had lost two limbs, not his zest for life, his joie de vivre.

 

Dixon tentatively opened the door to the printer room and saw the printer in full swing. He looked at the shelf-full of finished items and found his print curing between a thigh socket and a child’s artificial hand. He picked it up and knocked on the socket with a knuckle. There was a small amount of give when he squeezed it. It was a smooth flawless print and Dixon looked forward to the rewarding process of constructing a new arm for Mitch.

 

The parts were assembled by mid-afternoon. All that remained was for the patient to test the limb and make the final adjustments. Dixon sent a request to the ward nurse asking for Mitch to be brought to the lab for a fitting. Mitch soon appeared, sitting in his wheelchair, grinning with anticipation at getting his first artificial limb. Dixon sat on a stool beside him and explained how the prosthesis functioned, how it was attached to the stump, how the harness played the key role and how the arm should be regarded as an assistive tool. It would require a good deal of time and effort before Mitch would be able to move and operate the hook in a useful capacity. It was not intended to equal the missing limb and Mitch should not be disappointed if it was less versatile than he expected.

 

Speech over, Dixon handed Mitch a new shrinker which featured a pin at its tip. This slotted into a hole in the elbow mechanism and locked in place, holding the prosthesis tightly onto the stump. Mitch fed his left arm through a padded loop which gripped his shoulder firmly. His left shoulder would control both the right elbow’s position and the function of the hook. Mitch looked at the alien device, its absurd flesh-toned surface interrupted with studs and rivets and guides holding components together and guiding two silver cables inside opaque white Teflon-coated tubes. The arm looked more like an appliance found in a sadomasochist’s dungeon than something to be worn and exposed in normal society.

 

            – There you are. It’s all yours. We need to do a few tests first so I can adjust the cables properly. Come over to the table.

The artificial arm dropped into the space between Mitch’s leg stump and the side of the wheelchair. He wanted to raise and turn it so it rested across his lap but it was immobile. There was obviously much to learn.

            – Lift your arm up. Shrug your left shoulder forward so you feel tension.

Mitch did so and the forearm moved to a forty-five degree angle.

            – OK, good. As you just saw, the arm is currently set so that your shoulder movement is translated into elbow movement. If you now want to open your hook, there’s something you need to do to alternate between controlling the elbow and controlling the hook. Lift your stump out to the right a little. Now jerk it backwards, as if you were nudging someone. Right. Now try shrugging your left shoulder again.

Mitch did as asked and opened a steel split hook for the first time in his life. He was concentrating on his movements too intensely to mark the event in memory. He was surprised to see how wide the fingers of the hook opened. He moved his stump back and forth. The rigid elbow stayed in position and the hook, now closed, traced an arc in front of him. He had no idea where it was unless he followed it with his eyes.

 

Dixon asked him if the prosthesis was comfortable.

            – It is, more or less. I mean, it’s not hurting my stump if that’s what you mean but it feels really strange to have something across my back.

            – You’ll soon get used to it. It’s the only way you have available to you to operate the arm and hook. OK, so you know how to move the elbow and open the hook and you know how to swap between the two. Don’t be discouraged by how awkward and slow it seems. You’ll soon get used to the new sensations and before you know it, you’ll be able to control the hook without even thinking about it. But first, I want to make sure the cabling is adjusted properly so I’m going to ask you to do some fairly childish basic movements for me. Just a moment.

He rose and brought a large cardboard box containing various toys and plastic tableware. He dug out several wooden building blocks, two inch cubes, and asked Mitch to stack them. Mitch raised his artificial arm and judged the position of his hook. It needed to be lower and closer. He dragged his wheelchair a little closer to the table and shrugged his left shoulder to check if he would open the hook or move the elbow. The hook opened in mid-air. He lifted his stump to the side and jerked it back. He raised his shoulders, trying to adjust the harness to a more comfortable position and then shrugged his left shoulder to open the hook’s fingers. It was still a little too high and he leaned forward towards the table. It was not a good position. He jerked the arm again to adjust the angle of the forearm with his left shoulder until it rested on the table. Another jerk and shrug to open the hook. He leaned forward again to grasp the first building block and noticed that the hook was not in an appropriate position.

