I just told my friends at lunch I won’t be in tomorrow, I have another doctor’s appointment, “I’m still hoping for a tumor,” I joke. My humor in the throes of my undiagnosed depression was morbid to say the least. I would make jokes about horrible diagnosis. I wanted a horrible diagnosis because it meant I had a diagnosis, rather than being stuck in limbo like I was. I was going back to try something new. The only diagnosis I got was still years down the line and would only happen if I kept my behavior up. I was taking aspirin and Aleve in excessive amounts which would eventually damage my liver. “An aneurysm would be nice too,” I say, “Just one day we’ll be sitting here and my forehead will smack the table.” BAM! I smack the table to emphasize my point, “Blood will pour out my ears and nose,” I tuck my hair behind my ear. I didn’t know if that part was true or not, I was going for gore factor, “But don’t get anybody,” I eye the aid walking by our table, “it’ll be too late. I’ll be dead,” and a huge smile crosses my face. Half my friends are pale and the other half aren’t listening. They’ve heard it before, two months ago when I was trying new medicine again. I’ll do the same thing in a few weeks when the medicine I try tomorrow falls short and I’m still in pain. The tumor or aneurysm would be an answer, rather than trying new medicine just for it to stop working in two or three weeks and I’d be back to square one still in pain. I’m taking one step forward, in a few weeks time I’ll be taking two back.