The cast came off today -- but the elation at having the itchy plaster shell removed was soon replaced by a stomach-wrenching reality check.

Wrapped in his swaddling bands, it was somehow easier to pretend that Mr Stumpy wasn't really there. He was part of me but somehow detached. Once he'd broken free of his shackles though, standing there as naked as the day he was born, the truth was harder to deny. For the first time since the accident my brain clocked the fact: "YOU HAVE LOST YOUR FOOT. IT WILL NOT COME BACK. EVER." My gut reaction wasn't disgust or revulsion. I didn't feel the urge to run out of the room screaming "I'm a freak, I'm a freak" (not that I could have done much running if I'd wanted to.) It was just sheer, deep shock, pure as vodka. Where for the past 31 years there has been an unattractive, bony but functional foot and ankle, now there's nothing. I couldn't have prepared myself for the feeling if I'd tried.

Maybe it's voyeuristic, maybe tasteless, but I've tried to be honest since the day I started this blog. If people complain, I'll take it off without hestitation but for my own therapeutic purposes if nothing else, here's where I'm at. Please don't open the link if you're easily upset. If you're a regular reader you should know that I'm not out to shock but seeing as I make a living telling other peoples real-life stories it's only fair that I take the same approach with my own.

The nurse soon put Mr S back in his place (same health warning as before) but I still spent most of the afternoon shaking. Today's been a thousand times harder to cope with than the accident.

Discuss Northern Iraq -- and Beyond