The Distance Between Appointments

The kitchen light hums like a loose wire.

He stands there, hand resting on the counter, waiting for his pulse to slow. It never does — just flutters like a moth in a jar. His reflection in the kettle is warped, tired, faintly yellowed. He looks older than last week. Or maybe the light’s just cruel today.

Breakfast is an algorithm: black coffee, half a banana, inbox. The hunger never goes away; it only changes tone. Acid sits behind his teeth, metallic before it reaches his throat — the kind of taste the body sends when it’s trying to tell you something. But he files it away, like every other notification from the flesh.

It’s been months of half-nights, meetings stacked like bricks, sleep traded for relevance. He doesn’t call it pain — just “background.” The fatigue arrives early now, a second shadow. His gut has grown temperamental, unpredictable, a small rebellion that speaks in cramps and fog. The doctor once called it “functional dyspepsia.” Translation: your body is functioning, just not for you.

At the clinic, fluorescent lights hum in chorus with his chest. A nurse fits the cuff; the pressure blooms against his arm, suffocating then releasing. Numbers flash red. The doctor glances, pauses, then clears his throat: “Your system’s inflamed — the kind that starts in the gut and ends everywhere else. Reversible, if you stop living the way that broke you.”

The words lodge deep. Not as instruction — as indictment.

He thinks of every skipped meal, every night his heart raced while his face stayed still on camera. How he’s been digesting not just food, but stress, resentment, swallowed anger. The slow poisoning of self-neglect disguised as competence.

A notification buzzes on his phone. He hesitates, then opens it: a short voicemail from his sister. “I know you’re busy… just call me if you can. Don’t wait until it’s too late.”

He freezes. The words burn through layers of denial — not judgment, not pleading, just fact. The consequences of neglect are now audible.

In the mirror of the washroom, he sees it clearly for the first time — the hollowness under his eyes, the faint tremor in his hand. The body isn’t betraying him. It’s remembering what he refused to feel.

That night, he cancels the late call. Walks home in the rain. No umbrella. Just breath, water, and pulse. The city blurs like a long exposure — lights smeared, sound distant, everything slower than he remembers. For once, he doesn’t rush to fill the silence.

The next morning, a new ritual. He lifts the first spoon of Lingzhi and holds it in his hand, tasting the weight of intention before swallowing. Bitter, grounding, deliberate. Not a cure, just a signal: I am listening.

Days unfold differently now — not easier, just lighter. Meals that don’t come in wrappers. Sleep that arrives before regret. The pulse steadies, not because he fought it, but because he finally stopped.

Wherever productivity once felt like proof, there were bodies negotiating behind the scenes. He was one of them — bargaining away vitality for validation. He got lucky; his body called time before it quit.

Because health doesn’t vanish in crisis. It erodes quietly — between appointments, beneath excuses, under the hum of lights that never switch off.

The body always keeps the score.

Silence is the first symptom of everything you will lose.

–––

These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.
Most decline begins in silence —
a skipped check-up, a cough you dismiss, a breath you pretend is fine.

He didn’t need saving.
Just a warning sooner.

––– Pause Here –––

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
Most illness doesn’t start with a bang.
It starts when silence becomes habit.

Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering.

Advisory
Lingzhi is a traditional food, long used to support balance and general well-being.
It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease.
Individuals with existing medical conditions or those taking medication should consult a qualified healthcare professional before use.

#SubHealthStories #HealthIsAHabit #HappyHealthyLingzhi

https://www.facebook.com/LingzhiHappyHealthy