The Institute of Anomalistic Phenomena

By Wilson Devereau

Magnificently situated on some thousand acres of forested land in Pennsylvania, The Institute of Anomalistic Phenomena was the brain child of Benevoll Benatay, M.D., an orthopedic surgeon of considerable renown and wealth, who specialized in birth defects and, where possible, their surgical correction. He was, however, far from alone in originating the institute: I was his voluble partner in the undertaking and his equal in surgery.

Ben and I first met when we were both freshmen in premed. He claims to have been attracted to me because I am the result of the kind of work he hoped to learn: I am an amputee. I had lost my left leg slightly above mid-thigh to cancer at the age of 10, and it seemed so natural to have but one leg, I was determined to follow in the footstep of the one-legged surgeon who had removed my leg. He had left me with a perfect stump, the delight of every prosthetist I've met up with since. I have learned to perform the same kind of surgery with the same surgical perfection.

At the end of our first semester I moved into Ben's handsome apartment. Let me explain about Ben. Ben was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth. It was platinum. And there wasn't just one but several dozen. In spite of Ben's enormous wealth, he did his own laundry, cooked most of his own meals, cleaned his apartment, and demonstrated this high degree of self discipline in virtually everything he undertook.

As students we tied for top honors all the way through premed and med school. Our relationship in the years that followed has never been marred with any kind of jealousy or envy. I had a scholarship for my four years leading to my BA. Beyond that I had no idea how I would finance med school.

If you haven't already guessed it, Ben and I became lovers within hours of meeting each other that first day of freshmen classes. Being both equally bright but in different directions, we were quick to realize that we complemented each other flawlessly. We were born to be a team. He was the physical ideal my genes would never have allowed, regardless of the leg, which was the perfect flaw that turned him on. I was born to be one-legged and I reveled in my one-leggedness.

We'd always gone our separate ways for holiday breaks, but in our third and senior year (we both went to school year round), Ben invited me to spend spring break with him and his family who lived in abject luxury on a gigantic estate in New York state. Their money was old money, very old money.

The Benatay family was originally French and the name was originally spelled Bienété from bien-être meaning "well-being". His given name, Benevoll, reminded me of Romeo's friend, Benvolio, or "good will". Even though some of his foibles could be considered strange by some, he is perhaps the most aptly named person in the history of the human race. His love for humanity was deep, far-reaching and genuine.

As you would expect, the house--being palatial and manned with servants--defied the passage of time: "people don't live that way any more." Because I wear a prosthesis and because I use crutches when I'm not wearing it--Ben prefers me with crutches, if that tells you anything--I was treated with special care, as if I were so delicate I'd break if looked at crookedly. And although Ben and I had been living together for three years, he was given his old suite and I was given an adjoining guest suite, a bedroom, a sitting room and an enormous bathroom. I'll confess I loved it all, particularly the bathroom which had been so equipped for my visit with grab bars and tub conveniences that I was genuinely dazzled, having spent a large part of my young life balancing on one leg to shower--either that or sitting in the tub under the shower. It was during my visit to Ben's that I decided that into each life a little luxury should fall.

Another of the luxuries I enjoyed in Ben's home was meeting his parents. They were remarkable people, gracious, warm-hearted, loving. I felt like a son and so expressed myself to Ben, who then shocked me by telling me that, when we first started living together, he had told his mother and father that he was gay and that he had found the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. It seems they only said something like "whatever you wish, as long as you're fulfilled and happy." I was unconditionally accepted as part of the family.

To Ben they had expressed surprise when he told them that I had insisted from the beginning of our relationship that I was to be totally independent financially, and of course my stock with them soared from that moment on. I'm certain they had worried a great deal over the fact that he was obviously the prime bachelor catch of the century where money was concerned.

This sampling of Ben's life and background made me regard him with greater respect than ever. An only child, he wasn't remotely spoiled even when at home, and I began to see that the servants were not so much menials as they were members of the family and all were cooperating to make the family work as a unit. The servants had wonderful lives: they lived in luxury, their clothes were furnished, they ate wonderful food, and had charming rooms of their own. Quite literally, who could ask for anything more?

I come from comfortable but not well-to-do middle class Welsh stock--Davies, like Evans, is as Welsh as you can get--people who have a grip on values. My mom and dad were great disciplinarians and I learned how to take care of myself, my room, my clothes, specially after the leg was removed. Ben and I were each taught the meaning of self-reliance and self-responsibility--another reason we were so well-suited to each other. My only problem lay ahead of me. After graduation there was no more scholarship money.

Two weeks before graduation I was called into Dean Parnell's office and informed that a special scholarship was open and would I like to apply for it? He explained that the scholarship was open only to those with exceptionally high grade averages and would provide me with funds for any graduate school of my choice. I asked if that included medical schools and summer schools and he said it did. Here was the chance I had never expected. He gave me the application forms to fill in and I practically jumped for joy and dashed back to tell Ben of my good fortune.

Ben was delighted. "Now we can go to the same medical school," he gloated.

"Wait a minute, Ben. This is only an application. I haven't got it yet."

"But David, your grades are the top, you're brilliant, they can't not give it to you! How long will it take to find out? You've got to apply to med school, too."

"Oh no!" I was devastated. "It's too late to apply to med school, they'll already be full, you know that." I was sick to my stomach. "You've been admitted, but they'll turn me down because it's too late."

