Tumor Humor

“Laughter is the best medicine” is a cliché everyone knows. And it is based on the truth. Studies have shown that laughter relieves stress, releases endorphins, and helps your overall well-being.   But in the case of cancer, I don’t think it’s true. If my doctor wants to treat me with radiation or show me a video of the Three Stooges, I’ll take the radiation every time.  

Of course, if you have friends who are comedians, you can count on them to try laughter therapy on you anyway.

I’ll admit, I was more than appreciative when Jay Leno gave me a call after hearing about my recent bout with cancer. And I’m thankful that my old writing partner, John Martin, let him know.

I wasn’t surprised he reached out. What you see on camera is who he is - a genuine good guy. When my mom was in a serious car wreck, Jay called regularly to check on her. When my oldest son got into some bad trouble, Jay always asked about him. However, when I picked up the phone I knew better than to expect five minutes of sympathy. The man’s a comic, after all.

I recognized his voice instantly.

“Hobby- it’s Leno. Howzit goin’? Hey, I hear you’re having some health problems. What’s going on?”

“Leno!,” I responded. Hey, where are you? You sound like you’re in a wind tunnel!”

Jay gave me a predictable answer. “I’m in LA on the 405 freeway. You’d love what I’m driving—it’s a Mustang with a thousand horsepower.”

He was right. I would’ve loved to be in that car - driving that car. Leno knows I have a thing for Mustangs. After a second or two of well-justified envy, I gave him a rundown of everything: the complicated surgery to remove my neck tumor, and the post-op plan to use radiation to kill what they couldn’t cut out.

When I finished, there was a short pause. Then he responded.

“Hobby, you don’t fool me.”

I was flummoxed. “What the hell are you talking about?” I asked.

“I think you’re having a sex change operation and you had your Adam’s apple taken out. That’s the first thing they do.”

I laughed hard, even though it made my post-op throat feel like I’d swallowed a ball of barbed wire. But it didn’t stop me from firing back.

“Well, I do already have the boobs for it.”

John Martin, upon hearing about my conversation with Jay, followed up with a deadpan text:

“Maybe now you can achieve your lifetime goal of winning a gold medal in the women’s shot put at the Summer Olympics.”

Apparently, both of them thought a dose of sarcasm was good therapy. And they weren’t the only ones.

The next morning, one of my closest comedy friends, Killer Beaz, called to check on me. I had barely begun to speak in my raspy, post-surgery voice when he interrupted.

“Wait a minute, Joe.”

“What’s wrong?” I croaked.

“I’m gonna say two words to you right now: Barry White. You sound just like Barry White. Use that voice on a waitress at Cracker Barrel and you’ll get all kinds of extra biscuits and tea refills.”

Later that day, one of my former work associates, who knows I hate snakes, sent me a deeply disturbing video involving one of those legless demons. I texted back, “This is low, even by your low standards. I have freaking cancer, you know.”

The response was almost immediate: “Yeah, but I’ll bet for a couple of seconds after you saw that video, you weren’t thinking about it.”

What kind of friends do I have?

The best kind.

The kind that remind you who you are when you start to forget.

The kind that won’t let you wallow in self-pity.

The kind that use laughter like a flashlight when you’re in the dark.

No, laughter isn’t a cure for cancer. However, when it’s delivered by the people who know and care about you, it can be a pretty powerful painkiller. 

But I’m still glad I have health insurance.