            – You can twist the hook with your hand so the fingers point up, Mitch. That way you’ll be able to pinch the sides of the block and move it. That’s something else you’ll get used to doing when you use your hook.

Mitch got the gist and gripped the hook. It twisted with a little force and the hook pointed upward. Now when he opened it, a shape like a block of wood would slip between the fingers. Or a box of matches or a bottle or a pound of cheese.

 

Mitch understood the theory of operating his prosthesis but the reality was a little different. The amount of concentration required was exhausting. Instead of thinking normal thoughts, his mind was overloaded with imagining the actions he needed to undertake in order to do the simplest task. He had been practising handling a glass, actually plastic, attempting to bring it near to his lips. He did not dare put liquid in it yet. He noticed that he had a smaller range of motion from his shoulder while wearing the prosthesis. Its tight fit and the harnessing restricted his movement. And always the essential unnatural jerk to change between operating the hook and the elbow. Mitch wore the prosthesis for several hours each day and removed it when he noticed that the elbow had been locked at ninety degrees and the hook unused for half an hour. Enough was enough. The hook was conductive and worked with his phone’s touch-screen but positioning the hook and moving it in the right direction was awkward. Gradually Mitch became more adept with his left hand.

 

His surgeon breezed in one morning in an uncustomarily benevolent manner and inspected Mitch’s stumps.

            – This looks stable enough for you to be fitted with your first leg. Don’t get your hopes up. It will be a simple peg until the swelling in the stump has gone but they can make a start on your rehab and you will be less reliant on a wheelchair. How does that sound?

            – Great. Thank you.

            – So you have an appointment with the prosthetist at eleven o’clock. Someone will collect you. How are you getting on with your arm?

            – It’s quite a challenge to make it do what I want.

            – Yes, I expect so. Everything is difficult at first. The key is to keep at it. There’s no reason why a young and healthy lad like yourself shouldn’t make a go of sporting an artificial arm like yours. This time next year you won’t pay it a thought.

He moved abruptly to the next patient, leaving Mitch’s bed covered in an assortment of stump socks, liners and shrinkers. A nurse asked if Mitch could manage by himself, and receiving a nod, hurried to join the small group examining a pair of uneven below knee stumps at the next bed.

 

The same nurse returned two minutes before eleven o’clock to wheel Mitch along to the prosthetics lab. Mitch expected to meet Dr Dixon again but instead a young man with blond hair tied in a bun and whose neck and arms were tattooed with op-art stripes waited for him. His attire was just as unconventional for a doctor – cut-off shorts and a T-shirt. His right leg was a prosthesis with just a hint of black carbon socket visible and the rest of the leg consisted of two inch wide pylons terminating in a thick black rubber ferrule.

 

            – Thank you, nurse. Hi, Mitchell. I’m Dr Preston Massey but everyone calls me Peg. I see we share something in common. How are you getting on with the arm? Getting any use out of it?

            – Well, not really although it’s hard to say. I mean it’s useful to have something on my right to sort of hold things in place or poke at.

            – Yeah, I know what you mean. Seen it a hundred times. Guys come in here with fresh stumps and get kitted out with fake arms and legs and wonder what the hell is going on. Then when they come back for their next fitting after a few months, no-one would even guess they’re amputees. Of course, it’s a bit different if you’re wearing a hook but the same principle applies. Right. Shall we get started? I’m going to scan your stump, print a socket and if it fits, I’ll fix a peg leg to it and you’ll be ready for action. OK? Take your shrinker off and let's have a look at what we have to work with.

Mitch was surprised at how blasé Peg seemed. He had a completely different approach than Dixon who seemed at times almost apologetic. Peg’s approach was more to his liking. He watched the man moving around the lab on his rigid steel peg and felt the onset of envy until he realised that he would shortly have the same thing for himself. For the first time since his injury, he felt relief. Everything was going to be alright.

 

            – My god! They chopped you up, didn’t they?

            – Well, most of that was from the accident. I got run over by a speedboat and the propellor did most of the damage.

            – In that case, my confidence is restored. How do you feel about your stump?

            – Hmm, not sure what you mean.