"Sit down and make out that application!" Ben was not kidding. So I did it. We worked on it together and within an hour I was back in the dean's office.

"Well, that was fast!" the dean said with a smile.

"Dean Parnell, if I get this scholarship, will it be too late to apply for med school? I'd like to go to the same one where Ben has been accepted."

The dean looked serious. "Well, it's hard to say. I really don't know, but I could give them a ring." He looked at his watch. "Well not now, their offices will be closed. I'll ring them tomorrow."

"Thank you, I'd certainly appreciate it. What time should I be back tomorrow?"

"Ten. Come back at ten. Meanwhile I'll get this application to the committee immediately."

"I have classes until noon, is noon OK?" He said it was, so thanking him again, I hauled ass back to Ben and told him what had happened. "We'll pray for it," he said, "and keep our fingers crossed!"

The next morning I was in such a rush to get dressed for my eight o'clock class that I cracked the socket on my prosthesis which meant it would leak. It's a suction socket and has no shoulder or waist harness. But I wasn't about to be stopped. I grabbed my crutches and went to classes all morning, and then at noon flew to the dean's office making a perfect three-point landing when I got there. The dean was out so I had to wait. At a quarter past, he burst through the door with tremendous excitement, saw me, shouted "David hello!", grabbed my arm, pulled me to my foot and started off to his office not noticing that I wasn't wearing my leg, a move which dumped me on the floor and startled the whatsis out of him.

"Oh my God! What have I done?!" He leaned over and helped me up. "Are you all right? Shall I call an ambulance? Are you hurt? I'm so terribly sorry. I had no idea." I started laughing and he stopped, and stammered, "I'm really very sorry, but I have such wonderful news, I can't tell you how excited I am."

"I'm OK just tell me the news!" My heart was pounding with anticipation and I was holding on to a chair to remain standing.

"You got 'em both. You got the med school and you got the scholarship. Come in the office. I have all the papers and--" he stopped and looked down at my foot with a kind of horror, "you only have one leg! My God you only have one leg!! Oh what have I done? Oh my God!" And he buried his face in his hands. I hopped over to my crutches which I had put against the wall and went back to him.

"Dean Parnell, please. Dean Parnell, listen to me!" He took his hands down. "I usually wear a prosthesis but I broke it this morning so I used my crutches to get here. I'm OK." He moaned and looked down at my pants-enshrouded stump. "Didn't you know I was an amputee?"

"I had no idea!"

"Well, I am and have been since I was ten."

He looked back at my stump and then at me. "Oh you poor boy!" Well, the stricken look on his face and the quaver in his voice sent me off the deep end. I hooted with laughter--until I caught sight of his great embarrassment. So I sobered up and went into his office with him following me and I sat down and pulled myself together. "I'm sorry, Dean Parnell, but when you said `oh you poor boy' I haven't heard that since I was ten and my Sunday school teacher said it. I know you won't understand this, but I like being an amputee and whenever anyone says `oh you poor boy', it strikes me funny. It's so untrue. Now, tell me the whole story."

The dean apologized again and recovered composure enough to give me the good news down to the last morsel. I wanted to dash off to tell Ben, but I stayed and signed what papers there were to sign--mostly the med school stuff--and the dean explained that the final scholarship papers would be coming in a few days.

So I crutched it back home. Actually I should use crutches all the time because they're a whole lot faster than my old leg which I've been wearing for about six years. The problem now was where to find the money for a new socket.

Ben was finishing his lunch and looked at me with impatience. "Well how did it go?" Then he stopped and just looked at me. "You look great on crutches, man. Great!"

When I told him about the `oh you poor boy' incident, he howled with delight. "You mean he really didn't know? He's been seeing you for three years, how could he not know?"

"And when he discovered that I had just one leg, his face was raddled with horror. I shouldn't have laughed at him, but it's the funniest thing that's ever happened to me. Fortunately I didn't fall on my stump. That's no laughing matter, as you know. You've seen me do it."

"I wish I could have seen him. Now we have to get that leg fixed. I'll drive you down to the prosthetist this afternoon, but promise me something?"

"Yeah, what's that?" I asked.

"Always use crutches here at home. I love to see it. But I've told you that hundreds of times," Ben said with a nice warm smile.

"I knew you were going to say that but I wanted to hear it again. I can't go this afternoon. In fact I don't know when I can go. You know why and you know our rule."

"I hate myself for agreeing to that rule, but I understand it," Ben said. "OK. At any rate I will benefit at your inconvenience. You look so super on crutches, just stay that way. The hell with the leg. And even when you do scrape together enough money to get it fixed promise you'll wear it only when you have to see Dean Parnell!" And that set us off laughing again at the episode.

The scholarship rules and regulations arrived about a week after I had heard about my getting it. I read through the document with mounting excitement as I learned what the scholarship included. It was incredible. Because they noted on the application that I use a prosthesis, I could even get a new one when there was sufficient reason to show for needing it. And man! those things can run into many thousands of dollars.

So Ben drove me to the prosthetics lab and I got cast for a new socket for the old leg. The prosthetist told me about the latest technical advances and I began to plan on the day when I could reasonably request a new leg from scratch. Meanwhile I didn't mind all the sudden attention I was getting because I was on crutches. In fact I had several interesting propositions, the most interesting of which was from the star quarterback on the university football team. Man, is he ever turned on by a high AK on crutches!

