We Are Both Mammals (11 page)

In fact,
I
was the only person involved who had
not known from the start.

I still had not been in contact with anyone
from my workplace, the laboratories. My co-workers and employer
there had been informed by the surgeons that I was recovering but
would not be returning to work; but that was all. After more than
three months, the surgery was still being kept quiet to all without
the clinic, with the exception of the assortment of specialists and
medical types who had visited us.

The highest officials from the Thurga
Medical Society had visited us, and shortly afterwards Surgeon
Suva-a told us, with some excitement, that she and Surgeon Fong
were to be awarded the Society’s highest accolade for their
pioneering work. On the same day, two letters from the Society
arrived: one for me and the other for Toro-a-Ba.

In elegant, unflowery English prose, my
letter praised me for my self-sacrifice. The letter explained that
the Society understood and acknowledged that the surgery had been
performed without my knowledge or consent, and that it would
perforce alter my life drastically and irrevocably; and that my
acceptance of this, and my refusal to request a reversal of the
surgery, were evidence of extraordinary courage and grace on my
part. The letter also thanked me for my unprecedented contribution
to medicine and science, which was no less valuable or impressive
for having been unforeseen and unintended.

I do not know how much the members of the
Society knew of Toro-a-Ba’s offering me the choice of undoing the
surgery, but the letter was gracious, sensitively worded, and
dignified. It was written to Daniel Avari the person, not Daniel
Avari the medical experiment.

The letter closed by wishing me all joy,
peace and strength, and unfailing courage for the rest of my
days.

I confess that there was a large lump in my
throat and tears in my eyes after reading it. Finally, I had, on
paper, acknowledgement of what I had suffered. Finally, I was being
spoken to as a person; not a patient, not a medical experiment, but
a person who had suffered much, and who had chosen to survive
rather than die.

Surgeon Suva-a explained to me and Toro-a-Ba
that she and Fong had written a report on what they had done,
complete with photographs that they had taken of me and Toro-a-Ba,
and it would be published in the Thurga Medical Society’s journal.
Eventually, of course, the human media would discover the story and
it was then that Toro-a-Ba’s and my privacy – and Fong’s, and
Suva-a’s, and the clinic’s – might no longer be so assured. We
were all, of course, under the protection of the government, but
all of us were now minor celebrities, of a sort.

“
Some organisations may
want to interview you,” Surgeon Fong informed us. “Of course, it’s
up to you both whether or not you answer any of those
requests.”

She also told us that she and Suva-a, with a
few others, were working on compiling a long, exhaustive report in
the form of a book, with diagrams, charts, readings and
photographs. After all, the data and knowledge that the clinic had
collected needed to be disseminated if it was to be of use to
others.

“
Are you interested in
being interviewed?” I asked Toro-a-Ba later.

He paused before answering, as usual.

“
If I thought that any
good might come of it, I would be.

“
However, I think, Daniel,
that you are not ready to be interviewed. I think that sometime in
the future, when we are more accustomed to this life, we may be
ready to be interviewed.”

I nodded slowly.

Then I sighed. The idea of becoming even
mildly famous was something that I had tried to avoid thinking
about. It was unavoidable, really; what the surgeons had done was
unique, and they deserved attention and praise for their cleverness
and skill; and, naturally, as the realisation of their work,
Toro-a-Ba and I would receive attention. I dreaded the thought of
renown because if my independence, and, to a large degree, my right
to my own body, were gone, then at least I might have been allowed
to keep some privacy. I also dreaded it because I hated the thought
of becoming a curiosity, a freak, ‘that guy who had a thurga
surgically attached to him’ …

I sighed again, and rubbed my eyes
wearily.

“
What is bothering you,
Daniel?” Toro-a-Ba asked softly.

