Animals

by Sarah Holloway

Patricia grabbed the nurse’s hand and swung her legs around, so they dangled off the side of the table. It was Friday, day five of her treatments. A head rush rippled her face and scalp as she came upright. Dr. Powers asked about her current level of pain and typed notes into her chart. 

“Same time Monday?” the doctor asked.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this!” Patricia replied. Dr. Powers gave her a look—annoyance? Does nobody around here have a sense of humor? she wondered.

Patricia’s shaved skull sported a tattooed target where radiation was beamed into her brain by a linear particle accelerator on weekdays. She got weekends off. The nurse handed her knitted cap to her, and Patricia pulled it over her stubble, feeling woebegone.

Outside the UCSF Brain Cancer Center, Patricia walked along the avenue, legs straining a little. Her head felt floaty—a balloon at the end of a string—her neck elongated. She walked forward OK, but when she wanted to change direction, she needed to slow down to turn. This was a new wrinkle that had started a couple of days before. Patricia chalked it up to a hard fucking week.

Slowly, carefully, she turned onto a side street leading to her temporary home. The sun threw Patricia’s shadow onto the sidewalk ahead of her. A giraffe, a splay-legged, long-necked giraffe, that’s what her silhouette resembled. All she needed were those nubby horns!

It was foggy, early March in the city. I lost my mind in San Francisco, Patricia hummed to herself. She groaned when she realized the sidewalk ahead was dotted with unhoused people.

Before Patricia started through the human maze, she heard a door slam and a thirty-something man in skinny jeans bounded down the cement staircase from his pastel house. He shouted, “Move, asshole!” at a slumbering body sprawled beneath his steps. He jumped over it before nudging it with his shoe. The body rolled up tight like a roly-poly pill bug. 

Skinny Jeans turned in Patricia’s direction. He looked surprised; his smirk disappeared.

“Who’s the asshole now?” she asked.

A woman sprawled nearby said, “Truth,” without much enthusiasm, her eyes, tiny dots, like a shrew’s.

“I thought he was dead!” the man snarled at her, bumping her shoulder as he passed. What a nasty bulldog! Woof, woof, woof! 

Patricia had grown up across the bay in Oakland but lives in Colorado now. She’d been gone long enough that the city felt foreign to her. Hmm, “foreign” is a strong word. Patricia thought about how her wife had been accusing her of talking like the apocalypse was upon them. Since she had aggressive brain cancer, everything felt plenty catastrophic to her. Joanne was living in some kind of La La Land, where people wear blinders and think happy thoughts. Patricia hated being brainsick while away from her wife, their home, and her dog. Short of her cancer magically disappearing, what she wanted most was to be at home, again.

Joanne wanted her to tough out the radiation treatments and pretend it was easy. Her wife had made scores of phone calls to arrange her treatment at UCSF and kept saying how lucky Patricia was to be a patient at the most respected brain cancer facility in the West. One day, Patricia snapped, “Since I am so completely fucked as to have glioblastoma in the first place, I guess I just don’t feel that fortunate!” Joanne had started in with all her mystic shit about positivity around that time.

At the beginning of this ordeal, Joanne had taken a month’s leave of absence from teaching in Boulder to accompany Patricia to San Francisco for the surgery. After the doctors removed much of the tumor, leaving a portion that was near an eloquent area of her brain, Joanne oversaw her convalescence.

In a short-term rental a few blocks from the hospital, Joanne had tenderly hovered over Patricia’s recovery, urging her to eat, drink, and take pills. Patricia felt smothered. In self-defense, Patricia insisted Joanne go back to work, swearing she could manage six weeks of radiation treatments on her own. Too late, she’d realized she’d only needed a break, a tad more space from Joanne, not this sustained exile. She had fucked-up royally—she wasn’t managing well at all. Her immediate problem was that she still had another block to go to the studio apartment.

There she teetered, smelling ganja, world-class BO, and a Heinz-57 of God-knows-what as she tiptoed and lurched along between the homeless on the block. It felt like she was playing freeze tag.

