#amputee
You lay there in the hospital bed blind and legless. You depended on your hearing to discover what was going on around you. Your leg stumps were bandaged and as you lay there you felt like so much meat on a butcher’s bench. You had visitors now and then like Donald and Guy, but few others. Your house had been bombed in the air raid and your maid had been killed. You lay there going over it in your mind, how your lover Clive had been killed in Dunkirk, how you and he made love that last night together before he went and joined his regiment. Now a memory, and you doubted anyone would make love to you anymore. Donald had brought along with him the other day a man named Philip with him whom you didn’t know. He was soft spoken and asked questions. You wondered what he made of you sitting in the wheelchair in the open air of the hospital, blind and with bandaged leg stumps. Anthony another friend of Guy’s who you met a few times came once, but hardly spoke, and you could imagine him gazing at you with displeasure. He talked about the war and about his engagement in war work of some sort. You lay there and it was all going around in your head, but you were glad you were now alive and not dead.
Feb 26, 2025
Feb 26, 2025 at 3:26 AM UTC
Scrounging local garage sales... near ten years past... I had found a flat, welded iron, rusty seahorse... 3 feet high... with a good seahorse shape and poise... edges welded and cut... after the haggle... twenty-five dollars..... perfectly added to my estate... covered rust in gold sheen... mounted upon a tree... to greet all comers... with a seahorse kiss!
Seller said it was made by the same artist... of the turtle lady statue... to be found in Corpus Christi! Asked if I had seen it... my reply... No, but I liked the seahorse piece! He expounded... the artist... only had one leg... but was a surfer... well known for this trait... in Corpus Christi!
After I had mounted the seahorse... upon it's tree...I did an internet search... looking for anything about the one-legged surfer artist of Corpus Christi! Found... nothing!
End of May, 2019... visiting my sister, Donna... we were wandering Corpus Christi! She guided us to the surf museum... not knowing the story... of the one-legged surfer artist... creator of my mounted seahorse!
Girl at the front desk... Kyla... real nice and friendly... told her about the seahorse and questioned her... she didn’t know... she never heard of a surfer with one leg or the turtle lady statue! Looking at us just a bit strangely... one legged surfer???
Donna and I... started our stroll through the small museum! Along the right side... stood a long row of surfboards... I’ve never surfed... but I was imagining trying it with just one leg!
Anyhow... I didn’t really stop to read or look in any detail at any of the exhibits until I reached the back... there was a glass case... which had a piece of simple letter paper... 8.5x11... taped to the front of the glass cabinet! I started in reading the last paragraph...
“Welch, 53, and his wife, Chelsea Louise, 23, died September 15, 2001, when their car plunged off the edge of South Padre Island’s Queen Isabella Causeway, which partially collapsed after a string of barges crashed into the bridge’s support pilings!
Thought to myself... Wow... Who is this guy??? I jumped up to the middle paragraph...
“Welch lost one of his lower legs in an auto accident in the 1970s, but he kept surfing with a prosthesis. He wore a peg-like prosthesis at first, then got one with a foot. He won the prosthesis division of the United States Surfing Championships on South Padre Island in 1998.”
In the glass case was a welded metal sculpture of a beach scene... with waves, palm trees, and all! The piece did have some resemblance in style to my seahorse sculpture! Also, there was a picture on top of the case... of Harpoon Barry... striking a muscular, no shirt pose... in his tattoo shop... his torso covered in tattoos!
“It is said... he was on the verge of suicide after losing his leg. In one interview with the San Antonio Express News in 1992 he said; "I may not make it to heaven, but you can be sure I made no deals with the devil to get where I'm at now, " Looking down at his false leg stretched out in front of him, Welch said quietly: "It is a real empty feeling when you put one of these on for the first time, especially if you are an adult on your own. And your mama'a not there and your daddy's not there, and the people in the hospital tell you, 'This is the best it's going to get. I made my first leg myself, out of Hi-C cans. I couldn't wait for my leg to get finished. I wanted to walk. I guess I got the idea from the Tin Woodsman in 'The Wizard of Oz.' That leg actually worked pretty well!”
I had found my one-legged surfer artist! I walked towards Donna... who was already half-way leaving the museum... I hollered to her... she just had to come see this ... “I think I found the one-legged surfer!” She had recently had partial knee replacement... and was hobbling! She said if I was fooling her... she better not walk back all that way for nothing!! She came back to the glass case... we read through the letter in it’s entirety!
