We Are Both Mammals (10 page)

So where, then, would he and I live?

I was reluctant to ask, because I was
reluctant to converse with Toro-a-Ba in general; although I had
made my decision to live, a large part of me still wished that none
of this had happened.

But I could see that such things would never
get any easier. There would never be a time when I would be pleased
about what had happened to me, or glad that I was joined to
Toro-a-Ba. There would never be a moment when it would not be
uncomfortable to ask Toro-a-Ba this question.

So one morning, when there was no one but us
in the room, I cleared my throat and prepared myself to ask. “Ah …
Toro-a-Ba …”

Ever polite, he looked at me expectantly.
“What is it, Daniel?”

“
Erm … at some point …
we’re going to have to leave here, I suppose.”

“
Yes,” Toro-a-Ba agreed.
Then he waited.

“
So where … where will we
go? … Do you … What about your family?”

Toro-a-Ba was silent for a moment. He has
this way of thinking before he speaks; I do not know how much of
this is due to the fact that English is not his first language, how
much is cultural – thurga-a are not voluble, and they often
pause to think before speaking – and how much is simply his
contemplative, deliberate personality.

“
My family lives in the
Goto-a region, in a village called Runa-ii,” he said. “I, however,
have been living here in Kivi-a for two years.”

“
So … do you want to go
back to them?” My mind was filled with dismal, anxious questions.
What about Toro-a-Ba’s nurse training? Did he intend to complete
it, somehow? Surely he would not be able to do so with me attached
to him. What on earth were we supposed to do with our lives, now,
anyway, if neither of us could work?

“
Yes. For a while. I wish
to visit them.”

“…
And then
what?”

I looked across at him, feeling slightly
tearful. “What do we do now? Where are we going to live?”

“
Where would you like to
live, Daniel?” Toro-a-Ba inquired calmly.

I flopped my head back into my pillow. I was
a dead man without him; what did it matter what I wanted?! At no
point in this entire debacle had what I wanted been a legitimate
consideration!

Then I took a deep breath, and reminded
myself that the only reason this surgery had been performed without
my consent was because I had not been conscious to give or deny it.
Toro-a-Ba himself had longed to know my wishes, but the information
had simply been unobtainable. It was not fair of me to accuse him,
at least, of mistreating me.

“
May I offer some points
from which we might begin a discussion?” Toro-a-Ba ventured, so
politely that I almost laughed.

“
Sure.”

Toro-a-Ba explained that he was, naturally,
unable to continue his training as a nurse. “Nevertheless, for your
safety and mine it seems sensible for us to base ourselves near
this clinic, where the most expert assistance will be available to
us should we need it. Since you and I were already living in this
city, it should be no great hardship to do so. Besides, our
surgeons wish to continue to study our recovery, so our remaining
nearby would be convenient for them and us.”

He explained that he had requested various
real estate publications, and had been searching through them for a
dwelling that might be suitable for us.

‘
For us’. For me and my
thurga. So that we could live together. I tried not to feel
overwhelmed yet again by the surreality of the
situation.

Toro-a-Ba said that he had found a set of
buildings that might be suitable for us. Gripping a magazine in
both paws, for it was a human-sized magazine, he turned toward me
and held it out to me.

The houses Toro-a-Ba pointed out to me were
single-storey, luxury bungalows, with large windows overlooking a
tree-laden park. The buildings were spacious, with large gardens.
Most had only two shallow steps leading up to the front door, and
the interiors seemed spacious, light and airy. They were very
attractive … and, of course, very expensive.

“
Will the government pay
for something like this?” I asked uncertainly.

“
I believe so.”

I looked again at the houses in the
magazine. I would never have been able to afford this kind of house
using my own wages; – or, at least, not without saving up for
it for a few decades.

I thought for a long moment about living in
a place like this with my thurga companion.

How different our lives would have been if I
had not had that accident. Or if no volunteer had been found to
keep me alive. How different things might have been …

“
Is this where you want to
live, Toro-a-Ba?” I inquired.

He hesitated – or was it just his usual
pause before speaking?