            – Well, you’ve lost a leg, that much is a given. Most people’s stumps are simply what they have left after the operation but yours still bears the scars of the accident. It’s not a pretty sight, is it? I don’t mind baring my stump at the gym or in the sauna but how do you feel about yours?

            – It is what it is. It’s going to be covered up most of the time anyway, isn’t it?

            – Is that what you want? To have it covered up most of the time?

            – I’ve already decided that I’d wear a shrinker when I’m not wearing a leg. I know the stump looks shocking.

            – Alright. I understand. You’ll be happy to know that apart from the scars, it’s a superb stump for what we need. The right length and a good shape. Sit tight while I find the scanner.

Mitch watched the steel peg leg again as Peg toured the lab seeking the camera. He thought it looked elegant. He looked at his stump and imagined it extended in the same way.

            – OK, let’s go over to the bars and you can lean against them while I scan you. Take your underwear off. You’ve been through this with your arm stump, haven’t you? Yes, I thought so. Just hold still and if you could hold your cock and balls out of the way.

 

The process took less than two minutes. It generated several gigabytes of data, describing the precise shape of Mitch’s stump and buttock.

            – OK. Get back in your chair and I’ll check this.

Peg connected the camera to a laptop and uploaded the data. He started the modelling app and waited for the first rough render to appear. It would highlight any missing areas, in which case the whole process would need to be repeated. Shortly, a virtual copy of Mitch’s stump and backside revolved slowly on the screen. Peg inspected it carefully, ensuring that the web of vortices was complete and logical. He stumped back over to Mitch and sat down, adjusting his knee to allow the lower section of his peg leg to bend and touch the floor.

            – I’m satisfied with that. Now we need to talk about what sort of leg you want.

            – I want a peg leg like yours.

            – Really? That is not what I was expecting to hear. Haven't you done any research into prostheses?

            – Of course I have. I’ve seen the one which is just pylons like yours but with computerised knees and ankles and the old kind with mechanical knees which are shaped liked human legs. And everything in between. But I’ve never seen a peg leg before. Not until I saw yours. It looks so perfect for what I need and so easy to walk on.

            – Well, you’re right there. It weighs almost nothing, it’s the easiest possible prosthesis to use and it has its own charm which I am well aware of. But are you certain that a peg leg is going to be acceptable when you return to work? You colleagues will know about what has happened to you by now and they are expecting you to return looking very much as you were before the accident. The hook can’t be helped. It will always be visible but your new leg will not. Unless it’s something as basic as a peg, with no foot, no bulk to appear natural under a pair of trousers. Are you sure that’s what you want?

            –Well, I could imagine myself having a normal leg for work and the rest of the time I’d wear the peg leg.

            – That sounds more like it. Look, the socket won’t be ready for at least twenty-four hours. What I want you to do is to look at the components which are available to you. I’ll lend you the catalogues from various manufacturers. Have a good read and try to come up with a combination which best suits your needs. We’ll have a chat about them tomorrow when you come in to test the trial socket, assuming the printer works. It’s been playing up recently. But you can get some idea of what you’d like, OK?

            – Can I have a standard sort of leg and a peg leg?

            – Let’s put it this way – no. But I can reject the first print because of this or that and hold on to it. We’ll then have two sockets to play with and if you don’t mind having second-hand stuff, I can recycle an old pylon for you. That way, you’ll have two legs when you leave. Alright?

            – Sounds great. Let’s do that.

            – OK, we will. So don’t expect to come in for a fitting tomorrow morning. That will be the one I reject. Have a good leisurely look at the mechanical knees and whether you want a cosmetic cover over your pylons.

            – I get the idea. Thanks very much.

            – Don’t mention it. Wait a minute while I find those brochures.

He rose and kicked his peg leg. It straightened and clicked into its locked position. The arc which the rubber tip made as Peg walked was fascinating and Mitch determined to walk like that, effortlessly and smoothly.