Then we went... and told Kyla at the front desk... she again looked at us again a bit strange... but then reluctantly left her post to go with us to take a look... she was then astounded! Said she never knew about the one-legged surfer... although she had worked at the museum for several years! Said there were also a couple metal sculptures... at the front of the museum... she thought were also done... by Harpoon Barry! We took pictures of those also!
In the letter we also read...
“Welch had numerous tattoos and body piercings. He wore a tiny 14 carrot gold harpoon through one ****** That is how he got his nick name according to a friend, Scott Gangel.”
"I am a unique, self-made sensation!” he said matter-of-factly... in the interview with the Express News!
It's been 18 years since eight people died when South Padre Island's Queen Isabella Memorial Causeway collapsed... sending 11 people into the water below... four days after the 9/11 attacks! A string of tow barges had struck the supporting pilings! A section of the roadway had collapsed...
I promised Kyla... I would donate my seahorse piece to the museum upon my death! I only hope my death... is as grand as Harpoon Barry’s plunge into the Gulf of Mexico with his young wife! Wonder what they were doing during the plunge... what was Barry doing... yelling Yippee Ki Yay... or Surf’s up... Dude!!!... maybe???
Surfed waves on one leg
Young wife... crazy life... grand death
Harpooned by Barry
© 2019 Jim Davis
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 7:47 PM UTC
I'm outside
in the grounds
I can smell
the fresh air
and flowers
hear bird song
someone has
wheeled me out
from the ward
where the smells
and voices
hemmed me in
hello Grace
a voice says
to my left
I turn my
blind eyes where
the voice comes
Philip is
that you there?
yes it is
he replies
I reach out
to touch him
he holds my
hand in his
where abouts
have you been?
I ask him
war work stuff
its stop secret
can't say much
o I see
he squeezes my
hand gently
your doctor
has said I
can take you
out for that
meal next week
he whispers
take me out
into town?
yes up West
have to risk
the bombing
from Hitler's
bombing crew
Philip says
you don't mind
taking me?
why should I?
I've no legs
****** blind
I want to
take you out
he utters
you can wear
that red dress
I bought you
I recall
the nurse talk
about it
the red dress
thank you for
taking me
I tell him
what about
other things?
other things?
what if I
need to go
to the loo?
I can't go
on my own
can't manage
I tell him
Joan's coming
with Donald
she'll help you
Philip says
a foursome?
just the four
Donald's driving
I sit still
and stare at
where he is
she won't mind
taking me?
of course not
anyway
Nurse Kavel
will be there
on duty
just in case
she makes five
Philip says
I am thrilled
to be out
not caring
who stares at
me that night
I can't see
I won't know
a weird one
out on show.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
With my hands
I move myself
to the side of the bed,
and stare around
with sightless eyes,
wondering if the nurse
put the commode
near the bed
as she said she would.
I try to balance
on one hand
as I search around
with the other.
The pain
in my leg stumps
nags at me
each time I move.
I touch
the commode arm,
and try and move myself
in a position,
that I may
be able to get
on the commode,
but as I move forward
I fall into darkness,
and hit my head,
and land on my back,
and stare into
a painful blackness.
Grace,
a voice says,
what are you doing?
I face the voice:
I wanted to get
on the commode,
I say.
You must ask,
the voice says.
I want to be
independent,
I say.
Not just yet;
now keep still
while we assess you
for damage,
the voice says.
She calls out for help;
I hear footsteps
running and another
voice says,
what's Grace
doing on the floor?
She was trying to get
on the commode
by herself,
the other voice says.
Shall I call a doctor
to examine her?
I'm all right,
I say,
nothing broken;
just the usual
pains and aches.
Your head is bleeding,
a voice says;
other voices come.
I lie still
and stare at
the darkness
around me,
attempting to stare
at faces
I cannot see.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 2:27 AM UTC
Sightless,
I use my other
four senses to guide me
through the remaining world
about me.
I smell the disinfect
of the hospital ward,
I hear the passing
nurses and doctors,
and the cries and chatter
of other patients.
I feel with my fingers
where my stumps begin
and my legs end.
I taste the warmness
of the cup of tea
they brought me.
I hear talk of invasion
by **** troops;
I hear music
of a dance band
and someone singing.
Someone
is washing me
in the bed;
towels are under me
and over me;
I feel like a child again;
hands wash my stumps,
clean my body,
soap and rinse my *******
This darkness
behind my eyes
depresses me.
Will I walk again?
I ask at random.
