Tales from Mr. Laugh-a-Lot
the palliative benefit of humor
When mom died, Dad, Trevor, Clary and I went through the necessary process of updating Dad’s Last Will and Testament. As part of that process, we also engaged Dad in the more important discussions involving his Healthcare Directives, “living” Will, Powers of Attorney, and his Physician’s Orders for Life Sustaining Treatment (POLST).
Quick aside: no matter your age, it would be a tremendous service and loving act FOR your loved ones if you, yourself, undergo a process of detailing how YOU want your dying and death to occur. Kristin and I have done this and the peace of mind it provides cannot be over-emphasized.
We, Dad’s sons, know what is to happen during the various final end stages of Dad’s active dying—whenever that is to occur. We know the kind of care he desires, how he wants to have hydration and nutrition given (if any), and how he wants pain to be managed. We also know that Dad has decided he wants to be at home in the presence of family when he does die and that his bodily remains be cremated and placed in the same urn as mom’s, then returned to their burial plot in the Holy Rosary Cemetery. He also wishes to have a full-on Catholic burial mass and service.
Palliative Care
When health care turns from “let’s fix and cure this,” to “let’s let things simply run their course but provide for comfort and a pain-managed journey,” it’s known as palliative care. Palliative care isn’t just reserved for end-of-life humans nor is it done only through hospice care. Palliative care happens whenever the primary goal is patient comfort through symptom and pain management, rather than secondary goals that include the curing of disease.
We are well-within a palliative frame of mind right now since everyone here knows Dad’s dementia and Parkinson’s have no cure—things will only progress with these diagnoses and he will die as a person with dementia and Parkinson’s. But he doesn’t have to die in pain; dying doesn’t have to include suffering (Dying Wisely would indicate the presence of NO suffering—from the one dying or from loved ones!).
We are also taking full advantage, as often as we can, of the most beneficial form of palliative care that also happens to be free, no need even for Medicare or co-pays: palliation through love’s humor.
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Ladies and Gentleman, back by popular demand: Mr. Laugh-a-Minute!
Humor is one of the essential ingredients in our lives—it should be a major food group; a major component of the air we breathe; in the shampoo, toothpaste, and toilet paper (trust me…LOT’s of toilet paper!) we use; and certainly in as many present moment exchanges that can be co-created. Laughing is amazing medicine proven to be such from the neurosciences—laughing releases endorphins in our brains.
Endorphins are endogenous opioid neuropeptides and peptide hormones in humans and other animals. They are produced and stored in the pituitary gland. The classification of molecules as endorphins is based on their pharmacological activity, as opposed to a specific chemical formulation.
Endorphins also trigger a positive feeling in the body, similar to that of morphine. For example, the feeling that follows a run or workout is often described as "euphoric." That feeling, known as a "runner's high," can be accompanied by a positive and energizing outlook on life.
(Wikipedia, 2022)
Laughing eases pain. Laughing promotes feelings of euphoria. Laughing is good for both body and soul. We’re aiming for multiple “laugher’s highs” each day! They feel great.
It’s also less expensive than morphine, btw. Sad that it’s not as addictive.
Dad is catching on. He’s starting to buy into humor and even will make himself the comedian with US as his resident “straight-men” and audience. He is pushing out more one liners, looking quickly to us to see our reaction with a sly smile of his eyes, then feels proud of himself when he makes us laugh.
Some Cases in point—aka a few of his palliative doses of humor:
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Remember, I want Dad to be “up and about” and present and doing things with us, with me, even when he really can’t “do” much. But, he’s perfect in his presence and he does that perfectly—which is exactly what I desire and what he needs.
The other day, I broke down and finally bought a push lawn mower so that I wouldn’t have to keep weed whacking my weeds (I know, I know…the acorn didn’t fall far. “They are just plants I DON’T WANT GROWING THERE, DAMMIT!” At least I don’t have a 500 gallon green propane burner! And I never forced my kids to be lookouts for fire from weed burning!).
Me: C’mon Dad, let’s go.
Dad: Where are we going?
M: Let’s go out and assemble that mower.
D: Hmpf. I’m not going to be able to help.
M: Remember, that’s not the point. Besides, I’m sure there will be something you will tell me not to do.
D: Okay. You’re right.
M: Before we go out, do you need to use the bathroom?
D: It doesn’t feel like I need to. So, no.
M: Okay, let’s go.
Right as he sat and I unboxed the mower and before I could place the first bolt:
D: “I need to go to the bathroom.”
M: 🤬🤬🤯
My world stops, his continues. To the toilet we go.
It takes 20 minutes—and that’s a GOOD trip! 🚽💩!!!
[Okay, this probably wasn’t as humorous as you thought it might be—except know that I HAVE to find humor in that! Instead, it’s more of a set up for…]
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Back in the garage, he’s oriented in his seat, again, such that he can see the back end of the truck, specifically the trailer hitch bar. More specifically, the metal ball on the trailer hitch bar. Most specifically, the RUSTY metal ball on the trailer hitch bar that he can see as he’s oriented to see at the back of his former (note: FORMER!) fire engine red Ford F150 pickup truck with custom headers.
