Brushstrokes

 

B R U S H S T R O K E S

A story with built‑in artistic licence by strzeka (03/26)

 

| 01 |

I suppose I always assumed I was special somehow. My social security number starts 010100. I was born not when the millennium changed but when the number changed. When we started writing the date with a two. I would rather eat worms than listen to another argument about when the millennium actually began. Suffice it to say that I enjoyed the attention I received for the mere fact of being born at such an auspicious moment, in the last moments of the ancien régime, before peoples’ lives began to fall apart. Instead of the promised glittering future of fulfilment and hope, we lucky few manage to eke out a living of coping and dread. Perhaps I exaggerate. I can no longer tell.

 

I always had an artistic bent, an eye for design and a feel for trends. As a teenager, I could imagine myself working in the editing rooms of one of the expensive design magazines, Wallpaper or FFF, to name but two. My artwork was praised by my teachers and I was commended by one for my promising explorations into experimental typography. And so, inevitably, I ended up in St Martin’s, churning out my versions of their tired old tropes, tolerating it long enough to graduate with full colours. I immediately enrolled in a teacher training college, which seemed to promise at least some kind of employment security. As long as the ministry for education saw fit to fund creative ventures for schoolchildren, arts and crafts would remain on the curriculum and oddballs like myself might at least earn enough to keep a roof over our heads.

 

As it happened, it offered rather more. After two years or so of school life, I branched out into freelance pottery and metalwork, experimenting with ways to combine the two. It was my insistence on trying to coax the same kind of malleability from steel which led to my own demise. It was a perfectly reasonable premise, I thought. I had seen Far Eastern teapots of china with metal handles and proposed a more robust combination. Steel could be made malleable to the exact perfect degree by repeated crushing and reforming and it was during this process that my own fatigue and lowered attention led to the loss of both my hands under three hundred tons of hydraulic pressure. My flesh and bones were liquidised. I was rushed to hospital after my screams were answered and after a long and painful process, I was eventually fitted with a pair of artificial arms with steel hooks. I attended compulsory rehabilitation for ten days before being pronounced sufficiently proficient and discharged.

 

 

 

| 02 |

It seems ironic how a single moment’s negligence, a blink of an eye, can have such far‑reaching life‑changing effects. My accident was studied repeatedly ad nauseum by three insurance companies, one for the art college, one for the manufacturer of the hydraulic press and my own. Many months later, the manufacturer accepted responsibility and I was awarded an acceptable amount of compensation for my disability.

 

However, by the time the money appeared in my account, I no longer felt myself quite as hard done by as I had previously. I had been granted three months furlough from my job in order to get my life in order. It was agreed that I would return as a member of the teaching staff. An art teacher with no hands. I saw no great contradiction. My job was to coax artwork from the students, not to create my own.

 

They say that all beginnings are difficult and this is especially true following any life‑changing event. At the tender age of twenty‑five, I had been cast in the rôle of bilateral amputee. I knew nothing about the condition and learned little more in hospital. I was advised to pay strict attention to cleanliness, to change my stump socks daily, to inspect my stumps minutely for abrasions. It seemed to me that my fresh stumps needed more tender care and attention that a pair of newborn babies. But I persevered and created a nightly schedule which became less intrusive over time. My stumps became a familiar sight to me and I began to appreciate their deviant beauty. They were slightly longer than half my previous forearms and the rounded tips had regained a coating of dark hair which hid the fading scars.

 

My artificial arms were another case entirely. They were also deviant but conspicuously ugly. The sockets which held my stumps were made of some composite material seven millimetres thick, painted a nondescript flesh colour and finally coated with several layers of a matte varnish. The cuffs which encircled my upper arms were of the same base material and coated with mid‑brown leather. These held straps keeping the sockets in place and attaching the arms to each other via a harness which stretched across my back. It was this harness which allowed me to operate my hooks, by either stretching my stumps forward or by pulling away with my opposing shoulder. It may sound counter-intuitive but I had no problem in becoming used to the new motions I needed to make.

 

I discovered soon enough that many things were now forbidden to me. Scissors were useless. Screwdrivers were only mostly impossible. Anything whose operation depended on rotation of any kind, such as that need to open or close the jaws of a wrench or to turn a key in a mechanical lock, were fraught with difficulty. I can no longer hold an umbrella. Those things which I regarded as essential are the ones I practised most. I learned to alternate from one hook to the other, using what I had available to me to do what I wanted to accomplish. As I became more proficient, my initial sense of disappointment and disillusion evaporated. I began to feel relief that my actions were mostly possible with a little adjustment and a little patience. I was relieved that I still had a few weeks left before I was due back at school to face classes of inquisitive brash teenagers, many of whom I had no doubt would be fascinated by my hooks. I would probably be the first person they had seen with artificial arms. It is not, after all, a common injury. Single arm amputees can disguise a missing arm with a cosmetic copy which apes their natural arm. As a double amputee, I rely on reliable functioning terminals at the end of my stumps, meaning that to all practical purposes, I shall be wearing a pair of steel hooks for the rest of my life. I look down at them resting on my thighs. They are worthy substitutes for my hands. I have no fear about exposing myself as a double amputee in public everywhere I go. There was some initial embarrassment but I overcame it after realising that without my hooks, I might as well stay at home every day. I might as well stay in bed. My life was changed. I was a double amputee and I wore my new hooks with growing pride matching the pleasure I experienced in seeing my manly stumps.

