Sometimes You Just Gotta Laugh

Meet Poison IV

She’s the IV pole that pumped chemotherapy into my body in early 2022. We dressed her up in Mardi Gras beads and a bright red wig. The outfit transformed her from a formidable foe into a flamboyant friend. I felt a little better walking through hell with this cute, sturdy companion by my side.

She delivered some nasty stuff - Cytoxan and Melphalan - chemicals designed to kill myeloma cells, but in an Agent Orange kind of way, like clear-cutting the forest to get rid of a patch of poison oak.

She reminded me where we were going. She gave me courage. She cracked me up. She walked with me, danced with me, talked to me, or rather, beeped at me.

Sometimes, she brought welcome relief: fluids to hydrate me, red blood cells to boost my energy, antibiotics to tame the infections.

That twelve-week stretch was brutal. My white and red blood cells tanked. Infections took hold and ravaged my body. I lost my hair and twenty pounds. I was too exhausted to read. My mind turned against me, spinning wild, paranoid stories.

But laughter helped me stay tethered to something beyond the suffering. Something primal. Something healing. It’s always been a lifeline for me, a way through the darkness.

I was on bed rest during my first pregnancy because preterm labor required me to stay horizontal. Sex was off the table. So my husband and I turned to stand-up comedy. Laughter became our intimacy. It felt so good to laugh. It filled the silence, softened the fear, and reminded us we were still us.

I turn to stand-up even now. When I’m sick, in pain, feeling isolated—when I can’t laugh at myself (and sometimes I can’t)—comedians give me a joyful, not cruel, way to laugh at others.

Laughter offers a temporary jailbreak from the drama of a life with cancer. It interrupts the spiralling chaos in my head just long enough to catch my breath and find the strength to keep going.

It’s medicinal.

There’s a stunning scene in American Symphony, where Suleika Jaouad and her husband, Jon Batiste, are doing laps around the hospital ward—like I’ve done so many times—but they’re playing a game. They’re absorbed in silliness. Sick and not sick. Happy and desperately sad. It takes my breath away. They’re sharing medicine, and it is such good medicine.

These days, my best play buddy is a 15-pound terrier mix named Bonnie. She doesn’t care if I’m sad or sick, tired or busy. She trots over, tail up, chest out, with a toy in her mouth. She drops it at my feet, and it’s game on.

When I play with Bonnie, I laugh. And when I laugh, I forget—about pain, side effects, test results, timelines, fear. I forget about being a patient. I just am.

Bonnie is inviting me to play, but more, she’s offering medicine.

Playing and laughing lightens the mood while it changes our chemistry. It increases endorphins. It lowers cortisol levels. It can improve immune function, reduce pain perception, and even relax blood vessels, boosting circulation. MRI scans show that laughter activates multiple regions in the brain—motor, emotional, cognitive—all at once. It’s a full-body reset.

I know this. And yet, some days the weight of the world presses down. Politics, poverty, cruelty, the climate crisis, and all the other diseases of humanity occupy precious real estate in my thoughts. I worry about my own disease-ravaged body, what might happen next, and what it might mean for my loved ones, my future.

But not right now. I’m going to turn on Mom’s Spring Playlist and let the music medicine do its work. Before long, I’ll be dancing around the kitchen. Bonnie will join me. All is well.

---

Your turn:
Is your life rich in play and laughter—or is your account overdrawn?

What makes you laugh?

How do you play?

Who or what has been your unexpected source of joy?

When was the last time laughter pulled you out of the dark?

---

This is a place to read and share. We are better together so go ahead, tell your story! We’ll all be better for it. If you like what you read, please share it with your friends. That is how we build community.

Also, if you don’t already subscribe to Suleika Jaouad’s newsletter, The Isolation Journals, you really should. It is exquisite.