ALL IN THE FAMILY

 

ALL IN THE FAMILY

Fiction by Doug of London (08/26)

This is the story of my amazing family and as the whole saga started with my grandfather, I’ll start with him. His name was Samuel, but I think everyone called him Sam

Sam was born in 1894 into a middle class family in Dorset. As far as I know, he had a conventional childhood, and when he left school, got a job as the “junior” in a bank. When war broke out, he was one of the first to volunteer. It was 1914, and he was twenty years old, and already had had his first promotion at the bank. For Sam, the war did not last long, as in 1915, he returned home leaving his left leg in France.

The twenty‑one-year-old was quickly a very familiar sight crutching around. His amputation was very high up his leg, which we would now call a hip disarticulation, and he was uninterested in a wooden leg. Happily, the bank was able to bring him back to his old job, and he was able to continue to work for the bank, and gain promotion, even though he now had only one leg and was completely reliant on his wooden crutches.

Many years later when he was an old man, he told me that he loved his crutches, and delighted in crutching around. He said that losing his leg was the best thing that ever happened to him, and that he felt being one-legged was the natural way he should spend his life. This knowledge and the happiness it brought him would sow the seed of all that was destined to happen to his descendants, including, of course, myself.

A handsome amputee on crutches, a “war hero”, was very attractive to the young women at the time, and before long he was married to my grandmother. My father was born in 1920. He was called Douglas, and everyone called him Doug. Just like his dad, Doug had a conventional childhood, the only difference from other boys was having a one-legged dad. Sam was very active on his crutches and it definitely looked as if he’d never had two legs.

Encouraged by his dad, Doug was eager to volunteer when war broke out, and by the end of 1939 was already in training in the RAF. Doug’s war would not last any longer than Sam’s, because in 1941 Doug survived a plane crash, leaving his left leg behind in the wreckage. He returned home on crutches just like his father’s, with an almost identical amputation. Sam smiled when he saw his maimed son.

“I love being one-legged,” he said, “and I’ve loved every day I’ve been on crutches. It's been twenty‑six years now; I've been one-legged for much longer than I was two‑legged.”

Doug looked at his father. “Thank you for saying that,” he said, “as it makes what I’m going to say much easier. When I woke up in the hospital and found I’d become one legged, I was delighted, really pleased. From the moment they gave me my first pair of crutches, I couldn't stop grinning. I just love it, and now I know exactly how happy you’ve been all your life with just one leg. My amputation is exactly the same as yours, right up at my thigh. There’s nothing left of my femur bone.”

Before the war, Doug had worked briefly for his father at the bank, and Sam was pleased to be able to offer him a permanent job there. The other colleagues soon became used to two crutch users, and being one-legged soon felt as normal to Doug as it was to his father.

I came along in 1950, by which time my grandfather Sam was fifty‑six years old, and my dad Doug was thirty. I’m called Gerald, but everyone knows me as Gerry. When I was born, Grandfather Sam had been walking with crutches for thirty‑five years, and my dad had been on crutches for nine. I had two uncles, younger brothers to my dad, both one-legged. Uncle Reg was in his twenties, and had been using crutches for five years, and the youngest of the three, Gordon was twenty‑two, and only been one‑legged for a year. As a small boy it was normal for me to be around four crutch users. I knew Grandad Sam had lost his leg in the First World War, and my dad Doug had lost his in the recent Second World War, but a great mystery surrounded my uncles. How had they come to be amputees, each at the age of twenty‑one, which was Doug’s age when his plane crashed? Both Reg and Gordon were as happy as my dad and the sight of the three brothers crutching wildly down the road was something to behold.

I felt close to my uncles and as I grew older I was more and more inquisitive about their stories. I demanded a tiny pair of crutches to play with and wondered if I would ever be as lucky as them and get my left leg cut off. I think it was my eighth birthday when Grandpa Sam sat me down for what he called “a very serious talk”.

“I think you know, Gerry, how much I love being a one-legged man,” he began, “and you know that your dad and your uncles also enjoy their lives with one leg and crutches. You will know that all four of us have identical amputations, with our left legs removed at our hips. By cutting this high we have all been certain that our futures would always be on crutches. I’ve seen you enjoying playing with your toy crutches and I think you are now old enough for me to tell you that the plan is to cut off your left leg on your twenty-first birthday.”