 

The next morning, Mitch inserted his hearing aids and immediately confronted the most annoying problem a deaf person faced. He had forgotten to open the battery compartments before he went to sleep and the batteries had drained during the night. And he had no more. He tried to think if there were any more at home someone could pick up for him but was despondently sure that there were none. He remembered reminding himself to pick up a couple of dozen the next time he went into town. It would still be quite a while before Mitch did any shopping for himself again. He explained his dilemma to a nurse who was sympathetic but fairly sure that the hospital had nothing to offer. She scribbled a note – maybe one of your friends could bring you some. It was the only way but extremely unlikely that anyone would rush to his assistance. He would be completely deaf for the next day or two. There was nothing for it. He would have peace and quiet to concentrate on the second most immediate problem, choosing the components he wanted for his prosthetic leg. He typed text messages to Dave and Max explaining the situation, begging them to bring him at least two packs of three-one-two size hearing aid batteries as soon as possible. He noticed it was a lot easier to type with his left hand when his hook was holding the phone tightly. He lay back on his bed and chuckled at his predicament. One hand, one leg and deaf as a doorpost. At least he wasn’t going bald.

 

Peg dropped by at exactly the wrong moment. Mitch was being examined as usual by his surgeon and the ward head honcho with her quatrain of demure nurses. He ought not be derogatory. Peg excused himself to apologise to Mitch that his socket’s print had unfortunately failed during the night and it would be another day before another print could be scheduled. A nurse briefly explained to Peg that the patient could not hear him but she would relay the message. She scribbled print failed on a notepad and showed Mitch. He nodded and looked suitably rueful. When the interrupted surgeon and nurse returned their attention towards Mitch’s stumps, Peg winked at Mitch and left. Mitch would be getting his professionally finished peg leg after all.

 

Mitch transferred into his wheelchair and scooted across to a table with his handful of brochures from prosthetics companies, all proclaiming the superiority of their patented knee mechanisms and energy-return athlete’s foot. As an exercise, Mitch rested his left hand in his lap and set about manipulating the glossy brochures with his prosthetic arm and hook only. He fixed the elbow at a suitable angle and twisted the hook to point left. He could guide a brochure towards the tip of the hook which could then grip a page. In practice, it usually gripped several pages. Mitch reminded himself to persevere despite the frustration. In the silent room, he read the advertising copy and compared the devices, all illustrated by genial middle-aged gardeners or overly enthusiastic young women in lycra holding a beachball. There was no-one resembling a guy his age wearing a prosthetic leg. He concentrated on the technical specifications. This knee could take so many kilo-newtons of lateral force, more than that one which boasted a narrower sector of active reticulation. Surely the advertisers did not intend their brochures to be seen by ordinary amputees? He would have to ask Peg what the jargon actually meant. He subconsciously decided to accept a bog standard leg prosthesis, just bare steel pylons with a rubber foot and to prefer a long, rigid peg leg like Peg wore, except his own would not have a bending knee. Or maybe it would be possible to get two peg legs. One would be rigid. The other would bend halfway down like Peg’s. He could ask him and see what he said. Surely there were so rules requiring him to have a standard artificial leg if he wanted to wear peg legs?

 

Lunch was sliced cabbage with mashed potato and beef patties. Apart from it being almost saltless, it was also only slightly warm. It was the worst thing about being stuck in hospital. There was no way to get anything decent to eat. Mitch held his patties with his hook and raised his stump to try to get the food to his mouth. It was all slow-going and perplexing – no, not frustrating, he must not go down that route. Practice made perfect. The trite saying was probably true. Mitch was becoming more familiar with his new arm. It would be alright after a bit. He knew what the hook could do and was used to screwing the thing into the right position before trying to pick something up. Hooking something up. It looked fairly smart, truth be told. It would look OK when he had his jacket on, if he ever got out of here. Funny how clear his thoughts were when there were no sounds. Just me. As if to prove the validity of Sod’s Law, Max strolled in waving a couple of packets of hearing aid batteries.

 

            – Hi Mitch! I got your batteries.

            – Hi Max! Thanks ever so much. I can’t hear you. Wait a minute.

