We were waiting for our next scheduled surgery. Assembled to watch the surgeons operate on the patient, standing on the sidelines trying to be as invisible as we could be. He walked himself in. The patient. The part I keep returning to. He walked himself through the ward, past the nurses' station, down the corridor, and through the doors of the operation theatre. On two legs, under his own power, for the last time. ‘Below-knee amputation’, the file said. Scheduled for ten. H