Of course, Grace,
once your stumps
are healed sufficiently
and we can
measure you up,
the voice says,
not stopping
her work,
her voice dry as sand.
In my blindness
I recall Clive
touching me
where the nurse touches;
his hands there,
his lips kissing me
as we made love
before he left
for war and battle
and death.
I am being dried
by a towel
a hand feels along
my skin to see
how dry I am.
Clive has gone
and all I can think
is ****
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 1:25 AM UTC
We had just made love,
then turned on our backs,
and lit up cigarettes,
staring at the ceiling,
where shadows
from the streets lamp
made patterns.
Why must you
join the army, Clive?
There's war coming,
and I want to be there
to push ****** back,
Clive said.
But why you?
Why not someone else?
Grace I cannot sit back
and let others defend us,
he said.
But you're intelligent,
you could work
in the war effort
in other ways,
I said.
I don't want to do
espionage work,
I want to fight,
he said.
We lay there smoking,
and now and then
talking about
the coming war,
and afterwards
about marriage
and family.
Grace, Grace,
a voice calls me,
mind you don't slip
in the bath.
I look to where
the voice comes from.
What?
Don't slip in the bath,
not easy balancing
with just two leg stumps,
the voice said.
I move side to side carefully,
sensing the water
about me;
it's the nurse,
but I cannot see her,
my blind eyes
just stare in her direction.
Must have been daydreaming,
I say.
Your first proper bath
since before you
were bombed out,
she says.
Yes, it is,
I say,
sponging my *******
over with soapy water.
How are the stumps healing?
I say.
Well, they're doing well,
the doctors are happy
with them.
They still hurt,
I say.
They will for a while,
the nurse says.
I'll be an old maid now;
no one will want to marry
a legless blind woman
like me,
I say.
The nurse sighs,
now I don't think
that is true,
that Mr Kimberly
seems struck on you.
What good would I do him?
I'd be a burden,
and I don't want anyone
to marry me out of pity.
The nurse is quiet.
I sit balancing
as I sponge between my legs.
There is pity,
and there is love,
she says.
I don't know what
he looks like,
and how can I ever
bring a child
in the world
blind as I am,
and without legs?
I say.
If you want to
you can, and will,
she says firmly.
She takes the sponge
from my hand
and washes my back
and around my neck.
I think what for?
What the heck.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
We'd danced until
there was no time left,
the people
were beginning to leave,
Clive and I
walked along
the London streets
hand in hand,
we walked back
to my house,
I invited him in,
the maid
had gone off
for the night,
as I wanted us
to be alone,
then once
we got undressed,
were in bed,
we kissed,
I opened up to him,
then I wake up to blackness,
I hear noise
on the ward
voices and a trolley
being wheeled around,
I am lying on my back,
and I panic
for a moment or two,
wondering where I am,
then it hits me,
I'm in hospital,
I'm blind,
I reach down
with my hands,
I know before
I am there
that my legs have gone,
just the stumps,
and I want the dream again
want Clive and us
making love,
but it has gone the dream,
and Clive,
I hear a voice call out
about a nurse,
but I feel on the edge,
feel along side
of the bed,
can't get the dream
out of my head.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
It is morning.
I heard birds sing earlier.
Used to look out
and see them
before my blindness.
The ward is busy,
voices calling,
bodies rushing past,
smell of disinfect
and body waste.
I lay back on the pillow
and wait for someone
to put me on the commode
and see how
my leg stumps are,
they ached something
awful in the night.
I hate being dependant
on others, that nurse
in the night I had to call
seemed rushed and said
of a terrible air raid
with many casualties.
Near here? I asked.
Jam factory, girls burnt
or injured in the blast,
the nurse had said.
I wonder if Philip
will come?
Each day seems
a slide down a long
dark tunnel with no light
to welcome, just an echo
of voices calling for me
from empty chambers
and cries from bodiless
voices as I slip by.
I need the commode,
I call, as a body rushes by,
swish of uniform,
won't be long,
a voice replies.
Hands pull back
the blankets, lift me
and undress me
and place me
on a throne,
then leave me,
quite alone.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
The ward is busy
I hear voices,
and calls,
and a bell rings nearby.
My blind eyes see nothing,
but I turn my head
at each sound pretending
I can see.
A hand touches my arm.
Morning Grace, how are you?
It's Nurse Kavel isn't it?
I say.
Yes it is, she says,
how are you?
My legs hurt,
my toes itch me,
I tell her.
