Laughing at Death

My family has a dark sense of humor.

I think that is typical in families that have had a high level of dysfunction. It's kind of a coping mechanism.

My father was the model for us in this, even though he was also the source of much of the dysfunction.

The last time I went to see him in hospital, he wore an oxygen mask and I had trouble understanding him. So he had my brother Mark relay a joke he'd heard:

A nurse walks into a patient's room at the hospital. He's wearing an oxygen mask and she's having trouble understanding him but finally makes out, "Nurse, are my testicles black?"

 She tries to ignore him, but he persists his questioning through his oxygen mask, "Nurse, are my testicles black?" 

"Mr. Smith," she says, "that is really not a polite question." The man looks puzzled.

"Nurse, are my testicles black?" he asks again, gasping for air through the oxygen mask.

Finally she walks over to him, lifts the cover and answers, "Mr. Smith, your testicles are fine."

He looks at the nurse very strangely and then takes off the mask. "Nurse, are my test results back?" he enunciates clearly.

My dad couldn't stop laughing at that joke, in the face of the pain he was in, or perhaps because of the pain he was in.

Or maybe it was the fear.

I've had some experience with fear in the last few years. I can say, without a moment's hesitation, that fear is the worst emotion there is. It is crippling. When you are in the grips of fear, there is virtually nothing else you can do.

Except laugh, strangely.

When you are standing toe-to-toe with the unknown, the Big Bad that's finally come knocking at the door, laughter is the only life-affirming response. All of the "focus on the positives" and "all things work together for good" and all the rest don't amount to a hill of beans from a practical standpoint, not for me at least. They give no comfort against the evidences you've witnessed of the indifference of the universe toward your own pain.

Therein must be the origin of gallows humor. It probably also explains why horror-comedy is such a popular genre.

My mother was the ultimate straight man. It wasn't that she didn't have a sense of humor. She did, she just also said some ridiculously funny things without realizing it, often at what others might judge to be very inappropriate times.

I went with my mother and brother to the funeral home after my dad died last January. When it came time to discuss the obituary, she said that she wanted donations made to Hospice of Southern West Virginia, because they'd been so good to my father. Then she says, "Of course, Don's brother Eldon didn't care for them. He wasn't expected to live long but finally sent them home after eight months because he said they kept getting in the way. Of course, I guess that's what happens when you don't die on time." She delivered that last line as straight-faced as Bob Newhart.

When she died, just ten days ago, it was harder to find laughter. We didn't make pancreatic cancer jokes. We were too much in the grip of absolute fear. Instead we became centers of activity, taking care of things, making arrangements, making lists, moving things around, doing something — anything — to keep ourselves from imagining our lives without her.

It was the trip to the funeral home that finally changed that for me. If you've never had the chance to sit in the mourner's chair at a funeral home and gotten the sales pitch, you don't know how ridiculous human beings are. They sell thumbprint jewelry. Like, they take a thumbprint from the corpse and then you can buy cuff links or whatever. And pendants made from your loved one's ashes. I am not making this up.

I started to lose it over a mix-up with the disposition of her body.

We were brought a form that bore a notice across the top: "CREMATION IS IRREVERSIBLE AND FINAL."

I got the giggles. We questioned this clause with the funeral director, who sought to explain it in hushed, soothing tones. Apparently there is no process for the reversal of cremation. Who knew? I couldn't stop giggling.

My mom had specified in her will that she was to be cremated, but according to the good folks at Blue Ridge Funeral Home, West Virginia code does not allow an individual to select cremation: it is done only upon agreement of all next of kin. This simultaneously sounds like something they just made up and something dumb enough for the West Virginia Legislature to have enacted, so I'm not sure where I am with that.

My initial thought was, "Just leave her then. You guys can decide what to do." It's hard to explain why this made me laugh, but it did. I was just imagining the mortuary stuck with this body and no way to get rid of it, just moving it from room to room to accommodate new arrivals, it becoming a fixture there in a sort of Weekend at Bernie's way. Maybe they'd dress her up for the office Christmas party or the funeral director would find himself talking to her about problems at home.

I just heard you cringe.

Yeah, I know: it's my mother. How can I, blah, blah, blah . . .

But fuck you if you think that means I don't love my mother enough or don't love her the right way. For all of the mistakes they might have made, my parents didn't raise me to cower in reverential fear when Death entered the room. We never whispered the word "cancer," or used florid euphemisms to avoid speaking Death's name.

There at the funeral home, I had to call up my siblings and ask all of them to come sign the release form. They arrived about twenty minutes later.

It was just the five of us us there and it was probably then that I realized that this might be the last time we would all be in a room together.

We were making jokes and laughing. Some of us took photos. Sarah had noticed a Keurig and began dispensing coffee like a barrista trying to set a record.

I did not witness my mother's passing. Sarah did, and told me about it. I will admit: it sounds frightening to me, standing there at the abyss, looking into the blackness and wondering what, if anything, is beyond.

How can we possibly face moments like that?

I promised my mom I wouldn't tell a dick joke at her memorial service. I suppose I will keep that promise, but I will laugh. It's the only thing I can think to do.