PROGRESSION

 

PROGRESSION

Amputee fiction by strzeka (5/26)

 

Part One

I was responsible for my first amputations but have relied on the services of others for my subsequent modifications. I am currently recovering from my second definitive leg amputation, the one which will confirm me as severely crippled. At the grand old age of forty‑two, I find myself legless. More accurately, I have a new thigh stump. My right leg is much as it was after my mid‑tibial amputation fifteen years ago in this very same clinic. I can hear two nurses speaking quietly outside in the corridor in their peculiar non‑sibilant version of Spanish.

 

As always, I intend replacing the newly missing limb with an equivalent prosthesis. I am not one to lounge around in a wheelchair for long. I despise the things. I could tolerate a self‑balancing gyrochair and may even end up relying on one. But those days are far off in another country and another time. If I lean over carefully, I can probably press the call button with a stub. I am thirsty. To be honest, I want a proper drink. A double whiskey would hit the spot, but it would take a miracle to find any. Bourbon is the closest equivalent available in this part of the world, smuggled onto the island from Louisiana. As it happens, a nurse brushes the curtain aside and enters my room with some sliced fruit and a fresh jug of water. I can hear the icecubes tinkling.

 

          – Ah, you are awake, she says in Spanish. How do you feel? Is your stump sore?

          – No, it’s well, thank you. I’m glad you have brought me water. I have thirst.

My Spanish is the classical European original. It sounds quaint to the local people’s ears but they respect me for trying to speak with them in their own vernacular. I reach for the tumbler with my handless arm stump but it is bare of my artificial arm. I know very well my right hand could not grasp it. Instead, my nurse asserts her intention by lifting her taut chin with a smile and she cups the back of my head with her soft warm hand while I gulp chill water.

 

I am quite comfortable and relaxed. Naturally, there is some discomfort from my stump but this is not the most painful amputation I have undergone. That dubious honour goes to my second arm amputation, the one which transformed a hand disarticulation into a proper arm amputation. I tired of the length of the stump. I like a stump to be more blatant and obvious. My new thigh stump is going to be a good example. It will be muscular and bulky. Its appearance will give me considerable pleasure, especially when coupled with the mid‑calf amputation on my right leg. I have walked on an artificial leg for the past fifteen years. For the past five, I have yearned to experience the more severe disability of walking on two. I know from the literature and from my amputee friends that I face a considerable challenge in relearning to walk. Artificial legs with mechanical knees pose many difficulties. I hope to overcome all of them, in much the same way as I mastered my artificial ankle and foot and the variety of steel hooks which I use on my left arm stump. The revision was both a relief and an unexpected pleasure. Although I am rarely seen in public without a hook, I take great pleasure in massaging the superbly shaped tip of my stump with the nubs of my right hand. Somehow the combination reinforces the sensation of absent flesh and bone. I remember the tingle of excitement as the stump of my right thumb healed. My hand had been bound in protective bandages for three weeks before the stump was covered in less obtrusive protection. My index finger continually sought the missing digit, bending in a futile manner which I found exciting.

 

I had my excuses ready for how I had come a cropper, as my father expressed my misfortune. Even my surgeon mumbled his regret that he was unable to save my thumb. I would be a disabled teenager at seventeen, before I even left school. My first challenge was learning to write again with slightly less than half a thumb. The conical stump of my thumb was my introduction to body modification and I still admire its useless brevity.

 

However, there was something missing, apart from my thumbnail. Prosthetic thumbs were easy enough to print out for five minutes of jollity but I found myself becoming more desirous of a genuine prosthesis. I found it perfectly reasonable to want artificial limbs. They were sleek shiny replacements for missing body parts. I realised I was very much in the minority by being interested in acquiring one or two. I could imagine myself as a genuine amputee. My missing half thumb hardly counted. In any case, I had already decided on the future shape of my right hand. I needed my freedom and preferably a willing assistant or two. Someone with a similar interest in missing limbs and artificial limbs.

 

There was the other problem, too. Who was going to pay for my body modifications? My thumb stump had been free, with medical attention from the state and compensation from my father’s insurance company. I needed a creative job of some kind, something which artificial intelligence was useless at. I hit on a career which combined creativity with personal face‑to‑face relationships with clients. I studied biology, botany and carved out a career as a creative horticulturalist. More specifically, I make spectacular wedding bouquets and heart‑wrenching floral tributes for funerals. I am not exaggerating by saying I am one of the most admired practitioners in the field. My retail outlets do good business. I get regular and extremely valuable exposure in the visual media by occasionally being requested to personally prepare a bouquet or other creation. My admittedly unique way of handling the blooms is a never‑ending source of fascination. Sometimes I may grip a single stem between the nubs on my right hand and use the hook on my left stump to indicate aspects of the flower. At other times, I may hold a spiny rose stem in the hook and use my fingerless hand to emphasise the flower’s beauty. Needless to say, my steel hook and five finger stumps are a perfect combination which have served me well for twenty years.

