Cup of Sympathy

“I’m dying. I’m pretty sure.”

I rolled my eyes and looked at Chris. “I highly doubt it. What are your symptoms?”

“Well, I’m nauseated.”

I waited for more, but when nothing followed, I huffed. “That’s it? You’re sick to your stomach and you feel like you’re going to die?”

“I’m really nauseated, Emma. You don’t understand.”

“Chris. I had hyperemesis gravidarum. Twice. Also known as the kind of morning sickness that puts you in the hospital. Calm down.”

He looked up at me with sad puppy dog eyes. “Maybe it wasn’t this bad.”

I was going to throw something at him. Something big and heavy. “Men,” I muttered.

“What’d you say?” he asked, shifting slightly on the bed.

I cleared my throat. “Nothing. Do you think it’s something you ate? Or is it the change in water?” I sat down beside him on the bed and studied his face. He did look a little pale. I realized then that as long as I’d known him, I’d never actually seen him sick.

“Maybe the food. I’m not used to real Indian food, I guess.” He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. My guess was another wave of nausea. I leaned back. I hated vomit. After a long moment, it passed. I reached for the glass of room temperature water on the nightstand and held it out to him. He gratefully took it and took a small sip.

“Well, what else were you expecting in India?” I asked dryly. “This was your idea, you know.”

He held the water glass with both hands, propped against his chest. “I know. And it’s been a great trip so far, hasn’t it?”

I nodded. “It has. Until you started puking everywhere.”

He grunted at me, his eyes closed again. “You should go see that temple we were going to see today. I hear it’s amazing. I’ll be fine. I’ll just wither away here. Alone.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I muttered, standing up and taking the glass away from him. He didn’t resist. “You get some rest. I’m not going to abandon you. You have a fresh trash can right next to you. I’m going to see if they have any ginger ale and soda crackers they can send up for you. That should settle your stomach a little.”

“Ok,” he replied meekly, scooting down in the bed.

I walked into the living room of our suite and pulled the bedroom door closed but not shut all the way so I could hear him call if he needed anything. I sighed. I shouldn’t be too hard on him. He hadn’t felt bad until halfway through the trip, and had pushed through yesterday, in spite of the distinct greenish tinge to his face. It had been the dinner last night that had done him in. I had had some trouble with it myself, my own stomach churning after. He’d spent the greater part of the night in the bathroom.

I sat down at the desk in the living room and picked up the receiver on the telephone and called down to room service, looking for something to ease his stomach.

“Is the sick person pregnant?” the concerned woman on the other end asked, once I explained what I needed.

“Oh, um, no,” I said, taken aback a little. “It’s for my husband. We’re European, and I’m afraid something isn’t agreeing with him. I’m not sure what.”

“Ah. Then you want marigold flower tea.” I could hear her smile.

I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Marigold flower tea is good for nausea,” she explained. “I’ll send some right up, with the other things. Just in case. My grandmothers have always given it to us when we were children.”

“Ok.” I glanced back towards the bedroom. “Does it have a strong flavor? I’m not sure he can handle much.”

“No, not at all. Very light flavor. It doesn’t even color the water.”

I nodded with relief. “Well, we’ll try it. Thank you.”

Half an hour later, there was a knock at the suite door and a cart was being rolled in with a steaming teapot. I didn’t smell anything at first, but when I got closer, I got the faintest whiff of a light, floral scent. The woman who brought it smiled at me, bowed, then left. I lifted the lid of the tea pot and peeked inside. Sure enough, there was a torn-up marigold flower floating in the water.

I carefully poured a cup of water into a cup and carried it into Chris. “Get up, I have some tea for you.”

He moaned. “Tea? I don’t really like tea.”

“Well, this is supposed to be good for nausea.”

“Tea itself makes me nauseated. How is something that makes me nauseated going to make me less nauseated?”

“It’s magic tea. Sit up and try it.”

He sighed and carefully pushed himself up. “How do you know it’s magic?” he grumped, scowling at me. He looked like one of the girls, his hair sticking up at all angles, his lower lip all but sticking out.

I grinned at him. “India feels like a pretty magical, mystical place, doesn’t it?” I held out the cup and he gingerly took it.

He stared down at it. “Is it also invisible tea? It looks like water to me.”

“It’s marigold tea. They steeped a marigold flower in it for a little bit.”

He sniffed it suspiciously. “I barely smell anything.”

“So maybe it won’t taste like anything but hot water.” I looked at him encouragingly. “Go on. Worst case, you’ve already got a trash can handy.”

He gave me a look, then tentatively took a sip. I waited for a reaction. He took another, longer sip. He shrugged. “It tastes like hot plant water. Like…hot water that’s a little…green? I’m not sure exactly how to explain it.” He held the cup out for me to try, but I held up my hands to stop him.

