by Scott
Burton
Having faced stage IV osteo sarcoma, chemotherapy
and multiple limb-saving surgeries, I have
seen the profound imprint -- both good and
bad -- that cancer leaves on every person
touched by it. Knowing the struggle, I have
something to say to each of us affected.
And, in speaking with fellow survivors and
oncology professionals coast to coast, I
often hear the same sentiments that reinforce
this opinion. Yes, cancer is one of the greatest
struggles you'll ever have. Yes, it is a
life and death issue. And, yes, those you
love will suffer too. But, in the midst of
this life-defining battle, why not allow
for laughter?
It's important to remember that there is
not and never will be anything funny about
cancer -- which is why some feel they can't,
or shouldn't, laugh. But what is funny --
is life. It always has been. From your first
greeting in the world being a smack on the
bottom to the fact that time will eventually
turn you into your parents, life is a wondrous
comedy. In dealing with cancer, life is different,
but not any less present. So, just as there
was humor in life before cancer, there can
be humor in life during cancer.
I remember the first time I made someone
laugh during my one year battle. My brother
was visiting me in the hospital after an
operation and I was explaining that, before
the operation, I'd had my very first prostate
exam. He could see how shaken I was when
I told him. "I had my first prostate
exam. Wow!" As he smiled sympathetically
I stumbled on, "I mean, that was a new
experience. I'd heard... I mean, I knew what
it was but... wow. I'd never done..." After
another pause, I turned to him and, with
genuine concern, said, "Are they supposed
to use a puppet?" The laughter from
my brother was so real, so genuine and free,
it changed the face of all our conversations
throughout the rest of my operations and
chemo.
With one fell swoop, that hearty, joyous
laughter cut through the tension of being
in the hospital, of facing cancer, of my
brother's discomfort watching me go through
the ordeal. With that laughter, I found a
way to communicate that would do both, keep
fears at bay and draw others closer.
So it is true, cancer is no laughing matter
but, whether it is cancer or any other trial
in life, laughing does matter.
In assessing all the ways I could've responded
to my diagnosis -- my surgeries, my seven
months of chemo -- laughter was the only
one that made sense. I could have raged.
I could have kept to myself and stewed. I
could have felt slighted, cheated or abused
by life. I could have felt a world of different
things from depression to cynicism. But laughter
was the only response that, as I used it,
helped me grow. And there was a byproduct
to sharing laughter. While loosening up my
body, easing fears of others and building
lines of communication, it provided the most
powerful and needful tool in fighting any
trial in life -- a positive attitude.
The other reactions; anger, depression,
suppression, denial, took a little piece
of me with them. Each made me feel just a
little less human. Yet laughter made me more
open to ideas, more inviting to others, and
even a little stronger inside. It proved
to me that, even as my body was devastated
and my spirit challenged, I was still a vital
human.
It's often hard to understand the healing
power of laughter because it doesn't make
sense to relate physical and spiritual mending
to the same feeling you got when Milton Berle
donned a dress. But it's there. Medical scientists
have proved the existence of healing endorphins
released by laughter but, in plain terms,
the magic of laughter is, when you laugh
-- if only for that moment -- you love your
life. And, when facing tragedy, that is a
deep knowledge we all can use.
So I exercised my sense of humor whenever
possible. While in pre-op, during one of
my nine surgeries, I was propped up atop
my gurney with pillows as the staff scurried
throughout the room and a young attendant
brought me heated blankets and checked to
see if there was anything I needed. Even
though I was in for surgery, with everyone
running about and attending to me while I
sat as their audience, I felt as if I were
a Roman nobleman at the forum. Embracing
the brief moment of regal splendor, I turned
to the attendant and, with playful airs,
said, "Fetch the oncologist... he amuses
me."
I once tried to convince a friend that,
along with chemotherapy, radiation therapy
or the complimentary humor therapy, there
was such a thing as nasal therapy. "What
happens is, as you drink a glass of milk,
the doctor makes you laugh and the tumor
shoots out your nose. They're still testing
to see if it works with 2% and skim. They're
also having a hard time finding a doctor
who can make people laugh."
There are numerous ways to allow for laughter
in our lives; rent comedy videos, read the
funnies, take the time to remember the laughter
in your past. For my money, listening to
Carl Reiner's and Mel Brooks' Two Thousand
Year Old Man routine is guaranteed laughter.
Just getting out and talking freely to others
works. You'd be surprised, when you actually
converse with and engage people around you,
how often laughter is the result.
And this is not meant to say laughter is
the only way to embrace our humanity. It
is not the only knowledge we have of loving
life. Cancer patients shouldn't be thinking
up new gags they can do with their bed pans
or making crank calls from their rooms. Nobody
is calling for a new generation of chronic
disease comics. Embracing laughter does not
mean non-stop guffaws. There are other ways
to stay in touch with our humanity. There
are the little things, such as smiling. There
is genuine love. There is doing whatever
it is you do that makes you feel human: reading,
hugging, writing, talking, maybe alligator
wrestling, whatever it takes for you. Many
times even tears help us feel our true humanity.
We live in a dehumanizing society that
is centered on image, demographics, sales
and numbers. We seem to be valued only by
what we have or how famous we are. Our humanity
and love of life has been buried and hidden.
Then cancer comes along and tries to take
what is left. Through laughter, through loving,
through our own passion for living we can
take control of our humanity once more. We
see that life can be simple. We admit that
cancer can be part of life. And we know that
laughter and loving our lives always feels
good.
__________________________________________________________
For more on how Scott used humor to deal
with his cancer
you can get his book,
"A
Life in the Balance"
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