This is one of the most difficult pieces of writing that I have ever done. It’s a bit of a gamble really, since—once I have published it and it has been read—I can’t take it back, even if I delete it. Nonetheless, I have no intention of deleting it; it’s part of my story. I can’t say that I am proud of it, but I’m certainly not ashamed. I want to state here that it is all true, as I recall the events and my emotions at the time.
Please don’t judge me. I was living through a very difficult time and did what now, with the perfect perception of hindsight, seems pretty stupid. At the time, it seemed like the only way out. Essentially, my life-line—being able to talk to Linny—had been severed.
I wonder, if we had had the ease of communicating via cellphones that is taken for granted today, if there might have been a different outcome. Perhaps I’d have a nicer story to tell. Or, better still, no story.
Perhaps my story can be seen as a warning of the danger of not dealing with PTSD.
In order to get this story in context, it would be good to read parts 1 and 2 first.
Part 1 is here.
Part 2 is here.
On the Sunday afternoon after my Cape Town trip I was, of course, alone in the house. There had been a public holiday on Thursday, and the company had closed on the Friday, so this was my fourth day of isolation. It was driving me crazy. It was ten days since I had been home, and I missed Linda and the children terribly.
As is usual in times of stress, all the demons from my past started to rear up in my head. I had vivid recall of many of the unpleasant things that had happened in my life. They haunted my sleep and besmirched my waking hours.
I recalled the time in the army when a drunk corporal held a loaded and cocked 9mm pistol to my head ‘just for a joke’… of the click as he pulled the trigger whilst holding the hammer between his thumb and forefinger… of being rebuked and threatened by his CO when I said that I was going to report him…
I remembered turning over the body of the young merchant seaman who had fallen on Table Mountain and had lain in the sun for a few days, and seeing that he had no face…
I experienced again the horror of having the putrefying corpse of a suicide break in half as I lifted her and having my face collide with her entrails… of subsequently having to shave my beard off and throwing my clothes away because I couldn’t get rid of the smell…
I could see vividly the aftermath of the plane crash; the mutilated bodies, the waitress who had been our friend… picking up her severed toe and arms… seeing the surprised look on her face…
I so wanted Linny to be there to help me through this crisis, as she had so many times before. But she and the children were miles away. And I had no telephone, so she didn't even know what was happening.
It seemed that the best way to solve the problem—just to get it all to end—would be to kill myself. I thought of Linda and the children and felt that they would be better off without me. Besides, my life policies would see them well provided for; probably better than I could manage alive. Linda was still young, so there was every chance that she could marry again—hopefully making a better choice of husband than on her first attempt.
I started to think of how I could do it. Overdosing on drugs wasn’t an option; I had about ten Panado tablets in the house. Nothing else. At that stage of my life I owned a revolver—a .38 Special—but the thought of splatting my brains all over the ceiling didn’t seem right. I didn’t care about splatting my brains, but I couldn’t do that to whoever had to identify my body (probably my wife). And there was no way I could throw myself off a high building, even if I could find one in the area. My life as a rock climber made that seem like too much of a betrayal.
It seemed that exsanguination might be the best bet. For me, apart from a bit of pain from inflicting a cut across my carotid or femoral artery, it would be quite peaceful. I’d just drift off to sleep. For whoever found me—well, there’d be a whole lot of blood, but, apart from that, I’d just look as though I were sleeping.
The next problem was that I didn’t have a knife that would do the job properly. All I had with me was what we had been able to pack into my car, so I had clothing, some cutlery and crockery, and a minimal supply of tools. Nothing else. What I needed was a good carving knife or a box-cutter, neither of which we had packed.
I looked in my tool box and pulled out a wood chisel. I knew it would be sharp because I was (and still am) a fanatic about keeping tools sharp. The principle is that sharp tools are safer than blunt ones because you have to use less force. Of course, if you make a direct hit, then all bets are off.
I had used the chisel the day before on the back door. It was binding because it had swollen due to the rain. I didn’t have a plane with me so I used the chisel to shave some wood off. I held the door steady between my feet and used a mallet to hit the chisel very gently. I remembered thinking how easily a slip could have stabbed the chisel into my foot.