 

It is time to change the dressing on my thigh stump. I allow the nurses to roll my body to the right. I am not supposed to actively move my stump yet but I know what I am doing. I lift my stump slightly to make their work easier and hold it there while they wash rivulets of dried blood, careful not to disturb the crusts of fresh scabs. As dearly as I would love to twist myself into such a position that I could see my new stump, I resist the temptation. I respect my nurses and want them to know it without expressly saying so. The lack of a foot on my right leg eases their task somewhat. I am returned to my usual horizontal position, ready now for my evening meal within the hour.

 

My right hand is my first genuine biological creation. A bouquet of stumps. My subtle disability was enough to attract the attention of admirers at my first vocational college. I was always asked about my stump when we went into town for a beer mid‑week when the lager was cheaper. I invented many reasons for losing my thumb, some of them actually credible. My right hand was unable to hold a glass of beer. I gradually realised that one or two of my fellow students were unusually enthusiastic. They were indeed admirers and devotees, but lacked the determination to become wannabes. I befriended one to the extent that I trusted him to assist me in converting my thumbless hand into the aforementioned bouquet. It was easy enough. I bought the necessary equipment such as a wooden breadboard, wooden mallet, one inch wood chisels and enough disinfectant to last a decade. The plan was simple enough. I held the chisel upright on my fingers, one by one, just below the first joints. Henk gave a firm whack with the mallet and one by one, my fingers became stumps. My surgeon would need to further reduce the length of my finger bones in order to close the wounds. My fingers became the useless but hypnotically attractive appendages they are today.

 

Henk wrapped my stumped hand in a sterile hand towel and dumped me outside an all‑night chemist on the High Street. I staggered inside with a story of how I had been snatched from the street earlier and drugged into oblivion. When I woke up, my fingers were missing. It was a ridiculous story, exactly the kind of gibberish a hysterical assault victim might come out with. Needless to say, I was soon in hospital, and with no alternative for the surgeons to save anything, my stumps were shortened a little and expertly tidied, producing the excellent stumps and useless hand which so many people declare fascinating. Needless to say, the pathetic remnant of my index finger can never quite touch the stump of my thumb but that does not prevent me from carefully pinching one of my favoured large cigars between them. I learned to enjoy a decent cigar during my first leg amputation. I still had the long stump from my left hand disarticulation at that time. It was both challenging and gratifying to handle such wonderful examples of the cigar maker’s craft with my deviant stumps after it had been lit for me. My stumps are inadequate to the task of lighting a cigar.

 

I have been informed that I am entitled to apply for a custom artificial leg made with locally sourced materials. This is a new development. Unfortunately I shall have left the island long before my new stump has healed well enough to be fitted with a prosthesis. I have to admit that I do not find the local aesthetic especially enticing. The sockets are made of a recycled plastic material and vary in colour from grey to yellowish pink. The overall effect is sickly. I also intend selecting a specific mechanical knee joint which is probably absent from the local manufacturer’s list of available components.

 

I admit to some apprehension about the near future. As anyone who knows me will readily attest, I am fiercely independent and reluctant to accept assistance from others. This attribute of mine is the prime motivation for my determination to use artificial limbs. I realised long ago that I suffer from a weird case of body envy. I can appreciate the effort which goes into producing shapely muscular arms, for example, but that is as nothing compared with the excitement and mounting envy I experience when I see a bilateral amputee manipulating a pair of artificial arms terminating in steel hooks. In my own case, I am content to continue with my single hook. I love the emptiness I can sense in the socket and the simple reliability of my hooks. My stumped right hand is adequate for exchanging hooks, for example, and it works well in tandem with my mid‑forearm stump when I don my artificial lower leg. But how will I manage everyday life when I am unable to walk unassisted? It will be the first time in my life when I feel myself genuinely disabled.