Personally I'm convinced that amps, like blondes, have more fun, although I'm sure I could never convince anyone else of that. It takes a certain kind of person to be turned on by an amputee, but if you're that kind, nothing stops you. Ben was that kind and no matter how much we try to analyze it, we don't understand its origin and development. Me, I'm an amp lover, too, but mainly in reverse. I love being lasciviously looked at by quarterbacks.

The four years of med school went slowly and gruelingly, and Ben and I became quietly famous for several reasons, among them being the fact that we were lovers, the fact that we made the highest grades, the fact that I was an amputee who frequently used crutches (about a sixth of the enrollment propositioned me at one time or another), and the fact that we lived in exceptional luxury. There was one other amputee med student, a flighty and brilliant guy who obviously detested me because I was so totally myself. At least that's the reason I gave myself, but Ben had a much better one: self-consciousness. The poor guy agonized over being one-legged. Ben could understand this, but it was beyond me. It got back to Ben that someone had propositioned the guy and that he had almost died of mortification. That aroused in me some sympathy for him.

We interned together in surgery and when our degrees were set in granite, my scholarship was extended so I could study surgery anywhere in the world. The day I got that news I was really bowled over and of course told Ben. Ben was flabbergasted, but immediately started laying plans for us to spend a year in Switzerland, a year in Stockholm at the famous "Söder" and a third year to be determined down the line, but probably Germany.

As things developed, we didn't go to Germany except for a course in prosthetics which lasted eighteen weeks, but we learned enough to last us forever, primarily about the surgical formation of the stump. And it was there that we first met Johan Messing and Claude Chardin. An unlikely pair--a German and a Frenchman--they were finishing their three years' study of prosthetics, they were brilliant, and they were lovers. When we finally returned to the states, Ben confided in me his idea for the Institute where we could do everything to assist a child born with an orthopedic defect. I was all for it.

It took some three months of scouring the countryside to find the locale, but find it we did. Meanwhile Ben's family had set up a foundation which built the buildings we now occupy. It's really an extraordinary place. The hospital is small with only 100 beds, but it is magnificently equipped. Also on the grounds are a hotel with 100 rooms for parents of children being treated, a private home for Ben and me, an apartment building for the staff, a utilities building housing emergency lighting, heating and the rest of it, and a prosthetics lab. We were not far from a city of about fifteen thousand where the staff could market and find entertainment. As you can imagine the staff was hand picked.

For the prosthetics lab we imported Johan and Claude who were delighted to make the move. We even provided them with English lessons. The only other import we had was Rolf Lind whom we met at Söder in Stockholm. He was a married male nurse of intimidatingly high quality and we put him in charge of the entire hospital staff. His English was flawless.

Part of our work on children sometimes involved amputations of residual limbs, the children then being prosthetically fitted in the lab. Not long after we opened word got out, doubtless through Claude and Johan, that we were great surgeons when it came to fashioning a stump, and we began to get an occasional application from an adult amputee who wanted stump improvement.

When the first one arrived, Ben and I went into a conference and realized that we could do a great deal of good to the amputee community, provided we placed limits on the demand. We were the only two surgeons and we never did more than one surgery a day, with one every other day being the norm.

We accepted the first application. He was a young man with an amputation like mine, high thigh. We rebuilt his stump, making it possible for him to be comfortable in his prosthesis. This aspect of our institute grew during the following months until almost half of our work was rebuilding stumps.

And then one day we got a letter from a young man of 26 explaining how he had always wanted to be an amputee and could we accommodate him?

Although this was the first such request we'd had, we weren't surprised. However I was surprised by Ben's reaction to the request. The evening of the day following the receipt of the request, Ben said he wanted to talk to me about a very private matter.

"Dave, we know virtually everything there is to know about each other." I nodded. "We've always been very much in the open and completely frank."

I nodded and said, "Stop leading up to whatever it is and let me have it!".

"Dave, for God's sake!" He looked at me glumly and I had a moment of genuine fright.

"Sorry," I said barely audibly.

"There is," he stopped and seemed to pull himself together. "something that I have never told you because I don't allow myself to think about it. I pushed it out of my head--or attempted to--when I was 11 years old.

"For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be an amputee. When I was just a very young kid--maybe four or five--I'd sit in a chair on my feet and imagine my knees being stumps. That didn't last long because it was too uncomfortable.

"That was followed by my tying a leg up in back of me, or strapping an arm to my body and looking at myself in the mirror as a one-armed kid.

"How I knew about amputees at that age, I don't know, but I'm convinced that the children we see here are fully aware of how they differ from other kids. It's. . .as if. . .they created their condition and knew it. I say this because I felt as a child that I should be missing a limb, but the strange thing about it was I didn't know what limb, so I tried all four of them.

"When I was eleven--I remember it so clearly because it was right after my birthday--I was playing at being an amputee with one leg tied up behind me. I always played in secret, because this was something I never divulged to anyone, but I was caught at my game by George, our chauffeur. He looked at me rather strangely and I just stared back at him helplessly and in total panic. Then without saying a word, he turned and walked away.

"The rest of the day I hid in cold terror, coming forth at supper which I couldn't eat and escaped to my room. My dad came up to my room within minutes and sat down and talked to me very quietly but asked no questions so I didn't know whether George had told my parents or not. I confessed nothing and after about ten or fifteen minutes, dad hugged me and I held on to him very tightly until I felt some relief from my fear. Then he left having learned nothing. That's when I resolved never to think about it again."