The stumps of your legs
will hurt,
but the itching toes
is in the the brain's memory,
she says.
Are my leg stumps healing?
They are improving,
she says,
once they have healed
sufficiently the doctors
will talk about getting
you artificial limbs,
and you will receive help
on how to walk again.
Will I walk again?
Yes you will, Grace,
the nurse says,
in time, but for now
we must do what we can
to make you comfortable,
and keep the stumps
clean and able to heal.
She pulls back the blankets,
and lifts up my nightgown,
and begins to unwrap
the bandage on my right stump,
and I look into the darkness,
and see nothing,
but in my mind,
I think of Anthony,
and us dancing
(Clive had died
a month earlier)
and he was trying
to cheer me up,
and get me back
into War-time society again,
and he had taken me home,
and kissed me goodnight
on my doorstep.
I lick my lips
as if the kiss is now,
and want it to be a kiss
from someone
not this darkness,
and feeling undone.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
I feel her
washing me
down below
(Irish nurse
this time round)
lifting up
my leg stumps
washing them
carefully
then drying
them slowly
I am blind
to beauty
she may have
or may not
my failed eyes
see darkness
nothing else
that better?
The nurse says
from my left
sensual
after that
rubbing down
I tell her
ok Grace
always here
to please you
once again
the leg stumps
are bandaged
then I'm dressed
by her hands
all decent
once again
and she's gone
just voices
in the ward
and me here
lying still
on my back
a female
now undone
with no man
to bring fun.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC
My total
independence
has gone.
I can't see
where I 'm going,
my blind eyes
fail me.
I can't walk anywhere
as my leg stumps
prevent that.
I can't even do
the usual things
I used to do:
like urinate
or other.
Just dependant
on the nurses
to come
and deal with me,
and the things
that need doing.
I lie
in the bed
waiting,
listening to voices,
hearing bedpans
being taken by,
wheelchairs
needing oiling
being pushed past
the foot
of my bed.
I habitually go
to scratch a foot
that's not there
because it itches.
I go to get up
to go somewhere,
and I realise
I have no legs
to get there.
I call out
and wait
and a nurse
comes and says,
what is it Grace?
I want to get up
and dressed
and go out
in the sunshine
not be stuck
here all day.
I say.
We will be
with you
in a minute,
we had a rush on
last night
the German's bombed
the docks
and quite a few
were injured
and were brought here.
She goes
and I am left
here in the dark.
I think of Clive
that night
he brought
me home
from the dance,
and I asked him
to stay the night.
It was the day
before he was due
to join the army,
and I said,
it could be
our last time
for ages,
so he stayed,
and we went to bed
and made love
as never before,
and it was
the last time.
And that moment
after he left,
I felt so alive
so fulfilled.
Then went
and got
himself killed.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
I'm outside in the wheelchair,
sitting facing the sun,
my blind eyes sense,
but do not see the light.
My leg stumps
are covered by a blanket,
I am tucked up
neat and tight
like a parcel.
Hello, Grace,
a voice says to my right.
It's Guy.
I smell him,
the scent he wears
is overpowering.
Hello, Guy,
how are you?
I hear him take a chair
and sit beside me.
I am fine, but busy,
Hitler's being
a pest in France,
and hush hush work
in progress.
He is silent;
his hand touches mine.
Enough of me,
how are you?
I am unsettled,
I say,
my legs ache
and the stumps are sore.
How are they
treating you?
He asks.
Very well,
but I am impatient,
depressed,
want answers where
there are none,
ask questions,
but know the answers
before I ask.
How do you manage?
He asks.
I am getting there,
slowly, but surely,
I reply.
His hand rubs mine gently.
It reminds me
of Clive's hand on mine
that night he stayed
and we ended up
making love in my bed.
I miss that.
Making love.
Clive dead,
killed in Dunkirk.
How's Donald?
He is busy,
Gus says,
can't say what
he is doing,
hush hush stuff.
I see, I say,
although don't.
Philip is in the States;
he hasn't forgotten you,
Guy says,
he will take you out
for dinner once
he is back.
I can't imagine
going out for dinner;
people watching me
being wheeled into
a restaurant with no legs
and blind,
them staring,
and me unable to know
if they are looking
and what they
are wondering.
Guy talks on,
but I am
thinking of Clive,
of his kisses,
of his body
against mine,
seeing it in my mind,
even though
I am blind.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 6:37 AM UTC
I wake up in a panic,
but it is still darkness
my blind eyes see,
having dreamed I saw
my garden at my house,
but then it dawns on me
that the house was bombed,
and as I feel for my legs,
I realize the stumps are there
and the legs gone.
