‘I don’t know how you cope with your chronic illness,’ remarked my doctor. ‘You seem to bear it so well.’
I laughed. ‘Maybe I should come in and show you what I’m like on a bad day!’
As good as my doctors are, laughter can be even better medicine. I have a pretty impressive repertoire of witticisms and humorous comebacks to match the equally intimidating challenges of chronic illness.
Once, a doctor was examining me during an acute flare-up. He gently pressed on my abdomen and I screamed in pain.
‘Does that hurt?’ he enquired.
‘No, why do you ask?’ I replied.
Another time, a doctor asked me how badly it hurt. ‘Shall I show you?’ was my answer.
My poor doctors, not to mention pathology nurses, radiographers and hospital emergency staff, seem to cop the brunt of my rather unique version of humour. They must require a lot of stamina to deal with patients like me!
Sarcasm is my personal favourite form of humour. When doctors give me bad news, my go-to reply is, ‘Well, that’s just GREAT!’ When I got diagnosed with osteoporosis in my early forties, I was told my bones looked like those of a seventy-five to eighty-year-old. My reply? ‘Well, everyone in their forties is looking for that kind of good news. Obviously.’
I have received so many diagnoses over the years it is legitimately hard to keep track of them all. So I’ve decided to make light of it. Any time a doctor gives me yet another diagnosis, I say, ‘Put it on my tab!’ I could also say, ‘Add it to the list’, ‘Plot twist!’ or ‘Bung it into the skip with the rest of my rubbish.’ It’s a good pressure release.
As caring as my healthcare professionals are, they occasionally hurt me. Once a nurse ripped a bandage off my arm too quickly. ‘My favourite skin!’ I yelped. This one can be transferred to blood for those times when the needle hits an artery or the band-aid applied after a needle refuses to hold. I can just see it: blood spurting all over the wall, and I say, ‘My favourite blood!’
When they hurt one of my arms or hands, I tell them that’s OK because I have a spare. When they hurt my head, I tell them I’ll simply grow a new one. When they find a lump that shouldn’t be there and test me for cancer, I wax lyrical about the different kinds of bandanas I intend to wear. (My favourite one is the pirate.)
Laughter seems to help those around me too. I had one highly empathic doctor throw his hands in the air and laugh when I told him about my newest disease complication. ‘That’s all you need!’ he groaned. ‘How do you deal with this stuff?’ ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘Like I didn’t already have enough on my plate. Perhaps the universe thought I was bored?’
Sometimes life with chronic illness gets so ridiculous, all you can do is laugh. Even if that laughter borders on the maniacal.
Chronic illness can take a lot from us, especially our hope and joy. What a rebellious and countercultural act it is, therefore, to turn around and laugh in lupus’ face (or whatever illness you may be facing). It is an act of protest, a declaration that we are still ourselves underneath the hot mess that is our human bodies.
It may indeed be the best medicine of all.
Do you find humour helpful when it comes to coping with chronic illness? What difference does it make to laugh at your illness? Share your story. Let’s have a countercultural conversation.
*Survival Skills: Laugh is the first of a new blog series about surviving chronic illness. At this stage I plan to write seven or so blogs, each spotlighting a different aspect of survival, and there may be more as I go along. If you would like to suggest a potential blog topic for the Survival Skills series, please reach out to me at steph@stephpenny.com.au.