 

| 03 |

In preparation for returning to work, I made some adjustments to my wardrobe. I shunned my shirts with buttons and replaced them with plain polo‑neck shirts, not dissimilar to long sleeved T‑shirts. I relegated my lace‑up shoes to the back of the closet and invested in a smart pair of jodhpurs which suited my corduroy trousers especially well. I also bought a new suede jacket with leather reinforcements at the shoulders and elbows. It would look well after it had been worn for a time. Its silken lining slid effortlessly over my artificial arms and there was no chance of the sleeves accidentally exposing more of them than I intended. I admired my new appearance in a long mirror and approved of what I saw. I looked like a stereotypical art teacher. Slightly long hair which flopped across an eye. Slightly too long stubble. I looked Bohemian. I was dressed better than I had ever been, forced into paying attention to my appearance by my disability. I had received notice from the authorities that my income tax would be compensated by fifteen percent as a working invalid. Every little helps, as the saying goes.

 

My colleagues, some of whom were new to me, welcomed me back first with a touch of trepidation and then with hearty joshing and remarks about how the students had missed my soft touch after they noticed that I was my old self, more or less. It took several weeks before I had the inevitable conversation with every staff member about how I felt about losing my hands, how I felt about being an invalid, what it was like to have to wear such appalling devices on my stumps. No‑one wanted to see my stumps. They were completely predictable. The students were another kettle of fish.

 

I started each class with a brief explanation about what had happened to me, how I had been patched up and I gently demonstrated my hooks knowing that many of the children found them disturbing. But I assured them that although they might look odd or even frightening, they were very useful and I could use them to do almost everything I did before, except maybe reach my back teeth with dental floss. That always engendered giggles and deflated any sense of apprehension in the room.

 

There were, however, the exceptions. Students who deliberately hung back after being dismissed, sometimes with a trivial question, sometimes with a blatant request to see more of my sockets and arms, and once or twice with requests to see my stumps. I was both flattered and appalled. Very few teachers ever reached a rapport with their students that such personal questions might be even asked, and secondly what was going through their minds? Why did they want to see my stumps? Did they have a specific reason in wishing to see mine or were they generally interested in amputation and I was the closest and easiest amputee?

 

There was one young man whom I had always admired for his quiet determination to reach the limit of his ability. I was delighted when he signed on for the sixth form auxiliary class which I held every Monday lunchtime. For forty minutes before classes recommenced, I would teach the basics of art appreciation using classical artists as examples of men who dared to push the boundaries of art. I usually had two or three students but for his last year, Steve FitzPatrick was the only student. I was pleased to see his interest. We sat close together and looked at reproductions in a large and expensive book of art prints. I started with da Vinci and Michelangelo, with works generally well‑known enough for Stephen himself to have an opinion and something to say. It was easier with only two of us, especially as we both admired the other, as I soon discovered. At the end of the third lesson, when we had been amused by the recent discoveries behind Michelangelo’s most famous work, Stephen asked if he might ask about my artificial arms. I looked at his face, his eyes on my hooks, and asked him in turn why he wanted to know about such matters.

          – I can’t help it, Adrian. Ever since I was really little I’ve loved seeing pictures of men who have lost their hands. Sometimes they have an old‑fashioned hook. You know the sort.

          – The traditional huge pirate hook. Yes, I know what you mean. Is that the sort of thing that interests you?

          – No not really. I like the sort of hooks that you have. I hope it’s alright to say that.

          – Well, it’s not what I expected to hear but it is alright. What do you want to ask?

He looked desperate. Trapped in a situation where he had to progress without knowing which way to go.

          – I want my own hooks. I want to be like you. I want to have my hands amputated and I don’t know how to do it and I don’t know how I can go on if I don’t get my own hooks. Adrian, I’m sorry for saying this if it offends you but I want stumps.

I was silent and thoughtful for a few seconds.

          – Don’t worry, Stephen. I won’t tell anyone what you’ve said. Have you always wanted to be an amputee?

          – Yes, for as long as I can remember.

          – Since the first time you realised that people could lose hands and gain hooks, right?