“
If you would be
comfortable in such a place,” he said serenely.

I gulped.

“
Where would you … where
would you choose to live, Toro-a-Ba?” I ventured humbly, half
dreading the answer. Surely he would want to return to the
residence he had chosen here in the city, wherever that residence
was … Or maybe he would want to live with his family in their
village …

There was a slight pause, and then Toro-a-Ba
climbed out from under his bedclothes and walked toward me. He sat
on my bed, near my right hip, facing me; something he had never
done before. I stared at him.

“
Daniel, you do not
understand,” he said, very softly. “… I choose to live with
you.”

We held each other’s gaze for a long, long
moment, as Toro-a-Ba’s words slowly sank into my head.

At last, I looked down, and swallowed.

Then I gave a tiny nod. I understood.

–––––––

Now I was wheelchair-bound instead of bedridden. The
day I could actually stand felt like a momentous occasion. Wearing
a hospital robe, and with a nurse on either side of me for support,
I slowly allowed my feet to take my weight, shakily straightening
my legs while the nurses steadied me by my arms. I stood, vertical
but slightly bowed, for a few seconds before needing to sit back
down because my belly began to ache. But I felt heroic. Had it had
a consciousness, the accident that should have killed me would have
been writhing in fury at the fact that I was standing once
more.

The first few steps felt even more amazing.
I almost laughed aloud, like a child learning to walk. To all of
these achievements, the untalkative Toro-a-Ba seldom said more than
a sincere “Well done, Daniel”, but I could tell by the warmth with
which the words were delivered that he was pleased by my
progress.

I still had difficulty with looking him in
the eye.

Eventually I was able to leave the bed and
use a toilet, with a nurse’s assistance. It was somewhat
humiliating to have Toro-a-Ba sitting nearby as I did so, like a
dog on a leash that I could not set down. It was more humiliating
than needing assistance to use the toilet: the nurse was necessary,
Toro-a-Ba was … inescapable. At least whilst I was bedridden the
nurses had been able to use the bedclothes as a sort of screen
while I used a toilet pan. But it was unavoidable, and Toro-a-Ba
politely sat with his back to me and regarded the far wall.

One of the nurses asked me, one day, if I
would like to wear some proper clothes now. It was like being asked
if I wanted to rejoin the land of the living. My laboratory
overalls, and my own shirt and trousers beneath them, had been
ruined when the ambulance staff cut them off me after the accident.
The nurse took my measurements, asked me what colours and fits I
liked, and went out and bought, with the clinic’s money, some plain
T-shirts, underwear, and comfortable, loose-fitting track pants. I
needed some assistance at first, but soon I was able to put them on
myself. I, and Toro-a-Ba, shuffled into the bathroom so that I
could see myself in the mirror there. The T-shirts had a curious
bulge in my right side where they hung over the hose, and a couple
of days later I asked one of the nurses to help me cut a vertical
slit in each of them to accommodate the hose. It felt strange to be
wearing deliberately defaced T-shirts, but I supposed that
eventually I would get used to it, and I preferred having a slitted
T-shirt to one that bulged strangely on one side.

It is curious how significant ordinary
things become when we have been denied the ability to do them. I
felt more alive, and somehow more able to take myself seriously,
once I was no longer wearing a hospital robe.

As soon as I – and Toro-a-Ba
– could leave the bed – ‘our bed’ – to use the toilet without
assistance, we were introduced to an expert in human physiotherapy
and rehabilitation for amputees and other survivors of extreme
physical trauma. She was primarily there to help me learn to move
without damaging my abdomen as it recovered, and to observe. There
had never been a case like mine before, so there were no methods
for teaching two linked creatures how to move together. Toro-a-Ba
and I would have to figure that out for ourselves, and the numerous
specialists involved in our case were keen to observe and document
our progress.

