The curtains are closed, so I can’t see if my friend the moon is out.
Oily, sludgy, slick, metallic tang on my tongue.
My eyes are sticky, my head hurts and I can’t breathe through my nose. Did I take any meds? I honestly can’t remember.
I must have gotten up and done something, because the TV isn’t on anymore.
I gingerly raise an arm and feel for water. There is none. Shit.
Something shifts at the bottom of the bed.
The cats? Absurdly, given that I might have been here for 24 hours, I stiffen. I don’t want to disturb them.
I raise my head carefully and I can just make them out, one each stationed sphinx like at each bottom corner, serene but alert, eyes trained on the door.
It’s then that I know that I’ve had ‘an episode’.
Anyone that says that cats are emotionless, without feeling and can’t love, have almost certainly never owned one or have owned one and not treated it well.
Because when I am genuinely poorly, an unspoken ‘don’t bother mum’ amnesty falls into place. No scratching the bed, no sitting on my head, no bouncing off my chest, pouncing on my feet or mad grooming sessions. No loud purring or yowling for food. My boys quietly, carefully come to wherever I’m passed out, twisted up in a ball, or cowering under the covers, arrange themselves around me, ignore their own needs and keep watch.
I reach for the curtain and manage to grab a corner.
My joints hurt.
The cats head whip around, then as if on cue, Charlie starts purring and Dex jumps down and stretches, priming himself for a good old bed scratching session.
My boys are hungry.
The very least I can do is get my skanky arse out of bed and feed ‘em.
Who says I’m not loved?
I am blessed.