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My husband had been a man who came home from work whistling. For about two years, I watched him quietly stop whistling, and I did not know how to bring it up.

I have been married to David for thirty-four years.

My name is Margaret. We have lived in the same house in the Hudson Valley for twenty-eight of those years, raised two daughters here, and watched the maples in our front yard grow from the saplings David planted the spring after we moved in.

David is sixty-one. He has worked for the same regional accounting firm for thirty-seven years, the last eleven as a partner. He is, by every measure that matters, a good man.

I am telling you that because the story I am going to tell you does not make sense if you do not know what kind of man David has been.

David came home from work whistling for thirty-three years.

I do not mean that as a figure of speech. I mean it literally.

He came in the back door at six-fifteen, hung his keys on the hook, and started whistling something — half the time it was a song from the radio that morning, half the time it was nothing in particular, just the sound of a man who was glad to be home.

I would hear it from the kitchen and I would know he was back, and I would call out, David, and he would call back, Margaret, and that was the small daily ritual of our marriage for thirty-three years.

About two years ago, the whistling started getting quieter.

I noticed it the way you notice these things, which is over a long period of time, in small pieces, none of which I would have been able to point to individually.

By the end of the first year, the whistling had mostly stopped.

By the end of the second year, David was coming home at six-fifteen, hanging up his keys, and going straight to the chair in the living room. Quiet. He would say hi, sweetheart, and kiss the top of my head, but the whistling was gone.

The whistling was not the only thing.

He stopped suggesting the small Saturday outings we used to take.

We have an antique-store loop we have been doing for twenty years — three small towns up the river from us, a few hours on the road, a small lunch somewhere along the way. David used to plan it on Friday nights. He stopped planning it.

He stopped going to his Tuesday-night basketball at the community center. He had been playing pickup with the same group of men, mostly his age, for fourteen years. He stopped going one Tuesday and then stopped going the next Tuesday and then never went back, and when I asked him about it he said his knee had been bothering him, which was partly true but not the whole truth.

He stopped doing the small house projects he used to do on Sunday afternoons. The trim on the back porch had needed repainting for a year and a half. The fence by the driveway had been leaning for nine months.

He stopped reading at night. He had been a reader for thirty-four years.

He stopped, in the small daily ways a wife notices, being the David I had married.

I noticed all of it. He did not.

I want to be clear that none of this was sudden. None of it was dramatic. He was not depressed. He was not sick. His annual physical, which he had at fifty-nine and then again at sixty, came back clean both times. His doctor told him he was in good shape for sixty. He was on a low-dose blood pressure medication that had been working for years and a low-dose cholesterol medication his doctor had started him on at fifty-eight, both of which were doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing.

There was no chart-level problem to fix.

There was just a man who had quietly stopped whistling.

The thing that finally got me to say something out loud happened in late October. About fourteen months ago.

Our older daughter, Anne, was getting married. The wedding was in Vermont. We drove up the Friday before and had dinner with the rehearsal party at a restaurant on the lake.

David was seated next to Anne's father-in-law-to-be, a man named Tom who is about ten years older than David — early seventies, retired civil engineer, very fit, the kind of man who shows up to a rehearsal dinner having walked the four miles from his hotel and not mentioning that he walked the four miles from his hotel.

I was at the other end of the table.

I watched David and Tom talk for about half an hour. At first the conversation was the kind of thing the fathers of the bride and groom talk about — the kids, the wedding logistics, the weather forecast for Saturday. Then it became something else.

I could not hear what they were saying. But I watched David's face change at some point in that conversation, in a way I had not seen his face change in two years. He was listening to Tom in a way that was not the way David had been listening to anybody.

After dinner, on the walk back to our room at the inn, I asked David what they had been talking about.

He was quiet for a minute.

He said, Tom said something to me that I have been thinking about all evening.

I asked him what.

He said: Tom asked me how I was doing. Not the polite way. The other way. And then he told me what he had been doing for the last three years to feel like himself again. He said it took him a while to admit to himself that he had been needing to do something. He said he wished he had said something to his wife sooner.

I asked David if Tom had told him what he had been doing.

David said yes.

He said the most important thing Tom had told him was to go to his doctor and have the conversation he had been avoiding.

He told me Tom had told him about a supplement — a beetroot capsule, of all things — that Tom had added to his mornings after talking to his own doctor about it. Tom had told David the brand was Rosabella and that he had picked it because the small company cold-pressed the beetroot rather than processing it with heat.

