When my gentle, wry-witted father developed Alzheimer’s disease, sometimes laughter was the only way I could cope with his decline. I wrote an editorial about a couple of the incidents I found humorous, encouraging others in grim situations to laugh whenever they could. A reviewer, judging the editorial for a contest, took issue with my advice. “You can’t expect someone dealing with Alzheimer’s to laugh about it,” the judge counseled. I wondered if she had ever experienced trauma.
Laughter is my medicine, the best kind, as the saying goes. It’s my answer to stress, to pain, to the blues, and to almost everything else that disrupts my life.
Laughter bolsters the immune system, increases endorphins that make us feel better, helps people sleep better, and reduces pain. And it’s so much fun!
My father died in March 1995, and we held his memorial service on April Fool’s Day. One friend bemoaned what she considered unfortunate timing, but remembering the countless April Fool’s Day jokes he played on us through the years, we all knew my dad would have loved it. During the service, my aunt—his sister—regaled us all with tales of their childhood together. When my aunt was born, someone asked my father how he felt about gaining a sister. With all the sincerity a four-year-old can muster, he replied, “I’d druther have a dog.”
Everyone in the church laughed at that story. The grief was still there, the pain of missing my father hadn’t disappeared. But it wasn’t so bad precisely because we could laugh.