“Oh Grandpa, that’s brilliant. I’ve wondered if I’d be able to be one-legged like you and dad, but I didn't know if it would be possible. We don’t want another war for me to get rid of my leg, do we?”

“No, that won’t be necessary, and losing a leg in war is a very haphazard way of getting an amputation. Neither of your uncles lost legs in war, and both have very high hip disarticulations like your dad and I. Your uncles had carefully planned elective amputations, which is exactly how we shall arrange it for you.”

“But I don’t understand. You can’t just go to the doctor and ask him to cut your leg off, can you?”

“No you can’t. But now I’m going to tell you a story, every word of which is true. My leg was cut off in a field hospital in France. I don’t remember much except it was more like a butcher's than a hospital, with blood everywhere. In the middle of all the gore and death there was a young doctor, no older than I was, trying to save lives. He definitely saved mine when he cut off my leg and sewed me up. I came back to England and was very lucky to be alive. I never expected to see that young surgeon ever again, but fate struck in a very fortuitous way.

“Crutching one day through Bournemouth Square, I passed a legless beggar, and stopping to give him a shilling, I looked directly into his face.

“Christ!” I said. “Do I know you?”

“I think you might,” said the beggar, “ as it was I who cut off your leg all those years ago in a Flanders field.” 

“It turned out that not long after I was sent home with one leg, there’d been a terrible explosion when a bomb had hit the field hospital, killing lots and maiming others. The young doctor who’d saved my life had lost both legs in the explosion and was even luckier than I to have survived. Later, he’d been much less lucky than I because having been patched up, he’d been discharged from hospital; only to find himself homeless and destitute. He’d been begging in the street and sleeping under the stars ever since. This was in 1924, when I’d recently married your grandmother and we had a small house of our own.

“He’d been sleeping outside and begging for about six years. He’d learned to drag himself along on his bottom, and was alive but only just. He was also filthy and stinking, but I could not leave him in all that dirt and destitution.

“I got him into a taxi, although the driver was reluctant to let him in and made him stay on the floor. Your grandmother was rather alarmed, but we got him indoors and set about cleaning him up. He took a few weeks to recover, and we got used to him hand-shuffling around the house, and he even managed to climb the stairs, After a while, we helped him to get a job at the library, and with a little money of his own he found some sheltered housing for war veterans, and even eventually bought an invalid carriage.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you talking about Uncle Zig?”

“Yes of course I am,” said Grandpa, “but there’s more to the story. Although he was happy working in the library, he still had the knowledge and skills of surgery he’d been working at during the war.”

Grandpa paused and I looked at him expectantly.

“He did the amputations of both your uncles, Reg five years ago, and Gordon just last year, both on their twenty-first birthdays.”

“And will he do mine on my twenty‑first?” I asked anxiously.

“Yes, he will, although there's a problem. He’s getting older. He’s the same age as me, and I’m sixty‑four. He’s not sure how long he’ll be able to keep going. By the time you’re twenty‑one, he’ll be in his seventies. We’ve already discussed how to replace him for your brothers and the next generation.” Grandpa paused again, then said, “Now go and tell your father what we’ve talked about, and think about the day when your left leg will be removed.”

It’s hard to try and write down how I felt at the time. I was just aged eight when I had that momentous conversation with my grandfather, and I was as happy as I could possibly be. I remember thinking that it was an awful long time until my twenty‑first birthday, and my greatest occupation as a child was playing with my crutches. I visited Ziggy regularly. He was aware that my grandpa had had the big talk with me, and he openly talked about the day when he’d cut off my leg. Alone at night, I’d hug myself and repeat over and over again, “one day I’ll have only one leg”, and I’d fall asleep with a smile on my face. The year 1971 seemed a very long way away.

I think that the knowledge and certainty of becoming one-legged and dependent on crutches enriched the remainder of my childhood, and in teenage years I became more and more impatient to get my amputation. The thought came to me to try and get my leg cut off on my eighteenth birthday, not wait until I was twenty‑one. I spoke with my grandfather first, and he said he’d support my request. That was all I needed, as the rest of the family were happy to follow Grandfather's decision.

“After all,” I said, “There’s something very exciting about being one-legged whilst I’m still a teenager. I really look forward to going to university on crutches and just my right leg.”

