It's the three words you least expect but fear the most. You want to hear him offer another prescription or treatment plan and convince yourself in vain that it'll work for sure this time. I mean, it's possible, right?

You've already heard him say "Let's try again" after your first round of exams, surely it couldn't be worse than that. After so many tests, there was no way he didn't see something; your veins are beginning to scar after so many draws, you've seen x-rays from every angle and you saw your organs working on the ultrasound. Something must have been picked up.

You can feel the heaviness in the room before a single word is spoken - your usually smiley, peppy doctor bears a firm face and little expression other than his warm welcome. You feel so alone, you fear what you haven't heard, yet you already know what will be said.

"I'm sorry, I don't know."

How was this possible? He's a doctor, shouldn't he be able to tell you what's wrong? What was the point of going to a doctor that couldn't tell you what's wrong?

You fill with a range of emotions: angry because he doesn't know, sad because you don't know, happy because no news is good news. You want comfort, you want hope, you want relief. You grow scared - what if everyone thinks you're just making this all up? You've been in pain for two years, there's no way this was fake, but you have no way to prove that it's not just something you've convinced yourself of.

You're offered one final test, one more test to prove you're not insane. The last test before it's time to give up. The last chance to have someone believe you. You have less than a month to decide if it's really worth the trouble - what if nothing shows up? All you want is assurance, but you feel abandoned.

Every day you question if you've made the right decision, go over every "what if?" and wonder if there would have been a better way. You can't go back now, you can only hope that it was best.

But you don't know.