Trusting Remedies

This afternoon Marlo had recovered from his flu enough to golf. I was still languishing in our resort room. The maid knocked and entered.

“Ya estoy enferma, pero tu puedes limpiar la habitacion, (I’m still sick, but you can clean the room)” I said.

I rested.

She cleaned.

We chatted.

She told me her abuelita (grandmother) is an herbalist, and she offered me some remedies. She pointed to the bougainvillea outside the window and said that if I mixed three flower petals with boiling water and drank it, the brew would be good for my cough. A poultice of—if I understood her correctly—baking soda and tomato juice would draw the inflammation from my throat. And alcohol in my naval would draw out my fever.

I listened and nodded politely.

Would the abuelita’s recipes work? I did no online research.

Instead, tonight, I visited an urgent care center and received a diagnosis: Influenza A and bladder infection.

I’m sitting in my room with my own culture’s remedies—codeine expectorant, cipro, prednisone, and tamiflu.

For better—and perhaps for worse—when wounded, I retreat to the comforts of a familiar cave.