He told David that the supplement was not the point. The point was the appointment.

David and I walked the rest of the way back to the inn without saying anything.

When we got to the room, he sat on the edge of the bed and he told me, for the first time in two years, that he had been noticing the same things in himself that I had been noticing about him, and that he had not known how to say so.

I held his hand for a long time.

We talked for almost two hours that night.

The next morning, our daughter got married.

The Monday after we got back from Vermont, David called his doctor's office and made an appointment.

I want to tell you something about that appointment that matters for this letter, because David told me about it on the drive home and I have been thinking about it ever since.

His doctor — a woman in her fifties he had been seeing for fifteen years — did not make a face. She did not rush him. She asked him careful questions. She ran the bloodwork she wanted to run. She looked at his medications and confirmed both the blood pressure medication and the cholesterol medication were doing what they were supposed to be doing for him. She talked to him for a long time about circulation, generally, and about how circulation matters for a great many functions of the body, and about how the cardiovascular care he was already receiving was doing what it was supposed to be doing.

She talked through the medical options he had with him at the kind of level a doctor talks a patient through medical options.

She told him to think about it.

She told him there was no rush.

She told him to come back when he had thought about it.

She told him, before he left, that if he ever wanted to add anything new to what he was already taking — anything at all, from any source — to call her or the nurse line first, especially given the cardiovascular medications he was on.

David came home that evening and we talked for another long evening about what he was going to do.

He did not decide that night.

He decided three weeks later, after he had read carefully about a number of things, including the supplement Tom had mentioned at the rehearsal dinner.

David read about beetroot the way David reads about anything, which is carefully, with a notepad, in the evenings, at the kitchen table.

He read about the deep crimson pigment called betalain — the color that stains your cutting board for three days.

He read about the dietary nitrates that are naturally present in the root.

He read about the long, patient relationship the cardiovascular research community has had with this vegetable for decades, in the context of supporting healthy circulation and cardiovascular wellness.

None of what he read was a fireworks story. He read it out loud to me at the kitchen table on several evenings, and I want to tell you what struck both of us about what he was reading. The language being used was language we had not been hearing in the supplement aisle of the drugstore. It was supports healthy circulation, supports cardiovascular wellness, supports the body's own cellular energy — in people whose numbers are already in the range their doctors want them in.

Not fixes anything.

Not replaces what your doctor has you on.

Not lowers anything.

David said, on one of those evenings at the kitchen table, that it was the first language he had read in a supplement context that he could square with how his doctor talked about his cardiovascular care.

He picked Rosabella — the brand Tom had mentioned — and he picked it because the cold-press chemistry he had read about made sense to him.

The betalain pigment is heat-sensitive. Process beetroot the standard way, with heat, and you lose some of the compound to the heat. Rosabella cold-presses the root at low temperatures because they want as much of the compound as possible to make it from the field into the capsule.

David is an accountant. He pays attention to small decisions companies make when no one is watching. The cold-press told him something about who he was dealing with.

The other thing he liked was the simplicity. Two capsules in the morning with a glass of water. David likes things that fit on the counter next to the coffee.

Now I want to tell you about the call he made before he started taking it, because it is the most important part of this letter.

His doctor had told him, at the appointment, to call her office before he added anything new to what he was already taking.

He called.

He spoke to the nurse line. They looked at his chart. They saw his blood pressure medication. They saw his cholesterol medication. They asked him about the supplement, the dose, the protocol. They put him on hold while they checked with his doctor. They called him back the same afternoon.

The nurse told him his doctor had no concerns about adding it. She told him to keep doing what he was doing on the medication side. She told him not to change anything else without his doctor in the room.

I want to say something now, on behalf of David and on behalf of myself.

If your husband — or your father, or your brother, or whoever it is you are watching from across the kitchen — is on any prescription medication for blood pressure, cholesterol, or anything cardiovascular, please make sure he calls his pharmacist or his doctor's office before he adds anything new.

This is not optional.

Beetroot supplements can interact with cardiovascular medications. The interaction is not necessarily anything. But it depends on the medication, the dose, what else he is taking, and what his prescribing physician would want for him.

That is exactly the kind of small, specific, individualized question that the people who know his chart can answer in two minutes — and that we, as wives, are not qualified to answer for him.

