History? Or fiction? As you read Nick Blinko’s story, you may feel less sure than you did of the difference between fact and fantasy, between science and metaphor. Who better knows the landscape—the mapmaker or the traveller? At all events, I in my way and Nick in his both know the truth of George Santayana’s epithet, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it”.

March 1995

TUES NOV 20

This day has been the most harrowing of my career to date. A young man was ushered into the surgery by his mother. As the drastic nature of his condition became apparent, I was sent for immediately.

Both his wrists had been cut, as deep as is possible without actually severing the arteries, which were semiexposed and quivering. He hadn’t lost much blood. That which had been spilt was nevertheless a frightening purple colour. Fortunately, thick clots had already formed on the wounds. He had only slight feeling at the base of his thumbs, but otherwise his hands functioned perfectly. I was hurriedly informed that the case was an attempted suicide. He had really meant it.

I was greatly shocked. My stomach turned. The young man apologised for being a burden and for the obvious distress he was causing me; common enough sentiments among such cases. He also stated that this place was not where he had intended to be, as if he had failed to reach some preordained destination. I believe he said these things partly in reaction to the nurse who, in her fright, was muttering under her breath the cliche “it’s a cry for help” and generally tut-tutting. Rather than offering the insight of amateur psychology, her response was more an effort to calm herself. I must have a word with her about this.

It is never pleasant dealing with emergency cases, but at least one can normally label such incidents as genuine accidents and quickly tend to the injury. However, I have never—even during my training—seen such grievous self-inflicted injuries as those that lay upon the wrists of Nathaniel Snoxell.

Within the hour, using a new “freezing” spray aerosol as a makeshift local anaesthetic, I had completed the stitching of his horrific lacerations. I found the work went better if I imagined myself stringing my violin. The nurse completed treatment with lints and bandages and an overall clean up of the affected areas, whilst I spoke with the young man’s mother. I had seen the knife he had used and an antitetanus injection wasn’t necessary—not that they’re of any real use, save as placebos. The youth and I then retired upstairs to my room, the remainder of my afternoon schedule being cancelled. Two greatly appreciated cups of tea were brought up to us.