          – Yeah. And now I can see you wearing your hooks and everything seems the same as before except for your hooks. And it’s all I can think about and it’s driving me insane. I don’t know what to do. I can’t concentrate on my schoolwork and I don’t know what to do.

          – You seemed to be able to concentrate well enough on what we were looking at five minutes ago, Stephen.

          – I know, but that’s different.

          – Were you looking at the art or at my hooks?

          – Er, your hooks, mainly. I’m sorry, Adrian.

          – No need to be. Look, Stephen. I’m no psychologist but I do know there are men who want to lose a limb to become an amputee because they feel wrong somehow with four limbs. I don’t really understand it but there are so many strange ways to be a human being these days that losing a limb really doesn’t seem to rank very high. You say you want to lose both hands like me?

          – Yes. I’d love to have two hooks.

          – Listen. I absolutely refuse to pursue this topic any further here on school premises and I forbid you from mentioning this conversation to anyone else. But if you want to see what my life is like with two forearm stumps, you are welcome to visit my home at the weekend. Early in the morning, mind. Once I’ve had breakfast, my arms are on and they stay on until bedtime.

          – What time do you have breakfast?

          – About five thirty.

Stephen groaned.

          – OK. Can I come on Saturday? I’ll be there. What will I tell my parents if they want to know where I’m going?

          – Just say your art teacher needs some domestic help and you’ve volunteered because he’s disabled and you get on with him.

          – OK.

 

| 04 |

I may have exaggerated my helplessness in an effort to ensure Stephen’s prompt arrival. I do hate waiting for people any longer than strictly necessary. But he turned up on his bike five minutes ahead of time and considerately waited outside until exactly five thirty before knocking. Despite what I had told him, I was already wearing my hooks but only for the bare essentials of toiletting and opening the door. It was a cold morning and I was surprised by its chill. I was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a pair of artificial arms. Nothing more. Stephen’s eyes widened and he mumbled Good morning.

          – Thank you for being on time, Stephen. I do appreciate it. Now, can I ask you to grip the steel ring in the middle of my back and lift it up level with my neck? I put the hooks on a few minutes ago without socks and liners and my stumps are already becoming sweaty.

This may have been too much information. I could sense Stephen’s discomfort. I strongly believe that touching or holding another man’s prosthetic limbs is second only to sexual contact, such is the degree of intimacy involved. Stephen lifted my arms off my stumps and I rubbed them together to dry the first hints of perspiration.

          – Bring those with you, please. Let’s go in the kitchen. Have you had any breakfast?

          – No, I haven’t. I got up too late really and I didn’t want to make a noise in the kitchen and wake up my parents.

          – What did they say when you told them you were coming here?

          – They were surprised. It’s not really the sort of thing they expect me to do.

          – Well, that doesn’t matter. The main thing is they know you’re here and in good hands. So to speak. Do you drink coffee? Or would you prefer tea?

          – Coffee would be nice.

          – And toast and marmalade. I’m afraid you’ll have to make coffee. The pot is in the second cupboard and the coffee is next to it.

Stephen followed my instructions to the letter and brewed decent coffee, enough for two mugs each. I lifted my mug to my lips with naked stumps but I was not as successful in picking slices of bread from the packet for the toaster.

          – You’ll have to spread the marmalade for me, Stephen. I can handle the rest. If you want butter on it, there’s some in the fridge.

          – Don’t you put butter on?

          – Not usually. It makes no difference to the taste anyway.

This cosy domestic scene was a first‑hand exposure to the myriad inconveniences which my handsome stumps brought with them. Even as I watched Stephen’s gaze seeking out my stumps, I was intensely conscious of their appearance and how someone like Stephen who fetishised limblessness would appreciate the perfect length and shape of my stumps. I was only a few years, seven or eight years, older than Stephen and our age difference was minor enough for him to be able to imagine himself in my place.

          I struggled through the rest of breakfast without my hooks, although I always wore them by the time toast was ready on a weekday morning. There is little point in wasting time over such niceties as admiring one’s stumps at the breakfast table when there was a train to catch in seventeen minutes. But not today. My stumps were sticky with marmalade, as was my moustache and lower lip. I asked Stephen to bring a facecloth from the bathroom and to wet it with warm water. I held my stumps out for him to wipe clean and then lifted my chin with my eyes closed. It was an intimate moment. Stephen was gentle. I was impressed.

 

          – Thank you for you help, Stephen. Have you had enough? Sure? OK. It’s time I dressed myself and therefore it’s time to don my hooks. Would you like to help?

          – Yes, I would. You’ll have to tell me what to do, though.

          – Don’t worry. You’ll see what you have to do easily enough. So! First of all I need a fresh pair of stump socks. There’s a box of them in the hallway cupboard.