Dad: You need to polish that. A new SOS pad would do wonders for that.
Me: Polish what? [I’m still assembling the mower!]
Dad: The hitch ball.
Me: [Did I tell you I’m still assembling the mower? I’m still assembling the mower.] Well, your sitting there. It’s at your height. I’m pretty sure they make SOS pads that fit your hand too. Want me to go get one for you?
Dad: I’ll be quiet now.
[I go back to the mower]
Dad: But you should polish that. It sure needs it.
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The mower assembled, I started filling it with gas but had to use a funnel, which, as you all know, means it’s hard to determine when the little tank is full—I always seem to overflow the damn things! I know I have to be careful in front of my boss and supervisor.
Dad: Be careful not to overflow it.
Me: I know Dad.
D: Gas is expensive.
M: I know Dad.
[I proceed to overflow the DAMN LITTLE TANK spilling gas on the garage floor.]
D: Whoa, too much, too much.
M: Dammit.
D: I told you to be careful.
M: Want a cookie Dad?
D: Maybe. You could bring yourself back an SOS pad.
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Readers know Dad’s granddaughter Kym just ended her 5 day visit with us. We were visiting on the deck after her last dinner with us when we reminded Dad that HE’s gonna go with to bring Kym to the airport.
Dad: [to Kym in a deadpan voice] Can’t you hitchhike, instead? You should hitchhike.
Next day, Kym’s departure day. Pulling into the drive at the airport…
Me: This looks like it will go smoothly to drop you off Kym. Hardly any traffic right now. [We’re still about a mile away.] You’re flying Alaska Air?
Kym: Yeah but remember you can drop me off wherever; I’m not checking a bag so wherever is easiest.
Dad: Drop her off right here then and let her hitchhike. Sounds like she’s okay with that. [Still about a mile away.]
Kym: GRANDPA!
M: Don’t you have to take a nap or something Dad?
D: It would be faster for us if she JUST hitchhiked.
You’ll also recall that we treated Dad and Kym to a Mariner game that ended up being a remarkable day. I had a text thread going during the game with some family members to share how much fun we were having. Pat texted that now that he was at the game and had great seats, that he should then proceed to catch a foul ball for her. Repeat: DAD should catch a foul ball for her! [he can’t even polish a rusty hitch ball let alone catch a foul ball!] Note however that I never shared the texts with Dad so he had no idea about Pat’s foul ball request.
Well, sadly, no foul ball came our way—yeah, like he was going to one hand snag one anyway—but Pat and Dad must have had a conversation by phone about that little foul ball throwaway quip from Pat that, I FIRMLY believe, Dad TOTALLY misinterpreted. Because for the next FIVE days, he was fixated on going back to the ballpark to get Pat a baseball.
Dad: Pat wants a baseball. I should have bought her a baseball at the game. We need to go back and get a ball.
Me: From the stadium Dad? I don’t think that’s what she meant.
Dad: Yes. I want to get her a baseball. Pat wants a baseball.
M: I think she wanted you to catch a foul ball Dad. And apparently you disappointed her.
D: Pat’s gonna get a baseball.
M: Not from the stadium she ain’t—unless you want to borrow the truck.
D: Not with a rusty hitch ball.
I had to enter into negotiations with my father to, um, not go back to T-Mobile Park. We settled on an authentic MLB baseball with an official Mariner logo on it from Amazon that he said he wanted to then sign—just like an authentic Major Leaguer (this from a man who, to our knowledge, never even played an inning of T-ball in his life!)
But THAT brought its own palliative medicine:
[I hit submit and order the ball. One hour later]:
Dad: When’s that ball gonna be here? Pat really wants a ball.
Me: Friday Dad, that’s what Amazon says.
D: Is today Friday?
M: No Dad. Today is Tuesday [see where this is heading?]. But are you sure Pat wants that ball? I’m pretty sure you misinterpreted what she said.
D: Nope. That’s what she told me. She wants a baseball.
Wednesday comes.
D: That ball gonna be here soon? It’s taking a long time.
M: Friday Dad.
D: What day is today? Isn’t today Friday? I think it’s Friday.
Thursday comes.
D: Are you sure you ordered that ball? It’s taking a long time.
M: It will be here in a year and a half now Dad. Apparently they needed to make more baseballs.
D: No it won’t. You said Friday.
M: Then WHY are you asking me?
D: Just making sure.
D: Pat really wants a baseball.
D: Isn’t today Friday?
Friday arrives and you’d think it was Christmas. Dad wakes up, pages the genie (me) who magically appears at his bedside to help him stand and our conversation ensues:
Me: Good Morning dad! Did you sleep well?
Dad: You know what today is, right?
Me: Friday. Why do you ask?
Dad. Baseball.
