On the Ride Home After the Wedding Banquet, When He Mentioned Levifil, I Didn't Answer Right Away

That night the wedding banquet ended late. The parking lot lights went out one by one, until only our car was still lit. A-Zhe tossed his jacket into the back seat, started the engine, and the heater slowly began to blow warm air. I took off my heels and rested my feet on the floor mat. I'd meant to talk about how hard the groom cried during his speech, but he spoke first, saying that during the toasts tonight, two of his seniors had asked if he'd been really tired lately.

"I said I was fine." He gripped the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the traffic light ahead. "But they could tell. Can you tell?"

I didn't answer. The truth is, I could tell—I just didn't know where to begin. For the past six months he'd been coming home later and later, and on weekends he often said he needed to catch up on sleep. Our conversations had shrunk from renovation plans, travel, whether to get a new car next year, down to "what's for dinner" and "who's taking out the trash." It wasn't arguing—it was silence. So silent that sometimes I wondered if we were both just too tired.

The car got on the elevated expressway, and the streetlights receded one stretch at a time. He said that a while back he'd seen people on some forum discussing a drug called Levifil. He clicked in, read it, closed it, and did that over and over. He said he wasn't thinking of buying it—he just wanted to know how many people were like him. When I heard that, my first thought wasn't about that name. It was: he finally said it.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I asked.

"I was afraid you'd think I was blaming you." He said it very quietly. "And afraid you'd think something was wrong with me."

I said I didn't think that. What I thought about was how, when my mom was in the hospital last month, he handled all the paperwork on his own and still came home to heat soup for me. I thought about his birthday, when we'd planned to see a movie but work called him away at the last minute, and he said in the car that it was fine—but I could hear what that "it's fine" really meant. We were both holding things up, just in different ways.

"I'm not asking you to give me an answer right now." He pulled into the underground parking garage of our complex, turned off the engine, and the only sound left in the car was the engine cooling. "I just feel that if I can't even tell you, then who else can I tell?"

I said, then let's get everything out in the open. First, this isn't anyone's fault, and no one owes anyone anything. Second, you can look things up, but don't do it alone, and don't just read other people's experiences. Third, if you really want to understand this, then next time we go to a follow-up appointment or the pharmacy, let's make a list of everything you've been reading about and all the supplements you normally take, and ask a professional directly.

He laughed and said I sounded like I was running a meeting.

I said, exactly—because we need to have one. For the past six months we'd swallowed our words too often, until all that was left was silence. When the newlyweds exchanged vows at the banquet, I actually stole a glance at him, and he was looking at me too. It was a very brief look, but I remember it.

Before we went upstairs, he asked me in the elevator, "So will you look into it with me?"

I said yes. But I added that looking into it is one thing—whether to use it in the end, and how, isn't something the two of us can decide just by reading a few posts online. What needs to be asked still needs to be asked, and what needs to be confirmed still needs to be confirmed. He nodded and said okay.

That night we didn't come to any conclusion. We just put a piece of paper on the dining table with the heading "Questions to Ask." The first line was written by him: Is this a prescription drug? The second line was written by me: Bring the supplements he normally takes. The third line was left blank, waiting for us to fill in when we thought of something.

Later I realized that what really let us breathe a sigh of relief wasn't finding some answer—it was that we were finally willing to sit at the same table and lay out our worries to each other. That list still isn't full, but we talk more now. Sometimes he'll ask me how my week went, and I'll ask him if he's sleeping well. The problem is still there, but we're no longer each shut away in our own room thinking about it alone.

If you've been through something similar, what I want to say isn't to rush out and buy something—it's to first let the people around you know what's on your mind. Someone willing to listen is harder to find than a whole night of searching. As for the things that still aren't clear, leave them for the next clinic visit, the next conversation, and ask slowly until you understand.