What had always been true was how different he was from the others. If he was brash or aggressive at times, he was always kind. There was never a hint of meanness or nastiness. Then, one day, his whole demeanor changed: He would come home from work and snap at his wife. He was rude to people on the phone. Even his kids, who were always exempt from the usual stresses, started to notice. He had become a different man.

Things at work had been building up. A new project and staff, too many deadlines, not enough time. One could easily point to the office as the heart of the problem. Or there was his father’s health to consider. His dad had been in and out of the hospital several times in as many months. Add to that his son’s college tuition, his daughter’s upcoming wedding, the mortgage on the house ”“ the list goes on.

Then, one night at dinner, he happened to mention that he’d stopped taking his medications ”“ stopped the cholesterol pills, the ones for blood pressure, even his “head pills,” as he called them ”“ the meds that tempered his anxiety and softened his moods.

Was it possible that the “new” man was actually the original, unreconstructed version ”“ the “before” model prior to chemical enhancement? And, if so, how would she feel about this man whose most lovable traits could be made to appear, or vanish, with the wave of a pharmacist’s wand?

Here she was, counting on a drug to work its magic, yet he was no longer taking it. Trust was consigned to a tiny pillbox ”“ a tenuous link to the man she loved.

As she contemplated the notion of her husband with and without his medication, she felt betrayed by her own antiquated thinking. She had questioned his use of “head pills” in the first place, considered them a sign of weakness. Then, one night, she started to look at things differently. How were her husband’s moods any different, really, from someone else’s asthma, ulcer or arthritis?

At some point, she thought, most people have some ailment or another that’s managed with medication ”“ some allergy or condition that would ruin their days if left untreated. She considered the idea of “pulling oneself up by the bootstraps” after a heart attack, for instance, or “getting on with it” in the midst of a migraine.

The absurdity was patently clear.

Trust can indeed be contained in a little pillbox, she realized ”“ and it’s one of the great gifts of our time.

She asked her husband to re-think his decision. High cholesterol and blood pressure were so treatable, so unnecessary to abide. So, too, the medication that helped to re-shape his moods. Nor would this be a concession to weakness ”“ just moving on, with a chemical assist.

— Joan Silverman writes op-eds, essays and book reviews for numerous publications. This column originally ran in The American Reporter.