Mitch scooted across to his bedside cabinet where he had left his aids and grabbed them. Changing the batteries was a fiddly job. How would he manage with a hook? Max handed him the battery packs. Mitch put one in his pocket, the other one face down on the table. He pressed on it with the hook and opened the small cardboard window for access to the tiny batteries. He picked one out and considered the best way to remove the adhesive backing which protected the battery and stopped it discharging accidentally. Max stood by watching Mitch’s contortions. The tip of his hook was too big. It covered the battery. In the end, Mitch managed to peel the sticker off with his fingers alone. He picked up his right hearing aid with the hook and pried the battery compartment open. He tipped the dead battery out, placed the aid on the table and carefully dropped the new battery into place. He squeezed the compartment closed and reached around his head to fit the device into his right ear. Sound returned and Mitch nodded.

            – Back to normal again. That was good of you, Max. Did you have any trouble finding them?

            – No, the chemists carry them. I’ve seen them in there before.

            – I didn’t think I was going to be able to change the battery myself.

            – You managed OK as far as I could see. Are you getting used to that arm now?

            – Well, sort of. I have to think about it too much though. It gets tiring having to plan where I want the hook to be. I don’t have my elbow any more so I have to swap between using the hook and using the elbow.

            – I didn’t realise that. I thought it was all sort of automatic.

            – Ha! Nothing automatic about it. But it’s not as bad as it looks. I can use it a lot better now than right at the beginning.

            – Are you going to leave the covering like that?

            – The socket, you mean? Why? Don’t you like it?

            – Well, it looks a bit Barbie doll, doesn’t it? Not really all that macho. I know what you could do.

            – What’s that?

            – Take it to a place that does pinstriping for vans and sports cars. Have it painted with an explosion or something and lacquered. It’ll look really smart then. All shiny and in-your-face.

            – Do you know, I might just do that! Good idea, Max. thanks. It is a bit corny, right now. They call it flesh coloured but it isn’t really.

            – Not, it isn’t. If your flesh was that colour, you’d be rushed to hospital for an amputation.

            – Haha!

            – So when are you getting a leg? Have you heard?

            – Yeah, I’ve already been measured for a leg socket. Don’t tell anyone but I’ve connived with the limb maker to get two for the price of one.

            – Shit! Do you have to pay for them?

            – No, of course not. Figuratively speaking. I’m only entitled to walk out of here with one, but I’m getting a bonus peg leg.

            – Fuck me! That’ll look the dog’s bollocks. You with a hook and a peg leg. All you need then is an eyepatch and a fucking parrot.

            – I know. I’m trying to avoid looking like a pirate but I don’t think there’s much I can do about it.

            – Just go with it. Shitty people might joke about it behind your back but I don’t think anyone over the age of ten would ever tease you about it to your face.

            – Yeah, I suppose so. I’ve been thinking about having two peg legs, anyway. One is rigid all the way down and one can bend at the knee so it doesn’t stick out when I sit down.

            – And are you comfortable with that? You’d always look like an amputee. If you had an ordinary artificial leg with a shoe you could sort of hide it.

            – I know but I’ve seen someone using a peg leg and it looks so easy and attractive that I think I’m going to get something similar. Actually, it’s the guy who makes my leg.

            – What, here in the hospital? He’s an amputee too? Makes sense, I suppose. And he uses a peg leg?

            – What’s all this talk about peg legs?

            – Oh, hi Dr Massey. I was just telling Max about getting a peg leg because I’d seen you walking on yours.

Max turned and dropped his eyes to take in Dr Massey’s legs. Jeans and a white trainer on one foot, the other jeans leg shredded at the knee with a steel peg leg poking out. It looked sensational.

            – I just dropped by to say that the second socket has turned out OK, so after I’ve tidied it up and done a bit of work on it, you can come in later on for a fitting. I’ll send for you. I don’t know exactly what time.

            – That’s great. Thanks, Peg.

Dr ‘Peg’ Massey smiled at Max, spun on his peg and strutted out. Max and Mitch both watched him walking, the peg swinging elegantly to one side, drawing an arc above the floor with every step. It looked very masculine and striking.

            – He walks very well, doesn’t he? I can see why you want to have the same. Right, mate. I have to get back. Hope your fitting goes well. Sounds all very mysterious and exclusive – ‘your fitting’. I’ll call in again and if you need anything more, just send a message. I don’t mind helping out.

            – Thanks, Max. See you.