 

The trouble is that I find walking with crutches supremely frustrating and tiring. I have a custom‑made pair to accommodate my stump and deviant hand which I had made after being relegated to a wheelchair for three weeks awaiting repairs to my half leg. The left side device is particularly attention‑grabbing. I insert my stump into its socket and a long aluminium pole with a rubber ferrule acts as a crutch. My right crutch has a rubberised chamber attached to the crossbar of the crutch into which I insert my stumped right hand. I have been able to slowly negotiate my way forward but I cannot imagine how well I will succeed as a legless man with only a single half leg prosthesis to walk on. My hands will be trapped inside their peculiar sockets and I know from experience that extricating my stump especially is a time‑consuming procedure but one which I will need to undergo many times a day when I don my hook. There is little point in revealing my finger stumps at the same time. The right crutch will be a semi‑permanent fixture for the duration. As will the sight of my artificial arm and hook hanging down my back, temporarily out of commission while my arm stump with its long crutch does the duty of my absent left leg.

 

Even so, I will still be shuttled to and fro at the airports on my home journey in a wheelchair. There is no escaping it. I shall appear to be a one‑legged man. There is no reason for any outsider to suspect that my right leg is artificial unless they catch sight of my steel ankle joint.

 

I should not be thinking about such matters. I suppose a man such as myself, an entrepreneur, always thinks of future scenarios as a matter of course. I try to jump further ahead, to the time when I am sporting two artificial legs, one short and the other long. Am I going to peacock my double leg amputee status? How will the media react to that? Will my customers appreciate me more if they know the additional physical effort I must expend in order to produce their pretty bouquets? Should I start charging more? Or perhaps I shall practise until my gait is perfect. I know it is possible. I have seen it done. With one knee and an artificial half leg, I should be able to power my left stump well enough to operate my new left leg. I have not yet decided whether I want a leg with a natural silhouette or whether the standard steel pole effect will suffice. I know the latter would match my half leg much better. How would I look wearing shorts? Should I continue using the long aluminium crutch on my left stump despite the bouquet of stumps on my right? I had no idea that gaining my half thigh stump would entail so many new possible directions. It certainly seems that I shall be losing my left arm for the third time, this time turning it into a crutch.

 

As I may have mentioned, I have been in this clinic before. How the world has changed since then! I was at a point in my career when I had established what I wanted to do, how I intended to go about it and completed all the relevant permits and authorisations. Having such a weight off my mind, my old obsession returned with a vengeance. My mutilated hand was a constant source of pleasure to myself and of fascination to friends. I began to research ways to rid myself of my other hand. I was infatuated at the time with the idea of sporting a hook or maybe an artificial hand. The main problem was the actual amputation. Then I heard of cases of self‑amputation, involving quite simply disarticulating the hand at the wrist. With no bones to saw through, it was apparently possible to sever the hand by slicing through muscles and tendons with a scalpel. I decided that this was a most excellent method. All I needed was a willing assistant. There was no chance at all that I might undertake the task myself, not with my bouquet of stumps. My right hand was as useless as it was beautiful.

 

I sought a capable, reliable and willing assistant for the best part of a year. Those were my main criteria but I also hoped the successful supplicant might also be tall dark and handsome. The successful applicant turned up eventually, a wily Dutchman with a fetish for leg stumps whom I shall call Henk. He had amputated both his feet himself, producing bilateral Symes amputations. He wore cylindrical orthopaedic boots of thick black leather and stood two metres tall. I should not reveal more of his appearance to protect his privacy. He explained the complete procedure in his excellent English over evening beers and showed a series of photographs taken of his previous work. The next morning, I became a proper amputee. We disposed of my severed hand by turning it into slurry in my kitchen blender and flushing the resulting mess down the toilet. Within a week, the wound closed. After two weeks, it no longer hurt. A month later, I resumed work, delicately handling our blossoms between my first genuine stump and my finger nubs.

 

My Dutch accomplice inspired and encouraged me to experience disability from another angle. I had been content to whittle away at my arms, turning myself into an ever greater example of inspirational invalidity. I knew that each and every modification I underwent would be accompanied by a brief and lucrative surge in media coverage. I was well known enough to be a credible example of a man striving to continue his life, stricken by an incurable nerve disease for which only amputation was the cure. Of course, the nervous disease was in my brain, urging me to experience ever more extreme amputation and ever more demanding prosthetic devices. With the excellent example of my footless Dutch friend, I began considering the potential of leg amputation and as a result, my artificial right foot was my first genuine prosthesis.

 

He reluctantly refused to assist me, stating that what I had in mind was something more involved that a quick lop and chop job at the kitchen table. He was quite right, of course. He provided contact details of a man who might be able to help me for a fee. And with his assistance and a considerable sum of money, I found myself flying to my clinic via Mexico City. The hub in Atlanta did not yet serve the island and after the upheaval, of course, no‑one voluntarily enters Georgia. Apparently the massive airport is still in operation but only for a few local flights and one or two interstate departures every week. How far the great can fall. But I digress.

