It's Okay to Laugh
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[0 Comment]When I first received the cancer diagnosis in the fall of 2004, my husband, Scott, told me he felt gut-punched. I remember he was so devastated by the news, he had to sit down. He'd been so busy telling me I didn't have cancer, he hadn't considered the possibility I might have it.
While I had my share of anxiety, I trusted that whatever God allowed through the cancer would ultimately be good. Even if I died, I had to believe God was still in control and with us.
Once Scott and I settled into the reality of my diagnosis, we realized that being upset or depressed didn't change our situation. We knew the Bible says to rejoice in all things (Philippians 4:4), and that must include cancer. So we set about to find humor and joy even in the darkest times. For us, that was part of keeping our sanity—and keeping fear at a distance.
It became Scott's goal to make me laugh as much as possible. Early on, when we were discussing a possible treatment of double mastectomy with reconstructive surgery, Scott looked mischievously from me to the doctor and asked, "Do you think we could get an upgrade?"
Although I could have become angry that he wasn't taking my disease seriously, it would have only made the situation worse. His humor lightened the tension and made us all laugh—something we desperately needed.
The grueling treatment begins
During the meeting we opted to start with chemotherapy to shrink the tumor, then lumpectomy surgery to remove the cancer, followed by radiation. I'd begin chemo the next week.
On the drive home, Scott promised he'd go with me through everything. And he did. He accompanied me to every three-hour chemo appointment, drove me home, and stayed to take care of me. He checked every intravenous drug as the nurses hung it on my pole to make sure it was mine. He held my hand and talked non-stop to take my mind off the taxotere and its side effects. When the bag was two-thirds empty, he'd say, "See, you're almost done, and you're fine." I'd start breathing again.
One side effect of chemotherapy is "chemo-fog." In other words, it makes you feel brain-dead. Scott came home from work one night to find me in the kitchen in a complete state of confusion, surrounded by a mess that should have been dinner.
I took one look at him and burst into tears. He wrapped me in his arms, and said, "I know you're just being chemotional" (a term he invented to describe my chemo-induced riot of emotions), "and the Breast Cancer Husband book says I'm not supposed to try to fix it. I'm just supposed to hold you."
He was being so sincere, but so funny. And it was frustrating! Here I was trying to have a good cry, and I kept snorting laughs between sobs.
Originally published in: Marriage Partnership, 2006, Fall, Page 38
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