We Have a Plan

“This food tastes funny,” I say to my husband, Jean-Claude.

“Here let me try it,” he says, taking a bite. “It’s fine. It tastes good to me.”

This exchange in a restaurant is familiar to both of us; these are our code words for when I am feeling paranoid and fear that my food is poisoned. Many times, having my husband taste my food is enough to get me over the worst of my irrational fears, but not this night.

“I can’t eat it,” I say.

“Here, you take mine, and I will take yours,” he tells me, switching our plates.

As usual, he thought ahead and ordered something he knew I would like. Between my schizophrenia and my anxiety disorder, eating meals out—a once common occurrence for us—is now rare. When things are acting up for me, especially in public, Jean-Claude covers for me in front of friends. He never wants me to experience embarrassment or shame for experiencing symptoms that I can’t control.