He found them easily enough. Once again, I held my stumps out towards him.

          – Put one each on my stumps, please. Then I need the liners. They’re over there on that chair.

I described how the liners were applied to my stumps, inside out and rolled on.

          – OK. And if you would bring my hooks over…

I was never sure about what to call my prostheses. It seemed derogatory to call the entire combination of equipment merely hooks but that’s usually what people referred to when they meant the whole set‑up and that is what I grew used to.

Stephen held my prostheses firmly while I slid my stumps into the sockets and shrugged the harness into place. The upper arm cuffs could be fastened with velcro straps or left undone. After being trapped for the first time with a pair of prosthetic arms which I could not remove because my cuffs were fastened, I had a few brass hooks affixed to my walls and cupboards at suitable heights so I could, if need be, wriggle myself free from the velcro straps. It was a frustrating process and so I left the velcro straps to dangle, unavoidably wrapped together. However, with a willing assistant present, I asked Stephen to enclose my biceps in the straps and flexed my arms to feel the additional security. My prostheses felt more part of me than usual and I enjoyed the sensation.

 

I completed my attire with a pair of 501s and white T. My artificial arms and hooks were almost completely visible. Only the harness itself was hidden around my back. This was not my normal method of dressing. Ordinarily a T went on first, then my prostheses, then my polo shirt to hide my arms. Today I would not hide my arms.

 

| 05 |

Stephen had the opportunity to gawp at a bilateral amputee wearing hooks as much as he wanted. It was not a situation which often arose. I wanted him to understand as completely as possible the restrictions and difficulties involved. I assumed his desire to gain his own stumps would not diminish regardless of how much I pretended to struggle. I had the opportunity to get the usual weekend cleaning done at twice the usual rate. I demonstrated how easy it was for me to manipulate my vacuum cleaner while Stephen dusted my shelves. After eight o’clock, I started a wash cycle of the week’s laundry. I made a special effort to show the poorly designed user interface for a man with hooks. Smooth circular control knobs are fine for damp fingers. Not for steel hooks with a restricted amount of gripping force. I shall make quite sure that my next machine is more forgiving.

 

We stopped working for some mid-morning coffee. I made it this time. I wanted Stephen to see how inconvenient it is to open the lids of slippery tin jars and measure spoonsful of ground coffee into the pot. All the action involve rotation of one kind or another and rotation is the one thing which hooks are simply incapable of. This is something else which needs urgent attention. It is not good enough to go without coffee simply because making it is too difficult and clearing the mess up afterwards too aggravating.

          – You can stay for lunch if you want, Stephen, but I think you should let your parents know in advance. They’ll probably be expecting you back about now.

 

Stephen dutifully called and asked permission to stay. I was impressed. Many kids would simply announce that they were not coming back for lunch, which might well already be in preparation.

          – Mum said she would like to have me home by six. She knows my bike hasn’t got lights on it, see?

          – Yes, I see. Get some lights, Stephen. The little LED ones hardly cost anything and last for ages.

          – I know. Adrian, when you want to squeeze like toothpaste or glue or something, how do you do it?

          – I don’t. The hooks work by squeezing thanks to the rubber bands but I can’t exert any more pressure. I have to put the tube of toothpaste on the washbasin, put my toothbrush next to it and push the tube down, hoping that some toothpaste will squeeze out onto the brush. Sometimes it works, otherwise I have to try to capture the blob of toothpaste from the basin with the bristles.

          – Isn’t that frustrating for you?

          – It was at first but I’m used to it happening now so I don’t let it bother me. You see, having a pair of hooks instead of hands doesn’t mean you can’t do things, it means you have to do them in a different way. Although, to tell the truth, there are things which I don’t even try any more.

          – What sort of things?

          – Like trying to open screw‑on lids, like on sauce bottles. I just don’t buy them. And there are all kinds of cups and mugs which are too wide or the wrong shape for my hooks.

          – But if you have the right sort of cups, you can hold them, right?

          – Yeah, after some practice.

 

I made spaghetti bolognese for the two of us. From scratch. I used the appliances I had purchased to make my life easier to demonstrate how I had adapted my life to that of a bilateral amputee. Stephen stood by and watched my every move. I explained what I was doing and why and I believe the exercise was educational for him. Last of all, I demonstrated my prowess at eating spaghetti with a pair of dessert spoons gripped between my hooks.

