Chap 5–”I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley.”

Mom was so silly sometimes. Her curious nature and impulsive outbursts often lead to a surprised chuckle from her charmed audience. When my youngest brother, Steven, didn’t acknowledge her for the first time in public because he was too cool for his parents, she was shocked. “What do you think, you were HATCHED??!” She exclaimed in front of everyone at the high school football game. Steven’s big brown eyes just blinked back at her with a look of bewilderment. 

On another occasion my sister, Lisa, and I had a hard time explaining the sign in the bathing suit section of the women’s department at the mall which read, “Convertibles.” A dandy way to sell bikinis. Pick any top to go with any bottom. She didn’t get it. She asked us slowly, “Con-vert-ibles? What do you think that means?”

“Pick one of these and one of those.” I said, vaguely gesturing toward the racks while giving my very best impression of a 16-year-old who can’t be bothered.

“They’re mix & match, Mom.” Lisa further explained. When Mom still didn’t get it Lisa continued to over-explain using hand gestures like we were playing charades. She mimed pulling a bikini top off the rack and swung her arms back and forth across her torso like an air traffic controller. 

Mom’s face slowly resolved into a smile. It hit her.  “Yeah,” she repeated one syllable at a time, “Con-vert-ibles.” We all laughed. 

I can’t help but notice that the stories Mom chose to include in her journals, The Bird Poop and The Jelly Donut, reveal a flair for a slapstick style of humor. Similar to that of Buster Keaton, Martin Short, and Saturday Night Live sketches. The lead doesn’t see the puddle they’re about to step into, and once they do, they just keep on stepping in it. Being one of six Irish-Catholic kids growing up in the outskirts of Philadelphia in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s probably had something to do with Mom’s sense of humor. She talked about how independent they all were. From an early age she and her brothers and sisters were getting themselves to school, swim practice, and part-time jobs. Apparently they had to watch their backs too. Slap-stick hijinks were introduced at an early age. My Pop-Pop would play practical jokes on Mom and her siblings the likes of which I never heard a father doing to his children before. 

On a few occasions he hid salt and pepper shakers in her purse before she left for school. I was confused. Why would he do this, I asked Mom? She rolled her eyes and sighed empathetically, “He just thought the idea of me finding them in there or having to dump them out in front of everyone would be funny.” Just one of those dopey things her dad did to embarrass her. 

I remember my own experience with Pop-Pop’s practical jokes. One summer, I was standing on the back deck of their house, headed toward the door. All the sudden sounds of a small commotion startled me, and made me turn quickly. I saw a lone, empty plastic milk jug bounce to a stop about three feet away from me. I covered my eyes from the sun with my hand and squinted toward the sound. It came from the garage, and behind the cracked door I could see the silhouette of my Pop-Pop. Hiding in the darkness. The faint line of his hand covered his sheepish grin. I laughed immediately. It was only my Pop-Pop after all. But I didn’t understand. Why did he do that? I never knew what was going on with him. One day he was too depressed to come out of his bedroom, the next he’s tossing a piece of recycling toward me from the shadows of a dank, oily garage. At the time it was just my silly Pop-Pop. Now looking back, I think maybe he had suffered enough early in life—being abandoned as a child by his poor and overwhelmed mother, then shot at and injured as a young soldier during the war. By the time I came along, he just wanted to play. 

Growing up in an unpredictable family environment, Mom found support and her own comic relief with her sister Rhonda. Aunt Rhonda was the oldest daughter with an influential role in the family. She looked after her younger siblings as their mother grew more and more distracted by rambunctious teenage sons and a husband who was loving, but unreliable. Aunt Rhonda was spontaneous, adventurous, and she loved to laugh. She would scoop Mom and kid-sister Aggie up on a random Saturday afternoon, jump in her ‘68 hatchback and drive to the movies with the air on, top down. They would see something like Mel Brook’s Young Frankenstein and then quote the lines back to each other for weeks afterward. How could you not with lines like, “He was… my boyfriend!” from Cloris Leachman, and “Abbey someone, Abbey Normal,” from Marty Feldman. 

The tradition of quoting movies continued when Mom had her own family. I can still picture her face when I think of the way she recited a line from the cult classic parody Airplane, with Leslie Nielson. He’s asking the pilot in the cockpit with the ‘drinking problem,’ 

Nielsen: “Can you fly this airplane and land it?” 

Pilot answers: “Surely you can’t be serious.”

Nielson replies: “I am serious… and don’t call me Shirley.”

