Then something came back to me.
Six months earlier, I had gone to an urgent care clinic because I kept waking up dizzy.
Nothing severe.
Nothing I couldn’t explain away.
I had been tired.
I was working long hours.
I wasn’t sleeping well.
The doctor had wanted to order bloodwork.
My husband had been furious when I told him.
He said the clinic was “padding the bill.”
He told me to cancel the tests.
I did.
Three months later, I nearly fainted in the grocery store.
Again, he said I was tired.
Again, he complained about doctors turning normal problems into expensive ones.
I had believed him.
Or maybe I had decided believing him was easier.
The nurse handed my phone back.
“Has anything like this happened before?”
I swallowed.
“He doesn’t like medical bills.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I looked at her.
“No.”
Then I corrected myself.
“Not exactly.”
She pulled the visitor chair closer.
I told her about the dizziness.
The urgent care visit.
The canceled bloodwork.
The way my husband always seemed to know when I had made an appointment before I told him.
I told her about the vitamins he insisted I take.
He bought them himself.
Every Sunday evening, he sorted them into a plastic container beside the coffee maker.
One for breakfast.
One for dinner.
He said I was forgetful.
My chest tightened.
The nurse asked, “Do you know what was in them?”
“They were vitamins.”
“Did you see the original bottles?”
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
Some of them.
At first.
Later, he had transferred everything into an unmarked weekly organizer.
Yellow pills.
White tablets.
Two capsules.
I suddenly felt nauseated.
“He said they were supplements.”
The nurse stood.
“I’m going to speak with your physician.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m not going to speculate.”
That answer frightened me more than speculation would have.
She left.
My phone vibrated again.
This time my husband called.
I rejected it.
He called again.
Rejected.
Again.
Rejected.