 

The clinic was already well established when I arrived. It had recently been refurbished with some bright plastic furniture and a coat of whitewash on the outer walls. The staff were charming. I represented an unexpected source of revenue for not only the clinic but for the entire island. It remains the only place in the world where elective amputations on demand are legal for foreign visitors but not for the island’s own citizens. As a result, prosthetic research and care has also become a major industry. Strange to think of the two Atlantic islands with specialised prosthetic industries, Iceland being the other.

 

I already spoke some Castilian and discussions about my desired amputation were held in simple but concise Spanish. I signed the required legal permissions for amputation and shortly became the owner of a perfectly standard mid‑calf stump. It appeared so ordinary to me, as if I had always been disabled. The loss of my foot was a concept which I ignored. I had lost nothing. I had gained a stump and soon I would have an intriguing new carbon and steel prosthesis to extend it. My surgeon followed my recovery as conscientiously as my nurses. He was professionally interested in my other minor disabilities. He admired the precise dimensions of my finger stumps and the deviant hand disarticulation. In our country, he explained, we amputate higher to provide a more practical stump for future prosthetic use. I nodded, knowing that my long arm stump was strictly temporary. If I had given the matter more thought, I may have made a request there and then for a second arm amputation before I left the island. As it was, five years would intervene before I felt the urge to gain an arm stump which somehow matched my footless leg stump.

 

I used my handless stump as a prop to ease difficulties I encountered with my finger stumps. I could manipulate most objects after a fashion. I could make food and eat independently, wash and dress myself. I could not hold a comb or brush my hair so I have sported a bald pate and allowed my black beard to grow to its current handsome size, although it is now streaked with silver. My barber does a good job. At work, my amputations are almost completely irrelevant. I am unable to grip a single stem with any of my stumps but using them together, I can undertake the most delicate procedures to produce the exquisite works of art which are my trademark. However, I felt it was time to discover the lifestyle of a genuine arm amputee with a body‑powered mechanical hook. I felt as if it were a progression in my on‑going exploration of disability. I assumed the hook would present me with a new, more assertive image. Few outsiders knew that I had but a single leg and even fewer had seen my naked stump.

 

I made a few half‑hearted enquiries at home, complaining of chronic agony in a disarticulation stump and suggesting an elective amputation. There were no takers. Instead, my Dutch friend waxed lyrical about the improvements at the clinic on the island and since it was very much off‑season, air fares were the lowest they would ever be. I arranged another three week furlough, clearing my calendar and delegating everything to my assistants. I was met by a different surgeon, much younger than the man who had severed my foot. This one spoke excellent English. He was also intrigued by my bouquet of finger stumps and asked many questions about their functionality and practicality. I assured him my hand felt complete. The stumps were all robust and comfortable. He turned to discussing my disarticulation. I explained that it had been done by an amateur following instructions from YouTube. It had served me well but it was not as aesthetically pleasing as a normal padded stump. We decided on an optimal length, taking into account the space needed for wrist connectors and various sizes of hook. My stump was dissected at its broadest dimension and the muscles were folded over the severed bones. As the wound healed, my skin formed a perfect rounded cover. It was a beautiful stump, as it still is, of course. The great pity is that I have so little reason to display it. After living without a manipulator at the end of my stump for five years and more, I was unexpectedly enthusiastic and relieved to receive my first artificial arm, a glistening masterpiece of smooth non‑patterned carbon fibre and steel accoutrements. Naturally enough, the socket conceals my perfect stump in its entirety. The novelty of not having a full‑length stump seemed never‑ending and coupled with all the extraordinary physical sensations associated with operating a solitary steel prong on my replacement hand, I was in seventh heaven. I admired myself in front of a mirror, both dressed and otherwise. The prostheses on opposing limbs were perfect counterparts for my natural ones. The hook seemed both aggressive and pathetic. Although it signified that I am severely disabled, I can still do considerable damage with it. It is illegal to carry knuckledusters, but there is nothing the authorities can say about me bearing an equivalent at the end of my stump.

 

After my return home, I patiently waited for my new stump to settle before applying for an artificial arm. I was informed that since the amputation was not officially registered, I was not entitled to welfare equipment. I would have to go private. This was no great problem but it did make finding a prosthetist a little complicated. I was perfectly well acquainted with the genuine costs of the raw materials required and the professional skills necessary during the five or six hours which producing a completed artificial arm entailed. I was quoted enormous prices soaring well into five figures. I laughed at them and continued searching. I discovered a newly established practitioner who had recently started his business in a less than auspicious location. But he was polite, understanding and with a quote which satisfied my sense of proportion, I set out for an overnight journey to Dundee.

