Cancer - The Last Laugh

On the morning of my second thyroid cancer surgery, the surgeon pulled back the curtain and said, “Hey, how are you doing?”

From where I was lying, I felt the question really should’ve been directed the other way.

“Actually, Doc,” I said, “how are you doing?”

Without missing a beat, he held up his hands and began shaking them as if he had Parkinson’s.

“Other than this, fine.”

We both laughed. “Cut away,” I said. “I’m glad you finally get me.”

And now - after two surgeries and a round of radiation - I’ve been declared cancer-free.

Obviously, I tried to keep my sense of humor through the whole ordeal, as scary and frustrating as it was. Jokes have always been my way of coping. I even gave my tumor a name: Tyrone. I figured if something was going to live inside me uninvited, it at least needed proper identification.

My friends, of course, did not allow me the luxury of self-pity. Snide, snarky remarks were their version of compassion. Or maybe it was just cruelty - with these guys it’s one and the same.

Jay Leno called after my first surgery and said he figured I was having my Adam’s apple removed as the first step in a sex-change operation. Other friends asked if I’d be using one of those electronic voice boxes. And one buddy, fully aware of my fear of snakes, sent me half a dozen videos of the legless devils.

When I asked why, he said, “Well, I bet you weren’t thinking about cancer for at least a minute.” A true Hallmark moment.

Just before radiation therapy, my best amigo Richard bought me a battery-operated magician’s light bulb, the kind that lights up when you put it in your mouth. He thought I should use it as a practical joke.  I wasn’t surprised. This is the same man who once taped a card to his backside before a colonoscopy that read:

“This is our final attempt to contact you about your extended car warranty.”

When he woke up, the nurses told him everyone in the operating room loved it. Well, everyone except the doctor.  You’d think a proctologist would have a sense of humor. Butt, no.

Not only did I use the bulb in a silly online video, I decided to take it to my doctors. Shortly after swallowing the radiation pill, I had to return for imaging to determine its effectiveness. This was a perfect opportunity.

Before the appointment, I slipped the bulb into my jacket pocket. When I walked in, I noticed three young medical techs. Excellent. Younger crowd. Higher probability of laughter. As Richard had proven, not everyone in the medical profession appreciates comedy under pressure.

I sat quietly as they reviewed the procedure. No jokes. Straight face.

Finally, one asked, “Do you have any questions?”

“Well, I do have one concern.” They leaned in.

“The radiation will stay in my system for several months, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well… maybe it’s… I don’t know. I think I’ve still got a lot of radiation in me. I feel funny.”

They exchanged looks. Clearly, this was not covered in medical school.

“Funny how?” one asked.

“Let me show you.”

I pulled the bulb from my pocket and put it in my mouth. It immediately lit up.

The room exploded with laughter. The last time I heard doctors laugh that hard was when a patient mentioned socialized medicine. It felt like delivering a killer line at a comedy club, except everyone in this audience had access to sharp objects.

One of them said, “We’ve got to go across the hall and do that to the other guys.”

A sure sign a practical joke is successful is when the original victims want to reuse it.

A couple of weeks later, Richard called.  There were no pleasantries.

“Hey! You’ll never guess what just happened.”

I know better than to guess. With Richard, it could involve Jennifer Aniston walking into his store or Elvis handing him the keys to Graceland.

“What?” I asked.

“One of my customers came in looking down. I asked what was wrong. She said her daughter had just been diagnosed with thyroid cancer.”

That got my attention.

“What did you do?”

“I told her all about you. That you’re doing great. That it’s treatable. That it’s curable. And then I showed her the video of you and the light bulb.”

“What did she do?”

“She laughed. I told her you’ve kept your sense of humor through the whole thing.”

After we hung up, it hit me.  Maybe the last laugh didn’t belong to the cancer after all.