The Divine Therapy of Laughter
By Tiffany Rosenhan
My mother says my identical twin sister and I were born with two settings: laughing and hysterically laughing.
Therefore, it came as no surprise that during my husband Branden’s critical brain surgery – a craniotomy to remove a blood clot which had caused a massive, life-altering hemorrhagic stroke – I was in the waiting room surrounded by friends and family, laughing.
Laughing so loudly, I later learned, that a colleague of my husband’s who had entered the waiting room, didn’t believe that the “young woman laughing” could be “Dr. Rosenhan’s wife” and promptly left, embarrassed to have intruded on another family’s joyous occasion.
Our occasion was not joyous, but indeed that was me, laughing.
Perhaps to alleviate the tension. Perhaps to pass the time. Or perhaps because we collectively abhorred the alternative of sitting together in a somber room, awaiting potentially devastating results.
Five days earlier as I ran into the ER, I was frightened, but peaceful. I felt three successive confirmations: everything is about to change . . . everything is changing . . . everything has changed.
It happened instantly. Our lives separated into two halves. Before the stroke, and after.
I am forever grateful to the Heavenly angels who whispered the truth in my ears before a living person could.
Our life together had always been hurried, demanding, and busy. Branden had spent the previous twenty years plowing through his interconnected world of medicine, healthcare, innovation, and biotechnology. He didn’t work long hours, he worked all hours, layering ICU night shifts atop multiple demanding professions.
Now he was in the ICU, not as a physician, but as a patient.
The first few days were surreal: trauma and crisis interspersed with miracles and comedy. It was either laughter through tears or tears through laughter.
Watching Branden stripped of his speech was at best odd, at worst utterly horrifying.
By the third day, Branden was speaking incoherent gibberish. He had “expressive aphasia”, which is as frustrating as it is humorous! While we were hopeful he would recover his speech, nothing was certain. At first, he communicated with a whiteboard, sporadic Spanish, and incorrect, often inappropriate, words. (Which was . . . well. . . funny!)
At one point, he demanded, through gestures, to exercise and shower. Defiant, he unhooked himself, stood upright, and began performing lunges down the ICU hallway, all in an unfastened medical robe. The only thing that prevented me from bursting into tears was bursting into laughter.
Over the next five days, we vacillated between this is the end and this is only the beginning.
I resisted glimpses into a future I wouldn’t allow myself to consider: a future with a husband with
whom I couldn’t communicate, or a future with no husband at all.
Weighing heavily on my mind was the decision of whether or not to proceed with a craniotomy.
Despite our confidence in the neurosurgeon, brain operations are inherently risky. Yet the only outcome worse than proceeding, was not proceeding.
That day in the ICU waiting room, I knew that no matter what outcome we faced when the neurosurgeon approached the door, I needed the strength to endure it.
And since laughter strengthens me, strengthens all of us, while we waited, we laughed.
It started when my best friend arrived, breathless, carrying her newborn in her arms, telling us how, not wanting to be late, she had swerved her SUV into the parking garage, clipped the ceiling marker, knocked it off its hinges and sent it swinging like a pendulum in the entrance . . . only to find out the surgery had been delayed.
More stories quickly followed, many leaving us crying tears of laughter. Storytelling, and the slow burn to the punch line, enraptured us, suppressing emotions which wanted to dwell on the myriad negative scenarios of Branden’s future.
The hours passed. The craniotomy was completed successfully. When Branden was wheeled back to the ICU, we heard him yelling from down the hall. He had 27 painful staples in his head, but he was alive and we knew this was only the beginning.
I echo the words of my great-grandmother’s close friend, Charlie Chaplin, when he said, “A day without laughter is a day wasted”.
Even a day in the Neuro ICU, watching over a critically ill spouse with brain damage, can be improved with mild laughter.
Laughter doesn’t diminish the severity of a situation; it doesn’t undermine the value and essential role of prayer and spirituality. In fact, the opposite can be true. Laughter can alleviate fear, dissolve anger, and temper hurt, leaving us more capable of turning to the Savior in times of greater emotion and stress.
During those first few weeks, I spent far more time on my knees in prayer than I did clutching my stomach in laughter. Yet I needed laughter in a different way.
Laughter prevented me from wallowing in self-pity, what-ifs, and fear of an unknown future.
Laughter cleared my mind and neutralized negative emotions, enabling me to receive spiritual enlightenment and comfort.
Two years into stroke recovery, amid further neurological complications, constant therapy, doctor’s visits, and seizures, I often have two simple choices: I can laugh or I can cry.
And still I choose to embrace the divine therapy of laughter.
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