Through the miracle that is Amazon, the much-wanted baseball arrives along with an acrylic case to store it in for Pat’s bookshelf—‘cuz, you know Pat won’t like a dusty baseball on her shelf (not so UNLIKE someone not liking a certain rusty hitch ball).
D: When are we going to send it to Pat?
M: We can do that tomorrow Dad. You said you wanted to sign it first otherwise we could have just had Amazon deliver it right to her.
D: What day is tomorrow?
M: Saturday.
D: I thought today is Saturday. We could go now.
D: Pat wants a baseball.
Saturday arrives—aka baseball send off day! We stop at UPS. I go in while Dad and Kristin stay in the car.
Me upon return to the car: Okay, that’s that! The BALL IS ON IT’S WAY!
Dad: When is she gonna get it, tomorrow?
Me: No Dad, tomorrow is Sunday. They said she’ll get it in about a year and a half—they are short of drivers apparently.
Dad: It won’t take that long!
Me: If your not careful, I’ll go back and tell them to place a hold on it!
D: When will she get it?
M: They said Tuesday Dad.
Dad: When’s Tuesday?
M: After Monday.
Sunday Morning.
D: Is it Tuesday?
[And… here we go again.]
For the record and if you are still with us after this sad, sad saga (turns out it would have been easier to wrestle a foul ball away from a Mariner fan holding a baby and with a polished hitch ball on his truck in the parking lot at the game…had I known…OH had I known!), Pat received the ball…
…on WEDNESDAY!
WTF?
Tuesday was a LOOOONG day waiting for a Pat phone call that didn’t come. It was as if Santa skipped us!
Dad: She should have gotten it on Tuesday; knowing her, she probably didn’t check her mail. She better get it tomorrow.
Me: Don’t you dare spoil it by asking her if she got her baseball!
She loved it! At least from what Dad shared. Dad said she cried but I’m going to believe they were tears of laughter—especially knowing Pat! Dad signed it on the sweet spot and wrote: “The next best thing to a foul ball. Wally.”
Note: I don’t think that meant “Wally is the next best thing to a foul ball.” But I could be wrong. Pat may REALLY like foul balls (that’s what Dad thinks anyway.)
We’re not sure if she can polish a hitch ball though. Not gonna ask either.
He was SO proud of himself.
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And the final anecdote, for now, ‘cuz the laugh train keeps a’coming’, on the tales from Mr. Laugh-a-Minute:
Kristin and I gifted ourselves some respite time by attending a Bruce Hornsby concert the other night. Our son, Connor, Dad’s grandson and temporary inheritee of the gas-guzzling fire-engine red Ford F-150 pickup truck with loud dual headers, a rusty hitch ball, and a crappy electrical system that drains the battery every third day if we don’t start it (no, I’m not bitter—‘cuz remember now who owns that dang thing!), came over to spend some quality time with grandpa.
Me: Okay dad, you are set. Kristin and I are about to head out.
Dad: Okay.
M: Connor just got here and is looking forward to being with you.
Connor: Hi Grandpa!
D: [with a skipped beat worthy of the best live act comedian]: Oh, how’s my babysitter today? My baby-sitter is here!
Me: Dad!
Dad: Hi Connor.
Eldering 101:
Elders have the wisdom to discern when certain situations call for just the right feeling tone and emotional response. Just the right kind of medicine to fit the time. Humor from wise Elders never hurts others (they do not know sarcasm; or if they do, they are experts at reading the room). Sarcasm, or humor of the same vein, is not palliative.
Growing up, we have memories (and photos) of Dad with huge smiles—but to be honest, I have to strain my own brain to recollect Dad laughing out loud. Dad wasn’t the comedian he tries to be now (admittedly with some good success!) when we were younger. This may have shown itself some during family gatherings—maybe during some poker nights—but I was too young to play. I think intuitively my brothers and I knew Dad’s enjoyment in life truly did come from doing the serious business of farming. And it’s not easy to find humor in hops (weeds in hops? Yes. Prickly bines in hops? Yes. Humor in hops? Not so much. Unless you hung around Leroy or Miguel for too long.)
But together we are changing that. My Dad, our Elder, has a delightful sense of humor; I wonder at times if he wishes he should have shown that more to us. But it wasn’t his sweet-spot; wasn’t his comfort zone. One thing is for sure, he is gaining confidence as our resident comedian and we are exchanging more and more quips to lighten our days and ease the pain of aging.
And…
it’s working.
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I thought I’d offer to y’all a palliative humor dose of medicine to end this post. Oh that they made palliative medicine like this today!
T plus 54 days… and laughing. “Ladies and Gentlemen, how about a hand for Dad! He’s here every night and twice on Sundays. Performances start at sunrise. Line forms to the left please. Tip your waiter generously (YES, very generously please!). And remember to take your free SOS pad with you as Dad’s parting gift on your way out.”
Dad: Have you polished that hitch ball yet?
Me: Keep eating your cookie Dad. Or I’ll put spinach in it.
So glad Pat FINALLY got the baseball 😂
Funny and sweet, Kurt!