“No thanks. I do not want your germs right now, thanks.”

He offered me a weak smile and took another drink. “How much should I drink?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. As much as you can. You need the fluids.” I walked into the living room and returned, pushing the cart. “I have a whole pot, plus the ginger ale and crackers. Want a cracker?” He nodded, and I handed him one from the plate. He munched one slowly, the crumbs dusting the front of his t-shirt.

“You need a shower,” I commented, once he finished the cracker, plus a few more, another cup of tea, and was leaning his head back, exhausted.

“You think I have the strength for that?” he asked, incredulous.

“Well, you smell bad,” I pointed out. “This whole room smells. Plus, you’ll feel better if you clean up. Trust me.”

He gave me a pathetic look. “What if you gave me a sponge bath? That could be fun.”

I gave him a look. “I was thinking you could shower, then relocate to the living room for a bit, so we could ask the maid to come in and clean this room and the bathroom. You can rest until you feel better and maybe we can get you some actual food for dinner. Maybe some soup.”

“You could sponge me in the tub.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“You aren’t being very sympathetic. Your bedside manner is terrible.”

“This is why I didn’t go into medicine.”

He laughed softly, reaching for my hand. I let him pull me onto the bed beside him. “No sympathy for your poor, sick, ailing, possibly dying husband?”

“You aren’t dying,” I protested, smoothing his hair out of his face. “You probably just ate something off. You were trying so many things in that market the other day, something probably isn’t agreeing with you, that’s all. I’m betting you’ll be fine tomorrow. I am sorry you feel bad, but mostly, you need rest and fluids, and you definitely will feel better if you wash and change.”

He hooked his arm around my neck and pulled me down, nuzzling his nose against my cheek. “I do feel some better, thanks. I appreciate that you aren’t exactly a nursemaid type to other adults.”

“Sorry,” I sighed, rubbing his ribcage. I wrinkled my nose. “God, you smell.”

He laughed tiredly as he released me. “Ok, ok. I can take a hint. Will you at least help me into the bathroom?”

“Yes.” I stood up, then turned to help him up out of bed. He was a little wobbly on his feet. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. It had only been about twenty-four hours that he’d been sick, but I could tell that he felt weak. I led him to the bathroom, then made sure he was seated on the toilet before turning to run the water in the tub.

“Want more tea or something in the tub?” I offered.

“You could order some soup or something,” he yawned. “That sounded really good.”

I nodded. “Something with chicken in it, maybe.”

“But nothing too spicy,” he clarified.

I helped him undress and climb into the tub, then left and called down to order something for dinner.

“How was the tea?” the voice on the other end asked, once I’d told her my room number.

“Oh, I think it’s helping, thank you,” I smiled. “He drank about half of it and he’s in the tub cleaning up now.”

“Excellent. I’ll send up more with your dinner.”

“Thank you.”

The next morning, Chris woke up feeling much better, though still not great. Another pot of marigold tea was with our breakfast, and after drinking it, he wanted to hit the ground running, try to squeeze everything we’d missed the day before into the things we wanted to see that day, but I refused.

“You’re still recovering,” I pointed out. “You feel fine now, but you need one more day of rest. We can sit here and read books.”

“Books?” He stared at me, dumbfounded. “You brought books on our first trip away together since having kids?”

I stared at him over the top of my book. “I feel like we’ve had this conversation before. You know I travel everywhere with a book. Multiple books. I even brought some for you because I had a suspicion you wouldn’t bring any.”

He huffed in annoyance and sat beside me. “I brought my knitting,” he admitted after a bit. “But that was mostly for the plane ride.”

“See? Downtime activities.”

“But if I’m knitting, I want to talk. And I can’t talk to you if you’re reading.”

I sighed. “So, watch TV.”

“You won’t get mad?”

“No.”

“Maybe I can find the football scores.”

“Good luck. I think India is more into cricket than football.”

He frowned. “Is that true?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. See what you can find.”

He flipped through the channels, looking for football but not finding it right away. He finally landed on cricket.

“I guess I’ll have to watch this,” he grumbled, picking up his knitting bag and digging out his project.

I hummed at him as I tried to read my book, my feet tucked under his thigh. He talked to me, asking me questions about the game, in spite of my book held up to cover my face and my clear disinterest in the game. I was beginning to wish he was still sick in bed. At least then I’d have a little peace and quiet.

He started cheering suddenly and I looked up, prepared to say something, but the look of excitement on his face for a team he had no reference for, playing a game he knew nothing about, made me stop. He was almost back to normal. He was still pale, with dark purple smudges under his eyes that a full night’s sleep hadn’t fully erased.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.” I smiled. “Just glad you’re feeling better.” Marigold tea. Who knew.