It took me a long time to be heard on the unit, and ultimately it was not me that the cadre of psychiatric professionals listened to, but my harried husband, a man beleaguered by my incessant calls, often six or seven a day, so frequent he was having trouble at work. "I have a brain tumor" was my refrain. No amount of solace or belligerent insistence to the contrary could dissuade my "paranoid ideation." My husband finally called my psychiatrist at the hospital and insisted she run a test—any test, just so they could prove to me that I didn't have a brain tumor. The psychiatrist was reluctant at first but eventually relented, reasoning that perhaps a test was warranted, given that I'd been having vision problems. (She did confess to my husband that she thought it a bit odd that I had blurring in only one eye.) She sent me to the hospital ophthalmologist, who ran an optical field test. Security managed my transfer to and from the psychiatric wing—a good thing, because I never would have found it on my own.