If only Jezebel were here! Her old hound dog would saunter through this smorgasbord of odors joyously, paying particular interest to places where people had “done their business.” Patricia saw turds left near the driver’s-side door of a shiny Tesla parked on the street. Patricia nodded in solidarity. Fuck them, fuck those healthy asshats who want to live forever. Make them scrape some shit off their shoes! 

Patricia was running on fumes as she trudged through the building’s lobby to the elevator. Normally tall and slender, the inheritor of her father’s honker of a nose and her mother’s thick head of hair, she cringed when she saw herself—scrawny, bald, and ungainly—in the mirrored walls of the apartment’s lobby. Once inside her apartment, she headed to the kitchenette for a drink of water, then she lurched towards the bed, feeling less stable and more giraffe-like than ever. She feared her head might hit the ceiling. Instead, like an animal brought down by the hunter’s rifle, Patricia fell onto the bed from a great height. 

*****

She slept, occasionally waking to change position when the throbbing in her head crescendoed. Her phone rang hours later, after dark. The familiar music of Joanne’s voice made her smile. When her wife said her name, it sounded like angels singing.

“What did you have for dinner?” Joanne asked, putting the kibosh on the rapture Patricia had briefly enjoyed.

“Actually, I haven’t eaten. I’ve been napping.”

“You’ve gotta keep your strength up! You HAVE to eat regular meals and take your pills on time!” Patricia’s lack of appetite had become a strife between them. 

“OK, I’ll make a cheese omelet and eat an apple after we hang up.”

“No candy and watch the carbs, right? Sugar’s like fertilizer for cancer.” 

“No candy,” Patricia replied, wistfully looking at the bags of miniature chocolate bars and potato chips on the bedside table. “Everything that’s good for me tastes like dirt, but I’ll try, Joanne.” 

Patricia supposed it would be easier to tell Joanne what she wanted to hear. No more wasting time and energy bickering. She changed the subject and told her wife about the homeless people and Mr. Skinny Jeans. Joanne interrupted her when she described her difficulties in changing direction.

“Be more upbeat! You have to stay positive!”  Joanne said. “Negative thinking attracts negative results. Cheer up! You’ve got the best team in the West on your side. You’ll be home soon and we’ll start our garden. Jezebel and I can’t wait until you’re better.”

Better? Patricia wondered for the thousandth time what planet her wife was living on. If she’d only hear the truth! Instead, they said affectionate goodnights to each other, and Patricia slept again amidst tangled sheets. She woke after midnight to pee, then went to the kitchen for another glass of water. When she opened the refrigerator for eggs, she knew the effort to prepare them was untenable. She walked back to bed grabbing the bag of chocolates on her way.

*****

In the morning, the apartment looked misty, as if the city’s fog had seeped inside. Patricia sat on the side of the bed for a few minutes, then everything around her began to sparkle. The next thing she knew she was on the floor near her bed. She suspected she’d had another seizure; she’d wet herself like she did the first time it happened.

Since she’d been on her own in San Francisco, Patricia wore adult diapers. She couldn’t bear the idea of losing control in public. How the homeless could be cavalier about their business was hard for her to fathom. She pitied them.

She lay on the floor for several minutes, then got up slowly and found her phone. It was nearly one in the afternoon. Patricia showered and put some clean clothes on. She prepared and gagged down eggs and toast. Then, she took her eight morning pills with a full glass of water, along with the eight she’d missed the night before—anti-seizure meds and steroids. Patricia felt quite virtuous about getting back on track. She rested for an hour, as timed by her phone alarm, then ate a snack, a slice of chalky cheese and a Styrofoam apple. Her head throbbed, and she felt stretched out of shape.

Patricia watched nature documentaries while catnapping in the recliner. Joanne had left a few books on the coffee table, but reading was difficult now. Patricia wanted to have a good cry. She needed to offload some tension and mourn the loss of her normal activities, her health, her hair, her home. But crying amped up her headache. She blew her nose and tried to stop. Patricia held her head between her hands until the throbbing waned.

*****

That evening, Patricia’s childhood friend, Becky, came over from Oakland with vegan meatloaf and roasted vegetables. Joanne had contacted Becky to arrange the healthy meal and get-together.

“You’re too skinny, and you look worn out. Oh, and I miss your lovely hair!” Becky said hugging Patricia. Becky’s red hair was short and spiky. Patricia thought she looked rather like one of the orangutans she’d seen on TV that afternoon. She’d learned that scientists had traced the human gene for red hair back to primates.

“Sometimes, I feel like a giraffe,” Patricia said.

“Wow, Patty, you’re as wacky as ever.” Becky laughed and lit up a joint, offering it to Patricia. “This will help with your appetite. Joanne said you aren’t enjoying food.” 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Patricia hesitated. “I’m already struggling with reality.”

“Patty, it’s got the right terpenes for appetite. I also brought a vape pen. Just take a couple of hits, and you’ll find your appetite in no time. They give this to chemo patients.” Becky was an amateur weed botanist.

Patricia took the prescribed puffs and soon felt better. Her head still throbbed, but it did so from a distance. Several minutes into their meal, Patricia squawked, “I’m sliding off the kitchen chair!” It happened so slowly that Becky had plenty of time to squat alongside her and ease her friend onto the floor. They laughed themselves silly. Patricia needed Becky’s help to get up. As Patricia came upright, her pants didn’t. Becky gasped.

“Patty, you always were an assless wonder, but look at how your hip bones jut out. You gotta eat, girl!”

Second helpings of the vegan meal went down easy for Patricia once she was seated again. She took her evening meds when Becky brought the pill organizer to her. 

“What’s for dessert?” Patricia asked. Her belly was full, but her mouth wanted more. “I’d kill for some chocolate cake.”

“You’re not supposed to have sugar.”

“You’re not supposed to feed the animals at the zoo either. C’mon, it’s Saturday night. I can have dessert once a week.”

“No, sorry. I promised Joanne.”

They spent an hour reminiscing until Becky said it was time for her to go, leaving leftovers and the vape pen. Patricia had no trouble getting up from her chair and walking Becky to the door. 

As soon as the door closed, Patricia beelined to the bedside table where she’d hidden her candy. She ate the last few pieces, then called Joanne, feeling rebellious talking to her wife with chocolate on her breath. Patricia fell asleep in the recliner with the TV on. 

When she woke during the night, Patricia thought about home. In Boulder, before glioblastoma reared its ugly head, she and Joanne usually packed lunches on Saturdays and headed out hiking or on cross-country skis. They’d come home happy and tired, lingering under hot showers before making love. How she missed her life! And she wasn’t even dead yet, just hanging out in the waiting room.

There wasn’t much Patricia could do here but sleep. So, she did, and this time she dreamt she was driving that old orange BMW she’d inherited from her grandmother. Becky was with her, her dream hair, a huge red afro. They drove back and forth across the Oakland Bay Bridge, weaving through traffic, smoking weed, and singing “Killer Queen.”

The other vehicles disappeared. She and Becky continued toward the city where a menagerie of zoo animals marched toward them on the bridge, an oversized alligator leading the pack. It swung its huge black tail side-to-side as it walked on powerful haunches, saliva dripping from its teeth. She awoke, sweating, turned the TV off, and moved to the bed. Tossing and turning, she stayed in bed until morning.

When the sun came up, Patricia couldn’t get out of the apartment fast enough. With Joanne back in Colorado and Becky across the bay, she had no one. She didn’t want to be a solitary animal, and it felt like loneliness might break her.

 For once, she’d remembered her cane. Patricia wove between the homeless people on her block. Most of them appeared to be sleeping, but a large man muttered obscenities as he played tunelessly on a guitar, his legs blocking the sidewalk. He kicked his legs at her as she passed him by, stepping out into the street to go around him. She thought of the alligator’s tail in her dream.

Patricia decided she had become a giraffe playing freeze tag with a brain tumor. She willed her legs to move, but she was stuck. Jesus Fucking Christ, she had stalled out. She couldn’t make any progress.

Then, a woman’s voice: “What’s wrong, lady?”

The speaker, who appeared to be a teenager, wore dreadlocks and a stained 49ers sweatshirt, with a Day-Glo green bandana around her neck. The young woman’s eyes shone golden brown. A sweet little orangutan of a girl!

Patricia’s heart pumped faster, the throbbing in her head more intense. This girl’s eyes were kind, special . . . Perhaps, she understood. Maybe, she could help her. Patricia shook her head to break this crazy train of thought, but moving her head that way ratcheted up her constant headache.

“Are you hungry? Want to get breakfast? I’m buying,” Patricia said.

“Sure.” The girl climbed to her feet.

“I could really use some help walking.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

Patricia kept her cane in her right hand with her left arm across her new friend’s shoulders. The girl, several inches shorter, supported Patricia with an arm around her waist. It was slow going to make it to the next block where a fast-food place was open. Patricia pulled her credit card out of her pocket and paid for breakfast sandwiches, hash browns, orange juice, and coffee for both of them. The girl got Patricia seated in a sticky booth, then went back for their tray.

She said her name was Maya. Her smooth and creamy skin, luscious, the color of peanut butter. She wolfed her meal down and ate Patricia’s hash browns, too. Patricia drank her juice, had the coffee with four sugars, and nibbled at her English muffin. Without the weed, food was again tasteless and dry.

“Do you think you could help me back to my apartment?” Patricia asked. “It’s near where I met you, and I don’t think I can make it.”

“OK. But let’s use the facilities here first. They have to let me since I’m a customer.” Maya had a fetching smile. 

After she used the toilet, Maya said she wanted to wash herself, so she handed her sweatshirt and bandana to Patricia who sat on an orange plastic chair. Maya’s breasts were covered by a tube top. She cupped her hands and tossed water onto her neck, shoulders, and face, then lathered up with liquid soap. Once she’d rinsed off the soap, she dried herself with flimsy brown paper towels. Each time Maya leaned over the sink, Patricia watched the reflection of the round tops of her breasts in the mirror. They were lovely. How wonderful to be young!

When they got back to Patricia’s apartment, they discovered they were locked out. Patricia had been proud of remembering the numbers she had to punch into a keypad to enter the building, but she had forgotten to bring both the key to the apartment and her phone. There was nothing in her pockets except her credit card. Maya helped her slide down the wall so she could sit on the floor next to the apartment door. The front desk wouldn’t be staffed for hours since it was Sunday.

Maya sat down alongside her. “What’s wrong with you anyway? Do you have MS or something?”

“I have brain cancer. My wife is sure I’ll live a long time with it if I do everything perfectly. A week ago, I didn’t have trouble walking, and now I’m a freak show. I think I’m turning into a giraffe.”

“That’s so random. But brain cancer, whoa,” Maya shook her head. They were quiet for a minute, then Maya asked, “Where is your wife anyway?”

“Back in Colorado, where we live.”

“You should go home, be with your wife.”

“Yes.” She was getting worse. There was no denying it. She hoped she wouldn’t live much longer, and she wanted to be with Joanne and Jezebel at the end, with the animals who loved her, her very own pack. “Listen, once I get into the apartment, I’ll give you twenty bucks for helping me. I really appreciate it.”

“Great! And thanks for breakfast.”

Patricia and Maya stopped talking and closed their eyes, leaning into each other. Soon, they slept, temporarily safe and warm and dry in the shelter of the hallway.

BIO: Sarah Holloway lives with her husband and lots of books in Savannah, GA. She’s a recovering tax accountant. Her recent work has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly's blog, Roi Fainéant, Emerge Literary Journal, Cowboy Jamboree and SugarSugarSalt. You can follow her @Sarah31405 on X/Twitter.