My family has a strange, sometimes irreverent sense of humor. I find this useful, because it opens me up to the juxtaposition of ideas that can lead to new lines of thinking. These ideas, which more sensible people might flee, are excellent fodder for my stories.
Socially, this can be a problem, and I have learned to conceal my stranger thoughts from people I do not know well. I habitually self-edit my speech, and if you are one of those people with whom I have shared one of my bizarre free associations, it means you are someone I trust. Self-editing has its own difficulties, as when I studied acting, but it seems to work out better than the alternative. Still, unusual humor hasn’t always worked out so well for the rest of the family.
More than a decade after my Nana died, my grandfather, still mourning his loss, sent a letter to his brother in Pennsylvania.
“I visited her grave last night,” he wrote. “It’s cold, and it’s dark, and I hate it.”
And then my grandfather got sick.
Cholesterol was beginning to impede blood flow to his brain. The doctor recommended a “Roto-Rooter” operation–they would open up the affected blood vessels, clean them out, and put him back together. This same surgery had worked for another man my grandfather knew, and he had no reason it wouldn’t work as well in this case.
While under anesthesia, however, my grandfather’s blood pressure shot dangerously high, and when they gave him medication to control it, his BP crashed. He was dead from the complications of his stroke within a week.
As they were packing up his belongings in the hospital, my parents came across the flashlight and electric socks. From what we can tell, he had considered the hospital where his wife died a significant enough health risk that he wanted to be ready to leave it in a hearse. In response, the family decided to put the socks and flashlight into my grandfather’s casket when he was buried.
Except I can’t help but wonder. So much of our health is predicated on our willingness to fight against entropy and live. And I wonder if my grandfather chose not to do it. I wonder if our inability as a family to face suffering and talk about how we really feel made him give up the fight.
I wonder if we chose to be funny instead.