David made the call. He would not have added anything to his prescriptions without that call.

If your husband is the kind of man who would skip the call, please ask him to make it anyway. Sit with him while he makes it if you have to. The two minutes are worth every second.

David was adding the beetroot to his medications.

Not stopping anything. Not adjusting anything. Not changing anything else.

The medications continued, exactly as his doctor had them set, throughout everything that follows in this letter.

David started on a Monday.

The first two weeks I did not notice anything in particular. Neither did he. We had read enough alongside what Tom had said to know that bodies are different — some people notice something within the first week or two, some people take much longer, some people don't notice much at all — and we had both braced ourselves for any of those outcomes.

What I noticed, I noticed slowly. I was the one watching. David was not.

The first thing I noticed, around week four, was the whistling.

Not the way it had been for thirty-three years. Not at six-fifteen at the back door.

It was small. It was at the bathroom sink one Saturday morning while he was shaving. He was whistling something I did not recognize. He had not been whistling at the bathroom sink for two years.

I did not say anything. I made a quiet note.

The second thing I noticed, in week five or six, was that he started leaving the chair in the living room.

He had been going straight to that chair after work, every evening, for two years. He would sit, read the paper, and eventually come to dinner. Most evenings, after dinner, he would go back to the chair until bedtime.

Around week five, I noticed he had not gone back to the chair after dinner. He had come into the kitchen while I was finishing the dishes, and he had taken a dish towel from the drawer the way he used to, and we had finished the dishes together, the way we had done it for thirty years before the chair years.

We did not make a thing of it.

The next evening, he was in the kitchen again.

The third thing I noticed was the porch.

In late spring, about eight or nine weeks in, David was outside on a Saturday morning with the small paint-scraper and the porch trim that had been waiting for a year and a half. He spent most of the day out there. He came in for lunch with paint on his forearms, which is a sight I had been missing without realizing I had been missing it.

By the end of that summer, he had painted the trim, fixed the leaning fence, replaced the cracked board on the back steps, and replanted the side bed of the front yard that had gone weedy.

He had not done any of those things in two years.

The fourth thing I noticed was the wedding photos.

Our daughter had her photographer send us a thumb drive with the wedding photos about three months after the wedding. David and I sat on the couch on a Sunday afternoon and looked through them.

There is a picture, somewhere in the middle of the set, of David and me on the dance floor at the reception, taken from a few feet away. David is looking at me with the kind of half-smile he had on his face on most days for the first thirty-one years of our marriage and that had not been on his face much during the second of those two years.

I had not seen that half-smile in a photograph for some time.

We sat with the photo for a moment. He squeezed my hand. We did not say anything.

The whistling was back. The dishes were back. The porch was back. The half-smile was back.

David was back.

I want to be careful with what I am telling you now, because I am writing this to women I do not know, and I do not want to overstate anything.

I am not telling you Rosabella did any of those things on its own.

David had gone to his doctor. He had told his doctor the truth about how he had been feeling. He had been on his medications, and the medications continued to do what they had been doing. He had been walking more — we had started taking the dog out together after dinner in the months after the rehearsal-dinner conversation with Tom. He had been getting to bed at a more regular hour. He had finally told me what had been quietly going on for two years.

There were several things changing at once, the way there are when a man finally stops avoiding the things he has been avoiding.

All I am telling you is that David added one small thing to a long list of things he was already doing — including the medications his doctor has him on — and a stretch of months followed that was qualitatively different from the two years that had preceded it.

That is the honest version. I would not trust anyone who gave you a cleaner one.

David went back to his doctor at his next annual physical, about seven months after the rehearsal dinner.

She ran the bloodwork. It was where she wanted it, in the same ranges it had been the year before.

She told him to keep doing what he was doing.

She told him not to change a thing.

He drove home from the appointment and we went out for dinner that night at the small restaurant we used to go to on our anniversary.

He whistled in the car on the way home.

If you are reading this and you are watching your own husband, or someone you love, in the way I had been watching David for two years — quietly, without quite knowing what to say, adjusting around small daily changes that you did not know how to name — I want to say a few things to you carefully.

I do not know your husband. I do not know his bloodwork or his medications or what his doctor has said.

Bodies are different. Some men notice something within the first week or two of adding something like this. Some men take much longer. Some men don't notice much at all.