 

The process itself was simplicity itself. My stump was scanned from every angle. An app created a virtual model and calculated the ideal socket with an additional enveloping flange around my elbow. This would protect my stump in a fall. I thought it a way to inflate the price slightly but I later learned to appreciate its value when I no longer had a leg to stand on. I remained in the new clinic’s recovery quarters for three days before booking a hotel in town while I awaited delivery of my hook. I was summoned back for an initial and final fitting. I was enraptured by the unfeeling rigid socket and the extraordinary complexity behind something so simple as opening a prosthetic hook. I was entranced by the unchanging delicate click as the hook closed. The two prongs, apparently called ‘fingers’, touched each other with delicate accuracy. It was a completely mechanical action without any vestige of biological presence and I loved having that phenomenon in my life from that moment.

 

The very same arm is in my closet hanging alongside my jacket and shirts. It is time for me to go for my first session of rehabilitation. My nurse brings a wheelchair and helps me transfer into it. She is as wary of my twenty year old stump as of the new short one. How will the therapist treat them? I sit in the wheelchair enjoying the attention. I try to rest my arm stump on my thigh which to my surprise is no longer there. I explore my seated figure with my arm stump. The cacophony of new sensations from repositioned nerve endings is too much. I stop touching myself and wish I had access to my prostheses.

 

The name of the game is to get you strong again. You are old, claims my therapist. You need to have a strong core. I am amused by the Spanish word for ‘core’. He makes me sound like an unripe vegetable. I look into his eyes with a hope for mercy. It does not work. The last time I was as brutally punished for my own good was when I was still in short trousers. Ha! Perhaps I shall wear short trousers again in future to display my artificial legs. If I ever escape this sadist’s clutches.

 

The irony is that my actual stump, the reason for the entire ordeal, is still too tender to be subjected to the elasticated belt exercises I was expecting. Instead, I was stretched and bent into new positions which I should try to maintain for ten seconds at a time. I need to ensure that my pelvis remains even. I am not to ignore a limp. My prostheses must be regularly adjusted. I should not tolerate an uncomfortable socket for longer than a week. Easy for him to say. I have a three‑day round trip to Dundee to contend with. Towards the end of the two hour session, I become aware of amicable respect in his fierce dark eyes. You are a quick learner, he tells me. Stay strong and do your exercises. We stare at each other’s pretty faces, sculpted to maturity by our mutually impressive beards. I am collected, as my arm stumps are useless for propelling a wheelchair. I shall never meet him again but I felt my most fulfilled and competent in his demanding presence. I hope he sometimes remembers me.

 

Part Two

Five years have passed since my return. I felt I had found a new outlook on life. I forged a closer relationship with my footless Dutch friend. We are not intimate but I would describe us as closer than ordinary friends. I have no doubt that our fascination for our deviant body images lays behind it.

 

For the past two years, I have become inured to the fact that I inadvertently became far more disabled than I had suspected. I have been fitted with three different artificial legs and have settled for some occasional inconveniences associated with the third one, a simple leg with a lockable knee joint. I can manually release the knee when I wish to sit. Otherwise the leg remains rigid and points into the room. I had considerable difficulties in acclimatising myself to a full‑length prosthesis. The specialised knee mechanism proved itself reliable, although I still fell a few times. My prosthetist did his best to adjust the leg. I seem to have the greatest problem in swinging the prosthesis forward sufficiently to walk with a regular step. I blame my artificial right ankle and foot which offers no return energy for propulsion whatsoever. As a result, I have learned to use my prosthetic limbs by waddling from side to side and kicking each stump forward in a frankly amateurish fashion. My rigid left leg has proven to be reliable and as I approach fifty, I have allowed myself release from the compulsion I felt earlier to master my artificial legs as well as I have mastered my deviant hand and hook. I walk slowly with the unmistakable gait of a double amputee on unsuitable prostheses. It is not what I wanted for myself, but as I mentioned, it is something I no longer spend time worrying about.

 

Henk has suggested that I retire early in order to undergo further modification. He claims that, counter‑intuitively, I may fare better with two above‑knee amputations. may regain a sense of balance which I readily admit to missing out on. My modified body is far from symmetrical. He believes that if my leg stumps were identical mid‑thigh items, I would be more comfortable and more secure on a pair of shorter artificial legs. I must admit the idea does hold some attraction for me. I have seen many video interviews with legless users of short stubbie legs and specifically shortened custom artificial legs with functioning knees. The idea of dressing myself neatly in dress shorts for the rest of my life is both amusing and tantalising. I have no reason to suspect that Henk wishes me ill. The enthusiastic men I have listened to certainly find joie de vivre despite, or even because of, their legless status.

