by G. Wulfing
I lay awake that night thinking about the thurga’s words.
It occurred to me that if I was genuinely eager for death, the choice would have been easy. The fact that I was still thinking about it perhaps meant that I was not so sour and ill-disposed toward the idea of living as I had thought I was.
Was it living that I wanted, or life without a thurga attached to me?
Was I prepared to live like this?
Was life with a constant, conjoined companion actually palatable to me?
I sensed that this was a crossroads, an all-or-nothing decision. I did not want to change my mind in five years’ time, or six months’, or fifteen years’. To give this situation a trial run – to test the surgery for a year or so in order to see if I was all right with it, treating Toro-a-Ba and my own life and all the medical technology and expertise that had been poured into me like a new car that I was taking for a test drive – would be graceless. Ignorant. Selfish. I was either prepared to live the rest of my days with Toro-a-Ba attached to me, or I was not. If I was not, then I must die. That was the only fair decision to make: why should Toro-a-Ba be yoked to someone who unwaveringly resented his presence and his self-sacrifice?
I would die nobly, for the right reasons, or I would live on in these new circumstances with all the grace and acceptance I could muster. That was my choice. That was all I could do.
Unfair things happen every day. Life is under no obligation to treat us fairly. We can wither and wilt, or we can swallow and move on.
It was not fair that this had happened to me. It was not fair that Toro-a-Ba and the surgeons had had no knowledge of what my wishes would be with regard to the surgery. They had done the best that they could, knowing that they were taking risks, but that what they did might serve a greater purpose in the end. Was it fair of me to hate them for that? What would I have done in their positions?
I began, quietly, to cry, as I lay there in the dark on my pillow.
Life is harsh and horrible. Life is cruel, and unfair.
And it has been thus since the beginning of the world. Hundreds of generations have suffered under life’s cruelty, bearing unspeakable sorrow. And yet we have endured.
My tears flowed on and on.
How brave is the human spirit? What light is it that keeps us from lying down to die?
I did not sleep that night. The nurses continued to check on us, as always, but I feigned sleep whenever they entered the room. By the time morning came, I had made my decision.
As the room lightened with the unseen dawn, I looked at the thurga asleep beside me. For the first time, I really looked at him, and this time I wanted to see him.
This was the person who had risked his life for me, a stranger.
This was the person who had offered to devote his life to my service.
I stared at him; that small, furry, dark-brown body with its little ribs rising and falling in sleep. On his back, eyes closed, he looked vulnerable and diminutive. His small, rat-like hands were lightly clasping the edge of the bedclothes where they rested on his midriff.
He even had whiskers. Whiskers, and a small dark nose. I had known this all along, of course, but now I was accepting it.
He had claws, and a semi-prehensile tail, this creature, the creature with whom I would spend the rest of my life. His body was now joined to my body; I had an appendage, and that appendage had fur. He had pointed teeth, including little fangs, and tufts of black fur on his ears. Even though I had worked with thurga-a for years now, and was living on their planet, they still resembled animals to my eyes, and in this moment, knowing that I would be joined to one for the rest of my days, it was, in my heart of hearts, difficult not to feel that I was joining myself to an animal.
I closed my eyes for a moment, and gulped hugely.
I would accept that.
Fangs, fur, tufted ears, and all. I would accept it.
I forced my eyes open again and made myself stare at Toro-a-Ba. I could feel myself shaking slightly, and I could not pretend that it was only because I was weary, emotionally drained, and a little cold. This was him. This was the creature who was attached to me. This was the creature with whom I would spend the rest of my life, as with a spouse or ‘significant other’.
His name was Vi-i-a Toro-a Ni-Ev.
That was the name his parents gave him. The Vi-i-a family – I was joined to a member of it. Vi-i-a Toro-a Ni-Ev … that name would become familiar to me; perhaps almost as familiar as my own.
No spouse, no children, for me. I could accept that.
No normal life, ever. I could accept that.
Orphans are never really normal, anyway.
I would be a freak for the rest of my days, as would Toro-a.
I would accept that.
I stared at Toro-a-Ba for a long time; I do not know how long. At length, his eyes opened and he looked straight at me, as though even before he woke he had sensed that he was being watched.
We looked at each other for a long time, in silence.
Before, I could scarcely bear to glance at him. Now, I could not look away.
I could see Toro-a reading my face. Still he said nothing, but I could see him … knowing.
After a long moment, I realised that I was crying again; slow, cool tears were parading down my face in the tremulous light of dawn.
Eventually the nurses came in to check on us as usual at about six o’clock, and Toro-a-Ba and I behaved as normal. The nurses, seeing my tear-streaked countenance, asked me with concern if I was all right, and I assured them that I was all right, that I was in no especial pain, and that I had simply not slept well. I do not know how much of this they believed, but they had seen me in distressed states before and knew that distress was simply to be expected in my case.
Later, after breakfast, we were alone once more, and had picked up our books to read, propped up on our pillows; though I for one was not reading.
I wanted to speak to him, but would almost rather have shoved my head into a bucket of ice-water than try. I felt shy, self-conscious and awkward, and somehow ashamed.
