Bob had again sensed I was unwell and started paying me attention. He would wrap himself around me as if taking some kind of measurements. I’d learned the lessons of the past and didn’t dismiss him this time.
‘Here comes Doctor Bob,’ I joked one day.
There was no question in my mind that he was performing some kind of diagnosis. When I was lying on the sofa or on the bed, he would often spread himself out on my chest, purring gently.
I’d read about cats having the power to heal bones with their purring. Apparently there’s something about the frequency at which they vibrate that somehow strengthens bones. I wondered whether he was trying to somehow heal my chest. More worryingly, I wondered whether he knew something I didn’t?
In a way, that was the scariest thing of all. I knew how intuitive cats are when it comes to sniffing out illness in humans. There’s evidence that they can predict epileptic fits, seizures and other illnesses. One cat I read about, from Yorkshire, would give its male owner ‘strange looks’ before he was about to have a fit. Famously, there was a cat called Oscar who lived in an old people’s home in America and would come and sit with residents who were in their final hours. No one was quite sure whether he was picking up on something visual or whether he was able to tune into the smells produced by the bio-chemical changes in a person’s body when they die. What was in no doubt, however, was the fact that Oscar’s ability to anticipate people’s passing was uncanny, so much so that people dreaded seeing him sidling up to them. It was as if the cat was some kind of Angel of Death. I did hope Bob wasn’t the same.
After a while I made another appointment, this time with a young doctor that a friend had recommended as being very good. He certainly seemed a little more sympathetic. I told him about the coughing and the vomiting.
‘I’d better take a listen to your lungs,’ he said. After checking me out with a stethoscope he made me do a peak-flow check, testing the strength of my breathing and chest. I’d had childhood asthma so I knew my chest wasn’t the strongest.
He didn’t say too much. He just sat there making notes, rather too many of them for my liking.
‘OK, Mr Bowen, I’d like you to have a chest X-ray,’ he said, eventually.
‘Oh, OK,’ I said, worried already.
He then printed out a form which he handed to me.
‘Take this along to Homerton Hospital and they’ll know what to do,’ he said.
I knew he was being careful in his language. But there was something about his face that spooked me a little. I didn’t like it.
I took the form home and stuck it on the sideboard in the front room. I then quietly forgot about it. A small part of me couldn’t face the hassle. It wasn’t that long ago that I’d been hospitalised with DVT. What if I had to be admitted again? What if it was something even worse? I really didn’t like hospitals.
On top of this, I’d been to Homerton Hospital before and I knew it was a nightmare. I pictured in my mind one of those long days waiting in a queue and just getting frustrated. I told myself that I couldn’t afford to waste a day there not earning money.
Of course, these were all rather limp excuses. The truth was that I was terrified of what an X-ray might find. It was pure, ostrich-like stubbornness. I assumed that if I stuck my head in the sand and forgot all about it, the coughing and vomiting and all the other unpleasantness would simply go away. Of course it didn’t. It only got worse.
I reached breaking point one day when I visited the publishers. I had, at last, begun to believe that the book was finally happening. They’d mocked up a cover, with Bob sitting Zen-like on my rucksack. On the back was a picture of me, while inside was a brief note on ‘the author’. I still had to pinch myself to believe it was happening. Unfortunately, I’d had a coughing fit in the middle of the meeting. I’d began retching and could feel like I was ready to throw up. So I’d made an excuse about needing the toilet and dashed off there. I’m sure they had their suspicions that I was up to no good and I wouldn’t have blamed them if they did. I was a recovering drug addict, after all.
I knew it must have looked pretty bad, and that I couldn’t repeat it in March. The publication of the book was looming into view and I’d been told that I might be doing a few media interviews, even an appearance on television. There was also talk of book signings where I’d meet members of the public. It all seemed pretty far-fetched, but to be on the safe side I decided I had to get to the bottom of this and go for the X-ray.
By now I’d lost the form, so I went back to the surgery to see the same doctor.
‘You don’t seem to have had your X-ray,’ he said, scrolling through the records on his computer.
‘No, erm, I didn’t go. I haven’t had time. I’d lose a day if I went there,’ I said, slightly embarrassed. ‘I’ve been writing a book.’
‘OK,’ he said, looking at me disbelievingly then tapping away and then printing out another form.
‘This is for an emergency appointment. It’s a walk-in service. You won’t have to hang around for long.’
‘OK,’ I said, a little reluctantly.
I knew that, this time, I couldn’t really duck out of it.
I went along to Homerton and was led into a large room by a couple of nurses, one of whom asked me to take off my shirt and stand in a contraption. She then proceeded to place a big metal plate on my chest before retiring behind a screen.
Again, it could have been paranoia on my part but I was disconcerted by the fact that she wrote a lot of notes afterwards.
‘How did it look?’ I asked her, fishing for a clue.
‘Fine, but we will send a full report to your doctor. Should be there in a few days.’
I took some solace from her reassurance, but was still a bundle of nerves for the next 72 hours.
I went along to see the doctor with a real sense of foreboding.
I have a tendency to think the worst so I was braced to hear something terrible. I was slightly taken aback when the doctor looked at the notes attached to his copy of the X-ray images and said: ‘Your lungs are completely clear, Mr Bowen.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Yes. There’s not a single black spot, which is frankly remarkable given that you tell me you’ve been smoking since you were 13.’
‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘I would go so far as to say that you seem to have super healthy lungs,’ he added.
‘So why am I coughing my guts up all the time?’ I asked, confused.
‘I suspect you’ve got an infection of some kind. Nothing has shown up in the tests we’ve done. But I think your lungs are simply trying to expel all the rubbish that they are accumulating there. So let’s try and treat the infection,’ he said, prescribing me some heavy duty antibiotics.
‘That’s it? Antibiotics,’ I said, relieved but slightly shocked to discover it was that simple.
‘Well, let’s see if they work,’ he said. ‘If not we will have to explore things a bit more.’
I was sceptical. It couldn’t be that simple, I told myself. But it was. Within days my chest was feeling much better and the coughing was easing off.
My agent, Mary, had been worried about my health. She’d been anxious that the publicity and the signings that would soon be coming up might be too much for me. She had my best interests at heart, I knew that.
‘You seem a lot better,’ she told me when we met for a chat about the publication of the book which was now just weeks away.