None of his story seemed strange to me, but I asked the inevitable question. "Had you never seen an amputee?"

"No, never. The first amputee I ever saw was when I was fifteen. We had driven to New York for a week of shopping and theater-going. It was my fourth trip to the big city, but I had never happened to see an amputee. On that trip I did. I saw three, all leg amputees and all of them on crutches. I saw them on three consecutive days and I had the same reaction to each. The reaction was the same when I first met you--strongly sexual. And by the time I met you I had learned to identify a man with a prosthesis, with still the same strong reaction. Even now, when I see a male amputee I react, perhaps not as strongly as before, thanks to your leveling influence, but I do react nevertheless. Well, you know how you affect me."

I suppose the next question was also inevitable. "Do you still want to be an amputee?"

Ben smiled apologetically. "Yes." He looked at me and appeared to be helpless. "I hope you don't mind. It isn't that you're not enough. God, I don't know where I'd be without you! But--yes! I still want to be an amputee and I still play games in my head with being the kind of amp I'd like. About the only time I didn't play those games was through those years of school. Preoccupation, I suppose, and I had you to look at, you beautiful amp. I tell myself that I don't allow thinking this way, but I do think this way. And the kind of amputee I want to be varies from day to day. Today I've imagined myself a triple--both legs are gone and my right arm. Revolting, isn't it? I'm really sick, don't you think?"

"No, I don't think you're sick. Sick with frustration, maybe, but not psycho sick. And seeing me as a visible amputee helps, is that it?"

"It helps more than you'll ever know. And now that you know, what shall I do about it? If anything?"

"You don't do anything about it at the moment. But we do have to do something about the request we got yesterday. That's what we started to talk about."

"I'm not capable of thinking clearly about it. I can't make that decision. It's unethical like all hell. Nobody can just remove a limb because someone asks you to do it. But if that guy is going through anything remotely like what I go through every day, I'd say let's whack off whatever he wants whacked off and let him get on with his life. What did he ask for?"

I had the letter in my coat pocket. I pulled the letter out and read it out loud.

"Dear Doctors Benetay and Davies:

I know that what I'm about to ask may be shocking to you, since I've written to three other surgeons asking the same thing. But I am feeling desperate and I'll do anything to accomplish it, including throwing myself under a train. I want you to amputate my right leg above the knee. There's nothing wrong with the leg except that it's in the way. I'm sure you won't be able to understand this because members of the medical profession are not as well-educated as the general public is led to believe. I have wanted to get rid of my right leg for about as long as I can remember. It's like it doesn't belong to me and I don't want it. I can pay you although I don't know what your fee would be. I found out about you through a friend of mine who lost both legs and you operated on his stumps. He says you are the tops. Please let me know what your decision is as soon as you can. Believe me I am very serious about this.

Sincerely yours,

Gregory Joseph."

After I read the letter, we sat in silence for at least two minutes.

"Poor bastard!" Ben said with feeling and there was another long pause before he continued. "Dave, if we did that, would it be criminal?"

"I don't know about its being criminal, but I know that we'd lay ourselves open to a beaut of a lawsuit."

"But what about the release papers we always have a patient sign? And who was the double amp? We've had two."

"I looked up both and one of them is from the same city as Gregory. His name is Marshall Thomas. He was the rather small guy. Very handsome," I said.

"Oh yeah." Ben smiled with the memory. "Handsome hardly describes him. You remember we talked a great deal about him?"

"I do indeed. He got refitted here, too. Walked very well, but of course he looked best in a chair." I grinned at Ben who grinned back at me. We know that we both like to see amputees on crutches or in chairs.

"What are we going to do about Gregory?" Ben asked.

I shrugged. "We're going to write him that we cannot undertake anything like that because we are ethical medical practitioners. But that if there were something medically wrong that required an amputation, then we could do it. It's that simple. We don't need to ask our lawyers. We know the score on this subject, although it's never come up before."

"Poor bastard," Ben repeated. "So be it!" He looked at me. "You weren't too surprised to hear my story, were you?"

"I had long expected it. Do you remember the time we were rebuilding a guy's leg and arm stumps?"

"Yes, I do. Why?"

"Do you remember what you said when the two of us were doing our first interview with him?" I looked at Ben with interest.

"No. What did I say?"

"He was telling us how the accident happened and that he didn't know until he was in the hospital that he had lost both an arm and a leg. And you said `Lucky you!'"

Ben looked puzzled. "I said that?"

"And he frowned and said he figured it was lucky that he hadn't felt any pain until it was all over. But I knew that wasn't what you meant. Were you having an arm and leg day that day?"

"Aside from your missing leg, one of the things I like best about you, Dave, is your omniscience." He grinned. "You don't miss a thing, you wonderful amp, you!"

And that was that. The case of Gregory Joseph was closed. For six weeks. Then it reopened dramatically.

It was on a Wednesday morning about six A.M. that a car drove up to the hospital ambulance entrance and the driver, a man, opened the car door and fell out onto the driveway. He then attempted to crawl to the entrance. His arrival had been noted by the night watchman who alerted two members of the staff who, neither of them as yet fully clothed, tried to pick him up and discovered that his right foot was black and the skin broken and oozing matter. They put him on a gurney and rushed him to the operating room while our phone rang to come as fast as possible.

