"Please. I've had a great life. Let it be me -- not him." A mother's prayer, the type I'd never thought I'd have to offer. But I never thought that my son -- my strapping, robust, energetic, smart, apparently healthy son, a 22-year-old junior at the University of Missouri -- would be diagnosed with cancer. Who would have thought that waking up one morning with an aching chest would lead to the discovery of a life-threatening tumor?
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...
I'd spent twenty years studying therapeutic humor. I"d written about it, spoken on it, spent years of my life convincing colleagues, peers, and audience members that laughter plays an important role in our lives. Now, it was time to walk the walk. It was hard, I won't kid you about that. Finding something to laugh about during one of the toughest times in our lives sometimes required conscious effort. Yet sometimes, thankfully, if we would just let it, it would just happen. We'd find ourselves laughing at the situations life presented. Humor was a saving grace for all of us.
We cried. Oh, we cried. But we laughed, as often as we could -- and it turned out we could, quite a bit.
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.
We laughed at home, we laughed at the hospital, and we laughed at work. David was working as a bouncer at a popular local bar. One of his friends worked with him, and together they were known as Tonto and the Lone Ranger. After a round of treatments, though, his nickname changed. According to the bar's patrons, my son was now Chemo-sabi!
Many patients long for humor during their healing process. Allen Klein, author of The Healing Power of Humor, surveyed patients who were terminally ill about their feelings about humor. A vast majority (80%!) wished to laugh more. They wanted more humor -- from the people around them. They also wanted the freedom to use humor themselves.
Humor can be used proactively, to help heal both the body and the spirit. To do this, you can:
Play: Make a Play List. This is a list of 10 low or no-cost things that are fun for you. Then, when you're not feeling well, do something from the list. You dont wait until you feel better to play. You play and then you feel better.
Make sure you have a stock of toys"Magic 8 balls, Koosh toys, whatever makes you smile"available.
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.
To live well, you must laugh. That's one of the pivotal lessons I learned from my son. He's cancer free now, for four years. And he's also my inspiration: for his courage, his gentle spirit, and of course, his sense of humor. It's my honor to say that he's my hero.