🖕The Day I Lost My Finger

The Sunday Night Review #156

In 2016, I had a life changing rock climbing accident.

And for 7 years I’ve wanted to write the story of what happened, but never did.

Then 6 months ago, I spontaneously decided to write about it whilst on a flight. It’s been sitting quietly in my notes since then.

Today, I want to share it. I’m not sure why today in particular, but I couldn’t think of a reason why not.

A quick heads up: it’s not a light Sunday read, and if you’re squeamish then tread lightly xx

August 3rd 2016

"We have two lives, the second begins when we realise we only have one" - Confucius

I was on holiday with my family on Alderney, an island in the Channel between England and France. It’s a very small island, with a population of around 2,000 people.

We’d been there a few times before, because we love staying at this location called Fort Clonque, a 19th-century coastal fortress which had been renovated to rent out to tourists and holiday makers.

We’d spent the morning of that day in August on the beach buying ice creams, playing games and eating sandwiches. I’d been away for the past few months travelling in Vietnam and Thailand on my gap year after leaving school so it was nice to be with my family again.

I was 19 years old.

After spending the day at the beach, I raced back with my brother Tom and cousin Christopher on some bikes we’d rented, ahead of my parents and the rest of our group.

Fort Clonque is a unique location. It’s slightly out from the mainland, accessed by a long concrete road called a causeway. When the tide is high, the causeway becomes completely submerged and you can’t cross it.

It becomes its own island for a few hours when the tide is high. That’s one of the reasons why we loved it.

At the end of the causeway, the fort itself is built on top of a collection of huge isolated rock formations, that stick out from the sea.

When the tide is high, the waves thrash against the massive cliffs of the rocks, and when the tide is low, you can walk down from the fort to the bottom of the cliffs, and out along the huge rocks on the sea bed for a few hundred metres.

When Tom, Christopher and I arrived at the fort, we realised we didn’t have the key for the front door.

We couldn’t be bothered to wait for my parents who had the key, so we wondered if we could climb in.

The fort is half surrounded by a large stone wall and half the cliffs themselves, so it wasn’t easy.

The stone walls at the front were too high and smooth faced to climb, but round the back it seemed like it might be possible.

And the tide was out so we’d be able to get to the them.

Whilst Christopher and I were deciding whether it was worth it or not, Tom ran round the back and managed to find a way in. He appeared a while later on top of the stone walls at the front where we were waiting, demonstrating to us that he’d got in.

Christopher and I decided to try and climb in round the back as well.

We thought we’d found the spot where Tom had climbed in, so we made a start. Christopher was 16 at the time, so I said I’d go first to find a safe path.

A few years before, during a previous stay at Fort Clonque, Tom had actually attempted to climb the same cliff I was now climbing, but had got stuck half way up realising how dangerous it was.

We had to call the fire-brigade to abseil down the cliff to him and haul him up to the top. He’d had the wisdom to stop climbing and wait for help.

I had completely forgotten that event, and was now climbing almost the exact same path.

From memory the cliff was around 30m high. An insane distance to climb, let alone without a rope.

Tom had in fact climbed in a much easier route even further round, but we didn’t realise at the time.

I went first, and Christopher followed behind. It wasn’t completely vertical, so we could lean on the rock face, and use our hands to find safe holds.

It was a bit shakey, but nothing in my life had ever made me think twice about something like this.

At 19, I felt immortal.

I got about 8 metres up, when I put my right hand on a large rock about 50-70cm in diameter. It immediately started coming away from the rock face.

It fell off into my body, and pushed me away from the wall. I suddenly couldn’t grab the rock face anymore, and started falling backwards. I spun around to see where I was going to fall.

That moment is one of the two most painful memories I have from that day.

Now facing down the cliff, I could see how far I had climbed. One word came out my mouth.

Fuck.

The moment lasts an eternity in my mind. I immediately realised that I had gone too far, that I was not immortal, and that I was about to suffer.

My feet were still on the cliff, but I was now leaning off the mountain, facing down, staring at an almost vertical 8m drop.

In that moment when people think they’re about to die, they often recount that they think of their families or their regrets. For me, nothing like that happened.

No sudden enlightenment about what I should do with my life, just pure, animalistic panic.

I fell past Christopher, who watched me half tumble, half fly down the cliff. My eyes were closed the entire time, so my memory is a black whirlwind of impact and freefall.

I fell between two enormous rocks, that were normally submerged by water. The rock that I’d pulled off at the top had fallen down behind me, breaking into smaller but still large pieces on the way down. They were funnelled to land on top of me by the giant rocks I’d fallen between.

I didn’t know where I was, but rocks were crashing with a vicious force on my head and legs. The sound was tremendous, it was like a hailstorm.

And then it stopped.

The next moment was the second and most painful memory I have from that day.

I opened my eyes, and I was sitting upright on wet sand in a dark, cold crevice. My legs were stretched out in front of me, covered in blood and shards of rock, with lacerations across both of them.

