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On days like today, Tuesday hates God.
She doesn't even believe in God, of course, but that doesn't stop her from feeling a burning resentment towards the very idea of a creator manufacturing her boyfriend's suffering.
Corey's sick, which isn't exactly an unusual occurrence, but the cruel twist is that this time, the cause is the medication which is supposed to be helping him. He took his first dose yesterday, as soon as they picked up the prescription, and for a few hours, things had been… okay. He didn't seize. He was calm. Perhaps a little too calm, since he'd ended up passing out on the couch while they tried to watch some cheesy horror flick, but they'd gone to bed happy. Hopeful.
Now, Tuesday winces as she holds the trash can up beside the bed with one hand, her other hand reaching over to rub Corey's back. His retching seems to grow more violent every time.
“I’ve got you, Core.” she soothes when he sobs a little, barely able to catch his breath between the waves of nausea. “You're okay.”
After what feels like an eternity, he leans back, shakily lowering himself back onto the mattress and pulling the comforter up to his neck. Tuesday sets the trash can down and tries, with a surge of nausea creeping inside her , too, to ignore how full it feels already.
Corey's curls are damp with sweat. His eyes meet hers, the fear within them only dulled by sheer exhaustion. As she retrieves a tissue from the box on his bedside table and gently wipes his mouth, his nostrils flare, and his gaze follows her movements. It's as though he's desperate to say something, anything, but he's too tired to even speak. The thought chills Tuesday to the bone.
He's usually so talkative. God, what the hell are these meds doing to him?
“Did you… did you want some water, sweetheart?”
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “ Just… just wan’ sleep.”
Tuesday's stomach drops a little, but she nods anyway, too focused on keeping him happy to deal with her own building concern about his drowsiness.
“Alright,” she murmurs, adjusting the blankets around him and stroking his cheek. “You sleep then, alright? I'll be right here if you need me.”
Just like that, his eyelids fall closed, and in seconds his breathing has evened out completely. In some ways, Tuesday is glad for this slight respite, because it means she can remove her mask of confidence until the next time he wakes, scrambling for the trash can. She can admit the doubts for a little while, the niggling voice in the back of her mind that says ‘ this isn't right’.
It doesn't matter that she's read the list of side effects on the leaflet that came with his prescription at least a dozen times.
Blocked nose or itchy throat
Feeling drowsy, sleepy, or dizzy
Headaches
Aggression, or feeling irritable or agitated
Feeling sick or being sick (nausea or vomiting).
After all, seeing them play out in reality rather than simply being words on a piece of paper is so much more terrifying. They feel vague. Ambiguous.
How long is he going to suffer like this? Will things come to a halt slowly or do side effects stop at once? How severe should they be? When should she call his doctor? What-
She swallows past her anxiety, and instead reaches out to brush a stray curl behind Corey's ear. He's asleep now. Peaceful. That's all she has to focus on.
On the second day, Corey drags himself downstairs, pale and shaking, and Tuesday puts on a movie while he curls up on the couch, trying desperately to keep his eyes open. He's strong enough now that when the tug of nausea gets too strong to ignore, he can walk to the bathroom unaided, and the only thing Tuesday hears of it is the flushing of the toilet when he's done.
Whenever he settles back, face drained of colour, blinking languidly, Tuesday has to remind herself that this is better than it could be. He's had too many seizures on this couch, too many times where his breathing has paused and she's been scared that she's going to lose him.
This- the puking, the stomach pains, the exhaustion- is rough, but at least he's not seizing.
It’s a step in the right direction.
Still, she'll sleep in the living room with him tonight, ready to wake up at the slightest sound. She'll worry if he disappears to the bathroom and doesn't reappear for a long time. Her heart will jump if his breath so much as hitches while he slumbers.
And hopefully, tomorrow or the next day or the day after that, he'll finally start to feel better.