 

Fortunately my prosthetic legs are both comfortable. The right one is due for an overhaul. I think I will request exoskeletal limbs next time. The carbon and steel aesthetic is all well and good but it is tempting to disguise my disability somewhat with artificial legs which bear a superficial appearance of natural ones. I assume that by demanding rigid ankles and rigid feet, my gait will automatically become the rollicking sway which I find so attractive in a man. It immediately marks him out as a double amputee. My own comfortable limbs allow me to continue work, touring the country to our various floral centres. I drive myself in a converted electric van with a refrigerated rear compartment. The other matter on my mind is the sale of my company. I have many competitors who would like to take over the company name in order to destroy it. I will sell only to an accomplished entrepreneur such as myself with an interest in maintaining the company’s reputation for excellence. I would assume that I would then be free to indulge myself with further body modification. It is a minor thing but I would love to wear a septum ring. I would gradually stretch until my face is dominated by a large ring through my nose. For obvious reasons, I am prevented from sporting any such facial piercings by simple received etiquette.

 

Another conundrum is something which has plagued me for nigh on three decades. Several prosthetists have asked me over the years if I would prefer to become a bilateral hook user. It is a matter which has long tormented me. My stumped fingers are next to useless. My bouquet of stumps is worthless as a hand. However, I am still in love with the minuscule stumps. My half thumb is the best example of a stump which performs absolutely nothing of value. It is too short to meet the tip of my index finger stump, making it unable to hold a pen. It is missing its joint so it cannot close around anything I might wish to pick up. I know people are fascinated to see it. I can see the attention it gets at annual flower shows and exhibitions, and in tv and radio studios where I am a guest. I never try to disguise my mutilated hand. It is my hand, after all. Its deviant appearance was to my advantage when I was beating my way up the professional ladder to success and notoriety. Later, when I placidly gestured with my maimed fingers and a steel hook in place of the handless stump, I gained more media attention than a professional flower arranger might expect. I am sure, certain, that the greatest interest in my professional skill involved my deviant hands and not my daring experimental pairings of summer and winter perennials.

 

But as I reach the limits of prosthetic nirvana, I have begun to consider whether a second hook would be of more use than my bouquet. It all hangs on whether I decide to retire at fifty. That in turn depends on whether I sell my company. If only there were someone to ask.

 

My Dutch friend sensed distress in my voice. I was plaintive with confusion but did not realise how deranged I must sound. Henk arranged a week‑long break and arrived the very next evening. Much to my surprise and admiration, he had learned to walk on two peg legs and stepped inside, lowering his head to avoid knocking his forehead on my door frame. We had not met for three months and in that time, we had both mulled over existential questions. One might cynically claim that we were both suffering from mid‑life crises but these do not usually involve amputation.

 

In short, he declared that the time was ripe for his definitive modification. After living an adult life with long leg stumps, he intended ending his time on earth with short ones. He wished to gain two thigh stumps within the year, just before his fiftieth. He is a year older than I am. He asked me if I was satisfied with my current configuration. I could hear his playful tone but there was a more serious purpose to his query which he soon revealed. He intended returning to the island for bilateral amputations midway through his thighs. He wanted to savour the life of a legless man on stubbies and admitted that his peg legs were a way to hone his sense of balance and explore his extrovert nature. He could envisage himself sporting peg legs after recovering from his amputations. As if proposing to me, he invited me to accompany him back to the island for a second thigh amputation. We would both have identical amputations and would both experience the pleasures of relearning to walk on a wide variety of prosthetic equipment. We could do it together. And, he said, you could have your right hand off to match your left. It was the one remark which decided it for me. I would sell my company and use some of the proceeds to accompany my quasi‑lover back to the clinic where we would both undergo double amputations. We would both be bilateral above‑knee amputees and I would become a bilateral hook user. I knew my hook was far more practical than my finger stumps. I would miss them but life in my senior years would be simpler and I could be more self‑reliant with a pair of steel hooks.

 

I allowed Henk to make all the arrangements. I spent much time refurbishing my apartment with specialised furniture and fittings. To all intents and purposes, I would become a dwarf. I had no intention of using stubbies which increased my height to any great extent. I realised that the length of my next pair of arm prostheses would have to be customised to take my shorter stature into account. With short artificial arms, all the jackets I wished to wear would need to be adapted by an accomplished seamstress. I owned a spectacular leather suit which I had not worn in years. I envisaged wearing the jacket with shortened sleeves with the elegant trousers converted into shorts which would completely cover my stubbies.

