(*relatively speaking)
Today scene comes from early May 2008, when my oxygen levels were so low it was causing neurological issues, and unbeknownst to me, my doctors had given me two weeks to live. But I had enough lucidity to know I needed to find a way to stay sane and keep me spirits up. Turns out, that way was humor.
Humor Me
I pranked people during my many
stays in and out of the hospitals. But by far one of my favorites was the “fake
injury” gag.
One of my favorite snacks in the
hospital was Jell-O. It was an all-purpose food that required absolutely no
energy to eat, which was good, because I wasn’t well enough to even lift the
spoon up to my mouth sometimes. Most days Mom would have to feed me. My
favorite was cherry. The red mush sometimes reminded me of gore, something I
was now far too familiar with, but it gave me an idea.
“Can ya call the nurse in?”
“How come?” Mom asked. “Are you
okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Jus’ call’er in.”
“And tell her what?”
“Jus’ that I need help with sumpin’.
Cummon, it’ll be funny,” I giggled.
Suspicious, but with a smile at my
rare laughter, she called the nurses’ station and managed to convince them to
send over a nurse. “So what is it that will be so funny?” she asked.
I told her my plan. We’d make it look
like I had sneezed while my mom was bringing the spoon up to my mouth and
stabbed me in the eye. I would have my hand over my eye with bits of cherry Jell-O
leaking out from between my fingers. I summoned up what remained of my acting
prowess to sell the fake injury. Mom managed to stop laughing right before the
nurse arrived.
When the nurse came in, I was
groaning and holding my eye. The nurse’s face immediately drained of color and
she shakily asked what was going on. “She got muh eye while she’s feedin’ me,”
I moaned.
The nurse spun on her heels and muttered
something about getting the doctor. She was almost out of the room by the time
my frantic calls stopped her. “No, i’s okay! I’s jus’ Jell-O!”
Looking less than amused, the nurse
came back. I pulled my hand away to reveal a perfectly intact eye, surrounded
by a red stain, and an impish grin. “That wasn’t funny,” she puffed, but smiled
with relief. Then she chuckled softly and shook her head. “You’re an odd one.”
Yes I was, and proud of it.
Sometimes the humor came from outside,
such as a card I received from a class of kids taught by one of our neighbors.
“I hope you get out of the hospital and Hell soon.” I laughed hard enough for
it to hurt, but it was worth it. The amusement came with joy and made
everything seem all right. Get out of Hell indeed. I now had a “Get Out of Hell
Free” card. I know she meant “heal,” but beneath the laughter, I couldn’t shake
the feeling that her card might be more accurate than she intended.
I'd appreciate it if you shared this with your friends. I'm publishing my book to share the rarely told story about what life after cancer is really like. With more awareness, more eyes (or eye, depending on if someone stabbed you with a spoon of Jell-O), on this issue, we can educate people about the difficulties facing survivors in a life after cancer, and be able to give them the support and quality of care they need to live rich, fulfilling lives.
Thank you for reading, and especially for sharing,
~Andrew Bundy
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