 

It was time to talk of stumps and the meaning of disability. For my part, I had been honest with Stephen. I had allowed him to see and feel my stumps. He had thoroughly inspected my artificial arms and understood how the hooks worked. I emphasized that the entire purpose of my equipment was solely to enable me to move a single curved finger of steel, half of my split hooks. Movement across my shoulders had replaced the fine dexterity of my natural hands. My dexterity now relied on how accurately I controlled my hooks’ unchanging pincer movement. I had acclimatised far better to an amputee life than I had originally anticipated. I was proud of my increasing skill and was conscious of the increasing familiarity of relying on hooks. The rest of my equipment also present certain restrictions. The sockets held the hooks firmly with only a small degree of rotation available. I had learned to raise my elbows to access various processes from a different angle. These movements all called attention to my disability but I was confident of succeeding in my attempts and knew that some onlookers would watch me with fascinated admiration. One such was present.

 

          – So what do you think after seeing how life without hands is, Stephen? Are you still thinking of losing yours?

          – I think the way you use your hooks is brilliant. I think it looks really cool to have hooks instead of hands.

          – Do you think you’d always wear hooks rather than artificial hands? They make some very realistic replacements these days.

          – But I don’t see the point of losing your hands only to replace them with copies. What’s the point?

          – So you think the appearance is more important?

          – Sure. Of course it is. I’d want people to know I’m an amputee without me having to tell them because they can’t see without me telling them.

          – And the hooks would let you do that. It’s true. When I’m wearing hooks, they’re always on display unless I put them in my pockets, of course. They’re the first thing that anyone who meets me notices first, not least if we shake hands. I must admit, I do enjoy watching the expression on peoples’ faces when we shake and they see a steel hook instead of a hand.

          – What do people do? Do they shake your hook?

          – Men do, mostly. Women seem to prefer not to. I suppose some people are a bit squeamish. And most women are more empathetic than men. They’re more shocked and concerned by my disability, you see. What would you think about being called disabled, Stephen? Would it affect how you see yourself if you heard that you were regarded as somehow second class because of your disability and left out of things like parties or excursions because people were embarrassed to be seen in your company?

          – Are there really people like that?

          – Oh yes. Of course there are. You might soon find yourself being ignored altogether. Like in a restaurant, the waiter might ask one of your friends How does he like his steak? instead of asking you directly because he thinks your hooks make you retarded.

          – That’s ridiculous! Surely people don’t think like that!

          – You’d be surprised. Anyway, it’s not an everyday occurrence. Have you thought about how your family would react if you were disabled? They have their own hopes and expectations for you and the future. They’d be dashed if you had two arm stumps, you understand that, don’t you?

          – Yeah but it’s my life. I’m not going to do anything about it while I’m still at school or at uni, if I get in. It’s something for the future when I’m sort of settled and can take some time off.

 

We continued talking for a while. Stephen described some of the men he had seen in videos flexing their prosthetic arms from clunky prototypes from the late Fifties to the sleek and glossy modern versions. I declined his offer to show me on his phone. I have little interest in seeing how foreigners adapt to their alien lifestyles. I have enough to concentrate on as a bilateral arts and crafts educator.

 

 

| 06 |

I heard no more about the subject from Stephen after that one‑time visit. We continued our early Monday afternoon lessons on art appreciation. I sought out works by the Dutch masters, the French impressionists and finally the chaotic visions of cubism, Dadaism and commercialism. I had the impression that Stephen was more relaxed in my company. We concentrated more on analysing the artwork rather than the tips of my steel hooks and we were both the better for it.

 

Stephen sat for his finals and took the rest of the term off, although he had to be on school premises with the rest of his colleagues. The weeks between the finals and the end of term are torturous for students but the law must be obeyed and truancy is dealt with severely.

 

I heard no more from him, although I half expected some kind of contact. Perhaps he had been dissuaded by my demonstrations and had decided to put the matter to the back of his mind. The new school year started and my time was occupied with new students, new challenges and the never‑ending task of planning lessons.

 

I was continually contacted by my prosthetist, touting for business. He succeeded in persuading me to purchase two different models of hooks for my right arm—a so‑called working hook and a symmetrical hook which facilitated manipulating cylindrical objects like glassware. I found additional uses for it too and adopted it permanently. The work hook was too robust and specialised for my line of work, although I was pleased to have it.

 

I discovered that a series of eight photographs had been uploaded to various devotee sites showing me eating ice cream in a local shopping mall gelato bar. The photographer must have been in the shop opposite, shooting between items in the window display. Thanks to the neon advertising above my head, my hooks were illuminated quite artistically and my skin was a rainbow of unnatural colour. I believed I could pinpoint the day in question. It had been hot and was warm even inside the mall. I had removed my jacket and my artificial arms and hooks were on display. I was in two minds about the intrusion on my privacy. On one hand, the photos had obviously been online for some time and I had not been aware of them in any way. On the other hand, I was in two minds about exploitation and voyeurism. Most of all, I was flattered to be the subject of such an extensive collection and impressed by the photographic skill of the auteur. I realised that any kind of protest was futile. The photos were already in the public realm and had certainly been copied hundreds of times. Requests to have them taken down would only result in them reappearing elsewhere within the hour.

