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.