I lie on the pillow
and stare into darkness,
listening to the sounds around:
voices, calls, bedpans
being used, footsteps,
wheelchair(needing oiling)
going by the bottom of my bed.
I smell disinfect and *****
and perfume, and ointment.
Morning, Grace, a nurse says
to me on my right, how are
you this morning?
I dreamt I was in my garden
and saw the flowers
and the apple tree
and woke up to darkness
and depression, I say,
staring towards her voice,
trying to give an impression
I could see her.
Yes, that happens to those
who have seen before
they lost their sight,
the nurse says softly.
She lifts up my nightdress
and I feel her fingers
touch the bandages
on my stumps,
her fingers moving
over them.
They still hurt,
I say,
still painful, despite
the medication.
I know, Grace, they can
only take off the
edge of pain,
but they will get better
as time heals the wounds
and the stumps
seal up properly,
the nurse says.
Another nurse comes
on my left and says:
there was a jam factory
got bombed last night
and some of the girls
who worked there
got horribly burnt
by hot boiling sugar and jams.
Yes, I heard,
the nurse on my right says.
I lie and sink into
a deep hole of self-pity,
listening to the talking
as they unwrap my bandages
and finger the stumps.
As they touch me,
I think of Clive,
that night he first
made love to me,
his kisses, and him
lying between my thighs
and me sensing him
within me and the bed
moving beneath us
as if on a vast sea of pleasure
and we on a small craft
moving up and down
and him kissing my lips
and ear and head.
Now he is dead.
The nurses touch my stumps,
then clean them and wash them
and bandage them up again,
all the time talking around me
of the jam factory blast
and girls burnt
and some dying,
and I lie here
gently crying.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 4:36 AM UTC
A nurse wheels me out
into the sun and fresh air;
I feel it on my face,
sense the sunlight
on my blinded eyes,
darkness unenlightened.
If you need me Grace,
just call out,
the nurse says,
and is gone off back
to the hospital ward.
I look around me
seeing nothing,
but trying to give
the impression that I can,
that I am not blind.
I listen intensely,
never thought
I would ever listen
so much to every sound
that came my way.
I am wrapped in a blanket;
my leg stumps
well bandaged.
I reach down
with my right hand,
feeling where the legs end;
feel a shock each time
that I have become
shorter than ever
after the bomb fell
and that was it:
my life changed forever,
blind and legless.
I sit and put my hand
back in my lap.
Voices come from nearby,
other patients maybe,
nurses or doctors or visitors.
I feel a prisoner
of my disabilities;
locked in my body;
unable to go to the loo
or bathroom unaided;
unable to see the beauty
of the flowers
in the grounds.
When the nurses
blanket bathed me
this morning it felt
oddly sensual:
hands moving
over my body,
fingers washing
between my own fingers,
my leg stumps lifted
and cleaned
and re-bandaged gently;
voices between them
in conversation,;
my body tingling
by the touches.
I recalled Clive in 1938
moving his hands over me
that evening he stayed
and we made love;
his voice in my ear,
his lips on mine,
his fingers touching me
all over and in soft places.
Now all gone,
no kisses,
he dead,
no more faces.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
I am lying on the bed,
the nurses are washing me
down and all over,
I feel the wetness
on my skin,
their hands and flannels
move over me,
I see nothing but darkness,
hear their voices
to each other,
chats about this and that,
of a bombing last night
and causalities,
and about that sailor
whom one had met,
and what he wanted to do,
but she saying;
I'm not that
sort of girl,
they wash over
my leg stumps gently,
touching softly,
easing the stumps up
and washing them,
and I feel as if
they are whole legs,
but they aren't,
just stump which
hurt and pain me,
how are you, Grace?
one asks me,
her voice kind
and soft spoken,
in pain and depressed,
I say,
wanting to reach out
and feel their hands
and touch their faces,
but don't,
my hands lie idle
beside me
like deserting troops
in midst of battle.