 

| 07 |

A short news item caught my attention as I was scrolling down a round‑up of local news one weekend. An unnamed local student had suffered life‑changing injuries in Milan, been flown home and taken to St Mary’s Hospital in Roehampton. That was already too much information. I knew exactly what Roehampton was famous for and the mention of a local student immediately brought Stephen to mind. However I had as much chance of discovering the identity of the victim as any other member of the public. I noted the news item and trusted that I would discover further details in the fullness of time.

 

It took two months. My suspicions were proved correct. I received a short email from Stephen who informed me that he had returned home after spending some time in hospital after being injured in Italy. He hoped I was well and asked if he might pay me a visit. Having little planned for the following weekend, I suggested he call in sometime during Saturday morning at whatever time was convenient for him.

 

He arrived at half past nine and rapped at my door. I recognised the distinctive sound and knew as the door opened what I would encounter. Stephen stood before me with his arms crooked at ninety degrees, his steel hooks pointing directly at my chest. His face was transformed by a tremendous grin.

          – Hello Adrian. It’s good of you to invite me. I’m pleased to see you again. How are you?

          – I’m fine. Come in. More to the point, how are you? I guessed you were coming to show me a new set of hooks. You were hurt in Milan, right? I saw the news item in the paper.

          – Yeah, that was me. I went there as a correspondent for that same newspaper to review a new tramcar model which Milan had bought. The reason being that they’re thinking about buying the same sort for here. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I connived to trip and fall. I shoved my wrists under the wheels before anyone could rescue me and the results were as I wished.

          – Why were you taken to Roehampton?

          – They made an attempt to save my left hand but fortunately it was impossible. They cut my stumps to size, sewed them up and three weeks later I had my first fitting for these.

Once again Stephen lifted his hooks for my inspection. They were the standard model fixed to flat immobile connectors. The unsophisticated beginner’s model.

          – How do you like them? Are they what you expected?

          – They’re everything I expected and more. I can’t get over how wonderful the feeling is of not having my wrists and hands. I love feeling the emptiness and being helpless until I wriggle into my sockets. And I love the way the hooks are so unforgiving and rigid. They only point one way and I have to make accommodation for them at every turn.

          – It certainly sounds like you’ve made your acquaintance with them. I dare say it would be fatuous to ask if you regret losing your hands.

          – It would.

He laughed.

          – And you’ve managed to keep your job, I hope?

          – I have. The paper is set to pay compensation for my injuries suffered during the course of duty. I was injured on the job, after all.

          – And no‑one suspects that it might have been deliberate?

          – No, of course not. It’s not the sort of thing that a person would do on purpose, is it?

          – I suppose not. Well, if you can remember where I keep the things, you can make us an expresso.

 

Stephen’s sockets were the more common glossy black carbon material, much thinner than the thick flesh‑coloured composite material which I had become familiar with. His upper cuff was of the same material rather than leather which lent his equipment a somewhat sterile appearance. Although he had been fitted with artificial arms for under a month, Stephen showed impressive skill in manipulating his hooks, due no doubt to having watched educational videos of hundreds of bilateral amputees doing exactly that. He used a dampened tea towel for grip to open the dark roast ground coffee jar and to twist the pot off the espresso boiler. I was impressed and told him he was functioning at least as well as an amputee with a year’s experience behind him. He grinned his handsome grin again and nodded. I took in the unusual spectacle of another bilateral hook user in my apartment. Stephen bore his new hooks with a natural elegance. They suited his bohemian style and he used them with calm efficiency. Something about his bearing lent itself to the unaccustomed angles necessary to operate them, almost like a juggler concentrating on maintaining items in the air. Stephen’s angular dance suited his disability and made his hooks all the more scintillating. I was proud to have him as an acquaintance and hoped we might forge a closer, more frequent friendship. There was no longer any restriction caused by the teacher‑student relationship. We were both mature adults, Stephen in his mid‑twenties and me in my early thirties.

 

| 08 |

Stephen had further sick leave due him but returned to work ahead of schedule. It showed initiative and determination to get the job done. Fortunately for the young journalist, he was unknowingly following in the footsteps of a forebear who had returned from the second world war with a similar pair of artificial arms and hooks. The owner took pity on the lad and allowed him to continue in his job. He eventually rose through the ranks to chief editor and retired with a royal decoration.

 

After a few weeks, Stephen became aware of the general public distaste at seeing evidence of disability. It was an entirely natural reaction. He contacted his prosthetist at Roehampton and explained his problem. Shortly after, he was fitted with mechanical hands of wood and steel with spring‑loaded fingers. They were intended to be worn with leather gloves to hide and protect their mechanisms. Their disadvantage was that they worked contrary to what Stephen was used to. His hooks opened when he stretched his control cables. The hands closed when he stretched his control cables and remained locked in that position until he stretched the cable again causing the fingers and thumb to spring violently open.