Grandfather said, “OK, in 1968, I’ll be seventy‑four when you’re eighteen. I’m going to make it my last amputation, and by then I will have recruited my replacement.”

The years slowly crept by. Grandfather and my father and his brothers spent a great deal of time discussing the challenge of getting someone to be our new surgeon, and my brothers (Brian, born 1954, and Peter, born 1958) were enjoying happy childhoods unaware of their futures as one-legged men. Grandfather said that as I was to have my surgery on my 18th birthday, so Brian and Peter would have their amputations when they were 18.

One day I became aware that my father was very excited about something, but I could not tell what. I was just seventeen and becoming more and more excited that my amputation was getting nearer and nearer.

I got home from school one afternoon, and dad asked me to come into the living room. There I found Reg and Gardon and a youngish stranger, who stood up and shook hands with me.

“This Xavier,” said my father, “and he’s our new surgeon.”

“Wow”, was all I could say, as I was as aware as everyone in the room of the importance of finding Xavier, and of the risk he was taking.

“Xavier was a doctor in the army, and his last posting was to Afghanistan.” said dad.

“Yes,” said Xavier. “I had to do a lot of amputations, although not many as high as your father’s or your uncles. I gather you are also going to have a high amputation just like their's."

“Yes,” I said. “It’s less than a year now. I shall have a left hip disarticulation. I can’t wait.”

“I'm going to be there for your surgery,” said Xavier. “I understand that your grandfather’s going to do it, but has said it will be his last.”

I was taking exams at school that summer, and hoped to do well enough to go to university; but I was very preoccupied by my imminent amputation. By a miracle, I got through the exams by the skin of my teeth. I started a countdown to amputation day, and became more and more excited as it drew closer and closer.

At last the day dawned. Dad walked with me to Ziggy’s. I was amazed to find his living room transformed into a small operating theatre, and to meet my uncles Reg and Gordon already dressed in scrubs. Xavier was also there, similarly dressed in theatre scrubs. Grandpa Sam was sitting on a high stool at the head of the operating table.

“Undress and put your clothes on that small chair,” said Grandpa, “and walk over to me. That’s your last ever walk on two legs.”

I climbed up on the table and Xavier threw a sheet over me. Uncle Ziggy came into the room and leaned down to my face. “All set?”

“Never readier,” I said.

“I’ll give you a small injection in your arm, and then a much bigger one. You won’t feel the second because you will be falling asleep. When you wake up you’ll be in my bed in my bedroom, and Xavier will be sitting by you. Have a lovely deep sleep Gerry.”

A few moments later I was waking up in Ziggy’s bed. “Is it done?” I asked. “Have I been asleep for long?”

“About three hours,” said Xavier. “It’s all done. You have a beautiful left hip disarticulation. Now go back to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll take you home, but for now you must sleep here at Ziggy’s.”

The following day they rolled me into a sling, and they carried me in the sling to dad’s car. Carrying me in the sling was a great challenge for dad and my uncles, as maneuvering my weight and managing their own crutches was almost beyond them. I think Xavier took most of the burden of my weight. I felt helpless just lying there, but could do nothing to help. Back at home they carried me again in the sling to my own bed which had been brought down stairs to the living room. “You’ve got to stay put for a couple of weeks, until you are fully healed, and I can come and take the stitches out,” said Ziggy. “I know you’ll be impatient to get up and on your crutches, but you must be patient - after all, you have a whole lifetime of crutching in front of you.”

My new crutches leaned against the wall of the room. As I had requested, they weren’t the usual aluminium type, but old-fashioned wooden ones, the type my grandfather had had almost a hundred years before. As I lay there in the bed, I longed to feel the leather-padded tops under my arms pits as they would be for ever more.

Eventually, they let me stand up, and for the first time placed my new crutches under my arms. “It’s not like when I was pretending. My balance is different.”

“And so is your centre of gravity. You’ll find you have to take things quietly at first whilst you come to terms with your future life. You’re going to live with your crutches under your arms for the rest of your life.” I smiled at Dad’s words and leaned into my new crutches. “For the rest of my life,” I repeated quietly, “how wonderful.”

I met my future wife at university: she admitted early on that she had been strongly attracted by my crutches and the fact that my left leg had been taken at my hip. I told her that my family had a tradition of amputating the left leg of first-born boys on their eighteenth birthday, and wonderfully for me, she loved the idea. 

