In March 2006 I was hospitalised with fourth-degree frostbite.  What followed was a summer of recovery and a time for moving on.

For months hospital specialists didn’t know what the outcome of my hands was going to be, what would be left and how they were to look for the rest of my life. The pain as my hands thawed was suffocating. I was on antibiotics to prevent gangrene setting in and monitored by a pain team. To help dull the pain I was on heavy doses of morphine for two months.

I looked under my bandages when strict sterile dressing changes were performed twice daily. Dressings looked just vile and smelt nasty. Flesh chunks were missing and looked like they’d been gnawed away by rats. The sight had me feel nauseas and very uneasy. They looked distorted, gnarled and always felt cold. I was told the longer we wait the better, even dead looking fingers recover. Nurses wore protective masks.
 
I refused to be beaten and planned for a move to Greenland. I grasped hold of the idea, treasured it and never ever let go. At the time it felt that’s all I had to pull myself through. I made lists of jobs to do on my Panasonic Toughbook. I managed to clasp pencils between my teeth. Pencil ends were my dexterity for each single keyboard letter.  Progression was made by slipping sponge tubes over the pencils, these I gripped gently with my bandaged fists. I slowly tapped away.
 
The loss of my dogs was crushing. I refused to think of eleven coffins. Hardly a minute went by without me visualising my hands recovered and I wanted dog fur on my clothes again. I kept telling myself to keep going and that life was going to be rosy again.