 

He rarely wore his wooden hands during his free time. The hooks were more responsive and gave the visual impression which Stephen loved. I have been with him on many occasions when he was encumbered by his gloved hands. They did not immediately attract the same attention as a pair of hooks but the unnatural way they operated and the additional effort required eventually attracted the same amount of attention to his bilateral disability as his steel hooks. For that reason alone, I suspected, Stephen continued to wear the wooden hands, replacing the sleek leather gloves at regular intervals when the previous pair became too grubby and worn. He found a brand of American police gloves which fit the wooden hands perfectly and allowed an inch or two of wooden wrist to remain visible below the black carbon socket. I admired Stephen’s determination to master two sets of terminal devices which worked counter‑intuitively. The fingers on the hands were open by default and needed some effort to close them around an object. The single movable finger on each hook was closed by default and opened by increasing tension on the cable. It was this simple movement which I found the most satisfying. My stumps were handsome appendages and I was proud of them but they were not eminently practical. I loved encasing them in my oddly thick flesh‑toned sockets and seeing how the simple action of pushing them forward opened a hook. I felt myself capable when I wore artificial arms and regarded my disability not as a disadvantage but rather as an opportunity to experiment with an alternate reality, one with its own boundaries and regulations which I was happy to submit to. I found my dedication to my disability surprising considering that my initial injuries had not been voluntary, unlike Stephen’s. My hands were pulped before I even understood what was happening but instead of being plunged into depression and despair like so many new amputees, I took every day as it came, curious to discover my new capabilities with my new steel hooks and grateful for the exclusivity they bestowed on my appearance.

 

| 09 |

We both advanced in our respective careers. I was promoted to vice‑headmaster, requiring me to concentrate more on administrative matters and commercial and business relations on behalf of the school. Stephen in turn was made editor‑in‑chief of the weekend edition, comprising a thick tabloid magazine and a sprawling website with enough new material each week to last an interested reader the entire week. Stephen took much of his inspiration from genuine paper letters from readers and realised that much of the paper’s attraction was due in some degree to his own quirky choices of subject matter. Under his editorial control, he would experiment more with taboo subjects such as physics and mathematics as they related to the common man, meteorology in a violent climate, and similar subjects which lent themselves to an entertaining seven or eight minute read.

 

A letter from a hospital patient sparked his interest. A teenager had lost most of an arm in a motorway pile‑up and was desperate to know what artificial arms were like and if he would be able to continue doing the things he liked to do. Stephen saw the opportunity to start an entire section dedicated to twenty‑first century advancements in prosthetics. It was a broad enough category to include all kinds of stories about amputee experiences. Stephen invited me, as a bilateral amputee, to demonstrate my acceptance and assimilation into the amputee lifestyle in order to put the young amputee’s mind at rest and provide a little encouragement.

 

I was flattered by Stephen’s suggestion that the new column should be entitled Brushstrokes in my honour, granting respect to my original teaching path. It was a secret link between us, acknowledging the influence I unavoidably had on the young devotee and wannabe who would become my best friend and inspiration. I ordered an extra visit by my lovely cleaner one day before the photoshoot and enjoyed the unexpectedly pristine environment halfway through the cleaning calendar.

 

Stephen arranged a three hour session midweek. I had some time due thanks to an excess of overtime and arranged to take the day off. I dressed in loose sage green corduroy jeans, an off‑white sweater with long loose sleeves and a polo neck and slides on bare feet. I was deliberately teasing Stephen. I knew his photographer would want to shoot explicit images of my hooks. I had chosen my favourite sweater whose long sleeves concealed my hooks when my arms and stumps were relaxed. In spite of that, it was quite possible to fold the sleeves back to expose my hooks and my lower sockets with the connection plates and cabling visible. Obviously, it was a task for someone with hands. Folding back a sleeve is not something a bilateral such as myself would even attempt. It is only by learning what is possible and what is not that the severely disabled, such as myself, learn to negotiate their new lives. We simply ignore those things which we cannot do and avoid much of the frustration and disappointment which we might otherwise experience. I cannot fold my sleeves back but I can wear a short‑sleeved sweater. Where is the problem?

 

I was genuinely amused by Stephen’s photographer, a wiry young man with a beard possible left uncut since puberty. He introduced himself as Garth Moss and a brief flash of confusion flitted across his face when I extended my right hook. Having worked with Stephen for a couple of years, he was quite used to seeing Stephen’s prostheses but seemed bewildered at seeing mine. Did he think Stephen was some kind of one‑off, some unique cyborg? It was and is certainly true that one does not commonly meet with bilateral amputees every day unless one is lucky enough to be acquainted with one. I know from my own experience that it is a highly unusual situation to be in the presence of two men both of whom use hooks instead of hands.

