“Mrs. Collins, are you currently taking any prescription sedatives?” the voice on the other end of the line asked, so quiet and clinical that I had to press my phone hard against my ear to hear it over the hum of the refrigerator.

I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. “No,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I don’t take any medication. Not even aspirin if I can help it.”

“The levels in your blood sample suggest daily exposure for the last 18 months,” the woman said. My mind couldn’t make sense of the words. She kept talking, but my eyes were locked on the kitchen counter.

Canton, Ohio, is cold in November. The gray light was barely cutting through the kitchen window. I spent 24 years managing the front desk at Dr. Weaver’s dental office, dealing with insurance companies and paper charts. I knew how to read medical jargon, but this was different.

Arthur worked as a senior accountant at a local firm. He was a detailed man. Every single morning, Arthur woke up at 5:30 AM. He would walk down the drafty hallway of our ranch home, turn on the drip coffee maker, and bring me a mug in bed.

It was always in my favorite cobalt blue ceramic mug. The one with the tiny chip on the handle that I bought at a craft fair in Sugarcreek. I used to brag about it to my sister, Clara.

“He’s a saint,” I’d tell her over the phone. “20 years, and I’ve never had to make my own morning coffee.”

Arthur would just smile when he heard me say it. He liked things done his way. The coffee had to be a specific brand. He kept the sugar jar and the non-dairy creamer on the top shelf, where only he could reach them easily.

We had been planning my retirement. My father had passed away 2 years prior, leaving me a trust fund worth about $650,000.

It was our ticket to a comfortable old age. We talked about traveling. We talked about buying a small camper.

But about 18 months ago, the fog started rolling in.

I don’t know how else to describe it. It began with a heavy feeling in my limbs. I would wake up after 9 hours of sleep feeling like my body was made of wet cement. My eyes wouldn’t focus properly on the billing charts.