Now they dry me with towels
ever so gently,
one talks to me
of seeing the doctor,
some advice,
some insight,
but I'm elsewhere now,
thinking of Clive
back in 1938,
and that time
we stayed out late
and he stayed
at my place,
and we made love
in my bed,
and like some captive prisoner
(even though dead)
he resides still,
inside my
lying down head.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 3:28 AM UTC
Hello Grace
someone says
I listen
struggling
through darkness
and my pain
to try and
recognize
who it is
it's me Jean
the voice says
turning round
to the sound
I reach out
to touch her
feel her hand
she holds mine
her fingers
rubbing mine
how are you?
her voice asks
are you ok
outside here
in the grounds
I hate it
inside there
on the ward
of that dark
hospital
I tell her
I hear her
bring a chair
and sit down
next to me
I'm fine here
she replies
weather's warm
the skies blue
she pauses
how are you?
I feel left
in the dark
and legless
I reply
you still have
your humour
I can see
I'm silent
for a moment
smelling her
taking in
her perfume
that smells good
I tell her
what smells good?
your perfume
its is called
Primitif
Max Factor
she replies
I have none
all mine went
in the blast
but a nurse
has lent me
a bottle
I utter
I reach down
seeing if
my nightgown
covers up
my leg stumps
now bandaged
Jean's silent
possibly
horrified
at the sight
of me there
with no legs
and no sight
when she knows
I loved to
go dancing
and go see
the ballets
now nothing
but darkness
sitting here
in this chair
(a wheelchair)
do they hurt?
she asks me
all the time
I have drugs
but the pain
comes through it
I reply
I'm sorry
she utters
don't be please
I don't want
the pity
I just want
my friends back
as they were
not just come
to see me
as I am
like some freak
I utter
harder than
I meant to
her two hands
now grip mine
you're no freak
she whispers
your our Grace
without legs
or your sight
still our Grace
there's quiet
as if God
had turned off
all the sounds
of His world
no bird song
no traffic
no breeze near
no breathing
then I say
I want life
want to live
have children
be a wife
believe it
and you will
Jean replies
bird song's back
and traffic
as if God
had turned on
all the sounds
of His world
and I am
in this dark
and darkness
as if hurled.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
I am pushed in a wheelchair
along a corridor
in the hospital
by one of the nurses.
Where are we going?
I ask, seemingly rushing
through blackness,
like a tunnel
with no ending.
Dr Symonds needs to see you,
a voice says from behind me,
soft breathy voice,
passing with me
through the dark spaces
of my blindness.
There are smells and sounds
around me,
voices bodiless
as if floating in air,
like ghosts not seen,
but there.
I am pushed into a room,
warm and cosy,
the voices go,
the pressure of the air changes,
and a voices says
out of the blackness,
Hello Grace,
how are you?
I stare towards the voice,
a deep man's voice,
the doctor's;
I sense him waiting for reply.
My legs hurt,
my toes itch,
but when I go to rub
or scratch them
they're not there,
gone,
no legs,
I say moodily,
clutching the sides
of the wheelchair.
Hands rest on my shoulders,
soft hands,
gently massaging.
That's understandable,
it happens often,
Dr Symonds says,
nerve endings,
the mind misunderstanding
ghostly messages
from limbs not there.
Will I ever walk again?
I ask the voice
unsure where
I am facing.
We will have to see
how matters develop,
how your stumps heal,
what is available
for your needs,
he says gently
but professionally.
He talks on,
but I cease to listen,
my mind is reaching out
for meaning,
for a sensibility,
for an escape
from his voice.
I want to go out
for dinner with Mr Kimberly,
I want to be out of here,
I'm going mad in here,
I say,
my voice stretching
its boundaries,
my fingers reaching
for a real contact.
Hands hold mine,
soft hands,
a nurse's,
they squeeze gently.
That would be good,
the doctor says,
but there may be
complications,
matters which he
may not be aware of,
simple things;
your stumps will of course
be well bandaged,
but day to day issues
may arise.
What issues?
What matters?
I say moodily.
Where is he taking you?
The doctor asks.
A restaurant he knows,
I reply.
How will he get you there?
Is the restaurant accessible
for a wheelchair?
And what will he do
if you have a call of nature
while there?
The doctor asks.
I stare at the space
of the voice,
my hands held tight
in my lap,
I feel I am sitting
awkwardly there
and move my bottom.
The nurse helps me
get comfortable,
then her hands leave me.
I don't know,
I reply,
I don't know anything
anymore,
I seem like a child
in a dark room waiting
to be punished,
fearing shadows,
voices.
The doctor goes on
about matters,
about him seeing
and speaking with Philip,
and I feel a huge chasm
open beneath me,
my legs want to run,
to flee.