 

Moss set about creating a series of photo‑documentaries showing my prowess at everyday activities. Stephen assured me that he would write copy to complement the photos. I could relax in my own home and do the exact same things I would normally do. So I made triple sandwiches for us all around noon and brewed espressos. Moss was thorough and non‑intrusive. I was surprised to see some of his shots, which I had been unaware of. I could see quite plainly that the photo session would be of considerable help and assurance to a fresh amputee missing an arm. I was also impressed by how photogenic my apartment was. It would never win first prize from La Maison de Marie Claire but my quasi op‑art furnishings provided a superb background for my quasi natural flesh‑toned sockets and steel hooks.

 

As he had promised, Stephen’s first Brushstrokes column dealt with disability from both practical and humanist angles. Stephen wanted to explain what artificial arms were capable of while depicting a user in his comfortable home environment, content with his bilateral hooks. The single column of text expanded to three. Including the out‑takes elsewhere in the paper, there were five photos of me using my hooks. I was impressed and delighted to see myself depicted so artistically.

 

The column soon achieved minor notoriety among readers who variously deplored the exploitation inherent in the article and commended a realistic look at adaptability to disability. Then there were the messages from devotees who lusted after more photos and who wanted to see images of my naked arm stumps. My face had not been shown but enough of my skin was visible for my ethnicity to be obvious, causing a few readers to send spiteful racist messages.

 

But most importantly, the young one‑armed motorcyclist was grateful for the information and reassurance which he could not have received otherwise. He wrote that he realised that others had double the trouble and promised us to overcome his self‑consciousness about wearing his shiny black artificial arm in public thanks to my example. I have never discovered his identity and I doubt he knows mine but I feel there is a shared link between us.

 

| 10 |

Week after week, Brushstrokes dealt with a range of disabilities, from alopecia and vitiligo to blindness and bilateral hip disarticulation. Not unexpectedly, Stephen was most enthusiastic about enquiries from young male arm amputees. I noticed that every time he featured such a man, he would shortly compensate with a query about leg amputation, of which there were many more by an order of magnitude. There were features about men who had tired of the health service’s inefficiency or its expense and had created their own prostheses by 3D printing or woodworking. One such creative demonstrated a primitive lower limb with a spring‑loaded foot which allowed him a completely natural gait. He estimated the material cost of his artificial leg to be around a hundred and fifty pounds.

 

There followed a flood of enquiries requesting instructions on how to assemble something similar. The most common cause was the hopeless expense of maintaining electronic knees and ankles in working order. Several readers forwarded their own solutions comprising without fail rigid peg legs with fat rubber ferrules. The paper was reluctant to provide more column inches to Brushstrokes so the next step was a dedicated website. AI created a simple website with large selection buttons. All instructions and diagrams were available as downloadable files. Stephen discussed the site’s future with his employer and it was decided that editorial regulation would remain in the publisher’s hands. eBrushstrokes would be an offshoot of the print version, rather than a web forum.

 

After several months, eBrushstrokes had gained something of a reputation. It was becoming known as a comprehensive resource for amputees struggling with the ordinary troubles associated with limb loss. Prosthetists occasionally mentioned it to patients who were desperate for relief from common problems, if only to demonstrate that ill‑fitting prosthetic limbs were par for the course. A few enterprising readers uploaded what amounted to biographies. With the authors’ permission, some of the more interesting tales were edited for publishing on eBrushstrokes. Soon there was a fascinating collection of stories of amputation and adaptation to disability, mostly attributable to Anon.

 

I report all this as a by‑product of my own disablement and determination to demonstrate that life goes on. My attitude concerning my shining hooks encouraged Stephen to gain his own stumps which in turn have led to the creation of Brushstrokes and eBrushstrokes. On occasion, I have given personal advice concerning the usability of the latter. I read the stories of others with pleasure, sometimes noting hints which suggest that the accident which caused the disability was not entirely accidental. I am not suggesting that Stephen deliberately includes such stories in order to encourage new wannabes to acquire fresh stumps but I believe that along with tales of genuine loss, such as my own, there is a place in the narrative for recognition of those who deliberately destroy their hands in favour of hooks for the aesthetic and mechanical joy of amputation.

 

I trust that Stephen’s Brushstrokes will continue its success. I enjoy reading about the lifestyles of other bilateral arm amputees. It would be interesting to arrange a national meeting of hooks wearers, or actually, any user of prosthetic arms. I believe we have much to share not only with the general public but, more significantly, with each other.

 

B R U S H S T R O K E S