I don’t remember what story my brother was telling me in the ICU.
I do remember laughing so hard I thought my stitches would pop. I remember my husband putting his hand out like a traffic cop: “Stop, stop, you’re going to hurt yourself.” I remember my brother trying to look serious and failing, which made me laugh harder.
A few days earlier, I’d looked at both of them through a fog of pain after surgery and said, “Please go.” I couldn’t do words. I couldn’t do people. The pain was so big there wasn’t room for anything else.
So to go from “please go” to “please stop making me laugh” in just a few days? That felt like a miracle nobody talks about.
The ICU isn’t supposed to be funny. There are tubes and monitors and those quiet, beeping reminders that your body just went through war. But somehow my brother showed up with a story — probably dumb, probably one I’d heard before — and cracked the room wide open.
My husband and brother turned into the worst audience managers ever. “Don’t laugh.” “Breathe.” “We’ll tell you later.” Meanwhile my brother kept mouthing the punchline at me. Traitors, both of them.
A year later, I still don’t remember the joke. But I remember what it meant: I was still in there. Under the pain, under the fear, under 2/3 less stomach — I was still a person who could laugh until it hurt, and hurt until I laughed.
Cancer tells you your body is broken. Laughter tells you your spirit isn’t.
If you’re in the “please go” days right now — I’ve been there. And if you get one “please stop making me laugh” day soon, take it. Hold it. It counts as medicine.
Next up: The first meal at home. Spoiler: it involved mashed potatoes and my kids being absolute pros at hovering helpfully.
Bruna
One year out, still laughing at jokes I can’t remember.
