Got Funny

Cancer. It’s not the type of thing you ask for — usually. Who’d want it? A life-changing, sometimes life-ending disease. Cancer’s so scary that there are people who won’t say the word aloud…but I was saying it regularly, begging God to let me be the one with cancer. My son, a strong, smart, energetic 22-year-old junior at the University of Missouri, woke up one morning with an aching chest. It turned out to be a malignant tumor, and the start of my most fervent prayers. “Please. I’ve had a great life. Let it be me — not him.”

Chemo. Surgery. Hair loss. We were on the cancer whirlwind, watching wide-eyed as days passed and my son just seemed to get sicker and sicker. He stopped eating, his appetite gone because everything tasted metallic. And the worst of it was the wondering: how would this all play out? Would my son have a girlfriend, a family, a life…

Normally, I’m fond of irony. Humor is my thing. For twenty years, I’d studied, written about and lectured on the therapeutic values of humor. And now, here I was; forced to put the theory into practice. It wasn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done; I won’t insult you by suggesting that finding laughs was intuitive when I was terrified that my boy was dying. Being funny can be had work. We had to work at it sometimes, forcing ourselves to make the conscious choice to enjoy the time we had, to laugh while we had the opportunity. And sometimes, it was not work at all. If we would just let it, it would just happen. The laughs would come. Humor was a saving grace.

Sorrow has its hour. There were many tears. But joy has a claim as well, and there was laughter too. Lots of laughter.

My son has always been lucky in his friends. David’s roommates provided him with great support and camaraderie, dubbing him “Captain Cancer” — the superhero no one wants to be. One roommate, an artistic red-headed color blind Italian, begged to decorate my son’s newly bald head with colorful markers.

He also found support at work. He worked as a bouncer at a local bar. The man he worked the door with was known as Tonto, and my son was The Lone Ranger. Following one of his treatments, a bunch of his buddies visited the bar. Afterward, David announced his new nickname, bestowed by his friends: Chemo-sabi!

Allen Klein, author of The Healing Power of Humor, surveyed patients who were terminally ill, about the use of humor. About 80% of them wished for more humor”from their caregivers, and the freedom to use humor themselves.

Proactively using humor helps heal the body and the spirit. How do you proactively use humor? Try the following:

PLAY: Create your own personal play list. A personal play list consists of ten low or no-cost items that are fun for you. When you’re not feeling well, do something from the list. Don’t wait until you feel better to play — playing makes you feel better.

Make it easy to play by having fun toys around. Magic 8 balls, water guns, even the proverbial rubber chicken– as long as it makes you smile, it’ll work.

Collect: Collect funny books, magazines, movies and cartoons. Write down funny or embarrassing stories people tell you. Seek out jokes and funny stories. Take at least 15 minutes a day enjoying your collection.

Choose to surround yourself with people who share your appreciation of humor. The world is full of serious, downbeat folks who view the world through mud-colored glasses. Leave them alone, as much as possible: that type of mood is contagious, and you don’t want to catch it! Ask people to make you laugh — and do your best to make them laugh. Surround yourself with joy as often as possible.

By the way, David has been cancer free now for 4 years. Hes engaged to be married next month. His courage, his gentle spirit and his sense of humor”hes my hero.