When she became pregnant, however, a challenge presented itself. She was about to have twins. The first boy to be born would get the first-born amputation, but the second baby would come within a few minutes. What to do about that?

She had a good pregnancy, and the boys were born without any significant worries. David arrived first, and Anthony (who we would call Tony) followed twenty minutes later. They were great kids, and like others before them, enjoyed playing with toy crutches. On their eighth birthday, my wife and I sat with them for the “big talk”.

They already know how much I loved being one-legged and how I’d spent every day since my eighteenth birthday on crutches. They were both enthusiastic about becoming amputees, and continued to spend a lot of time playing with their toy crutches.

I think it was around their twelfth birthday that they came to me and asked to discuss their amputations. “We are looking forward very much to getting our legs cut off,” said David, “as we’re very keen to spend our lives like you, on crutches…”

“But we’ve got a suggestion,” continued Tony. “David will have his left leg removed, but I’d like to have my right leg cut off.”
 

“Then we’ll be mirror images of one another,” said David. “Standing facing one another, we’ll see the exact image of one another. I was born first, so will lose my left leg, but Tony will have to have his right leg off and spend his life on his left leg.”

This seemed to me to be a good idea, although breaking with the family tradition of cutting off left legs was a bit odd. We’d never had twins in the family either, so perhaps we could justify changing the tradition.

On the twins 18th birthday there was a great deal of excitement. Xavier used Ziggy’s place as it was already geared up for surgery, and David was amputated first. Tony followed soon afterwards, and then we had the new amps sleeping happily. My brothers who had assisted in the operations, were also very pleased. “We’ll also find it much easier to know which is which of them as we know David has no left leg and Tony has no right leg.”

Later we would be very amused when David and Tony went to buy shoes. They would just buy one pair and David would take the right shoe and Tony would have the left shoe, neatly solving the family problem of what to do with surplus left shoes.

I am now sixty‑nine years old, and thus have been walking with my crutches for fifty‑one years. Not one day has passed in all this time that I have regretted being one legged, and every morning I awake, spring out of bed and grab my crutches, embracing and celebrating the plight I have lived in all my adult life.

The family tradition has continued: both of my brothers had their amputations a few years after me, and then as time passed, all four of my sons’ amputations were done by Xavier, the twins as explained followed by the other two..

My grandfather Sam lived to an excellent old age, dying when he was eight‑nine; that means he lived sixty‑eight years on his crutches, and it appears that my father might even beat this record. A few of the young men in the family, who are not directly first‑born sons like my father and I, have also asked to join the family tradition and have had their left leg removed on their eighteenth birthday. Some have moved to elbow crutches and we’ve all experimented with them, but most of us return to our under-arm crutches, and I even have my original wooden crutches from my eighteenth birthday, which I use for special occasions.

Ziggy, our original surgeon, died before grandfather, not before he confessed how much he’d loved living a legless life; Xavier is still with us but retired, and has trained our newest recruit,William. Xavier finally confessed that he had made a couple of bad errors and had been struck-off. By reading the doctor’s magazine, Grandfather Sam had found him; and similarly Xavier hunted for another struck-off surgeon to be our new completely confidential surgeon. One or two of us met William and I am delighted that he will be able to continue our family tradition for many years, and generations, to come.

By the way, there’s a little twist to the story at this point, because William asked Xavier to cut off both of his legs. Xavier was getting ready to retire and he was pleased to make our new surgeon into a legless man. William took a little while to recover from his double amputations, but soon was very mobile in an electric wheelchair. We arranged for him to move into Ziggy’s old bungalow, and Xavier continued to support William as well as share all his knowledge of amputation. After our experience of legless Ziggy, we were pleased to be brought back to the days of grandfather because of course Ziggy always carried out amputations whilst seated.

My next birthday will be my seventieth, and I’m planning a big party. My father will be a hundred, the first in the family to reach this amazing age, so it will be a joint party for us both. I’m planning on taking a biggish venue and trying to round up every related amputee I can find. With luck, there’ll be dad and me and my two brothers. There’ll be my four sons and various cousins, and of course surgeon William, now thoroughly at home in his power chair. I think that there will be at least ten of us one‑legged with our crutches at the party. It will be an amazing event.

 

ALL IN THE FAMILY