Post 28: Guilt, Gratitude, and a Growling Cat
Vital statistics:
Temp: normal: cold outside
BP: 125/79/55
Hair: I got it cut today 
Mood: a little better
Anything else: feeling very guilty
Getting up for an appointment is always good for the soul. No lazing about—something useful to do.
Off we go to the local hospice for a first-ever clinic visit at 10am.
As we arrive through the main doors, we’re greeted with smiles from the volunteers at the enquiry desk and subtly nudged toward the increasingly enticing smells wafting from the café. We pass a little doggie on our way to an unoccupied table in an otherwise very busy space. Everyone is comfortably chatting with their pals, and in the cafe, snaking around the cold counters stacked with fresh sandwiches and cakes, is a long line of hungry customers queuing patiently, trays in hand.
We wait only a short time before a doctor swings by, introduces himself, and invites us into Room 3.
It’s in this little moment of distraction that my thoughts skip forward to the vet visit this afternoon—and the looming battle of wits with Catzilla.
But once we’re seated, the doctor mentions that we’re actually two hours early. No matter, he says—please relax, we’ll get to know each other. There’s no rush, take your time.
Over the next while, we cover a huge amount: my medical history, my fears and hopes, and the kinds of help the hospice can offer in future. My Darling and I leave three hours later feeling noticeably lighter.
Yes, three hours.
It wasn’t obvious at the time—while we were so deep in conversation—but My Darling often says, “You do go on a bit, sometimes.” The cheek of it! But I suppose it’s proof that she’s nearly always right.
Suffice to say we covered all bases. At one point, the doctor became a counsellor, such was the emotional territory we crossed. It was a genuinely positive and useful conversation for both sides.
What struck me about the hospice—compared to hospitals or GP surgeries—is the slower, more human pace. There’s less clinical urgency, more room for emotional honesty. That sense of independence, that softer atmosphere, really mattered today.
We left with clearer views of where we are medically—and where we’re heading.
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Speaking of heading…
That brings me neatly to Mr Vicious and his overdue vet appointment.
As you know, he’s got an allergy that requires six-monthly checks. But with everything going on, we’d forgotten—by a full two months. Whoops.
When we get back from the hospice, he’s right there to meet us. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s just made his entrapment a whole lot easier. Normally, we’d be hunting him down while he’s out singing ballads or brawling in the hedgerows with his cat-mates, but here he is, following us in the front door like he knows what’s coming and wants to get it over with.
We all head to the kitchen. It’s an hour until the carrier has to come out, so we relax and have lunch. It gives My Darling and me time to debrief about the morning’s meeting.
That’s when it hits me again—how deeply this path I’m travelling affects her too. She tells me she still feels guilty for not getting me to A&E quicker, the day after I had chest pains.
I keep telling her it wasn’t her fault. I felt “fine” after 10 minutes. I was the one who said no, several times, when she offered to take me in. I thought it was a minor chemo side effect. I thought I could ride it out. I was wrong.
But she still blames herself.
And that’s heartbreaking.
She thinks the delay nearly killed me. I think it was my own nervousness about asking for help. I should have known better. My pride, or fear, got in the way.
I don’t know how to ease her mind about it.
Even this morning, the doctor said I was lucky. That I have got a second chance to live. It’s sobering. So if you do get chest pain—don’t guess. Get help. Quickly.
I’m beating myself up about it, too. My naivety could’ve ended things very badly.
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Lunch ends, and a voice calls out:
“Time to go—get the cat!”
Mr V is curled up on my legs. I scoop him up and prep for battle.
He tenses. So do I.
I shove him gently into the grey plastic carrier and shut the red portcullis with a twist of the levers. No blood, no drama. Stage one: complete.
It’s only a two-minute drive, and he expresses his disapproval with low growls the whole way. We arrive and wait with another cat and dog until we’re called in.
I informed the vet that I have gauntlets to wear while holding Mr V due to my anticoagulation-medication when we get in the treatment room, which he declines and immediately pops out and grabs an able, and very brave nurse to be his extra pair of hands to control the sharpe end of Mr Vicious.
My Darling dismisses herself from the show and retires to the waiting room while I look on and hope he won’t disgrace the family name.
Amazingly, it all goes smoothly. The exam, the prescription, the poking and prodding. Mr V behaves.
Until it’s time to go back in the carrier.
As he’s nearly in, one long, sharp arm explodes back out. But the nurse reacts instantly—just as quickly as Catzilla himself—and the vet flips the carrier upright and slams the gate shut like it’s routine.
I’m open-mouthed. They’re total pros. Bravo, to you both.
We pay, pack up the grumbling cat, and go home.
Six months of peace… until next time.
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As for my own clinical journey—nothing new today. No news on when a cardiology assessment will happen. It’s only been a week since I was discharged, and I’m not the only one in the queue I guess.
Hospitals are full, staff are stretched, but the system holds together because of their compassion and tenacity. I just have to be patient.
More importantly, I need to spend time with My Darling.
She’s taken on so much.
Only I can help ease the weight on her heart.
I need to do more.
I’m feeling better, I’ll try and make her feel better too.
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I’m a very lucky man.
I’m a very lucky man to have My Darling.
My Darling is my focus.
My Darling is my world.
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