Free We Are Both Mammals by G. Wulfing Page A

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