Another Springsteen song. "Streets of Philadelphia" was written in a totally different time and context, but the first few lines express Mick's feelings perfectly when he is faced with the challenge of a life utterly changed by his injury.

I was bruised and battered
I couldn't tell what I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself
saw my reflection in a window and
didn't know my own face ...


I survived, though. Outwardly, the healing proceeded smoothly once the bacteria were out of my system, no further infection, no fever. The doctors were quite satisfied with the progress I made, but nobody seemed to care much about my feelings, my fears, my depression. The medical personnel were either briskly efficient or sickeningly cheery, with the exception of the young nurse who had been there when I came around after surgery. Amelia was the only one who seemed genuinely interested in more than just my condition, and she was the only one who knew about Evelyn. There was something about her that inspired confidence in me, and, having grown up with four brothers, she knew how to hit the right tone when she spoke to me and the other men.

It was her who brought me books to read during the endless empty hours of the day, who kept visiting me after I had been transferred to the convalescent ward, and it was her who told me that a she had seen advertising for a lecture by a young researcher and writer called Evelyn Spence

So she was here. Or at least not far away.

I yearned to see her again, her flaming hair, her lovely fair-skinned face, her expressive eyes, her delicate body. Longed to hear her beloved voice and feel the touch of her hand.

Yet I bristled at the thought of encountering her face to face. A single look at me would make it brutally clear that the Mick Carpenter she had known no longer existed.

I considered writing to her but dismissed the idea quickly. I had no address to start with. Even if I found out where she lived, I was afraid she wouldn't answer or let me know in some friendly but unequivocal lines that she had found happiness with somebody else.

Then it crossed my mind to ask Amelia to attend Evelyn's lecture in town and give her the pearl.

She refused. In fact, she got angry with me. Very angry. "Carpenter, I would never have thought you'd be a coward!" she said in her blunt and straightforward way. "This is the woman you love, goddammit! She's here and you don't even want to try to see her? Send another woman instead? Are you nuts? If she loves you as you said she did, she won't dump you because you got your leg hacked off."

I knew she was right, but it hurt anyway. I simply couldn't help my feelings, my pride and my fears.

I had been out with some comrades a few times recently, just for a change of scene, and although it hadn't been bad to be out of the hospital surroundings for a while, I had been relieved to return in the evenings. I hated the way people seemed to view me only as an invalid. Everybody appeared to notice the leg that was gone, but no one bothered to see the man that was still there.

I had always been somewhat different from most of those around me. As a child I had always stood out because of my height and mass of black curls that I wore longer than most other boys. My classmates made fun of my peculiar eye colour, long lashes and my one slightly drooping eyelid, my "girlish" hair and interest in books and music; they picked on me for just about everything I did or said because I never joined in their silly games, consisting mainly of bullying and schoolyard brawls. Except for one or two occasions when they had attacked me bodily and I had fought back hard, surprising them (and earning some respect, too), I had simply hardened my outer shell of silence and reticence and decided that those kids were just a bunch of idiots. I didn't need their appreciation. I was happiest by myself and didn't care much about other people's opinions.

Now I hated children's curious stares and adults' quickly averted glances, hated the way young women first seemed to take in my face and build and then looked away regretfully when they became aware of the missing leg, hated the back-slapping camaraderie of the World War I veterans we met once in a café. Most of all I hated all the patriot hero crap like mothers telling their children to give up their seat on the bus for that man "who has fought bravely against our enemies". I hated all that for constantly reminding me of all I had lost, irretrievably.

I knew I would have to get used to those stares at some point, but I just couldn't see how.

Physical pain was something I could deal with relatively well. The pain in my leg could be punishing at times, but those phases passed and I could always get a painkiller if I couldn't stand it any more.

The pain in my soul wasn't soothed so easily. Often I woke up in the morning, feeling alright in my half-sleep, until consciousness kicked in and brought me down hard into reality. I had to face the fact again that I was irrevocably, and visibly, handicapped. There were too many things I would never do again, not even with somebody else's help. Sometimes I could hardly muster the strength to get out of bed. I didn't know what to get up for any longer.