This Is Not An English Murder Mystery
Laura Finney
6/2/2026
I love English murder mysteries. The English even die properly and in such lovely settings. They often toss in dramatic weather because what’s a country estate without a fog as thick as pea soup? And when did pea soup become the accepted unit of measurement for atmospheric density? Was chowder, which is clearly a superior comparison in both color and thickness, even considered? I feel certain no proper study was conducted because the outcome seems obvious. Where was I going?
Oh and lest you get your hopes up, I should point out that there is neither a murder nor a mystery in the story that follows. Unless my husband starts weed whacking right outside of my office window…again. In which case, all bets are off. Still, every English murder mystery eventually arrives at the fog. Inevitably, the fog creeps in, obscures everything, and leaves people wandering about confused and making poor decisions. This is what I think of when I hear the word fog.
When I first looked into possible reactions to Alpha-Gal, one of the top-billed symptoms was brain fog. Nope, I thought, definitely not me. Thank goodness. It sounded vague and confusing.
And then I put the dirty dishes away in the refrigerator.
Even as I stood looking at the dishes there in the soft glow of the refrigerator light, wondering what on Earth I was doing, it did not cross my mind (and let's be honest, very little was crossing my mind) that this was brain fog. A stroke, perhaps. Early-onset dementia. Maybe even possession. But brain fog? No. I was far too confused to suspect confusion.
The problem with brain fog is that the name sets unrealistic expectations. I was prepared for a dense intellectual mist rolling across the landscape of my mind. What I got instead was a series of tiny cognitive potholes.
So baffled by this slight detour, I pulled those dishes straight back out, deposited them in the dishwasher, and went back to doing my taxes. And here's the crazy thing: I double checked. I did my taxes correctly. It was a glitch. A silly distracted moment in the day.
Or so I told myself.
Because that's the thing about isolated incidents. You can explain them away. Everyone has distracted moments. Everyone occasionally puts the milk in the pantry or walks into a room and forgets why they're there. These days if I remember why I walked into the room I count it as a victory. That said, one odd lapse is a funny story. Two starts to feel like a trend.
A few weeks later, I picked up my dinner plate and headed to join my husband on the patio, only to find myself walking into the laundry room instead. I stood there briefly wondering why my brain seemed determined to go on its own little walkabouts before course correcting. We went on to have a lovely dinner, my husband blissfully unaware that I had briefly considered dining with the laundry detergent.
I think you get the idea. I would be firing on all cylinders, making good decisions, handling work, managing life, and then the most basic words in our language would just vanish from my head.
Eventually, it dawned on me that this must be what they meant by brain fog. The thing is, I'd imagined brain fog as wandering across the moors unable to see ten feet in front of you. Unable to get your bearings. Unable to think clearly.
This wasn't that.
This felt more like brain hiccups.
One moment I was perfectly fine. The next, my mind would take an unscheduled left turn into Are-You-Kidding-Me territory, and then—without explanation or apology—merge right back onto the highway as though nothing had happened.
What the actual heck?
And to be clear, I am a woman of a certain age. I forget words. I forget names. I have been known to search the house for my glasses while wearing three pairs on top of my head. Whether this was Alpha-Gal, being fifty-seven, or the two of them joining forces against me is anyone's guess.
The strangest part was that these glitches existed alongside complete competence. I wasn't forgetting how to do my job. I wasn't getting lost driving home. I could negotiate contracts, prepare market analyses, file taxes, and hold perfectly intelligent conversations. And then, for reasons known only to the mysterious inner workings of my brain, I would take the dog for a walk, while neglecting to bring the dog.
My friends assured me that even without Alpha-Gal they were experiencing similar things. That is one of the many blessings of being a woman in her fifties—the friends.
I can confess the most outrageous brain hiccup imaginable and, rather than expressing concern, they immediately treat it as a competitive sport.
Mention using the flashlight on the phone to search for the phone in the dark and they'll respond with a story that makes me wonder how they've managed to retain custody of their car keys.
And honestly, I love them for it. I mean, if you are going to lose your mind, you might as well surround yourself with folks willing to dial up the crazy just to make you feel better.
The truth is, I still think brain fog is the wrong name. Fog settles in. It lingers. It obscures. So, I’m going with brain hiccups. Like actual hiccups, they're brief, annoying, and always more amusing than alarming. Feel free to call them whatever you like.
But I think we can all agree that I’m right about the chowder.