Sometimes her goofy sense of humor came in handy during life’s most savage struggles. When Aunt Rhonda was going through breast cancer treatment in the mid ‘90’s, there were periods of time when she was confined to her bed at home. Chemotherapy and radiation in those days was significantly more brutal than it is now. Mom drove the 60-mile trip frequently to be with her sister during that time. On one particular visit, she and Rhonda were resting in bed when Uncle Don, Rhonda’s husband, came around the corner holding their new puppy, a Yorkie named Winston. He was dressed in a dapper little outfit. Green and tan checkered knickers wrapped around his teeny-tiny hind quarters while mini suspenders cross-crossed his shoulders and fastened to the knickers with one oversized button. Winston was as squishy as squish can be. The sisters cuddled and petted the agreeable fur baby as he jumped and played around in the bed covers. Mom called for more wardrobe changes and Don abided. Sweet, little Winston donned miniature overalls, tutus, and even a little pumpkin Halloween costume for their impromptu doggie fashion show. They were laughing so hard Rhonda thought her stitches would break.

Years later, Mom was going through her own chemotherapy for ovarian cancer. I was a freshman in college three hours away when I called home one Sunday evening for a chat. It took more than a couple rings for Dad to pick up. When he did I could tell something was preoccupying him. I heard the faint sound of a movie playing in the background. A typical evening’s entertainment at home.

“What are you watching?” I asked through the telephone, wanting to be included. 

“Something About Mary. With…Cameron Deez” he replied.

“Oh yeah, Diaz” I corrected. “I saw that, what a good one.” 

“Yeah, it really got us going.” He chuckled. I was so heartened to know they were able to enjoy a movie night together. I could tell they were right in the middle of it. It might not last long if a wave of pain or exhaustion came over her. I quickly added, “Well I’ll let you go. I can call again tomorrow. Lemme say a quick ‘hi’ to Mom first.”

“Oh, O.k. honey. You sure? Everything’s good?” Dad couldn’t sign off until he asked if everything was all good.

“Yeah, yea. Good night, love you.” Was my agreeable response.

“O.k. Love you too.” He signed off and I held on for him to hand the phone to Mom for her quick, “Hello.” Or so I thought…

I patiently waited to hear Mom’s voice. The sound of the movie continued in the background. Maybe she was just getting comfortable in her chair. I waited some more. It might be dark and hard to see the portable phone. But there was only the faint sounds of the movie. Enough already. “Hi!” I said out loud. Trying to rise above the volumn of the TV. But the only response I noted was the character’s dialogue in Something About Mary. Did Dad just turn the sound up on the TV? I heard Mary and Ted getting ready for their date. 

Mom must have the phone right near her. “HI MOM!” I repeat louder. “HELLOOOO!!??” 

Both Mom and Dad burst out laughing. 

Why the hell were they laughing at me? Then I realized, they don’t know I’m still on the line. They’re totally engrossed in this film. I felt like a fly on the wall. I could picture the scene. The pair of them sitting on the couch together in the finished basement, lights out, snacks out. I felt like I was laying there too, head in Mom’s lap, as was often the case when we watched movies together. 

Hearing the dialogue from the TV again snapped me out of it. Ted was now talking to his friend Dom about “Clearing the pipes” before a big date. Yikes! I know what scene comes after that. It was time to go. I hung up. 

I love the synchronicity that unfolded during my phone call. I witnessed the sweetness of hearing them share a laugh during a time that was singularly the most nightmarish and shattering of their lives. 

Why shouldn’t we consider knee-slapping, belly-aching laughter as a legitimate pain therapy? 

When we laugh out loud our bodies release endorphins, our very own naturally produced opioid chemicals. Wanna get high? Take a hit of some humor. Our bodies emit these chemicals, along with an increased flow of oxygen into our circulation, and amazingly our pain threshold heightens and our brains know, “It’s O.k. We can relax.” In fact, we don’t even feel pain while we giggle or howl. Maybe most importantly, the benefits of laughter increase exponentially within group settings as compared to when we have a private chuckle. Pick up the girls on a Saturday night. “Get in the car, we’re gonna go get silly.”

As babies we laugh before we learn how to talk—establishing the act as a key social signal in our human development. Maybe that’s why we respond with automatic mimicry. We’ll laugh with someone even if we don’t know why. It feels good and it feels safe. Knowing that a crack up is contagious and it strengthens our interpersonal relationships, even adding years to our lives, that should be enough to prioritize comedy, live and in person. Hell, I’ve spent a career marketing live events. I’ve seen first hand the powerful benefit of people enjoying music, art, and laughter together. In my experience, it is a gift to gather like that. However, when it’s your turn to take your medicine, just like comedy, it’s all about timing. If a hardship is taking up residence in mind and soul, it’s difficult to take the first playful step. 

