Lifeline

I’ve always had a pretty good sense of humor. It’s been with me this entire life, along with the banana bread-shaped birthmark on my leg. Few people escape a conversation with me that doesn’t entail laughter at some point, even if it’s just a joke about how un-funny our conversation is.

One day Ani Alyce Louise and I were sitting in an ER discussing how I had just added to my list of diagnoses. I said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if I died from something that wasn’t even on the list? All this time spent worrying about this condition or that, and someday WHAM! A banana peel takes me out.” She hesitated for a moment—most people do when I joke about death—and then broke loose laughing.

Several weeks ago my doctors suspected I had new blood clots in my legs. The best way to tell is a leg ultrasound. During the test they use a lot more pressure than a typical ultrasound, since they have to compress the veins. For whatever reason, ever since I got the first clots in 2006, the test is excruciating—like my veins are filled with chopped glass. I can take the first compression or two, but as the test proceeds I squirm up higher and higher on the bed, feeling like I’m backing out of a shark’s jaws. This goes on for about 30 minutes and the whole time I’m usually seeing stars and begging to pass out.

And, I’m laughing. Because minus the pain, the whole scene is actually pretty funny. I mean, I walk in just fine, chatter back and forth with the tech, and then in the midst of our happy little conversation I’m suddenly begging for mercy. And once it‘s over, we’re back to chatting and off I go. Just like a little “Interlude from Hell” in an otherwise okay day.

The tech who did the test this time was so compassionate. She kept saying, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.” I was laughing and screaming at the same time. At one point my “ha-ha’s” and “ow-ow’s” began to merge into a bizarre-sounding “Ha-eow Ha-eow Ha-eow Ha-eow Ha-eow.” Like a cat holding onto a ceiling fan.

When we could both form coherent sentences again, she explained how touched she was by my ability to laugh even while I was in so much pain. She asked if she could share it with her little girl as an example of how to cope with difficulties. I said "Of course," but I left there scratching my head as to why on earth my sense of humor was of any real value.

It wasn't until I began aquatic physical therapy a couple weeks ago that I started to really contemplate this little gift of mine. We're a mixed group of people in the pool-- everything ranging from mild to serious injuries or illnesses. I've discovered that it's impossible to guess the severity of anyone's condition just by their attitude. The least injured might be the most somber, while the critically ill might be the happiest. I can't help but think that those with a lighter attitude about their suffering probably feel less pain.

Splashing around in the pool has been a catalyst for me to understand what so many friends have told me my whole life. I see that I’ve completely taken this gift for granted, thinking of it as a nice little add-on, just good for entertaining others. I never thought of it as something that actually helped me. But seeing how life’s woes go all the way to the bone, I’m grateful that my sense of humor does, too. It has saved me from sinking into deep depression and has been a reliable reprieve from the “storm du jour.” As I wade through all the levels of chronic illness—crisis, recovery, rehab, rinse & repeat—I see that finding the humor in things is the lifeline I throw to myself. It keeps my head bobbing on top of the water, able to see that the waves are just waves (even when they're really really big), and that eventually I’ll wash up on the shore again.

And when I do, I sure hope I look better than this :