Rx is more than chicken soup

I told her it wasn’t going to be pretty.
I told her coming over would be like poking a bear with a stick.
She came over anyway.
I’m sick. Bubbling with viral nasopharyngitis. The common (fucking) cold.
I hate being sick.
I am not a good patient.
Like a bear, I go to my cave (no, I do not see my power animal) and hibernate.
And she came by anyway.
She brought tissues, the kind with the lotion in them.
And she cooked me chicken soup (minus the chicken because she forgot it at the store, but she’s promised to make a proper chicken soup with real chicken broth, a trussed chicken, a bay leaf and everything) and she brought brandy.
And let me sulk on the couch, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, to watch DVR’ed episodes of Planet Earth.
OK, I felt like I needed to be in the kitchen helping (old habits die hard) or at least be in there to keep her company.
“Don’t worry about it. Go watch TV.”
It was fantastic. Here was a beautiful, opinionated, articulate and intelligent woman who cooked me soup, sipped wine and engaged me in conversation (she even served me and did the dishes; fabulous, I tell you).
It was exactly what I needed.
And it felt so good to be on the receiving end of so much kindness.
That hasn’t happened in a great long time.