 

Just after three, a nurse announced that Mitch had an appointment with his prosthetist. He hopped into his wheelchair and the nurse hurried him along the corridor to Massey’s workshop.

            – Was that one of your mates I saw earlier? Bit of an odd time for a visitor, wasn’t it?

            – Yeah, Max is the one who owns the VW Camper van we went to the lido in. One of my best mates. He brought me some batteries for my hearing aids.

            – I see. The way he was looking at my peg, I thought he was going to ask for his own leg off. Have you heard of devotees, Mitch?

            – No. Who are they?

            – They’re people who want to have a close relationship with an amputee because they admire our stumps. I run into it all the time.

            – Well, as Max says, you do rather advertise your amputation.

            – I know. I do it on purpose, I want to have a relationship with a devotee but it has to be the right guy. How else can I advertise that I have a stump?

            – Is that true? There are people who really want to see a stump?

            – Oh, Mitch! If you only knew. You are going to be the star of the show everywhere you go, always. A peg leg and your false arm and hook. Wow, what a combination!

            – I had no idea. I’m not sure I believe you. But since you mentioned peg legs, I want to talk to you about something. I know I’m sort of entitled to have an artificial leg but what if I prefer to have a peg leg like yours? Could I have that instead? Is there anything in the rules against it?

            – No, nothing in the rules. There aren’t any rules, anyway. Patients can have the prosthesis which they feel would be best for them in their particular life situations. Something lightweight and a bit flexible for a young sportsman and something sturdy and reliable for an older person.

            – Well, I’m not either of those. I want a peg leg like yours which can bend in the middle and the other one on the socket which failed, wink wink, with a straight pole from top to bottom. Completely rigid so it doesn’t bend. Can you do that for me?

            – Yes, I can do that. Mitch, are you sure?

            – Well, look at it my way. I come here to be fitted with an artificial leg and I find the limb doctor with a leg off and wearing not an artificial leg but a peg leg. If fake legs are so hot, why aren’t you wearing one to show it off?

            – Hmm. I think you’ve sussed me. Personally, I have always found prosthetic legs to be a literal pain in the arse. I lost my leg in a traffic accident when I was twelve and was off school for six months. When I went back, they gave me a pink leg made of aluminium which was really more suitable for a pensioner and I soon worked out that a peg leg would be a lot easier to use. That was twenty years ago and I’ve been on a peg ever since. I have quite a collection at home and I like wearing completely rigid pegs too. This one is OK. The shaft has a joint in it but it holds very well. Doesn’t wobble. Is this what you want for your main leg?

            – Yeah, that’s exactly what I want. And can I still have the other one, you know, the socket that failed, with a rigid shaft?

            – Call them pylons, Mitch. Yup, you can have both. Peg legs are much cheaper and quicker to make than ordinary artificial legs. I can’t make any promises but you’ll have your proper final peg before Friday evening, OK?

            – Great.

            – Right. Let me see if this socket fits your stump. Hold your shorts up.

 

The socket fit perfectly. Its upper rim nestled firmly against Mitch’s bum bone, curving around his genitals, enveloping and protecting his stump.

            – It’ll be a day or two before the peg leg is ready. Let me check a couple of measurements while the socket is on. I want the pylon to be the right length.

            – Measure twice, cut once.

            – Exactly. This socket is going to have the peg with a knee joint. I’ve ordered the same model as mine and it should be here by courier later today. The other rigid pylon will go on the reject. And I should assume that as soon as you get your pegs, you’ll be getting your marching papers. I bet you’ll be glad to see the back of us.

            – It will be good to have something decent to eat for a change. That’s been the worst thing. Plus the boredom, of course.

            – Yeah. Hospitals aren’t much fun but with any luck, you won’t need to come back for any more procedures. From now on, you’ll be dealing only with your prosthetists. You know you can contact us any time you have a problem – and that goes for your arm too. Dixon will fix any problems you have with it.

            – Thanks very much.

            – Don’t mention it.

Proceedings over, Mitch dressed and scooted back to the ward. He was certain his recovery would go much faster with a peg rather than with a conventional artificial leg. It was demanding enough controlling his arm and hook without the added inconvenience of learning to use a new leg too. The peg would be a cinch.

