“Always after dinner,” I replied, rubbing my temples where a dull headache had been building all day. “It starts about 30 minutes after I eat. And then I just feel disconnected, like I’m watching my life through fog.”
“And this has been going on for how long?”
“About 2 months now, maybe a little longer.”
I shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair.
“Patricia, I’m scared. Yesterday, I completely forgot a client meeting, a meeting I’d scheduled myself just 2 days earlier. My assistant had to remind me, and even then, I couldn’t remember what we were supposed to discuss.”
Dr. Wong made several notes, her expression growing more concerned.
“Have you changed anything in your diet recently? New medications, supplements?”
“Nothing. Alex has been cooking more often since I got the promotion, but that’s just because he’s been unemployed and wants to help out. He makes really healthy meals, lots of fish and vegetables.”
“Alex is your husband?”
“Yes, for 3 years now. He’s been incredibly supportive through all this. He keeps suggesting I take time off work, but I can’t. Not with the Morrison Project.”
Dr. Wong nodded, continuing to write.
“Let’s run some tests. Blood work, vitamin levels, thyroid function. We’ll also check for any neurological issues that might be causing the memory problems.”
The blood draw was routine, but as I sat in the waiting room afterward, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was fundamentally wrong. Not just with my health, but with everything. The symptoms were too specific, too consistent. They followed a pattern that didn’t make medical sense.
“I want you to keep a detailed diary,” Dr. Wong said when I returned to her office. “Write down everything you eat, when you eat it, and exactly when the symptoms start. Include your sleep patterns, stress levels, anything that might be relevant.”
“Do you think it’s serious?”
She hesitated, and that pause sent a chill down my spine.
“I think we need more information. But Mia, I have to ask, have you noticed any other changes in your relationships, your living situation, anything that might be causing stress?”
“Just work stress. The campaign is huge, and I’ve been putting in long hours. Alex has been amazing, though. He takes care of everything at home so I can focus.”
“That’s good,” she said, but something in her tone suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced. “How long has Alex been unemployed?”
The question caught me off guard.
“About 4 months now. Why?”
“Just trying to get a complete picture. Sometimes major life changes can affect our health in unexpected ways.”
When I got home that evening, Alex was in the kitchen as usual, preparing dinner. The smell of garlic and herbs filled the air, and normally it would have made my mouth water. Instead, my stomach clenched with anxiety.
“How did the appointment go?” he asked, not looking up from the stove.
“She’s running some tests, blood work, that sort of thing.”
“Good. I’m sure she’ll figure out what’s wrong.”
He turned to face me, his expression perfectly concerned.
“You look tired. Why don’t you sit down? Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
I watched him move around the kitchen with practiced ease, plating the salmon and vegetables with the same care he’d shown every night for months. Everything looked normal, domestic, loving. But Dr. Wong’s questions echoed in my mind. The timing of my symptoms, Alex’s unemployment, his sudden interest in cooking, his detailed questions about my work.
“Alex,” I said carefully. “What exactly have you been doing during the day while I’m at work?”
He paused just for a second before smiling.
“Job hunting mostly, networking, you know how it is.”
But I was starting to wonder if I knew anything at all. The symptom diary Dr. Wong had suggested became my obsession. For 2 weeks, I documented everything with the precision of a scientist conducting an experiment. What I discovered made my blood run cold. Every single dizzy spell, every memory lapse, every moment of confusion occurred exactly 30 to 45 minutes after eating Alex’s cooking. On the three occasions when I’d grabbed lunch at work and skipped dinner at home, claiming I wasn’t hungry, I felt completely normal, sharp, focused like my old self. The pattern was undeniable, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe what it suggested. I started small, testing my theory in ways that wouldn’t raise suspicion. On Tuesday night, when Alex served his signature herbcrusted chicken, I excused myself to the bathroom halfway through the meal. Instead of returning to the table, I scraped most of my remaining food into a tissue and flushed it down the toilet. That night, I felt fine. Better than fine, actually. I stayed up until midnight working on the Morrison presentation, my mind clearer than it had been in weeks.
“You seem energetic tonight,” Alex commented when he found me at my laptop at 11 p.m.
“Just feeling better, I guess,” I replied, not looking up from my screen.
“Did you finish your dinner? I noticed you left some on your plate.”
My fingers froze over the keyboard.
“I was full. It was delicious, though.”
“You need to eat more, Mia. You’ve been losing weight.”
The concern in his voice sounded genuine, but something about the way he watched me made my skin crawl. By Thursday, I was certain I’d managed to avoid eating most of my dinner again, claiming stomach upset, and spent the evening feeling completely normal. But Alex’s behavior was becoming increasingly strange. He hovered while I ate, asking if I liked the seasoning, if the fish was cooked properly, if I wanted seconds.
“You’re not eating enough,” he said Friday night, his tone sharper than usual. “You barely touched your salmon.”
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