Hey love, just thought Id tell you the whole thing as if we were sitting over a cuppa.
So at twelveoclock Poppys got a surgery. Its a straightforward, scheduled procedure an hour under anaesthetic, a few simple moves and shell be home the same day. I should have gone with her, but she kept saying it was fine she knew I was swamped. The new London branch was about to open, after all.
Everything will be alright, she said, planting a quick kiss on my cheek, then tossing a handful of packets of cat food for the basement cats into her bag before dashing out.
I straightened my tie, gave myself one last critical look in the mirror, grabbed the project folder from the desk and headed to the office. Being the chief executive of a company Id built up into a market leader demanded my whole attention, and I was giving it every spare minute I could find. I told myself it was for us, for her, and even for those cats she kept feeding down in the cellar.
I never claimed I hated cats theyre just not my thing. To me her obsession seemed a bit pointless, a hobby with no real purpose, something you tolerate the way you put up with a partners quirks. Thats why every time she tried to bring stray, flearidden toms home I shut it down flat. Whats the point? Id say. No benefit, no status. Id suggest a pedigree Oriental cat instead at least that gives us a bit of flair. The basement cats? I just didnt see any upside, and she was getting tired of explaining.
***
Operation simple scheduled nothing special I should have been there with her!!!
How many times did I replay that in my head last week? Thousands? Ten thousand? Id picture myself racing to the hospital, dropping everything, clutching the white coats cuffs, sweating as the surgeons eyes flicked over me. Id tear the project apart in my mind, get down on my knees beside the bed, press my forehead to her hand and beg her not to give up, to come back, to open her eyes, to say just one word.
But she stayed quiet. Neither of us knew that a routine hourlong anaesthetic could turn into a nightmare.
The teams doing everything they can, the surgeon tried to reassure me.
Youre doing nothing! I snapped, frustrated, paying for her private room out of my own pocket.
Theres a chance, we just have to wait, the nurse said gently.
Wheres that chance?! I shouted down the corridor when a week passed and she still hadnt stirred.
I tried everything topnotch consultants, her favourite music, long talks. I flooded her ward with flowers, barely turned up at work any more, just to be by her side whenever I could. I begged, persuaded, promised, even threatened. In moments of desperation Id kiss her, recalling that ridiculous Sleeping Beauty tale, and each day the hopelessness grew deeper, turning me into a beast, smashing everything in my path.
Id fling chairs, shatter vases, flung my bag in a fury, spilling the colourful food packets across the floor. She never got the chance to feed those useless cats the very ones I pretended not to care about.
Blimey! What a wretched old fool!
If I could, Id rewind it all, sweep the mess away, crawl back on my knees and fetch every single cat for her, love them, just to make it right.
The adrenaline crash hit suddenly, and exhausted, I scooped up the scattered packets, shaking, just in time to be standing at the basement door ten minutes later, ready to deliver the food.
***
This is called felinotherapy, the doctor said seriously, watching me lug in a sixth pet carrier for Poppys ward. There arent any recorded cases exactly like ours, though.
So well be pioneers, I croaked, opening the cages.
Theyre her cats. Her! Id give anything to tell her that.
Ill let the staff know.
Thanks I shouldve done this sooner you understand?
Never lose hope. We all learn from our mistakes, remember that.
I wont forget never again.
***
Back at twelve, the operation is still the same simple, scheduled, an hour under the knife, discharge the same day. And she still isnt demanding I stay. But she cant hide that bright smile when she watches me, tie loosened, cursing under my breath as I strap on yet another harness for the cats that keep trying to bolt.
Her cats those basement, fleacovered felines that almost knocked the breath out of her a year ago when she first awoke, gasping for air and clueless about what was happening.
Shell never forget the seven pairs of eyes drilling into her, the six barelyheard sighs of relief and that one triumphant, joyfilled cry.
Maybe thats why, now that shes about to go through it all again, she feels no fear. When she sees me, the exhausted husband with tufts of cat hair stuck to my shirt, looking at her with a hint of reproach, she just grins wider.
Then she laughs outright at the onlookers, because a man in a pricey suit, surrounded by six immaculate mixedbreed cats, each pulling a thin leash in a different direction, shouting a bewildered Meow?! isnt exactly a scene for the fainthearted.
Operation. Simple. Scheduled. An hour under anaesthetic, then out the same day. And if you keep chewing everything in sight, next time youll stay home! a weary bloke mutters in the hospital garden, a slightly nibbled but still lovely bouquet of roses perched on his lap.
He checks his watch, readjusts the six colourful leashes, making sure none have loosened, then glances toward the ward window where Poppy is just waking up. Soon theyll let him in, and hell finally be able to gripe about the six tailwagging slackers who refuse to listen to him without her.
Hell tell her, plain and simple, how much he loves her and always will even if she ends up spending days in a cat sanctuary his company funded a few months back.
It sounds daft, I know, but every time I think back to the day she opened her eyes, Im convinced theres nothing more important in my life than that little, infuriating, brilliant woman of mine. And as long as theres still time, Ill keep chasing those wild, pointless whims of hers, because they make her happy.
Always as long as its not too late.