Toro-a-Ba and I would walk through the
various rooms of the clinic, slowly and carefully, with me moving
one foot at a time, and Toro-a-Ba keeping pace alongside.
Eventually, of course, we were able to speed up as my body
recovered and remembered how it felt to walk. Inevitably, I stepped
on him a few times. I have no words for how embarrassingly
inappropriate it feels to step on the creature who saved your life
and volunteered to give the rest of his life to you. Of course,
Toro-a-Ba was immeasurably accepting and forgiving of these literal
faux pas, and this only added to my humiliation.

Ascertaining how to move whilst constantly
joined to another creature was laborious enough in the controlled
environment of the clinic: in the months since then, it has not
become any easier. The hose must be thought about constantly;
almost obsessively. Toro-a-Ba and I can never move too far apart,
lest it tug on us both painfully. We have to be careful to avoid
snagging it on anything, for the same reason. I have to move at a
pace with which Toro-a-Ba can keep up; neither of us can move
suddenly; and we must always, always be aware of what the other is
doing. Courtesies such as informing the other of our intention to
do something, even something as mundane as using the toilet, must
always be observed; and we are constantly asking each other what
the other wants to do. Shall we sit here? Is it all right with you
if I have a nap? I need to do such-and-such a thing; when does it
suit you for me to do it?

I cannot deny that it is truly wearying.
There are times when I could weep for sheer frustration.

But it is my – our – life, now. It
will always be thus. And, as Tara the psychologist has said, the
difference between one’s circumstances being acceptable or
intolerable is what one believes they are.

Progress was slow. The physiotherapist had
given me various exercises to help rehabilitate my muscles, many of
which I did on the floor while Toro-a-Ba trotted on a treadmill
beside me so that he could exercise also. There were days when it
felt as though my body was reluctant to live after all; it had
suffered so much trauma and interference that it responded
sluggishly to what was asked of it. The physiotherapist and the
nurses assured me that this was entirely to be expected: the fact
that I could walk without assistance did not mean that I was
healed.

The day after a session in which I had
attempted some new exercises designed to strengthen my back, I felt
stiff. I longed to roll onto my belly and relax, relieving my back
muscles of my body weight, but I had not been able to lie on my
front for three and a half months. The temporary tubes and stitches
were all removed; but my abdomen still felt tender and did not like
to be stretched or to have more than a little pressure placed on
it. The nurses had instructed me to gently stroke and massage my
abdomen frequently to encourage the muscles, nerves and skin to
regrow and to prevent it becoming hypersensitive to touch; but I
could not bear to lie on my front. Not yet. Oh, it was all so
tiresome! When would my body be my own again, to do with as I
pleased?!

Never, of course.

Lying in bed, I arched my back as much as my
abdomen could tolerate, and managed to inch my hands under my lower
back, trying to ease it a little. Toro-a-Ba watched me. He and I
were alone in the room – ‘our bedroom’.

“
Is your back hurting you,
Daniel?” he asked, after a moment.

“
It’s sore from
exercising,” I said tersely.

“
If you sit up, I could
massage it for you,” Toro-a-Ba offered.

I blinked at the thought of him massaging
me, hesitated, then said, “No, it’s fine.”

Toro-a-Ba cocked his head slightly,
quizzically. “But if you are sore, it is not fine. Shall I call a
nurse to massage it?”

“
No, it’s fine!” I
snapped.

There was a couple of seconds of silence in
the room.

Then I released a deep sigh, closed my eyes,
set my teeth and swallowed. “Sorry, Toro-a-Ba.”

“
I understand, Daniel,”
Toro-a-Ba murmured; but I wondered if he did.

–––––––

By this time a variety of medical specialists
– human and thurga – had visited us on various occasions
to observe Toro-a-Ba and me. They would examine us physically,
paying particular attention to the hose, or watch us as we moved
around the clinic together, and would talk with Surgeons Suva-a and
Fong for hours in Suva-a’s office. It was embarrassing to be
examined and observed by strangers, but I had already spent so long
being prodded and examined and studied that it was starting to feel
commonplace. We were not horses being trotted out and appraised; we
were a medical marvel, a scientific leap, something that would
yield masses of data that could then be used in many different
cases. Of course they wanted to study us. And of course Toro-a-Ba
had known from the start that this is exactly what would
happen.