Big Cat (Part Two)

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

What was I supposed to say to Laura? What would you have said if you found yourself in my position? 'Erm, excuse me, m'dear, I've just had a conversation with a huge spectral moggy in the magazine aisle in Smiths, and I met the very same apparition a few months back over the nature reserve. I have no witnesses to the first encounter and though the shop was packed during the second one nobody could see the cat except for me. He told me that you need to see a doctor and get your chest checked out, then he started rambling on about a silent killer spreading its roots through your system - it was pretty clear that he was insinuating that you have cancer, and I'm shitting myself with worry.'

I did what all born cowards do, I tried to ignore the problem, I tried to pretend it didn't exist. I buried the incident at the back of my mind, but as the days turned into weeks and the weeks spread imperceptibly into months the issue gnawed at me. I started to wake sweating in the middle of the night after nightmares of Laura on an operating table with her ribcage pinned open with crocodile clips like a set of double doors and a surgeon cutting a green, melon sized pulsating something from her lung. During one of those horrific episodes the tumour opened its single bloodshot eye as the surgeon cut into the tangle of fibres and blood vessels holding it in place, and the infernal eye rapidly scanned the room before settling on me. “It's too late to get rid of me now, you useless cunt!' the monstrosity snickered, breaking into a fit of maniacal laughter.

To make matters worse, as the weather grew colder a few weeks before Christmas Laura developed a racking cough – she rarely suffered from colds, and she had never had a smokers' cough. “It's just a bloody cold,” she said in response to my concern. “Don't worry about it, it'll get better in its own good time.” The cough was the excuse I needed to goad me into action. As it worsened I insisted that she went to see her GP, which she eventually did. She came back with a course of antibiotics that eased the cough for a while, but it came back with a vengeance. Laura had a pain under her shoulder blade that hurt when she coughed; the doctor thought that she had bruised the muscles in the wall of her chest whilst coughing, which sounded ridiculous to me. He gave her a short course of steroids to boost her immune system, and again the treatment curbed the problem for a while before the cough returned. This went on until well into the New Year, and finally, towards the end of January, Laura was sent for a chest X-ray.

The X-ray revealed a worrying shadow on her right lung, and she was sent for further tests. I don't think I slept at all for the three or four days it took the hospital to process the results. Laura had a phone call from her GP asking her to come to the surgery immediately. As she was turning the steering wheel as she turned a sharp corner she coughed violently, and a blob of bloody phlegm hit the windscreen. When I saw it I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my heart, I guess it was fear. Laura quickly mopped the mess up with a tissue, hoping I hadn't noticed. “How long have you been coughing up blood?” I said.

“Not long,” she replied. “It's only now and then.....”

The next half an hour was like watching a tearjerker and getting all emotional but knowing at the same time that the problem didn't affect you - it affected someone a million miles away, or even better, it affected a fictional character.

Laura had lung cancer, we were told. I expected her to burst out crying or to collapse in my arms, or both, but she didn't, she just nodded and studied her hands, and then looked at the floor as if she expected to find some answers there. I didn't cry either, which surprised me even more; I just sat there feeling numb, wishing the curse had struck someone else, anyone apart from Laura. 'Take me instead, God,' I prayed silently. 'The kids can learn to do without me, but please don't force them to live without their mother.....' The tumour was sizeable but not inoperable, and Laura would lose half of her lung, possibly all of it, we were told. Her remaining organs seemed healthy, but the doctors wouldn't know for certain how far the cancer had spread until they opened her up. After the surgery she would need radiotherapy or chemotherapy, or maybe both.

On the way home from the doctor's surgery Laura absent-mindedly lit a cigarette, but she immediately threw it out of the car window in disgust, along with the half empty packet, and she never smoked again. She had tried to give up many times before, but this was the sort of firm kick up the arse it took to convince her that smoking wasn't good for her.

That night she took a sleeping tablet that her doctor had prescribed and went to bed early. We hadn't told the kids a thing at that point, we didn't know where to bloody start..... I sat dumbly in front of the TV until almost two am; I couldn't tell you what was on, I just sat there like a cabbage worrying. As I turned off the television and went through the kitchen to the bathroom the cat was sitting there in the darkness, I could see the reflection of its big glassy eyes.

'You should have done something about this sooner, Simon, in your own sweet, roundabout way – in matters such as this every second counts,' the cat whispered. 'No matter, the ball of intervention is well and truly rolling now. Laura is going to be all right, I promise. They've caught the malaise early, and when they open her up they'll realise that it isn't as bad as they feared, they'll only have to remove a portion of her lung. The radiotherapy will see off any lingering malignant cells, you'll see. She's a strong one, Simon, she can fight this if she really wants to, but you must stand by her side and reinforce her will, you mustn't crumble whatever you do. It's doubtful if our paths will cross again, my friend, so it's time to say our farewells. Don't forget, it's your responsibility to be your wife's rock.....”

“Thank you, whoever or whatever you are,” I spluttered. “How can I ever repay you?” I was talking to fresh air, though, because the cat had already vanished.

Just a couple of weeks later Laura was admitted to hospital for her surgery. “Simon, what if it's worse than they thought?” she said as the anaesthetist was getting ready to pump a powerful narcotic into her veins.

“It's not,” I said. “You have to trust me, everything's going to be all right, I know it. I could say a little bird told me so, but that wouldn't be quite the truth. I've experienced a series of strange encounters, Laura, and those encounters have reassured me that you're going to make a full recovery. I'll tell you all about it after your operation, I promise.” I told her everything a few days later, and to my surprise she believed me.

Not long after my wife's operation (after which the surgeon told me that he had only removed a small portion of her lung) she started an intensive course of radiotherapy, and almost a year later she was told that her cancer had gone into remission. Every six months for the next five years she had to undergo a series of tests, but thankfully the cancer stayed away. That was ten long, worrying years back, and Laura has now been given a clean bill of health. I thank God above for His mercy every night in my prayers, and I also thank an anonymous huge pussy-cat, that I feel was some sort of celestial messenger – what else could it have been? Sitting in front of the fire right now, looking at me with his huge yellow green eyes, is the sooty marbled tabby Norwegian forest cat that I bought for Laura while she was recovering from her surgery. Tiddles, his name is.....