There’s a spreadsheet on my desktop titled “Ball Jokes Mostly,” created just before starting chemo, two years ago this week. After the initial shock of the diagnosis wore off, I found a lot of comfort in humor—I still do, though I’ve learned it also has its limitations. As some of those memories start to pop back up, this remains one of my favorites: my first trip to the fertility clinic. It was everything that childhood sitcoms had led me to expect: awkward eye contact, a black vinyl couch, a cabinet full of porn…and a bill, because none of it’s covered by insurance. Originally captioned, “Tree of life, potentially.” Still a solid joke, don’t @ me