 

Two days later, the ward matron approached Mitch’s bed with a sheaf of papers.

            – Good morning, Mitchell. How are you?

            – Fine, thank you, Matron.

            – Jolly good. I have some good news for you. Dr Massey assures me that your leg prosthesis will be ready before noon and therefore we are discharging you immediately after you sign these papers and receipts for your prosthetic limbs. You can stay until six this evening but we would like the bed to be available this evening.

            – That’s great news. I’ll get packed and leave after lunch, if that’s OK.

            – Perfect. Now, read through these papers carefully and understand what you are signing. One of the nurses will collect them a little later. You have been a model patient and I wish you good luck and success in the future.

 

The papers were limitations of responsibility for the components of his prostheses. The sockets were guaranteed for two years, the cables for six months, the harness for a year and the knee mechanism for six months. He was responsible for the daily maintenance of his equipment. The final sheet was his discharge paper. He took the sheaf to the table and used his left hand to sign a new version of his signature. They all looked fairly similar. It would be cool to be able to use his hook to write with but that ability seemed to be many months away. He handed the papers to a passing nurse who promised to forward them to Matron.

 

Peg dropped by just after eleven.

            – Are you ready for your fitting? I understand you’re being discharged today.

            – Yeah. I just signed the papers.

            – Good. Come to the lab and you can try out the peg legs.

            – Have you got both of them ready?

            – Yup.

            – Wow!  That was quick.

            – Well, like I said, pegs are the easiest to make. No moving parts. Not usually, anyway.

Mitch pulled himself along in his wheelchair beside Peg whose rubber ferrule squealed on the highly polished linoleum flooring. They entered the lab and Mitch saw his peg legs standing against the parallel bars.

            – Which one do you want to try first?

            – Let’s try the reject first.

Peg handed him a stump sock and a suction liner. Mitch’s stump was long enough to maintain a strong vacuum. The pegs would be as firm and reliable as it was possible to make them. Peg watched as Mitch awkwardly tried dressing his leg stump. It was something he had to learn to do himself. Peg waited patiently.

            – Make sure there are no wrinkles or creases in the stump sock, Mitch. The liner is easier to put on if you turn it inside out and roll it up from the bottom of your stump.

Peg felt the stump, making sure there was no air between the stump and liner.

            – Alright. Stand up. It’s easier.

He handed Mitch the rigid peg and watched Mitch’s face. He was fairly certain the peg legs would live up to Mitch’s expectations. He would have his arm free of the crutch he had used weeks earlier and would no longer require a wheelchair.

            – Get your stump as deep into the socket as you can and hit the valve at the end of the socket. That will prevent air flow and keep the liner tight against the wall of the socket. If you feel any slippage, take the peg off and start again. OK. Hold onto the bars and try walking on it.

Mitch lifted his stump and the peg rose high into the air.

            – Oh! It’s much lighter than I expected!

            – You don’t need much effort to move it. Swing it out to the side a little. You’ve seen how my peg moves. Try to imagine that as you walk.

Mitch very soon got the knack of using the peg. He walked along the bars two or three times and then strode into the expanse of the lab, his back straight and looking ahead at the reflection of himself in the large mirror on the opposite wall. The new Mitch looked back, half the old familiar Mitch, half a prosthetic version with artificial limbs and the stunning steel peg leg. Peg had found some large and fairly heavy rubber ferrules which gripped the floor. Mitch could sense the robust contact transferring through the socket to his hip. He stopped and leaned onto the peg. It did not move nor make a sound. It supported him. It felt wonderful.

 

            – Come and sit down. I want you to try sitting and getting up with the rigid peg.

Mitch strutted over and stopped in front of a chair. He knew very well what was going to happen and made sure there was room for his peg leg. He raised the ferrule off the floor and sat. The right socket clunked against the wooden seat and the peg jutted out in front of him. So far so good.

            – Is the socket uncomfortable around your backside? I tried to minimize the lip.

            – It’s OK.