By the time we got there the man's clothes had been cut off him and, only semi-conscious, he was lying naked on the gurney. The most distinguishing feature about him was his right leg from a little above the knee down. It was a dirty bluish black color and smelled something awful. The leg was literally rotting.

Ben and I looked at each other and we both knew what the other was thinking. This was our applicant for a voluntary amputation, Gregory Joseph. Ben called to one of the staff, "Did he have any ID on him?"

"His driver's license has the name Gregory Joseph, address is in New York state."

Ben and I looked at each other and then I said to prepare for a major amputation. The room became the usual beehive of activity preceding major surgery. An hour and a half later the bandages were in place and the patient was transferred to post-surgery care and Ben and I went home.

First we showered and then while eating a bite of breakfast, we discussed the case.

"Well, he certainly proved that he meant business when he first asked us to do the amputation," I observed. "I look forward to a long talk with him."

"I don't," Ben rejoined. He looked at me very strangely. I didn't like the expression on his face. "Dave," he said in a low voice, "would you do me a favor and remove my left leg?" He paused and studied my face. "At the same place where we built the fine right leg stump for our friend Gregory."

I had been expecting this ever since Ben told me about wanting to be an amputee, but it still gave me a nasty cold chill up my spine. I've often thought about how much Ben means to me. He is my entire life, and I've often thought to myself that there is nothing I wouldn't do for Ben. Nothing?

"Ben." I paused to pull myself together. "Ben, we've lived together for a good many years and you've seen how truly inconvenient it is for me not having both legs. I know," I held up a hand, "I love being an amputee and I feel utterly at home with the inconvenience, but I learned it at an early age, when the mind and body are more flexible and adaptable."

I got up from the table and went into the bedroom and got a belt and my crutches. Then back at the table I told him to put his left leg under him and fasten the belt around his ankle and thigh. Knowing what I was up to and willing to try it, he stood up and put his left foot and leg on the chair and then sat down. Putting the belt around his folded leg, he tied it as best he could. Then I gave him the crutches and commanded, "Walk!"

He had difficulty getting up, but did finally succeed in rising to his right leg and, putting the crutches under his arms, he took a few faltering steps.

"Now take the coffee cups and the cereal bowls to the sink and rinse them and put them in the dishwasher." He gave me a strange look and tried to pick up a coffee cup and saucer. Then he discovered he couldn't carry them and handle the crutches at the same time. He looked at me again with deep frustration.

"How long did it take you to learn?" he asked.

"I don't even remember learning. But it will take you weeks of frustration before you can be yourself again. In the meanwhile you won't be any good to the Institute. We might as well close shop until you've learned to walk on a prosthesis and that will take several months. Look, Ben, we've got a voluntary amp here now. Let's watch and see how long it takes him to be ready to walk out of here without crutches. And remember he's 26 and not pushing 40 as we are."

Ben looked at me in silence and I fully expected him to cry with frustration. "In other words, save it for my reclining years," he added with a second-hand attempt at humor.

I went to Ben and released the belt, took the crutches and, putting them under my arms, swung with abandon back to the bedroom.

"You beautiful bastard!" Ben said vehemently, as he watched me go. I knew he was OK and himself again.

By noon Gregory had come round enough for us both to drop in on him, but he was still dazed and not fully functional.

"Gregory, I'm Dr. Benetay," Ben said, extending his hand. Gregory gave him his hand weakly.

I moved in close to Ben. "And I'm Dr. Davies." I extended my hand and Gregory took it. I put my left hand over our clasped hands.

He looked at us with his eyes, first to Ben and then to me and then back to Ben. A faint smile appeared on his lips as he looked down at the bed with its outline of his left leg and right leg mid-thigh stump enlarged with its bandage. Then looking back at us, his eyes again going from one to the other, he said, "Do you believe me now?"

My eyes met Ben's and I replied, "Yes, we believe you. And we'll do all we can to help you. Did your friend Marshall Thomas tell you that I'm an amputee?"

Gregory's face lit up radiantly. "You are! That's supercool! No, he didn't tell me that. Why didn't he tell me?"

Ben and I barely glanced at each other. I had showed Marshall Thomas my stump during the examination before we rebuilt his two stumps. "It's not important right now," I said, "but as soon as you're ready we'll get down to brass tacks. Main thing today is rest. You've been through a lot."

Gregory grinned at us. "Thank you for helping me. You know what I mean."

We told him to do everything as he was told and he'd be in great shape soon. He looked back down at his legs and said, "I'm already in great shape." Then he looked at us. "Thank you. I'm very grateful."

Our hospital rounds finished, we went back to our office, had lunch brought in and, over a fine plate of fettucini and mushrooms and a side salad, discussed Gregory Joseph matters.

"How did he do it?" Ben opened the conference.

"I figure he probably tied a tourniquet above his knee, don't you suppose? His body did the rest. How long would it take? How long has it been since we wrote saying `no' to the amputation?" To answer my own question I buzzed my secretary and asked her to check. Within sixty seconds she said it had been almost six weeks.

"Incredible!" Ben said with feeling. "He watched that leg rot for six weeks. And the stench! That's really doing it the hard way."

"You want to be an amputee. Would you go to those extremes?" I asked.

"As usual you already know precisely what was on my mind. Since I never did go that far, I can only conclude that being an amputee--and I still want to be one!--is apparently not the most important goal in my life."

"You know what I'm thinking?" I ventured.

"Yes, I do, and the thought struck me hardest while you were sawing Gregory's femur this morning. How many people are there out there who, like Gregory and me, would like to become an amputee?"