In times of turmoil or pain, I’ve reached for a comedic tonic. In January, 1998, when Aunt Rhonda eventually died of breast cancer at 46 years old we were all devastated, especially Mom. After the initial shock and mournfulness subsided, we tried to cope with the anguishing loss by recalling one of Rhonda‘s favorite movies, The Princess Bride. We remembered the sniveling little toad of a pirate Vizzini, played by Wallace Shawn, who kept exclaiming, “Inconceivable!” And his oversized henchman, Fezzik, played by Andre the Giant, worked out his latest poetry rhymes in response. 

Vizzini to Fezzik: “No more rhymes now, I mean it!”

Fezzik: “Anybody want a peanut?”

We substituted a line of our own creation. “Anybody want a cheese-it?” or “Anybody wanna kick in the butt.”

Sometimes, the medicine you need doesn’t come. In January, 2003, after Mom died of breast cancer at 43 years old, no one was in a state of mind to self sooth with a joke or jeer. Sadly, Dad and my siblings and I couldn’t seem to rise to the occasion. In fact, I don’t recall ever sitting around with them and sharing the laughs we used to find so healing to do after a tragedy. It was just too painful. We were like the paints in spin art. During Mom’s illness, we poured our fears and anxiety out onto the paper. Released tears of ultramarine blue, bruised slices of crimson, swords of ivory black. Lines of different pigments darting in every direction, somehow coordinated in a pattern with each other, still held together by the centrifugal force of the unit itself. The controlled spin kept the chaos of everything as one piece of art. Until the speed of the turn quickened and the force grew too strong to hold us together on one page. The pigments ran off the canvas and the whole wheel broke from its anchored point. No more center. She was gone. 

What happens when the laugh doesn’t come? Even though I had so much history using laughter as a prescription, it was hard for me to tap into my sense of humor when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was winter 2020-21. It was the pandemic. I had an immune compromised system. I hardly saw anyone, except my husband. He is a naturally funny guy. Bartender by profession, he tells a good story, has a natural jocularity, and great comedic chops. He’s also a foodie who can cook. I came to rely on his clever witticisms as much as his buttery pasta. He fed my heart and soul. But even for him, being the spouse of a sick person was painful and draining. It wasn’t fair that he was the only one there to prop me up. We could only do so much. As winter rolled on, my 16-week treatment plan grinded me down like a piece of ginger being pushed through a shredder. I felt like I was just flimsy fibers left with bloody fingers holding me together, loosely. Opportunities to socialize were sparse, and I thought I didn’t want them. Visitors weren’t allowed in the chemo suites at the med center. I didn’t see family on Thanksgiving or Christmas. At the time I thought that was for the best. At least that’s what I told myself sitting alone on the couch at 7am on Dec 25th, fully dressed with makeup applied, just in case. I wanted connection, but at the same time doing something as frivolous as making sure I smiled or snickered every day was not on my list. Time was. How much time I had or didn’t have. The only way I was going to be moved to laugh is if it happened organically. 

Shortly thereafter, my girlfriends from high school decided to organize a FaceTime between the four of us. Tara moved to North Carolina when we were teenagers, Rindy and Ronna (twins) lived in Pennsylvania, I was in New Jersey. We hadn’t all been together in one group since junior year at Cedar Crest High School. I had a reason to get excited. Seeing them and being able to talk to them like they were right next to me was exhilarating. My natural enthusiasm bubbled to the surface once again. After our call was over, I craved more. I wanted the intoxication of a shared experience with loved ones. Soon I had plans with family for my Birthday in January. I couldn’t help but seek the old familiar rhythm of fulfilling conversation with claps of laughter. Good belly-aching, knee-slapping, hootin’ and hollerin’!

It is the most special gift in my life to have three volumes of journals spanning 10 of the most formidable years in my family’s history from a parent I will never be able to talk to again. The journals are a chance to discover Mom as a woman. An individual with an identity beyond mother and wife. A person who was full of unique peculiarities, charming curiosity, charisma, and evidently, a crack-up. She was a woman who loved to laugh, and wanted to share it. She laughed through her pain. She drove 60 miles to comfort her sister with the inside jokes only sisters have. She was a woman who got pooped on by a bird. She was a woman who squeezed jelly on her new clothes and laughed so hard she peed a little, then wrote about it.