I grabbed the mallet as well. I held the chisel against the side of my neck, but the angle seemed too awkward. I doubted that I could get enough purchase on it to make the cut. And it needed to be accurate. So, I sat down on the kitchen floor and held the chisel against my thigh, close to the groin, where I reckoned it was above the femoral artery.
I don’t know how long I sat like that, convinced that I had to do it, but not sure that I could. But, I had to do something. I thought that perhaps a swift blow with the mallet might work.
It’s hard to recall what happened next. I suppose it’s a kind of protection mechanism. I remember feeling very emotional, and helpless to do anything about my situation. Now, having thought that suicide would present a solution, I seemed unable to follow through with my plan. I couldn’t do that to my family.
I started to stand up. As I moved into a crouching position, I looked down at my right foot and thought that, had I slipped the day before when I was working on the door, my problem might have been solved. I might have injured my foot severely enough to need a few days in hospital. Then I wouldn’t be able to teach the course. I wasn’t thinking rationally.
Somehow, the thought of physical pain wasn’t as bad as the mental anguish that I was feeling. Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is more common and far harder to bear. C S Lewis puts it so well: The frequent attempt to conceal mental pain increases the burden: it is easier to say ‘My tooth is aching’ than to say ‘My heart is broken’ (The Problem of Pain).
In a kind of daze, I placed the chisel against the top joint of my second toe. I don't know why I chose this toe. My whole body was shaking and I felt dizzy. Again, I have no idea how much time passed. I don’t recall actually deciding to hit the chisel with the mallet, but suddenly I felt a stunning pain in my toe. I looked down and realised that I had done it. The top part of the toe—not just the tip, but the whole end bone—was now lying on the floor.
I stared groggily at my foot for some time until blood started to come out of the end. It didn’t gush, but it did flow quite steadily onto the floor. I knew I needed to stop the blood. The pain was spectacular. I had a perfectly good first aid box in the car, but it didn’t occur to me to get it. Instead, I took my handkerchief out of my pocket and tore it up to make a dressing.
With more strips from the handkerchief, I put a pressure dressing on the end of the toe and then stopped to consider what to do. I suppose I wasn’t thinking straight, but it was obvious that I needed to get to a hospital; this wasn’t just going to come right with an Elastoplast.
Strangely, I now felt that I was back in control of my life. I know this sounds really odd, but I had an inexplicable sense of elation; as though everything was now going to come right.
In monumental pain, I locked up the house and hobbled to the car. That’s when I remembered the first aid box. I got it out from under the seat, but I didn’t bother to change the dressing. As I drove, I groggily formulated a cover story. The way to lie successfully is to make the story as close as possible to the truth. With this in mind, I based my story upon the fact that I had been working on the back door the day before. I just changed the date.
My makeshift pressure dressing wasn't a hundred percent effective, so I was now leaving blood stains wherever I put my foot. I was also starting to feel sleepy. I guess the blood was coming out more rapidly than I realised.
I drove around until I saw a sign saying that there was a hospital five kilometres away. I followed the succeeding signs, getting lost a few times. Eventually, I found my way to the casualty department of a government hospital. They were having a quiet afternoon, so I was attended to immediately by two registered nurses.
They looked a bit startled when I walked in, leaving a blood-stained trail behind me. By now, I was feeling decidedly lightheaded, so I didn't care. When the marginally successful dressing was removed, they expressed shock at my injury, but seemed to believe my story. Perhaps they were just being diplomatic.
They asked me where the missing piece was and I told them it was on the kitchen floor. They said that it was a pity that I hadn’t brought it because perhaps it could have been re-attached. I said that I was glad that I hadn’t brought it. I didn't want any fuss. Could they please just suture it and send me on my way?
I wonder if the thought of having a foot that looked like no one else’s was starting to sound quite cool. I had always thought that scars gave one a certain bad-ass look. I was quite proud of the surgical scars on my knee and foot. Now I would have an amputation as well.