I dallied for a long time, and then decided that it would never get any easier. I would have to speak to him at some point. After all the ignoring of him that I had done, was it not my turn to speak? After all that he had done for me, was it too much for me to speak openly with him about something that concerned us both?
My fingers had been holding open my paperback book where it rested on its stand; I let the book slowly sink closed onto them. I turned my head to look at Toro-a-Ba.
He met my gaze within a few seconds, as though he had been monitoring me out of the corner of his eye. I looked away and down, at the bedclothes toward the foot of the bed.
“Erm … Toro-a-Ba …” I began, sounding, even to my own ears, very unsure of myself.
“What is it, Daniel?” Toro-a-Ba murmured. ‘Daniel’, again.
“Erm … I … I should like to live,” I fumbled. Then I dared to glance at him.
Toro-a-Ba nodded slowly in acknowledgement. I could not tell what he was thinking.
And then, mercifully, I saw him smile. His ears relaxed, his face softened, the eyelids over those round dark eyes drooped slightly, and the corners of his mouth curled upwards a little.
“I understand,” he said softly. “Thank you for telling me.”
And, for some reason, all I wanted to do was weep some more.
I lay back on my pillows and stared straight ahead at the wall, unsteadily pulling my fingertips from the book, fighting tears so hard that I could not stop my face from twitching and my breath from being jerky.
After a moment, Toro-a-Ba murmured, “Daniel …
“You are very brave.”
I swallowed with a throat that felt like it was made of concrete, and shook my head slowly and emphatically, side to side across the pillow.
I was not brave. I was a coward.
Toro-a-Ba was brave.
–––––––
I
– we – were bedridden for a total of two and a half months.
Most of this time Toro-a-Ba spent in bed not because he needed to but because I did.
It seemed like it should have been so easy for Toro-a-Ba to get up and leave: he was fine; his body had healed very well and he was back to full health. But of course, he could never get up and leave ever again. He could never, ever, walk away from me.
Actually, it was slightly untrue to say that Toro-a-Ba was back to full health: his organs were having to work harder than normal in order to assist mine. This, however, would be normal for him for the rest of my life.
Toro-a-Ba asked me if it would hurt me were he to stand up and move around on his bed, since the hose in his side no longer hurt him provided he moved carefully. We found that so long as my end of the hose remained still, it did not hurt me; and I watched him stand, shake himself and stretch gingerly, and walk about on the bed. He now had the run of the bed; – his bed: he did not venture onto my bed. I suppose he felt that he could not do so without my express permission. He would often sit or lie in varying spots on his bed, changing position and location frequently as though enjoying the ability to move again. I envied him.
I found myself watching him a great deal; studying him, as though trying to get used to him. His semi-prehensile tail, his movements, his mannerisms … the shapes he made as he moved, and the way he carried himself …
I would know him for the rest of my life. He would be by my side until the end of my days; for if he left me, I would be dead within hours. No marriage, no relationship, was ever so permanent or so certain.
The thought made me melancholy, and a little fearful. What relationship is free of strain? What marriage is so harmonious that no small disagreement ever arises? Yet Toro-a-Ba and I would have to agree forever. We were from different cultures, different planets originally, different species … we were not even physically similar! It was difficult for me to think of any attribute that we shared, except for the fact that we are both male, and of comparable ages … and, as Toro-a-Ba had said, we are both mammals. And we two disparate creatures would have to find a way to coexist and cohabit in the most intimate way. We could never be apart. We could never have separate hobbies, occupations, friends … I would never so much as take a shower alone again.
The thought filled me with grief. Yes, that was the word for it: prior to the surgery I had been alone, independent; lonely, yes, often, but free. The one triumph of an orphan: freedom. And now even that had been taken from me. I still had no family; and now I also had no independence. That was something to grieve for.
I refused to regret my decision: early in life I had made it a rule never to regret: but I realised, as the days went on, that there was still a lot of ‘processing’, as the psychologist would say, that I had to do. This new situation was still difficult, still demanding. I had chosen life, but I knew with a heavy heart that it would not be easy. Death would certainly have been easier.
But I think it is not really in human nature to take the easy path. Not when it comes to survival.
The surgeons did not dare allow me to stand up until they were sure that every organ and my abdominal muscles had healed sufficiently that they would not be damaged by the engagement required to hold me upright. The nurses continued to massage my muscles – everywhere except my abdomen, which could not tolerate pressure – to prevent them wasting too much, and they wiped me down every day to keep me clean. It was embarrassing, of course, but embarrassment was a normal part of my life now.
Gradually, one by one, the tubes and bandages and clusters of twinging stitches were removed. My abdomen was riddled with scars, but was a relief to see and feel my body becoming more and more normal; to look and feel more human again, and more like myself again – albeit a battered version of myself.
It would be another few months, they told me, before all the heaviest drugs in my system had drained away, and it could be longer still before I no longer needed painkillers of any kind: there was, after all, a large synthetic hose hanging out of my side. My body’s purification and digestive systems were currently working at far less than their usual capacity, and of course would never return to their full efficiency, which was why Toro-a-Ba was needed. His, much smaller, organs would filter and digest whatever my organs could not.