I grab my stumps
and feel for my legs
for the dancing limbs I had,
but they have gone,
and I stare
into the dark spaces,
seeing only ghostly voices
of the past,
but no real faces.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
Voices around me
and I try to sit up
and it isn't easy
I have to balance myself
so that my stumps
are just so
or I'll fall back
on the bed
my hands steady me
in the darkness
I try and feel
just where in the bed I am
searching with my hand
while my other hand
steadies me
I make sure I'm not
too near the edge of the bed
and wait listening
a nurse comes
I hear her clothes swish
did you need something Grace?
she says
I reach out to touch her
a call of nature
I say
is the commode this side
I can't remember or see?
she touches my hand
other side Grace
since my blindness
I lose my direction
I say
wait there a moment
she says
and I hear her go off
I sit balancing
at the side of the bed
staring into darkness
hearing sounds
I sense the need to go more
and begin to panic
here we are Grace
another voice says
and they lift me between them
to the other side of the bed
and arranging my nightdress
they lift me onto the commode
and sit me down
and arrange me so I'm comfortable
hold onto the handles
at the side
a voice says
call us when you want us back
another voice says
I hear them walk off
the shush of the uniforms
and steps of their shoes
I sit and listen
and stare at the darkness
and try and think
of something to distract
my mind from the business at hand
I think of the last time
I saw Clive before he left
to join the army in late 1939
how we kissed
and that last time
we made love in my place
and Sally(my maid) was out
as it was her night off
and it was wonderful
and we lay there afterward
and smoked and talked
about the war and after
and what we would do
now what would he
have said or done had
he not been killed at Dunkirk?
the last time I had *** that was
I muse on that
and feel depressed
and want to see again
and walk and dance
I get choked up
and suddenly
I am aware where I am
and why and quietly
softly I cry.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
A gentleman
brought these clothes
in for you Grace
Nurse Kavel says
what clothes?
what gentleman?
I ask
sitting up in the bed
on the ward
new dress and underclothes
and I think he said his name
was Philip Kimberly
Nurse Kavel says
I smell perfume
and disinfect mixed
I hear voices around me
is he here?
I ask
no he brought these
in early this morning
while you were asleep
the nurse says
what colour is the dress?
I ask
red with flowers
and where he got it from
I have no idea
the cost in coupon points
must have been a lot I guess
the nurse says
where is it?
I ask
I hear her nearby
and she places a dress
in my lap
I feel it and touch
the material with my fingers
I can't see the colour
I say
what kind of red?
blood red and white flowers
she says
I put the dress to my cheek
and sense its softness
and feel the quality
is it nice?
I ask
it's beautiful
the nurse says near me
did he say when
he was coming again?
I ask
wondering what Philip
looked like how he dressed
I only knew his voice
and that was all
he will be in later
to arrange when
to take you out
although he wants to speak
with Dr Symonds first
about you and any risks
I sense doubt in her voice
will I be allowed out to dinner?
I ask
we will make sure the stumps
of your legs are well bandaged
and you are presentable
she says
what's he look like?
Mr Kimberly?
yes I've not seen him before
I say
he's handsome
and well dressed
she says softly
she takes the dress
from my hands
I’ll put the dress away
in your cupboard for safety
she says
and I hear her walk away
and lay there
staring into darkness
hearing voices in the ward
wondering where
he will take me for dinner
and how I will cope in public
without legs or sight
like walking into the coldness
of an out there night.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
It is still dark on the ward
when I open my eyes
I hear voices
hear moans and groans
some far off
some near
I need to ***
and wonder where
the commode is
is it near?
I sit up in the bed
and push back
the sheet and blankets
and using my hands
move myself to the edge
of the bed
and stare into the dark
space ahead of me
I put out my right hand
and search about me
(my left hand balancing me
on the edge of the bed)
my leg stumps bandaged
are aching
and this makes me anxious
as I encounter a bedside cabinet
and a water jug and class
Grace what are you doing?
a voice says to my left
I try and find
where she is
who has spoken to me
who are you?
I ask
Nurse Kavel
she says
her voice concerned but soft
you should not be on the edge
so fragile as you are
what did you want?
she asks again
I'm searching for the commode
I need to ***
I say
the commode
is on the other side of the bed
she says
but surely you're not
thinking of doing it alone?
