THOUGHTS ABOUT LAUGHTER
I had an uncle who taught me to laugh and a father who would crack the silliest of “jokes”. I would chuckle at the stupid jokes, laugh with a good joke, and roar listening to a Bill Cosby monologue. For good or bad, I also learned to use laughter to diminish tension in stressful situations, and to release it afterwards. Yes, I loved to laugh during my life before the loss of my child. Four years ago, May fifth was the day my laughter died for a season.
I shared about the first time I laughed after my son died at a recent TCF meeting. I remember saying it was one year and three months after his death, when I was reading a Janet Evonavich book on an airplane on my way to attend the trial of one of his murderers.
The scene in the book depicted a heavy-set woman who was on her version of a low-carb diet. She was walking down the street with her snacks in her purse – the snacks being a few pounds of fried bacon strips and some pork chops, when all of a sudden a pack of dogs started chasing her, growling and smapping, trying to grab her purse and its contents. When I pictured the scene, suddenly laughter started from low in my stomach and erupted with an unaccustomed volume.
I was struck by the disparity of facial expressions on the bereaved parents at that meeting. Those very new to their grief looked at me with how-could-you-laugh faces. Those a little further into their grief had it’s-okay-for-you-to-laugh-but-not-for-me faces. And the members present who had survived three, four, five and more years of their grief walk smiled and nodded their heads. When I shared that the laughter both frightened and relieved me – and that when it was spent I felt guilty – most, in the group, were nodding.
Of course my laughter, our laughter, was swallowed up in the pain – the aching empty hole created when our lives were blown apart. For me, when that laughter came, I felt it was both a sign of hope, and, at the time, an accusation of how could I laugh when my son was gone. My son, whose smile and laughter were so much a part of him. My son would not want me to stop laughing. By the time the plane landed these thoughts diminished my guilt. In the three years since this incident I have slowly allowed laughter back into my life.
Laughter isn’t the only thing that gets buried in our grief. Some have a hard time playing or listening to music, for others reading books, or anything that once brought them pleasure. For me it was the laughing, the writing, and the swimming. It took a while to let those things back into my life. And, except for that laughter which erupted with such an explosive force that day, each re-entry required my permission – and time.
Giving permission seemed, for me, to be the key. In my grief, giving myself permission to talk about my feelings and my son eventually led to giving myself permission to continue living, and then to allow the painful memories to submit to the golden ones. Giving permission to hope for a type of healing came in time. Eventually I gradually gave myself permission to write, permission to swim, to laugh, and even to sing again. Permission to know my son will somehow always be with me although I continue to miss his physical presence. I ache from his absence, yet am thankful for the time we had together in this life and for the times I sense him near me now. I do not try to define how these things could seem to exist at the same time.
It is well documented that laughter speeds physical healing, and, I think, emotional healing also. Recently I read a news flash that said singing out loud does the same thing. As you walk your grief consider giving some of the activities you once enjoyed permission to resurface. If you are not ready, that’s okay. During your early grief just deciding to get out of bed is enough. You are living one day, one hour, one minute at a time. You’ll know when you can bare to laugh and perhaps to sing again. In the mean time remember we are here for you – we understand – you do not walk alone. Just know that some day you will be able to laugh again.
In Memory of my son Anthony