"A goodly number, I'd wager. And you know what struck me this morning while you were so deftly sewing the skin flap to make the perfect stump?" I paused.

"Oh!" Ben said as he realized what I was thinking. "Cosmetic surgery."

"Cosmetic surgery," I echoed. "If a face lift is ethical, why is the removal of a limb unethical? We can remove moles and warts and, in some instances, birthmarks, so why can't we remove a limb or two? It's the patient's wish we're gratifying, not our own. And insurance certainly doesn't enter the picture, because removing a limb would be cosmetic surgery when done voluntarily and cosmetic surgery is not ordinarily covered by insurance."

"Yes. And why are sex changes outlawed?" Ben interjected. "There's something here that doesn't make sense. Removing a limb is like removing the penis and balls to begin a sex change. It all has to do with the patient's desire to become a member of the opposite sex or to become a person with one or more missing limbs. I think we should consult our lawyers. Somewhere there's an assumption that the loss of a limb is uglifying, but for me it's beautifying, and for Gregory, too. I'm sure Gregory considers himself more handsome and more desirable already and it's only Day One."

"Somewhere along the line, our profession has taken to passing rules based on morality." I stated. "Thou shalt not screw thy neighbor's wife, even if she's willing! Thou shalt not lop off thy customer's leg even if he wishes it done. We Americans are at it again. In Colonial times in Philadelphia you could only bathe once a month because bathing meant nudity and nudity meant promiscuity. We have the gall to legislate moral behavior without an inkling of what's in back of the behavior. It makes you wonder how many of the nation's laws are based on ignorance. Yes, as you say, I think we should consult our lawyers."

The discussion had reached the end, but what it brought up was only the beginning. We did consult our lawyers who said that if we did do "cosmetic" amputations, and if the medical community did bring a lawsuit to stop us, all we had to do was subpoena the patients and let them tell their stories. It sounded great, but Ben and I detected a note of disbelief. That anyone should wish to lose an arm or leg is mystifying, to put it mildly. Had I not been fortunate enough to lose my leg at age ten, I would have long since invented a way to unload it. Ben would also have succeeded had he never met me, but I became a surrogate for his amputation. Still am, as far as I can tell.

The day following the amputation we pulled Gregory out of bed and put him on crutches--his own as it happened, for we found a pair in his car. He certainly planned with care. Ben and I called on him on our afternoon rounds and found him trotting around Amp Camp with high spirits. He had obviously been practicing with the crutches. Incidentally, when we added the stump rebuilding phase to our routine, we designated one 25-bed portion of the hospital as the place where the amputees would be housed. It was Gregory's friend Marshall Thomas who nicknamed it Amp Camp.

Because Gregory was a voluntary amp, he apparently had none of the involuntary reactions, depressions, and psycho whammies that other amp patients are faced with. On the contrary, he seemed to be liberated, although we had nothing from his past to compare with his present euphoric condition.

Ben and I each had a series of independent conferences with Gregory, and when we compared notes, they always tallied. Gregory was a college graduate with a masters in fine arts and was well on his way to his PhD. He said that he would continue after he was "prosthetized"--the word was his!--and he looked forward to that process. In fact he spent a lot of time in the lab assisting Claude and Johan. We checked and it seems they liked having him around. His stump healed with remarkable speed which would seem to point at the healing power of joy. He was with us twelve weeks and after his departure on his first prosthesis, the Amp Camp was a sad place. He was sorely missed.

But even before he had left, we started getting letters from various persons seeking amputations. He must have known or been a member of a wide-spread community of would-be voluntary amputees.

Ben and I went back to the lawyers with the letters--there were a baker's dozen, three from women, which surprised us, although that only proved our lack of knowledge of this particular amputation mindset. The lawyers were suitably amazed at the letters but began to understand that there really are people out there who long to become amputees. They also began to see the severe and debilitating frustration those people lived with daily. They said that if we were willing to face the wrath of the entire medical profession, they would do all necessary to defend us. They even drew up the final papers the voluntary amp patient would have to sign, accepting all responsibility for the results. It was also made clear in the papers that no insurance would be considered as part or entire payment for the operation. There was also an entire page devoted to payment and methods thereof. In other words we were covered.

On our part after a fast but exhaustive search, we found Charles Pritkin, a psychoanalyst. Ben immediately consulted him regarding his own amputation obsession. He discovered that although Pritkin understood the problem, he had no solution other than--and this took time for the analyst to finally suggest--the amputation itself. Ben had gone to him six times in six weeks while our lawyers were drawing up the final drafts of the papers. And then Ben told Pritkin what we were planning and asked if he would join us and provide analytic help as a means to assure us that the patient really wanted to become an amputee.

Pritkin was excited by the offer. Undoubtedly he saw himself as writing the definitive paper on the subject. At any rate he came up with a written exam which the patient would take prior to acceptance, and then in a two-hour conference the analyst and patient would go over it carefully. At the end of the two hours the analyst hoped to know whether or not the amputation should be done.

We had responded to these letters asking the writers to be patient while we researched the idea. It took slightly more than two months before we were ready to send the preliminary papers to the voluntaries. By that time the letters had grown to thirty-nine.

Incidentally, letters inquiring about birth defects go directly to Ben. Those about voluntary amputations come to me. Three of the letters I received deserve special mention because Ben and I had an unscheduled conference about them over lunch.