 

Henk returned two days before our departure via Mexico City. There were still no direct flights from Europe to the island. There was talk of reviving the state airline and inaugurating a direct route to Schipol. Henk arrived wearing his cylindrical orthopaedic boots for the last time. He intended leaving them behind. We would both return in wheelchairs. Out of sheer cussedness, I chose to use both my leg prostheses instead of sitting in a wheelchair for the outward journey. Ambulatory wheelchair users will know why. I would be returning in another wheelchair and would therefore own two of them. No matter. One could be hidden in storage. Possibly both. I would rather drag myself along the ground with my stumps than rely on a wheelchair.

 

I was curious to see if there would be any familiar faces among the staff but years had rolled by since I last visited. I noticed that there was more equipment and more contemporary furnishings but the original atmosphere of friendly efficiency was still present. The staff were attentive and professional, the food was fresh and delicious, and the experience was a pleasure from beginning to end. Henk and I were amputated on consecutive days. We shared a double room intended for married couples. Henk was returned to his bed unconscious. I could see immediately how very different he seemed, concealed by a short bundle of sheets. My friendly Dutchman, the giant who had been part of my life since I created my bouquet, was now cut down to half his height. I knew Henk very well and looked forward to seeing him mastering a pair of long stubbies and progressing to bilateral peg legs.

 

I had no such ambition. I had always been more fascinated by deviant hands, arm stumps and artificial replacements with hooks or other terminal devices. I had seen a brass ball on the end of a rod to prevent an otherwise empty sleeve flapping about. Old‑style hooks which might lift a bucket, nothing more. Cosmetic hands of sculpted wood or monotone pink Bakelite or glistening silicon. I weighed up the alternative of acquiring a reproduction of my bouquet of stumps. An artificial hand of realistic silicon which was missing all its fingers and thumb from the first joints. Nothing could better compensate for my missing right hand. I slept and awoke two days later to find myself with two new stumps. Both were more than sore, they were painful, more so than any of my previous amputations. I later discovered that I had been allowed to awaken earlier than during my previous visits. Henk also reported some pain but assured me that it was diminishing.

 

I was a genuine quadruple amputee at last. I had not regarded my finger‑stumped hand as a genuine amputation site. It seemed strange to see empty space where it had been. My finger stumps had been my first excursion into disability and I had formed some kind of emotional tie with them. But they had been physically next to useless and no practical prosthetic device existed to rectify the situation. I was looking forward to having a new pair of hooks which I knew how to use, having had years of experience with my left stump.

 

But it was an extraordinary feeling to lay in bed, limbless. It was all a matter of degree. I had four perfectly functional stumps, so I hoped, and I would soon be fitted with artificial limbs. However, I would need time to acquaint myself with being short again, the height of a ten year old boy. Henk had often spoken about his plans to try a wide variety of artificial legs. He had the choice of using crutches when he wished to use only one artificial leg. I knew that a pair of crutches could be manufactured with sockets for my mutilated forearms but I did not envision a need for such equipment. I was certain that my future stubbies would allow me freedom from mobility aids. Idea dressing

 

Our stumps stopped protesting at the physical assault upon them. Henk was continually bemused by the absence on his footless shins and I found it alarming to see my right arm without its bouquet of stumps. I must confess that I regretted their loss. I assured myself that it was all for the best. As soon as I received my new set of hooks, I would forget about them. I would be reborn with new skills and abilities previously denied me by my bouquet. All the same, I was not enamoured by my right stump. It looked the same as my other arm and I was quite used to seeing that. Henk was full of an impatient enthusiasm for his new stumps. He too had regarded his Symes amputations as approximations. His ugly orthopaedic boots were a mere suggestion of disability. Now he faced a fantastic future of prosthetic life with a wide variety of artificial legs to choose from. He might choose to be any height he wanted, from a metre sixty to over two metres. Neither of us mentioned using crutches. It was obvious that I was severely compromised as far as crutch use was concerned. I would need specially shortened crutches fitted with sockets for my arm stumps. My imagination suddenly went into overdrive and saw myself half dragging myself on a pair of short steel leg prostheses with a pair of tubular crutches extending up to my arm pits. I shuddered and released a gush of jizm, the first time in many years. I later concluded that regardless of how enthusiastically or otherwise I might think about my new body configuration, deep down my brain found it erotically overwhelming. Gradually I overcame my reluctance to accept my bilateral arm amputations and relaxed into the knowledge that my entire being was about to undergo a transformation beyond the most sadistic horrors. I was facing a future as a limbless gnome with crutches instead of arms and clicking squeaking short steel legs. Henk and I remained on the island for as long as we possibly could, knowing that we would never return, not for surgical care. We were escorted to the airport by a small posse of caretakers, both of us in new lightweight wheelchairs. I wore my primitive bendable left leg prosthesis and my old hook. Henk sat tall in his chair and rested his broad hands on his greatest achievements, his handsome masculine leg stumps.