            – Alright. Let me know if it gets uncomfortable if you sit for any length of time and you can bring it in for adjustment. I want your sockets to be as comfortable to use as possible. Now, take it easy when you stand up. The peg will drop to the floor and pull you in that direction. Lift your hip as soon as you can to get the peg vertical, directly under you. Give it a try.

            – Mitch leaned forward and put his left arm out for balance. He stood slowly, aware of the dead weight of the peg. He hitched it closer to him and looked at Peg.

            – Good show. Do you want to walk some more with that one or shall we try the one with the knee joint?

            – Let’s swap them.

            – OK. Wait a sec. Hold on to the back of the chair and take that peg off.

Mitch grabbed the chair with his hook and reached over to release the valve on the socket. He pushed against the rim of the socket which slowly loosened until it suddenly broke free and exposed Mitch’s stump. Peg handed him his second peg leg.

            – It fits on exactly the same. Close the valve when it’s on properly. Right. Now that knee joint will lock solid as soon as it straightens. The way I do it is to kick my stump first back and then forward. If you kick forward first, the peg will fold back and bend even more. Physics is funny like that. The other way to do it is to bend over and straighten it with your hand. Give the knee joint a push. Otherwise, walking on it is the same as on the rigid one. I have to say, I like the way you look with a peg leg. I don’t often get to see another man wearing one. It sort of suits you, especially with your arm prosthesis on display too. How do you feel about yourself, Mitch? Are you going to rue the day you went water skiing or are you going to make a new start of it and become the master of your artificial limbs?

            – Well, what does it look like? I’d rather have stayed home that day with a crushing hangover or summer flu but here we are now and what’s done is done. I was worried at one stage about having to use a hook but it’s alright. I’m learning more every day.  And these pegs are brilliant. I can see why you prefer to wear one. Much easier than all the balancing acts you need to perform with a normal fake leg.

Mitch looked at Peg, who was nodding in agreement. He turned towards the open room and strutted back towards the mirror wall. The peg was as sturdy as the other one.

            – Great! Come and sit down again. This time, you can either let the peg stick out like before or release the knee lock and let the lower section drop. Much more convenient if you’re in a car or on public transport. I have a piece of advice which you may or may not like the sound of. You’ll probably want to access the knee lock many times during the day and it’s a little inconvenient through the material of a pair of trousers. If you cut your trousers off at the knee, you’ll be able to access the lock much more easily.

            – You mean so the peg leg is visible all the time.

            – Half of it, yes. It’s a matter of self-confidence. You can wear the peg under a pair of jeans but the trouser leg will look odd when you walk. If you slice the leg off and expose the peg, you’ll look more striking plus you’d have access to the knee lock. Up to you.

Mitch sat and stood a few times, realising that Peg was right. It would be easier to access the lock if it were not covered by fabric.

            – I think you’re ready, Mitch. You have two pegs and you know how to wear them. I’ll let you go now. If you want me to wrap one of them for you, I’ll do that before you leave. You can drop by here to pick it up when you go.

            – Yeah, please do. Just a sheet of brown paper will do. I’ll keep this one on.

            – OK. See you a bit later.

 

Mitch pushed his wheelchair back to the ward and kicked his bag out from under his bed with his peg leg. There was precious little to pack. His spare hook. A few T-shirts and underwear. Hearing aid batteries. Officially, he had discharged himself. He was free to go along to the canteen and get something to eat instead of eating whatever the hospital brought. He checked he had his credit card in his wallet and strode along to the canteen, freely available to staff and visitors. Today’s special was bratwurst with sauerkraut and mash. He could manage that well enough. He locked his elbow at ninety degrees and rested the tray on it. He splayed his peg leg out to the side as he placed the tray onto the table and leant down to unlock his knee. He lowered himself carefully onto the plastic chair and kicked his ferrule into position with his foot. His prosthetic elbow rested on the table, the hook pointing up, visible to anyone who glanced at him, as was his entire prosthetic arm, glowing pink with newness, his arm from now on. He sensed his body – the leg stump firmly inside its socket, his long arm stump likewise, brandishing his exotic and handsome arm. He had been through a difficult time but felt pleased with his progress and looked forward to returning to work. He had decided that his new body with its marred stumps would not be a disappointment. 

 

 

DISAPPOINTMENT