Of all the scenes in Breastless, Paper Aeroplane has been referred to by audiences and readers as the one that hit the heart and caused the most tears. However, there was something more than the heart-wrenching difficulty of it. There was the joy of finding a creative solution as a mother. I had fun folding that paper with anticipation of getting my love to my son. It felt like a happy victory over cancer. It made me smile :)
These kinds of creative solutions to the life that cancer was demanding admittedly only came towards the end of the second week after chemo. By then I was out of bed and engaging again in the kitchen, at meal times, or the morning routine with my kids.
But even on the bad days, I got a few laughs. Playful messages from far and wide and the inevitable Monty Python references from British friends; gallows humour at its best (It’s just a flesh wound…). I played with poetry (it wasn’t ALL dark and angry!) and I remember exhausting myself with laughter during a video chat with my hilarious cousin, Lucy, as she regaled me with stories of Glastonbury and celebrity spotting while knee-high in mud and needing a pee in a crowded campsite - ‘nuff said.
There were also the Netflix comedies that I binge-watched with impunity! Ricky Gervais never failed to get me laughing out loud (I particularly remember this BAFTA acceptance speech) and The Detectorists for some reason raised my spirits, reminding me of British village dynamics and pub-scene humour. Such great writing and vignettes. Then I discovered the blessing that is Schitt’s Creek on CBC TV just in time to catch a few episodes of the first series. (If you haven’t, you have to!).
But still doing my best to parent through the worst, the dispensing of motherly advice definitely required a creative twist. “Eat your greens, your body needs it.” loses credibility from a mother with cancer! But I joked, “I always had to eat mine, and look at me; picture of health!”
We enjoyed a laugh from the most unexpected moments. Like the time when my daughter complains that I still haven’t bought a replacement bottle of shampoo for the one that ran out.
“Oh, Right!” she gasps, “You don’t have hair to wash now. HAHAHA!”
It was such a funny moment of recognition. She and I broke into infectious laughter across the table from each other. As it subsided, we would sigh, look at each other and break out uncontrollably again and again. No real explanation, just a wonderful liberation from the fear and difficulty of it all. I felt so grateful that she wasn’t worried that she might “hurt my feelings”. It was pure, shared hilarity. And a healthy sign we were doing okay.
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LET’S WRITE TOGETHER! is Friday 28 June at 12noonPST - 3pmET - 8pmUTC - 7am Tues NZST
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Beautiful. Laughter always finds us in the most unexpected and sometimes absurdly morbid places. After my dad died suddenly in a car accident when I was a teen, I remember my mom and I busting our guts when we pondered what his first “thought” might’ve been after he died. Our best conclusion was, “Whoops, I died.” Something about that statement just broke us into fits for years.
Laughter heals. I love the shampoo story and the beautiful mom/daughter photo.