It started with my stomach.
Every morning, I would wake up in our Lincoln Park home feeling like someone had twisted my insides into knots.
The pain was so bad that I could barely stand up straight.
I thought maybe I was just stressed from work, but it kept getting worse.
Then came the nausea.
I couldn’t keep food down, especially in the mornings.
Marcus would make me breakfast before I left for my office at the Willis Tower, and I would have to run to the bathroom to throw up.
He seemed so concerned, always asking if I needed to see a doctor.
“Maybe you’re working too hard, honey,” he would say, rubbing my back while I was bent over the toilet. “All those trips between Chicago, Miami, and Los Angeles are probably wearing you out.”
But the worst part was my hair.
I started finding clumps of it on my pillow every morning.
