I’m not much of a crier. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve cried in the past five years — through a global pandemic, two harrowing presidential election cycles, and the deaths of both my parents. I have nothing against a good, cathartic sob. It’s just not something my body is inclined to do.
When my dad was dying of pancreatic cancer, however, I found that same catharsis through the opposite reaction: for me, laughter really was the best medicine. I’m not talking about a wry smile, a giggle here and there. I’m talking about hysterical, rollicking laughter — the kind that makes you double over, lose your breath, snort. Maybe even pee your pants.
Cancer isn’t funny. Neither is death. But if you look hard enough, you can find humor around the edges of both — or at least I was able to. I think I needed to.
For example: during his treatment, my dad needed daily anticoagulant shots to reduce the risk of blood clots. He was supposed to give himself these shots, but for years he’d also been dealing with what’s called an intentional tremor — his hands would shake whenever he made an effort to hold something steady, like a pen or a cup or a syringe. So administering the shots fell to me and my sister.
Until that point, my primary experience with needles had been on the receiving end of several tattoos. And now I was supposed to jab my sick, miserable father in the belly and hope for the best?
I was nervous every single time. To calm my nerves, I belted the chorus of LMFAO and Lil Jon’s 2010 Millennial classic “Shots.” Through its profound and moving lyrics (Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! EVERYBODY!), I transformed the boozy anthem into an absurd medical hype song while I cleaned his tender skin, uncapped the syringe, and did what I had to do.
I’m not sure my dad enjoyed the repeated serenade, but I was in stitches.
When I couldn’t find reasons to laugh, my friends found reasons for me. After my dad moved into hospice care, my two best friends came from Denver and Chicago to stay with me and my sister. Not only did they cook and clean and help take care of the dogs, but they also encouraged us to engage in healthy physical activity. Like Twister.
That’s right: while my sister was on duty at my dad’s bedside, my friends and I played a rousing game of Twister. With my right hand on red and the rest of my body contorting in an unlikely attempt to get my left foot on green, I was able to temporarily shake death off my back. Laughing is a dangerous proposition when you’re upside down and barely balancing on a slippery mat. But in my experience, it’s impossible to play Twister without cracking up.
Sitting with my dad during this time was meaningful — but it could also be depressing or even boring. At this point I turned to professional comedians, since their whole job is making sad people laugh. I found my comedians of choice on Dropout, a streaming service that features improv game shows — most famously Dimension 20, where the cast plays whimsical campaigns of Dungeons & Dragons.
I’ve been known to roll a twenty-sided die from time to time, so I spent hours in the uncomfortable recliner next to my dad’s hospital bed watching these comedians cast spells at each other on my phone. And yes, even with my dad at death’s door, I was laughing. Noisy, uncontrolled bursts of it. The nurses must have thought I was nuts — but I’m convinced I owe my sanity to that goofy show.
Crying is all well and good, but in one of the worst periods of my life, laughter served me better. That’s why I embraced gallows humor while creating my how-to website My Parents Are Dead: What Now? I can’t make your parents any less dead, but ideally I can make you laugh. I know it will help.
If you weep easily, go for it. But if you, like me, are a dry-eyed soul (or if you just want a change of pace), give gut-busting laughter a try. And don’t feel guilty. You deserve joy, even in the bleakest moments.
Becky Robison (she/her) is a writer living in Louisville, Kentucky. She’s the mind behind My Parents Are Dead: What Now? — a project that aims to help people navigate the dizzying labyrinth of post-death bureaucracy based on her own experience. Her book My Parents Are Dead: What Now? A Practical Guide to Your Life After Their Death is forthcoming from Quirk Books in 2025. In the meantime, you can sign up to read The Columbarium, her weekly newsletter.
October 27th, 2024.
Toronto, Ontario
Canada
Hello Becky:
I came across you name through a link in a book l purchased Death Interrupted, back in 2020 which connected me to Institute for Health Care Improvement and the “The Conversation Project” which you had wrote and article Laughing in the face of death: Joy as Coping Mechanism.
August 6th, 2024 my 71st birthday, l was advised by a surgeon at Sunny Brook Hospital in Toronto that l had throat Cancer. I had been referred from another hospital in Toronto with whom l had been undergoing follow up appointments from a operation to sew up my wind pipe which had been torn in 4 pieces due to coughing from vomiting blood. Anyway enough of that, l had noticed cankers in the back of my throat and complained to anyone that wld listen to me for over 6 months before a biopsy was don in late July of this year 2024 and they discovered Cancer. Due to the 6 month delay by the time referred me to Sunny Brook hospital and had me in front of the right medical staff it was too late for surgery the tumor was way to big. I was given 12 months left to live.It has spread into my Jaws and l have just finished 5 sessions of Radiation. I’m now been told give it 2-3 months and we will see if it worked and shrank the cancer. If not that’s the end of the road for me as l have underlying health issues Hemochromatosis, plus my age. In August my husband and l looked at each other in the Dr;s office and we basically could not believe what was just told to us. You article about laughter made me think how we deal with this disease and now as l wait for some good news l do hope the tumor has shrunk to give me an extra few months with my daughter and two sons, also my husband, I watch them all trying to cope in their own ways and l wish l could take the pain away from them, My husbands face lines appearing that were not there 12 wks ago, my daughter with her children 6 and 8yrs old all of the things l wanted to do with my gran children. I try to tell them not to worry and we all try to laugh with each other. Thank you for your article it was enlightening and l wish you all the best in your life as long as that may be.