Chaos and Charm

There wasn’t a single thing Vicks Vaporub couldn’t cure in a Puerto Rican household.
Fever? Vicks.
Cough? Vicks.
Mosquito bite? Vicks.
Heartbreak? Guess what — still Vicks.

If you so much as sneezed, my mom didn’t ask for symptoms.
She just appeared out of nowhere with that little blue jar like a first responder with supernatural powers.
“Put it on your chest.
Put it on your back.
Put it on your feet and then put socks over it.”
And if she was feeling extra thorough, she’d straight up shove it up your nose.
That’s right — instant menthol exorcism.

By bedtime, you smelled like a walking cough drop, your pores were on fire, and you were sweating out childhood trauma.
We didn’t have NyQuil.
We had Vicks and blind faith.

And if you were really sick? She’d mix it with alcoholado, mumble a prayer, and smack your back like she was sending the fever back to hell.
It wasn’t medicine — it was belief in a jar.

And somehow, every Puerto Rican household had that same ancient tub.
Half-empty, crusted on the edges, and slightly discolored — but still “good.”
Expiration date? Irrelevant.
That jar had survived generations, hurricanes, and at least three cross-country moves.

When I moved in with my fiancé, I found a jar in the medicine cabinet
from the 1990s.
I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out.
It felt… sacred. Like a family heirloom.
That jar had history. It had healed childhood colds, emotional damage, and probably a hangover or two.

Now I get it — it wasn’t just about curing a cold.
It was about care.
It was about being seen and tended to, even if the love came in the form of a thick layer of menthol suffocation.

So yeah, I still keep a jar in the cabinet.
Not because it’s magic (ok, maybe a little),
but because it smells like home —
like comfort, chaos, and love had a baby and named it Vaporub.