 

Part Three

It has been over twelve years since our return to Europe. Henk continues living in his urban apartment. I returned to my converted flat where I remain. I have a live‑in personal assistant, a gentleman’s gentleman, who does various things for me which I request. I regard myself as capable and independent. I have learned to walk on artificial legs with a swagger which requires much input from my artificial arms to maintain balance. I follow the latest fashions in clothing and my beard and skin is tended to regularly by the best practitioners in the field. I also follow the fortunes of my former company, now in other hands. I have acted as an advisor to the board for the past eight years and am happy to say that my opinions are respected.

 

An interesting evolution has occurred in the way I think about my transformation. Much to my surprise, I found it pleasurable and physically comfortable to wear stubbies. Both Henk and myself started with carbon fibre sockets with short pylons and rubber blocks for feet. Their purpose was basically to encourage us to place trust in our stumps and to familiarise ourselves with our new centres of balance. We shortly had lightweight cylinders made, in practical terms they are long sockets on which we both walk. Henk has a long pair with elegant conical tapers. Mine are shorter and extend just beyond where I once I had knees. I no longer regard them as unusual or exceptional. They are simply my artificial legs. I have had all my trousers shortened to accommodate them. I am completely satisfied with my public image. I dress well and walk with a regular practised motion. My cylindrical black legs describe half circles and take my weight reliably and securely for the next step.

 

I have a pair of steel legs, similar to the ones I imagined. There is a short extension from the socket to the knee mechanism and another of the same length to the ankle connector. The rubber feet connect directly to the ankle joint. I have insisted that there should be no expensive extras. My prosthetic legs, a third of normal length, will never look like anything more than steel replacements for my missing limbs and I see no reason why I should try to emulate the lost biomechanical joints. I want to appear disabled. I want to walk by kicking my half thigh stumps, forcing the little steel legs to bend and fly forward. I have never mastered the legs well enough to use them independently and so I use them sparingly. I never doubt that they will embarrass me but I prefer the use of my artificial arms on those occasions where legs are appropriate.

 

I have several pairs of walking sticks, all of them cut to a suitable length and attachable to a pair of long sockets which extend to my arm pits. My man helps me dress when I wish to wear walking sticks, as they dominate how I can use my arms. I insert my arm stumps into the sockets and my shirt and jacket sleeves are fed carefully along their length. This is when I am at the most extreme limit of my disabled lifestyle. My leg stumps are concealed in stubbies, my arm stumps are concealed inside long rigid sockets. I can not bend my elbows when I am wearing a pair of walking sticks nor can I remove them without outside help. But I can strike a handsome pose. The walking sticks extend smartly from my shortened jacket sleeves. I look the very epitome of a fully rehabilitated quadruple amputee.

 

It took longer before my prosthetist and I discovered the ideal pair of artificial arms. I insist on wearing body‑powered equipment. The old‑fashioned hooks and the mechanisms which control them are over a century old and have been perfected in that time. Because of my short stature, I found my old left arm to be too long. Fortunately, my stumps are sufficiently long for me to usefully wear shortened forearm sockets to which my hooks connect directly. I have another pair of artificial arms with curved forearm sockets. They are slightly longer and the hooks meet in front of my genitals. This is not a coincidence. The curved arms look more aesthetically pleasing than the short straight ones. As mentioned, all my sleeves have been altered to allow me better access to what I wish to manipulate as well as full view of my artificial arms for the outside world. I am proud of the effect I have during media events when I stand firmly positioned on my stubbies with the hooks on my curved arms linked in front of me, like someone with hands might hold them. The dichotomy between a completely natural position and the shocking sight of two steel hooks never fails to amuse and excite me.

 

And so life continues. I am proud of the progress made after I genuinely put my heart into disabling myself by degrees, becoming ever more reliant on artificial limbs as a kind of gradual artistic performance. Next week Henk will arrive as my guest. He wishes to see me using my hooks and to inspect the alternatives I have available. I can only guess at what he has in mind but of one thing I can be sure. We will have a fascinating week comparing stumps and experiences and reminiscing about our lost limbs and why they had to go.

 

PROGRESSION