Thankfully, my bladder had remained almost unscathed; however, because my other organs were not processing urine, Toro-a-Ba’s body had been processing my waste for me. The surgeons were delighted when one day I told the nurses that I needed to urinate. The nurses on duty happily helped me to use a toilet pan. It was embarrassing, but the nurses were so businesslike and encouraging that my discomfort was minimised, and I was glad that my body was resuming its natural functions. Naturally, everything I produced was saved and studied.
On the subject of such things, since the beginning of his recovery Toro-a-Ba had had a sort of litter tray brought to him. I never saw exactly how he used it, for it seemed rude to watch; but I could sense that he was always very careful not to jog the hose that protruded out of himself.
The surgeons happily gave us reams of information about what had been done to us. With little else to do, and in the knowledge that the more we knew about our new bodies the better our quality of life might be, Toro-a-Ba and I read every word.
It felt curious, to me, to pass things between us, as though we were roommates reading the same newspapers.
The array of things that had been done to me to save and rebuild my body was dizzying. The list of procedures and processes filled four sheets of paper. Pins, grafts, transplants, reconstruction of this and that, synthetic organs and parts, sutures and tubing and hoses and drains … The list of drugs and solutions that I had been given to aid and control my recovery filled another one and a half pages. Much of it I did not understand. Some of it Toro-a-Ba could explain to me, and for the rest he and I questioned the surgeons. Never had I imagined that I would learn so much about human and thurga digestive systems or surgical procedures.
The hose was state-of-the-art: made of synthetic materials, it is transparent, extremely flexible yet almost impossible to squash, even if a tractor drove over it; and durable – it was designed to outlast both Toro-a-Ba and me. It is malleable: it can swell or shrink according to the volume of fluid it is holding, which is necessary to prevent pressure discrepancies, vacuums, or gas bubbles developing inside it. Different fluids pass between us at different rates, so the hose is insulated so that the fluids do not cool whilst they are in the hose. The hose needs to behave like an organic part, because it is functioning as one.
The hose enters Toro-a-Ba’s and my sides almost seamlessly, and under our skins the smaller, internal hoses disband immediately, being inserted into or running past various organs. If I run my fingertips over my skin, I can feel a slight bulge where a few of the hoses go their separate ways, and now that the puffiness of my flesh – a side-effect of all the drugs – has subsided and my muscle tone is returning, if I stretch my torso I can feel, in a couple of places on my abdomen, small ridges caused by the tiny tubes as they lie in their courses around my body.
I finally learned that the two small, lightweight clamps on the hose function to limit the fluids that flow between us. This was initially so that Toro-a-Ba did not have to share, through my fluids, the huge quantity of drugs and nutrients that I was receiving; a quantity which for him would be a dangerous overdose. The clamps also house tiny computers that record such things as the temperatures of the fluids in the hose, the pressure, quantity and flow of individual fluids through each of the hoses, the composition of those fluids, and so on. This information can then be accessed and copied by a handheld device that relays the information to the clinic’s computers and stores it in a database: a record of all the activity that passes through the hose between Toro-a-Ba and me. Surgeons Suva-a and Fong have not said as much, but I gather that, to the medical practitioners and scientists of this world, that record is a goldmine.
Acco
rding to the surgeons who worked on me and Toro-a-Ba, we need not concern ourselves with the readings from the hose: our own bodies, plus the technology of the hose itself, should keep things in balance; however, if anything were to go wrong, the surgeons would need that record and those tiny computers in order to restore us to health.
As I learned of what had been done to me, it occurred to me that I had been the recipient of so much technology, so much effort and expense and skill, that it was, in a sense, an honour. I was no one important; merely a laboratory technician, one of thousands on this planet. Yet all this value had been poured into me. My very existence was a marvel of medical science, and my survival almost miraculous. My body is a wonder, simply because it is alive.
One morning, as I read one of the papers describing one of the many aspects of the surgery, something caught my eye. I had read these words before, but this time I realised something different about them. They described my and Toro-a-Ba’s blood types and composition.
“Toro-a-Ba,” I said aloud, “this says that our blood types and compositions are compatible.”
“Yes,” the thurga agreed. “They must be, or I cannot keep you alive. Our bodies would reject each other if our bloods were incompatible.”
“Did you know that when you volunteered?”
“Yes.”
I sensed that he had misunderstood my question, which had been, I realised, ambiguously worded. “No, I mean: did you know that our blood types were compatible when you volunteered?”
“No.”
“… But you volunteered anyway.”
“Yes. The necessary tests would need to be performed before we could know that your and my bodies are compatible, but there would be no point in performing those tests if I was not willing to volunteer myself for the surgery.”
I thought for a moment, remembering what Toro-a-Ba had said about wanting to help people, to do something good and great with his life, and how when Suva-a had proposed the surgery that would join us Toro-a-Ba had ‘felt a great shout go up within him’.