"Well, what earth-shattering requests do we have today that they can't wait for our Friday conference?" Ben asked as he entered my office.

"Just about the juiciest requests we've had so far. Anyway the week has been so drab that I felt we needed a little spice to jazz things up." I answered. "As I told you I have received three rather unusual letters. I'll read you the first." I picked up a small envelope and took from it a piece of white ruled paper the kind one sees in a grade school writing tablet. "It has no date and starts off with "Dear Dr Bennygay--that's spelled b-e-n-n-y-g-a-y--and dear Dr Davs, spelled that way. The letter has lots more, including `ampatation' for `amputation', but I'll ignore them.

I am writing to you to ask you to please let me come to your place so you can cut off part of my cock. I just got married to this real sweet little woman and it's so long I can't get it all the way into her and she says she wanted to measure it and it's 13½ inches so she figures it should be only about seven inches and figures I should have some of it cut off. I know you can do all kind of amputation so I would like you to help me and my sweet little wife enjoy married bliss.

Very truly yours.

Melvin Dorkmund"

Ben looked at me and said flatly, "I don't believe it. It's a put-on. Nobody has a thirteen-and-a-half-inch cock." Ben paused a second. "Well, he might, but he wouldn't agree to having part of it amputated. Impossible anyway. You'd lose the sensitivity of the head and . . .Dave, this is one of your jokes and I rose to the bait! OK, you win!"

I handed Ben the letter and the envelope which was postmarked from a state not very distant from Pennsylvania. "I think it's for real."

Ben looked at the handwriting in pencil and then smiled and shook his head. "And what if it's a put-on. We answer with a serious letter and become the laughing stock of the medical profession. If you do answer it, what are you going to say to him?"

"I'll explain that we're orthopedic surgeons and penial amputations are not in our line of endeavor. And I'm going to suggest that he see a urologist and get his advice. What would you suggest?"

Ben laughed. "I would suggest that he come for a physical examination and show us all thirteen-and-a-half inches, so that we could determine how and what kind of amputation it would require. Of course there's another route to take, too, and that is to suggest that he have someone make him a six-inch collar that would fit down over his erection and act as a stop when he was plowing her. He's obviously wrecking her vagina, and equally as obvious it's painful for her. I'm sure Claude and Johan would be ecstatic to custom manufacture and fit such a `prosthesis'."

We both laughed at the absurdity of the idea, but then we both stopped laughing and began thinking. "You know, Ben, funny as it sounds, the prosthetic collar isn't a bad idea. It really wouldn't be a great inconvenience for him and it would save her a lot of anxiety. You've had a brilliant idea. And the prosthetists could make it easily enough with a rigid plastic core covered with soft foam. What do you say we invite him in to meet and talk with the guys in the pros lab?"

Ben laughed. "You write the letter. But make it more than clear that we don't believe a word of it. And then add a `however, should you be telling us the truth, we would like you to make an appointment with us for we believe we have a solution for you that will not require an amputation of your penis.' That way we've covered ourselves should he never answer."

"That's the tack I'll take in the letter. But I'll talk to the prosthetics lab guys first," I answered. "And now for the second letter on today's agenda. I'll read it. It's from a young man in Poughkeepsie, New York.

"Dear Drs Benetay and Davies:

I have what you may consider an unusual request and you may even say that you can't do what I ask, but I feel I must find out before proceeding with plans of my own.

I am twenty-two years old and I want to be castrated. I want to be absolutely sure that I cannot become a father again. I was married when I was 20 and my wife and I have one child that is completely abnormal. We have learned that because of our genes we will never be able to have a normal child. My physician suggested that I have a vasectomy, but I don't trust it. I think the safest thing is to remove my testicles. The physician assures me that even without testicles I can continue to have sexual relations with my wife, but he refuses to castrate me. Unless I find a reliable surgeon who will do it for me, I will perform the castration myself.

I look forward to your reply. Know that I will sign anything you wish absolving you from all future responsibility.

Sincerely yours,

Lester Domenico.

Well, what do you think of that?"

"I think he should be sterilized, but I'm certainly not going to castrate him. Would you?" Ben said.

"I wouldn't dream of it. A vasectomy, yes. But he doesn't trust it. You know what we could do? Instead of tying off the vas deferens, simply remove it altogether. This is done now and then but not if the patient wishes to make the operation reversible. He would be permanently sterilized. I wonder if his physician explained that to him."

"There may also be some sort of mental quirk involved as well," Ben said. "Maybe we should ask him to come talk to the analyst and try to get to the bottom of this."

"The desire to be castrated is another of those inexplicable mindsets, like wanting to be an amputee. Some day we may open up a whole new world of understanding. I'll write suggesting he set up an appointment with Pritkin. And now for the last letter.

"Dear Sirs:

I know that a sex change is hard to get in this country, so you must understand when I tell you I am not seeking a sex change. I simply want to get rid of my male genitalia and have a clean, uncluttered crotch. For that I need to find a surgeon who will remove both my penis and my scrotum with its two balls. If you are interested in doing this bit of minor surgery, let me know. If not I shall continue to search for some good-hearted soul who will release me from my bonds.

Warmest regards,

Gerald Akins."

"Holy catnip!" Ben said seriously. "What do you do with a person like that? He needs help in the worst way, and I don't mean surgical help. Shall we simply refuse to do the operation or should we get him here and let Pritkin go to work?"