And then I saw my right hand.

My middle finger looked liked something out of a horror film.

It had been smashed open, kind of like it had been crushed by a wooden mallet. The doctor later reported that the bone had been completely obliterated.

There was nothing left on the top half of my finger but a mess of skin, flesh and nerves.

And the back of my hand had been sliced open too so blood was streaming out. It was not a pretty sight.

I screamed more violently than I knew was possible.

Christopher recalled this moment as a relief, because he knew that I wasn’t dead. At least not yet. I’d fallen in between the rocks, so he wasn’t able to see me from where he was still standing on the cliff. I imagine at that point he was quite nervous of moving himself.

But a few moments later, I saw him poke his head out at the top of the gap between the rocks.

I yelled at him to get my brother. I needed Tom because I knew he was capable of hauling me out of the crevice, and I wasn’t sure Christopher was strong enough.

Tom is also like superman in these kind of situations. I knew he’d do whatever he could to help me.

I sat in the cold, wet space screaming for a few minutes, in shock at the destruction of my body.

This memory is actually the one that’s hardest to think about today. It felt like living out a movie scene.

But then Tom appeared.

He’d been inside the fort of course when he heard the scream. The door was still locked, so he climbed up the stone walls on the inside and then jumped a huge distance and ran round to help me.

He called down to me “Tintin, are you alright?” I wasn’t sure.

I was too far down for him to grab me whilst I was sitting, so he asked if I could stand up.

My legs were badly damaged, and my left foot was drooping off my leg a worrying amount, but somehow nothing was broken (except my finger). Once I was standing, Tom leant down and grabbed my arm and hauled me out.

I sat on top of the rock with Tom for a bit, crying.

I had some horrific injuries, and was petrified about my hand, but I hadn’t died from the fall.

He didn’t tell me at the time, but I had a nasty laceration across my neck too which was pouring blood. I felt less panicked now though, because I didn’t think I was dying, and Tom made me feel safe.

He managed to calm me down to the point where I even managed a smile.

We waited on that rock for about 15 minutes before my parents arrived, and another 15 before the ambulance came. The tide had started coming in when they arrived, so there was some fuss about whether they could get me back round to the front of the fort in time, whether a boat was needed, or even a helicopter.

I felt immediately guilty for my stupidity and the stress that I’d caused my family. They’d already had their fair share of tragedies.

The medics decided to put me on a stretcher and carry me above their heads whilst they waded through the water. It was a funny scene. I was now relatively confident that I’d be alright, but hypothermia was lingering.

I was taken to the ambulance and driven to Alderney hospital.

At the hospital, I was taken into the x-ray room to examine the damage. The nurse who was wheeling my bed fainted from looking at my injuries, and in the process accidentally hauled my bed into a wall.

I asked my mum to take pictures of my injuries. I knew how valuable those would be.

They stitched up the cuts they could, but my hand injuries needed a specialist. I stayed the night in Alderney hospital, with my mum sleeping on the chair next to me. We then transferred to Salisbury hospital in England the next day to see a hand surgeon.

I waited 2 days in the intensive care unit before having surgery.

At one point I was next in line, but then someone came in having chopped off all 10 fingers with a lawn mower. I think he deserved to go first.

Finally it was my turn, and the surgeon told me that there was a risk they’d have to shorten my finger. Shorten. The word made me shiver.

But he knew they’d have to get rid of it, he’d seen the x-rays. There was no bone left, but I think he wanted to ease me into the thought process of not having a finger.

The surgery went fine, and they did indeed have to remove half my finger and stitch up my hand. The thought of my poor finger being put in the bin still haunts me.

I had a cast on my hand and arm for a week after surgery.

When they took it off, I couldn’t stop crying. My mum asked if I wanted her to take more pictures, but this time I couldn’t handle it. My hand looked horrendous. It was incredibly swollen, but most importantly half my middle finger was missing.

It took about 6 months to fully get used to. For a while, I was mainly nervous that no girl would ever like someone with a hand like mine.

But having a missing finger turned out to be way less significant than I thought. I don’t really notice it these days (and I can still type faster than most people).

The 3rd of August 2016 changed my life.

It laid bare my mortality, and reminded me that some day I will indeed die for real.

Most people have to wait until they have a mid life crisis aged 50 to realise that they only have one life, that time will actually run out.

I learned this lesson at 19.

Occasionally, the image of drowning trapped underneath a huge rock in the crevice of death enters my mind, and I hate rock climbing, but I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything.

Now, at 27, I live increasingly conscious of the finite time that we are all given. And my missing finger reminds me of that every day.

I want to make the most of it. I want to work on meaningful projects, I want to love as much as I can and I want to let go of fears that hold me back.

I hope that this story inspires you in some way to not wait for things in your life.

Have an epic week!

Tintin 👨‍💻

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