Gallows Humor
I had decided to write about this before the news broke of Robin Williams' suicide. Humor holds a significant place in my life and it has even during my darkest hours. In high school I was voted funniest senior girl. I learned early on that making people laugh was something that I could do relatively easily. I look at the world from an angle that shows it to be gloriously ridiculous and laughter is a celebration of that. But humor was also a salve for me, a way to deal with what I was going through at home and who doesn't prefer laughter over tears?
Laughing is so good for the soul. It brings people together and it is a large part of coping and healing, or at least it should be. If you saw Robin Williams in "Patch Adams" you will be familiar with the story of the doctor he depicted. Even this doctor knew the power of humor. It can be the greatest thing, but like everything there needs to be a balance. Most funny people know that it can also serve as a mask, shielding your true self from the world. It is a defense mechanism, but if you rely too heavily on it, you can get lost in your own private world of pain and forget who you are as a whole. There is a long list of comedians who have suffered from depression and/or addiction who are no longer with us. Williams, Tony Hancock (if you are unfamiliar with this British actor from the 50's and 60's, do yourself a favor and check him out on you tube), Chris Farley, John Belushi and Peter Sellers are but a few. In reality probably just as many regular people suffer, but we are talking today about humor and it's importance.
You would not think there was much to laugh about during the time that Liam was in the hospital, but I remember having some serious belly laughs during that time. We were all so exhausted and full of adrenaline and fear that when something out of the ordinary happened we would often fall apart giggling.
Liam was too weak to breast feed so I was pumping for him every two hours when I was awake. The hospital had breast pump rooms with these industrial pumps, really they were milking machines. I would head out to these rooms at intervals throughout the day. My sister-in-law had my five-month-old niece at the time and decided to join me one day. I got her all hooked up and turned on the machine and I think her eyes nearly popped out of her head with the force of the industrial pump. If that was not funny enough I set myself up and turned my pump on, only to quickly realize that I forgot to attach the bottle and breast milk went shooting across the room. I nearly wet myself with laughter.
During this same period of time, Frank was undergoing chemo and we thought we were as low as we could get. We left Liam in the hospital one day in the loving hands of my mother-in-law and headed out to a joint therapy appointment. It was an unusually warm day for October and we were driving with the windows down. Here we were, baby in critical care and Frank with cancer and as we drove, a rock kicked up from the street and flew into the car hitting Frank in the head. He wasn't hurt, but we were apoplectic with laughter. Thinking, "Really God?" God, or whatever divine creative connectivity that exists out there is pretty damned funny. He/she/it created us after all.
We also laughed daily in the hospital parking lot as the hospital was undergoing construction and the tickets were different colors for different times of day. We had to get them validated and then got different colored tickets and none of it made sense. To cap it all off the parking attendants were often from Ethiopia which is neither here nor there other than the fact that there was a serious language barrier and getting out of the garage was always a comedy of errors that had us in fits by the time we were able to drive home.
My addiction is still too raw for family members to find much funny about it, but we do have a new member of the family because if it. In 2011 before my swan dive had begun it's ugly descent, Frank and I attended a charity event. During the event I was happy to down as much of the wine as I could throughout the night. At some point during the live auction they brought out a Golden Retriever puppy to bid for. Not the picture of the puppy mind you, not a flier about the puppy, but the actual puppy. They passed her around from table to table and once I got my hands on her, I was unstoppable. I got into a bidding war with a tableful of gay men and I won definitively... I woke up the next morning and turned to Frank asking groggily, "Did, I buy a puppy last night?" We named her Biscuit despite my assertion that she should have been called Chardonnay. She isn't the smartest dog, I think she only has two brain cells and they are often fighting each other in there, but she delights us with her love and goofy sock fetish. Frank and the kids look after her now because my apartment won't allow dogs, but I miss her like the rest of my family.
It is ironic to me that I was often approached by friends on Facebook and encouraged to write because my posts are often so funny. Now I am writing, but in a way I never expected. I am writing about the other side of myself so we all have a full picture of who I am. Frank had often said that my Facebook persona was not true as I was only telling people about the funny side of our lives even during the darkest moments of my addiction. I didn't understand that at the time, but now I do. He has always intrinsically known this about me, about life. I remember that when we first met so many years ago in boarding school he told me, "You know you don't have to make me laugh to be my friend." I was utterly terrified when he said that because I didn't know at the time who I was without humor. But now I can bravely look at all of myself and not run screaming from the mirror.
I hope we can all see our whole stories, examining the darkness, but also allowing the light in. I don't think you can appreciate joy if you haven't met and acknowledged sorrow along your journey.
"Laughter is the tonic, the relief, the surcease for pain." Charlie Chaplin
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