That is the honest version, and anyone offering you a cleaner one is selling you harder than I am.

Here is how David and I think about Rosabella now, in the words we would actually use.

It is something the body uses.

The research community talks about it in the context of supporting healthy circulation, cardiovascular wellness, and the body's own cellular energy, in people whose numbers are already in the range their doctors want them in.

It is not a fix for anything.

It is not a substitute for a blood pressure medication. It is not a substitute for a cholesterol medication. It is not a substitute for anything his doctor has him on.

It is one small thing he adds to the long list of things he is already doing for himself, alongside everything else.

Please — and I mean this — have him call his pharmacist or his doctor's office before he adds it.

If he is on any cardiovascular medication, this is non-negotiable.

If your husband is the kind of man who would skip that call, please ask him to make it anyway. The people who know his chart will tell him in two minutes whether the supplement is safe for him to add.

I am a sixty-year-old wife in the Hudson Valley. I am not the person to ask. His pharmacist or his doctor is.

The other thing I want to ask of you — and this is the part of this letter that matters more than the supplement — is that if your husband has not yet had the conversation that David had with his doctor, please find a way for him to have it.

The point is not Rosabella. The point is the appointment.

David did not start whistling again because of a capsule. He started whistling again because he finally went to his doctor about something he had been carrying for two years, and because the doctor took him seriously, and because we then made a number of small careful changes alongside his existing medical care — one of which was adding Rosabella.

The appointment is the thing.

The company has a ninety-day satisfaction guarantee.

If he is not satisfied — for any reason at all, including just changing his mind — they refund you.

It is not tied to his bloodwork. It is not tied to anything he has to prove to anybody. If he is not satisfied, he is not satisfied. That is the whole policy.

The beets are grown on a small operation that harvests on its own schedule, which means there are stretches when they are in stock and stretches when they are not.

I mention that not to push you — please do not let anybody push you into a health decision for someone you love — but so that if you go to the site and they are out, you know why.

That is all I have. Thank you for reading this far. I hope something here was useful to you and to him.

— Margaret

P.S. I want to come back to the cold-press for a second.

The betalain pigment — the deep red, the part the research community keeps circling back to — is heat-sensitive.

Process beetroot the standard way, with heat, and you lose some of the compound to the heat.

Rosabella chose the slow way. Cold-press, low temperatures, more of the compound through to the capsule.

It costs them money and time. They made the choice anyway.

David, the accountant, pays attention to that kind of choice.

P.P.S. Two capsules. In the morning. With a glass of water.

That is the entire protocol. No powder to mix. No afternoon dose to remember. No schedule taped to the inside of the cupboard.

David keeps the bottle on the kitchen counter next to his blood pressure medication and his cholesterol medication. He takes all three at the same time, with his coffee, before he leaves for work.

That has been the rhythm of his morning for nine months.

P.P.P.S. I am going to say it one more time, because I have to.

Please.

If your husband is on any cardiovascular medication, have him call his pharmacist or his doctor's office before he adds anything new.

If he won't, please make the call yourself and ask them what they would tell him.

The people who know his chart have his whole picture.

I have written you a letter.

There is a difference, and the difference matters.

The two minutes are the most important two minutes of any addition he might make.

P.P.P.P.S. The guarantee, again, in case you skimmed.

Ninety days. Any reason at all.

You do not have to prove a single thing — not to them, not about anyone's numbers, not about how anyone feels.

If he tried it and he is not satisfied, he is not satisfied, and they send the money back.

That is the whole policy. A small-company policy. The kind of thing companies used to do when companies still answered the phone.

P.P.P.P.P.S. The thing Tom said to David at the rehearsal dinner — the supplement is not the point. The point is the appointment — has stayed with me for over a year now.

It is the truest sentence anyone has said to my husband about his health in his entire adult life.

If your husband has been quietly carrying something for a long time, and you have been quietly adjusting around it without knowing what to say, I hope you find your version of Tom at the rehearsal dinner.

If you don't find one, I hope this letter is a small piece of it.

I hope your husband goes to his doctor.

I hope his doctor takes him seriously.

I hope, one evening eight or ten months from now, you hear him whistling at the bathroom sink while he shaves, and you know, in the small daily way that wives know things, that he is becoming more like himself again.

I hope that for you.

That is the whole reason I wrote this letter.

— M.

DISCLAIMER

Individual experiences vary. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.