Mom and Dad Were Doing It
That’s my dad on the right. Just in case you couldn’t tell my parent's apart!
Chapter 7
It was a Saturday afternoon shortly after the first of the year. I was four, and my brothers and I were home watching ABC’s Wide World of Sports on television—a weekly ritual that took place in our family room. Typically our dad was right there with the five of us while our mom could usually be found a few steps away working in the kitchen. This particular week, however, they were somewhere else in the house doing “parent” things—presumably for a long time—which was apparent because our mom had made an extra large bowl of popcorn for us to share while we watched one of only four channels available to us on our black-and-white RCA television.
I actually learned a fair amount about sports watching that television show with my brothers. Living in Nebraska, we had absolutely no exposure to professional sports. The closest thing we had was the University of Nebraska’s football team, which was more of a religion than a sport to us Cornhuskers. Through television, however, it didn’t matter that we lived in a small town in the middle of cornfields. With the flick of a switch, we were in Yankee Stadium or watching downhill skiing in Austria. Places we could only dream about going to.
What I learned that day, however, had nothing to do with sports. I learned something about my parents. I learned what they did in their bedroom when the door was closed.
My brothers and I had been watching the program for thirty or forty minutes—long enough for my mind to wander. I was a curious kid, even a little nosey at times. I liked to know everything everyone was doing. And with four brothers, a mother, and a father, I had plenty to keep tabs on. So, while my brothers yelled at the refs and the players—watching that week’s “thrill of victory and agony of defeat”—I set out to find my parents.
They were in their bedroom with their door closed—an odd circumstance for a Saturday afternoon. I heard whispering. Then laughing—actually more of a stifled giggling noise. I couldn’t imagine what was happening on the other side of the door. What I did know was it sounded fun and I wanted to be a part of it! Inquisitive preschooler that I was, I had no choice. I opened the door. And I will never forget what I saw.
My parents were wearing tutus!
Both of them. Tutus—as in ballerina outfits. My dad had on a pink one, and my mom had one that was an aqua color.
I stood there staring at them, with one hand still on the door handle, as they both stared back at me in dead silence. All three of us had our mouths hanging down to the floor. I knew I was in so much trouble.
Then, I saw my parents look at each other and spontaneously combust into laughter. Theirs were the kind of grown-up laughs I’d heard on I Love Lucy reruns on television.
My mom’s eyes were brimming with tears. She fell on the bed holding her stomach as she laughed harder and harder, fanning herself with her hand. My dad had to lean over, with his hands on his knees, as he tried to get words out in between his hyena sounds.
“Costumes, Jimmy,” my mom said between her laughs. “We’re going to a party wearing costumes.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. I was just loving the show.
Over the years, I began to realize how important laughter was to my parents’ relationship. It was one of the cornerstones of their marriage because they not only knew how to laugh, they knew when they needed to laugh.
Most importantly, they knew that laughter was often the best medicine for tough times.
Cancer isn’t funny.
And I wasn’t doing any laughing the first few days after I received my confirming biopsy results.
Sunday was the surprise call from my doctor.
Monday was the day of research.
Tuesday was meeting with the doctor to finalize plans.
Wednesday was sharing the news with friends.
By Wednesday night, after the word got out, I had nearly thirty messages on my answering machine at home.
Each message was a carbon copy of the previous one. “Jim, I just heard what’s going on. I am so sorry. But I know you’ll be fine. You’re strong. I know you’re buried right now, but call me when you can. And let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
Finally, I found something that made me laugh.
These were messages oozing with love. I knew and appreciated that. I just found the quantity of calls funny. Crazy. Unexpected. Who gets thirty messages? Was I really going to call people back? And what was I supposed to tell people to do? There were probably so many things I did or would need, but I didn’t have a clue at that moment. What I did have was the return of my warped sense of humor.
I’ve got an idea, I thought to myself. Maybe I could tell all these people there is something they can do! I’ll tell them I’m registered! Brides do it. Even grooms do it. Why can’t a sick person?!
The absurdity of my idea made me laugh out loud. It was as if the release valve on a pressure cooker was finally opening up, and a bunch of steam was spewing out into the air.
I could only imagine the confusion on people’s faces if they actually heard this silliness. Most would know I was teasing, of course. But I’m sure a few people would be stumped—especially if I did a new greeting on my answering machine:
“Hi, you’ve reached the Higley house. We’re swamped with all this cancer crap. For those of you wondering what you can do, I’m now registered at Crate and Barrel, Eddie Bauer, and the local hardware store. Thanks for your concern!”
So maybe that was good for a quick chuckle and a little escape. But the truth was, I was scared. 24/7 seriousness is draining. It feels like a constant beating with a stick.
Initially, the idea of laughing was hard to even imagine. I’d see funny things on television or in the newspaper and know I should laugh, but I couldn’t. It’s really hard to laugh at the outside world when your own world is crumbling.
But when you are raised with the gift of laughter, as I was, it can’t stay suppressed forever. It’s too powerful. Thank goodness for that. I eventually could see bits of ha-ha in my own life. Certainly not in the cancer, but in the mind-blowing circumstances that suddenly consumed my life. And laughing at parts of those experiences made me feel a little more alive.
The funniest part of it all was that the more I allowed myself to laugh, the more therapeutic my tears became.
Both ends of the spectrum of emotions had meaning.