I need to ***
I say
and with no legs
how was you proposing
to get on the commode?
she says
her voice more concerned
I didn't think of how
I just felt the need
I say
even if you managed
to get on the commode
how did you propose
to pull up your nightgown
at the same time as sitting?
she says
I reach out to touch her
and she grabs
my hand with hers
careful if you fall
off the edge you will
hit the floor and God knows
what damage you will do
she says
I turn toward the voice
and try to imagine
what she looks like
I am desperate to ***
I say
all right
she says
wait there
and I hear her footsteps go off
there is still
other voices and sounds
and far off someone cries
I smell disinfect
and ***** and bodies
I hear footsteps return
and she says
sit still
and I feel
her hands lift me
into a wheelchair
(she seems strong
or I am light as a doll)
and settles me down
she says
right I will wheel you
to the toilets
to give you privacy
and off we go in the darkness
I feel as if I'm going
through space
on an adventure
into a deeper darkness
and just hope I get there
before I explode
my wee like a ****
pushed aside
by a harsh sea.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
My heart,
Once, you allowed me hope
Boundaries of love
I never thought could be broken.
Now...
You've taken me hostage
The misery you inflict is worse than recovery
I push you down
I still feel you underneath
Hurting me
There's just no running from what I feel
You've become my burden
The Pain became too real
I have to cut you off and let you go.
I'll survive without you
But with you, I won't.
I can't do what you once allowed me to.
I'll adjust to life without you.
Goodbye love,
Goodbye heartache.
Surgeon be my only artist.
Cut this heart away
I'm tired of falling.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
You don’t know how it feels.
When you are cut from your lifeline
like an apple being picked
when it isn’t fully grown.
When you are replaced
with hard plastic and metal
where bone should be.
You probably want to know why he hates you.
It is because he has to learn how to walk again.
Because you can’t run like I could.
Because you can’t kick a soccer ball like I could.
Because you can’t make him itch like I could.
Because you are a reminder of the infection.
The infection...
that took me away from him.
I was made with him.
You were made for him.
You took six weeks to be created
I took nine months.
I was his first step,
You were a puzzle piece
that didn’t quite fit
You had to be forced
by people in white masks and blue gloves
They couldn’t touch you and
neither can he.
So instead you lay on his bedroom floor.
And I will not feel bad for you because
I am lying in a medical waste bin.
Waiting for my turn to enter the fire.
This
is
my
hell.
I miss him,
will you tell him
that I miss him?
Let him know the feeling is mutual.
I understand if you tear this up
there is no warmth in you.
No blood will ever pump through you.
Trust me, I get it.
When the heart dies, it is buried where it belongs.
Being hugged by its fellow vital organs.
it’s just like taking a nap
they say.
But when I die,
I am surrounded
by other dispensable body parts.
We are the forgotten few.
People do not have funerals for finger tips.
It feels like I am being eaten alive.
You can’t tell me I should feel bad for you.
Or that I should feel sorry for you.
Because I was alive,
I was moving
and you
are plastic.
Just,
tell him goodbye for me.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Is it odd that I hate tree stumps?
I mean, really, is it just me?
Is there something wrong with me?
I walk past them on the roadside
And something seems to break free.
I feel tense and taut;
A green branch pulled tight
On the saw edge of a gardener’s knife,
Peeling back one fibre at a time.
I can’t stop it to save my life.
It makes my skin crawl
To see the corpse left jutting up
Like the last tooth of a diseased crone,
Like a tag on the skin of the earth,
A drying scab to make the mother moan.
Couldn’t they just dig it up,
Or is that too much to ask?
Not enough to slay the ancient tree,
But to leave it lying on the ground;
Like leaving the foot of an amputee.
It makes me so mad
That I wonder I don’t complain,
But then I know a letter will be ignored,
As the death of such a mighty sentinel
Is a thing our conscience can afford.
It’s not like it was alive…
But the sarcasm doesn’t matter,
And the funny looks I get while I weep
Sink like the teeth of a saw,
Cutting through the body at my feet.
Am I the only one who hates tree stumps?
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 5:03 AM UTC
They say that when you lose an arm
Or a leg
Or a hand
Or a foot
You can still feel it there
That your brain is so used to having it there
That it can't conceive the fact that it's gone
So you still try to grasp for things
Before you you realize that you don't have a hand to grasp with
I'd always wondered how soul-crushing it must feel
To just forget it's not there anymore, because it still feels
so real, so there
And then have to be forced to realize all over again that it's gone
But you aren't there anymore
Half of my soul, of my body, of my heart, of me is with you
My heart is so used to having you there
That it can't conceive the fact that you're gone
I reach and you're not there
You're My Phantom Limb
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC