The Smell of Giraffes

By Laureen Bennefield

. . . remembering, The Smell of Giraffes, is a story about overcoming—in the face of cancer, death, and sadness. But, more importantly, it's a story about remembering hope, laughter, and love. And that you are more than your body parts, more than a sad story somebody will retell someday, more than your pain. Remember that . . .

By suppertime, Sarah's list was complete and when Teddy came to see her after work, she felt oddly contented and he remarked on it. He winked and said, "You had a good day."

"Yes, I did. Let's go outside and smell the giraffes."

"What? Did they up your meds today?"

"C'mon, Teddy, time's a-wastin'."

It was a perfect evening: the sky was just the right amount of pink and azure blue; a soft westerly breeze was blowing; and two hearts were beating as one. When they came back to earth, Teddy rolled Sarah back to her room and kissed her goodnight, only this time he couldn't let go of her hand.

"It's okay," she whispered, "I promise I'll still be here tomorrow." When he tried to speak, no words came. "I love you, too, Teddy."

Deep down, Sarah understood that she was no match for this disease and it was going to run its course with or without her permission. Teddy was only just coming around to that realization. "I could stay the night . . .," he said with such longing.
She wanted to tell him she had a secret project she was working on, that she really, really needed to finish it, that the time for round-the-clock visits wasn't far away, but then she looked at that sad, beautiful, awful face and said, "Okay." The time for breaking Teddy's heart was not this night and she skootched over to make room for him on the bed. She needed him to know that there was always room for him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laureen Bennefield
• Release date: Oct 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781775157212

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jack Allen drove himself to the hospital. He was pissing blood, but he wasn’t about to tell Angie. She’d have his head. He’d already gone through eighteen months of hormone treatment for his enlarged prostate and supposedly his PSA counts were down, but the PMS was the biggest bitch. He didn’t know how women managed. It was like he was having a damn period. He was worried.

He pulled into the parking lot and dug in his pocket for a loonie. Nobody parked for free anymore. He slammed the door on the old Dodge to make sure it stayed shut. Old Yeller, as he affectionately called her, was a 1980 Ram truck speckled with the original yellow paint she rolled out of the factory with. He brushed off a loose piece of rust and then carried on through the sliding front doors of the hospital and by the admission desk.

The old bag with the Shirley Temple curls was working—just his luck.

Excuse me, where do you think you’re going? she scolded him and tossed a frazzled ringlet to one side. Jack gave her the once over; he was itching to tell her she reminded him of a cocker spaniel, but then that would be calling her a dog and his mother had raised him better than that. He snorted. What mother? He’d raised himself.

It’s cold outside, so I thought I’d come in for a smoke, he teased, tapping the pack of Export A cigarettes that were poking out from the pocket of his jean jacket.

That was just a little taste of their usual banter, his goal being to make it by the desk unnoticed and hers to play schoolyard crossing guard. When Angie first became aware of this pattern, she’d asked Jack why he had peed in her cornflakes. He choked out an indignant denial, but to himself he figured it might have something to do with the time Audrey had almost side-swiped his taxi. This happened just after Jack had watched her teeter out of Lucky’s Bar & Grill. Of course, the half a dozen vodka and 7s she’d just downed didn’t help the matter either. It could’ve been that, or it could have been that she’d done the admission work on him barely two hours later that same night . . . but he didn’t think she’d been sober enough to remember that. Whatever the reason, whenever Angie looked concerned, Jack whispered, I think that’s her happy face, and they laughed it off.

"I’m gone to see my favourite nurse, Shirley, no need to worry your pretty head." He continued down the hallway toward the outpatient clinic where Sadie McAuley was waiting for him.

It’s Audrey. And you know it, Jack Allen! she yelled after him.

Having overheard his last remark, she asked him, Trouble in paradise?

Ah, just the usual—women problems He smiled.

So, how’s my favourite cabbie today?

Good, really good, no worries. He lied.

Thank goodness. Then she paused. Jack shifted in his chair. Sadie flipped through his latest lab reports and MRI scan. Thank goodness, she repeated, these reports don’t lie as badly as you do.

Angie’s gonna kill me before I ever have a chance to die, he confessed. He’d noticed a lot of blood in his pee for the past week and his back was hurting. Jack wondered what the tests would say about that.

It isn’t good news, Jack.

Shit. He waited for the other shoe to drop.

It looks like the hormone therapy isn’t working as well as we’d hoped, even though your PSA count is holding pretty steady. But there’s concern about metastases to the bladder and bones. And the pain you describe in your back and the blood in your urine would appear to corroborate those suspicions. She looked concerned.

So, this is where the rubber hits the pavement, he tried to joke.

This is it.

What about the CT scan? How widespread are we talking?

She put it in lay terms. You lit up like a Christmas tree.

He reached for his smokes. Do you think little Miss Temple in admitting will report me?

No, but I might.

Killjoys, he said and then added, —sorry, not you.

Sadie touched his arm. How about you and Angie come back in tomorrow and we’ll talk strategies?

Tears welled in his eyes.

Of course, there are still other options to try. Sadie’s words sounded hollow. Come back tomorrow, Jack.

Jack rose to his feet, and all the while the earth heaved beneath him. He stepped into the hallway and braced himself against the