“
Nothing,” I mumbled. “I
agree with what you said. … I’m going to have a sleep now.” I
rolled onto my side, facing away from him of course. At least I
could lie on my left side now, if I was careful in how I got there.
It was such a small thing to be happy about and grateful for; lying
however I wished should have been a birthright, surely, but no, not
for me, not now …

“
Sleep well, Daniel,”
Toro-a-Ba murmured.

–––––––

Following the visit of the members of the Thurga
Medical Society, Toro-a-Ba and I were allowed to use
Internet-capable devices again. The Society would release the news
of our case in its own time, so there was now no longer any need
for secrecy. My smartphone, which had been left in my locker at the
laboratories, was returned to me, along with the rest of my
effects: my pocketknife, wallet, keys, scarf, socks and shoes. I
gazed at them dismally. I was relieved to see them, but also I felt
strangely detached from them: they belonged to the old me, the
Daniel who had been independent and had lived in a flat and worked
as a laboratory technician, not the new, battered, weakened Daniel
who was permanently attached to a member of another species.

The nurses had thoughtfully charged our
smartphones before returning them to me and Toro-a-Ba. We thanked
the nurses, and Toro-a-Ba turned his smartphone on.

I went to turn mine on, then hesitated,
gazing at its blank black screen. Beside me, I heard a dozen soft
pings as messages arrived that had been floating in cyberspace for
three and a half months, awaiting delivery to the smartphone of
Vi-i-a Toro-a Ni-Ev.

My gaze remained fixed on my phone in my
hand. In a bittersweet way, I was relishing the object’s
familiarity, but dreading actually using it. It reminded me so much
of my old life. Did I dare read my e-mails? How many of them would
be from people who had not known where I was, and had remained
ignorant for days or weeks, wondering why I did not reply to their
messages? What calls or text messages had I missed? Did I dare do
all those old familiar things – look at my diary and see what
appointments I had missed, what tasks I had failed to do, what
notes to myself no longer applied …

I set the phone aside, on the bedside
cabinet, fighting back tears. My old life was in that phone. And my
old life was gone.

I knew that eventually I would have to turn
it on, and face the aftermath of my disappearance from the world
for three and a half months – more than a quarter of a year.
But not yet. Not yet. It was enough of a shock just to see my old
things again; I was not yet ready to use them as I had done
before.

After a moment, I sensed that Toro-a-Ba had
gone still and was gazing at me, reading my face. “Daniel,” he
murmured.

I gulped. “Who are your messages from?” I
asked gruffly.

“
Mostly from friends who
did not know of my surgery until they received no reply from me and
contacted my family to ask after me,” he replied
quietly.

I nodded. That made sense.

“
Each of them then sent me
another message saying that they had learned that I was undergoing
difficult surgery, wishing me well, and asking me to contact them
when I am recovered enough to do so,” he added.

I nodded again. Nothing like that would be
on my phone, I was fairly certain. My co-workers all knew about my
surgery.

“
Are you going to contact
them?” I asked, somewhat hoarsely, for the sake of distracting
myself from my own thoughts.

“
Yes, but I will send them
text messages rather than calling them, and I will ask them to not
call me until I say it is fine to do so.”

“
Why’s that?”

Toro-a-Ba hesitated, and this time it was
genuine hesitation, not his usual pause for thought. “I do not wish
to disturb you.”

“
You don’t have to worry
about that,” I said hollowly.

Toro-a-Ba hesitated again. He knew I was
lying; he knew I was unhappy; and I think he also realised that
there would be no messages from friends or family on my phone; but
he also knew, I suspect, that I would not admit anything to
him.

“
As you wish, Daniel,” he
murmured.

–––––––

We were now able to do many things by ourselves,
including showering. The clinic had a shower built in a corner of
the bathroom, and while I was still wheelchair-bound the nurses had
given me showers, lifting me onto the seat that was built into the
shower, and washing whatever parts of me I could not reach. The
first time, my body had given a kind of shudder at the feeling of
warm water pelting onto my skin; it was such a familiar sensation,
but after almost three months of not feeling it, it was a
shock.

