There came an abrupt knock at the door and a shout from the other side. “Medics,” said a deep male voice.

The next few minutes passed in a blur as I was told to stand aside while the paramedics evaluated James. Including a pair of hotel managers who’d just appeared, there must have been ten people in the room, a merry-go-round of spinning, concerned faces.

A young woman in a well-kept, navy blue uniform stood near me—La Grande was embroidered on her shirt—and she offered me tea, a biscuit, even a sandwich tray. I declined them all, instead trying to listen to the thick British accents flying around as everyone made an effort to treat my husband. They asked him question after question, only some of which I could understand.

The medics pulled equipment from a heavy canvas bag: an oxygen mask, blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. The hotel bathroom soon resembled a trauma room, and the sight of the equipment was like a slap in the face as I wondered, for the very first time, if this might be a matter of life and death for James. No, I shook my head, don’t even go there. It won’t happen. They won’t let it happen.

When I left for London without James on our “anniversary” trip, I expected emotional turmoil, but not of this kind. Now, with my own wounds still so raw, I found myself hoping desperately that James didn’t die on the bathroom floor in front of me, even if I’d had such fleeting, dark notions about killing someone in the hours after learning of his affair.

Soon, James told the medics about the eucalyptus oil, and one of them lifted the bottle to look at it, just as I’d done. “The bottle is forty mil, but it’s still half-full,” the medic said in an authoritative voice. “How much of this did you have?”

“Just a swallow,” James muttered as someone shone a small light into his eyes.

One of the paramedics repeated this into the cell phone he held at his ear. “Hypotension, yes. Significant vomiting. Blood, yes. No alcohol, other medicines.” They all paused a moment, and I assumed that someone on the other end of the line was plugging things into a database, perhaps to determine urgent treatment methods.

“How long ago was it ingested?” the paramedic asked James, holding an oxygen mask to his face. He shrugged, but I saw in his eyes that he was terrified, confused and struggling even now to breathe.

“Two and a half, three hours ago,” I offered.

Everyone turned to look at me, like it was the first time they’d noticed my presence.

“Were you with him when he drank it?”

I nodded.

“And does the oil belong to you?”

Again, I nodded.

“Right, then.” The paramedic turned back to James. “You’ll be coming with us.”