"Can Pritkin do anything for him? He needs extended care and we're not equipped for mental patients at all. There's not one staff member who has that background. They're all orthopedically trained. Ben," I continued, "we can't touch this."

"But he needs help. Who can we send him to? Who among our old classmates? I know! Rayfield! Send him to the clinic in Chicago that Rayfield heads up."

"A good idea, Ben."

There was a lull in talk but not in thinking.

"Ben!" "Dave!" We both spoke at the same time and we both knew we were going to say the same thing.

I continued to talk. "I suspect that we're going to be changing our ship's course in the near future. We keep running into mysteries that have no explanation where there has to be an explanation."

"We'll have to start a new institute," Ben observed, "one which we shall call The Institute of the Idée fixe. Bring us your hungry, your obsessed, your screwed-up mindsets. . ."

"That's exactly what we have launched ourselves upon," I added, "the seas of the amputation obsessed. So let's get on with the next."

Ben grinned at me. "Did it ever occur to you that what we're doing requires guts?"

"Indeed it has," I replied, "and we spill them every day." I got up and pulled the letters together and went out to consult with my secretary with Ben right behind me watching me swing my prosthesis. It took me a long time to get used to having Ben follow me just to watch.

The first voluntary amputee patient we accepted was a young woman who wanted to become a right below-the-knee amputee. She was very personable and she had a boyfriend who came with her and who also consulted Pritkin. It seemed that he wanted to marry a woman who was an amputee, and it developed that the woman had wanted to be an amputee before she met him. In fact she had confided her desire to him to see if he would drop her. It had worked as a boyfriend eliminator up until then, but this boy friend stuck with her! So they arrived, she to stay until she was ready to leave on a prosthesis, and he to come back almost every weekend to be with her during her three months with us.

We accepted one voluntary amputee patient per week. Our second was Peter Albright, a young man with a rather frightening goal: he wished to be a triple amputee, each leg being removed and leaving only two inches of stump and the left arm being removed just above the elbow, which would allow only an arm prosthesis. Both Ben and I shuddered at the prospect, but Pritkin was convinced that Albright wanted to become a triple as he had already made arrangements for total care. This was proven to us by Albright's lawyer who came to see our lawyers. That lawyer considered his client a bit daft in the head, but the young man had inherited money and was in a situation which could allow such a drastic change in life style.

The first of the three amputations was the right leg. We left a stump of about two inches, one which would make a prosthesis totally impractical. Two weeks later we removed his left leg, leaving the same kind of stump. We let his body rest then for four weeks, during which time the nurses reported that he never used his left arm at any time as far as they knew. We did a remarkable amputation on the left arm, preparing the stump for the artificial arm in a way not necessarily traditional, but planned in consultation with the prosthetists.

Peter was with us five months, the last two months in an electric wheelchair which he manipulated with gusto. Ben and I of course became very well acquainted with Peter and he was fascinated with me as an amputee and begged to see my stump and prosthesis, which I demonstrated for him. I had long since resigned myself to the fact that being one of the surgeons and an amputee, I was going to have to demonstrate. It always meant being nude from the waist down and more than once I have had both my stump and cock petted by male patients. Fortunately I understand and Ben is amused by it. Peter was gay but apparently had no friend--as yet. About a month after he left us, we heard from him and he had acquired a lover, another triple amputee whom he had known prior to his becoming a triple! Having an psychoanalyst on the staff is no guarantee that we will find out everything about a patient.

Not all of the people who wrote to us were accepted. Some were refused because of insurance payment problems. Others were refused because the Pritkin diagnosed other problems and did not find the desire to be an amputee the driving force. We turned two down because they were not physically able to cope with the operation.

Of the three letters reported above, the first two turned out to be legitimate and we did remove the young man's vas deferens, but it took a complex chemistry lesson to convince him that his testicles were part of his endocrine system and should be left intact. For the second with the freak cock, Johan and Claude made an extraordinary collar for him. He was so delighted with it, he modeled it for us. Life does have its small rewards!

We made it difficult for those with an amputation obsession. Even so, after we had accepted and worked with some fifteen patients, we received notice that we were being hit with a cease and desist order and that our Institute would be closed if we did not comply.

Our lawyers swung into action and within three days the legal action was withdrawn. We continued as usual. But there was a replay of the same sort of thing several months later. And again we won it. So far, some years later, there has not been another replay, although the national medical "fraternity" has, of course, outlawed us even though they can't stop us.

The variety of amputations is not very great. There are four limbs, making four possible amputations. In double amputations there are six variations: both arms, both legs, and four combinations of one arm and one leg. There are only four variations in a triple and no variations in a quadruple where it's all or nothing. We have had none of the latter, and only the one triple, but the singles and doubles are common, with approximately two to one singles over doubles. The most common double? Both legs. The most common single? Left above the knee. We have had but one double arm, both arms above the elbow. The choices don't seem to make sense. It's the amputation that is the key factor. The removal of a limb. Or limbs.

We don't understand this and we haven't yet found an explanation that is satisfactory. Nor have we started our Institute of the Idée fixe. But the analyst is hot on its tail and perhaps next year we may startle the world with an announcement of its opening.

Whatever the answer turns out to be, it will have to be good. After all, we're part of the picture, too: I have promised Ben that on his fiftieth birthday, I will remove his left leg at mid-thigh. He has earned his reward. I just hope his stump will be as erogenously active as mine.

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