Showering by myself, without assistance,
felt different, somehow.

The first time I did so, I
stood still in the spray for a long moment, glad to be showering
again but also, somehow, sad. I, Daniel Avari, had showered so many
times over the course of my life, but
this
body, this changed body, had never
showered itself before.

Something I had read once, long ago, who
knew where or why, suddenly swam back into my head.

No man ever steps in the same river twice,
for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.

I washed myself carefully, taking my time as
I had to with everything nowadays. I would get used to this. I
would get faster at it. Eventually, it would become mundane,
perhaps almost as practised and commonplace as showering without
Toro-a-Ba.

Thurga-a rarely use soap, since, not wearing
clothes, they need the oils in their fur to remain to keep the fur
water-resistant and healthy. Toro-a-Ba splashed around in the
puddles on the blue and white tiled floor near my feet, shaking
himself frequently and grooming his fur with his claws. While I
conditioned my hair, he jumped carefully onto the shower’s inbuilt
seat, and asked me to turn the spray onto him, as he had asked the
nurses when they were washing us. He soaked himself in the spray,
turning this way and that, seeming to enjoy it, then shook himself,
sending water flying in all directions through the bathroom. I
almost laughed.

I was slowly becoming used to being naked in
front of Toro-a-Ba. Being naked with him still felt different to
being naked with the nurses, however; the nurses were assisting me
– us – in a professional capacity; they saw naked people
and dealt with bodily fluids all the time, whereas Toro-a-Ba, even
though he had been training to be a nurse himself, somehow did not
feel to me like a nurse; perhaps purely because he was not actively
nursing me.

Toro-a-Ba had finished washing himself, and
was idly playing with puddles and combing his fur with his claws as
he waited for me to finish likewise. Somehow, washing myself seemed
to be taking ages. Just lifting my arms above my head to do simple
things like adjust the spray or shampoo my hair was done at half
speed. Showering used to be such a straightforward thing … And my
abdomen was starting to ache a little with the effort …

“
Shall I wash your feet
for you?” Toro-a-Ba offered.

“
Er ––” I was a little surprised
by the suggestion. “No, thank you, Toro-a-Ba. I can manage.” I
needed to learn how to do it myself. – To
re
-learn. There was so much that I had to
re-learn … The thought of still, after all these weeks of being an
invalid, needing someone to wash parts of my body for me stung me,
and I added ungraciously, in a terse mutter, “You’re my
life-support system, not my nursemaid.”

“
As you wish, Daniel,”
Toro-a-Ba murmured, and I felt guilty.

That feeling, too, stung me still further.
Why should I feel guilty for wanting to be independent? That was
all I had ever had, and now it was gone! Why should I be made to
feel bad for wanting to keep all the independence I could – for not
wanting to be a burden to Toro-a-Ba more than I already was?! I
crushed the washcloth in my hand.

“
I don’t need you to take
care of me!” I snapped, trying to explain my feelings but aware
that I was probably only going to make it worse.

“
Certainly,” Toro-a-Ba
agreed mildly. “Please forgive me, Daniel: I did not intend any
offence.”

I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment. The
water continued to pelt onto my skin.

I wanted to tell him that it was fine; that
his apology was accepted; but it wasn’t fine. It would never be
fine. Having Toro-a-Ba always there, needing him always to take
care of me because my own body could not … it wasn’t fine. It would
never be fine.

But I had to live with it anyway, and I had
to find a way of not taking my frustrations out on the very person
who was trying to help me by allowing me to live.

In the end I sat down on the seat and
carefully reached down to wash my feet and lower legs. My belly
ached, and was extra tender for two days afterwards.

It would have been easier to ask Toro-a-Ba
to do it.

–––––––

On her second visit with us, the physiotherapist had
suggested something simple and brilliant: I should wear a backpack
to carry Toro-a-Ba.