The second nurse phoned the doctor on call. He said that it would need to be surgically revised and that I should go to a certain hospital on Monday morning. This came as a bit of a shock. I thought that they would just close it up and send me home with lots of powerful painkillers and a sick note. The nurse put on a more professional-looking dressing and sent me home with some hopelessly under-achieving painkillers.
On the way home, I stopped at the post office and managed to find a public telephone that worked. I phoned a business colleague, told him the lie that I had fabricated, and asked him if he would take me to the hospital the next morning. Then I phoned Linda and told her the same story. She said that she would come to me as soon as possible, but I told her not to bother. It was really only a small matter.
When I got home I tottered into the kitchen and noticed the piece of toe still lying on the floor. I just left it there; I didn’t know what to do with it. For the first time in my life I felt squeamish. It was weird to look at something that had been part of me for thirty-six years but now was not. I didn’t want to touch it. However, I did clean up the blood. By now I was very dizzy. It was fortunate that I didn’t need to drive again.
I had a very miserable night. The immense pain, my shame at what I had done, and my guilt for how I had misled Linda kept me awake for much of the night, blood loss notwithstanding. Some time after midnight, I hobbled through to the kitchen, picked up the piece of toe, and threw it in the dustbin. Much later, it was a great relief to see the sky starting to lighten. I had lost quite a lot of blood during the night and was feeling as though I might faint.
My colleague duly took me to hospital and I was escorted to a ward where I was instructed to get undressed and get into bed. I hadn’t thought of bringing anything with me, not even a toothbrush, so they lent me a hospital nightgown thing. It was pale blue with a pink rose pattern and frills, which I found rather embarrassing. The nurses laughingly assured me that I looked cute.
I felt pretty stupid—I wasn’t sick. There was nothing wrong with me except a cut toe. It seemed a bit odd to get into bed for something like that, particularly wearing a women’s nightie.
After a long delay, I was taken to the operating theatre. Just before I went under, feeling woozy from the pre-med, I asked the surgeon to leave enough toe for me to be able to wear flip-flops. The theatre sister and the anaesthetist laughed as he assured me that he would. He explained that they would have to shorten the bone only a little; just enough to allow them to close the skin over the end. And off I went—my ninth general anaesthetic; all but one because of trauma.
When I awoke, Linny was there. What a wonderful sight! In my drugged, semi-comatose state, I just cried. Then I drifted off again.
When I re-surfaced, Linda was negotiating with a nurse to bring me a late lunch (or early dinner?) because—she said—I am always hungry after surgery. The nurse gave her a look as if ‘always’ sounded like an exaggeration, but went off and returned a few minutes later with some very appetising-looking food, which I put to good use.
I was discharged late that afternoon, with some powerful painkillers to keep me company. Linny drove us home through the evening traffic and we had an early night. Strangely, going to sleep with Linny beside me seemed to make the whole exercise worthwhile. The next day we drove to Cape Town.
Then everything started coming right. The sale of our house happened quite suddenly and we were able to pack up and move back to Randburg. Because I was on sick leave, I was able to be with the family as we drove in convoy to our new home.
At first, I was shy about people seeing the stump of my toe, but I so hate wearing shoes that I later went barefoot again. I would generally try to keep it out of sight, but I gradually forgot about that. I came to realise that trying to hide it actually drew attention to it and, the more naturally I behaved, the less it was noticed. I also decided that I didn't care whether people noticed it or not.
However, I continued telling the lie about what happened. It was two years before I told Linny the truth about it. I felt bad that, as someone who claimed that he had no secrets from his wife, I was failing to be truthful about this one thing. Now after thirty years, I feel a need to be honest about it.
Whenever I look down at it, I am reminded of that awful day, but I accept it as part of who I am and part of my story. If someone said that they could give me a replacement toe, I'd refuse. I’m satisfied with the way it looks. Although I’m not proud of what I did, I am no longer ashamed.
It actually has an advantage too; In winter, it's much easier and more comfortable to wear socks with flip-flops if you have a short second toe. With hindsight, maybe I should have asked the surgeon to do the left foot too while he was on a roll [only joking, (I think)].
I draw comfort from being convinced that cutting my toe off that day saved me from taking my own life. And I rather like the fact that it makes my foot look different from anyone else’s.