Humor as Survival Tactic, a response to In Stitches by Dr. Anthony Youn

This book was given to me as part of my membership in From Left to Write, an online book club. This is not a review of the book but rather a response to the experience of reading it.

It has been years since I have laughed out loud while reading a book. In Stitches, Dr. Anthony Youn’s memoir of getting through medical school and residency garnered giggles, snickers, guffaws and belly laughs. Such laughter at bedtime, when I normally do my reading, makes for good sleep.

There is no question in my mind that Dr.Youn’s sense of humor got him through the uphill task of finishing medical school. I long ago identified humor as one of the values that contributes to my surviving and thriving. Below is the section on humor from my soon-to-be published memoir:

Claiming earned Frequent Flier miles becomes a skill equaled only to astrophysics or neurosurgery. Not being one to give up on hard earned freebies---there’s that persistence value again---I determined I would fight to the bitter end so as not to be robbed of my miles. I couldn’t get resolution on the phone or internet, so I concluded this merited a trip out to the airport. I walked up to the counter with no one else in sight except the ticket agent and me. The first words out of my mouth were, “I have had no sex---” The honest-to-god fact that I intended to say, “I have had no success---” meant nothing after the faux pax has escaped my lips. We were both laughing so hard, I barely get out my next words, “That’s true also, but that doesn’t happen to be your problem.”

I can’t help but feel my mispronunciation set the tone for this ticket agent being exceptionally willing to help me get to the bottom of my problem with Frequent Flier miles.

Dr. Norman Cousins' now legendary work on healing began by discovering that ten minutes of hearty belly laughs could provide him with two hours of pain free rest. In Head First, he states "scientific evidence is accumulating to support the biblical axiom that 'a merry heart doeth good like a medicine'".

My son Denny again comes to mind. As a child, he knew how to laugh, even at himself, better than most. At age thirteen, he asked to be dropped off at a girl's house after dinner---new behavior for my budding teenager. Now the word cool was invented for this boy. In his new, much longed for leather jacket, he strutted with the essence of junior high chic.  As he tells the story, everything went fine with the visit in spite of the fact that the girl's parents were much too present.  At the agreed upon time, I returned to pick him up and honked the horn. (God forbid that I should go to the door and let this young girl discover he had a mother.)  He quickly said his good bye. With one swift and graceful movement he picked up his new leather jacket from the floor and headed toward the door. As he placed his foot in the pocket, he impeded his forward progress and ripped a big tear in the most valued garment. Yes, he wanted to die and never have to face the young girl again. Instead, he told the rest of the family so we could all have a good laugh courtesy of our most cool family member.  He also made peace with having a beautifully repaired leather jacket.   

In contrast, folks who are not able to laugh at themselves make good targets for those of us who do. As noted earlier, Husband Number Three possessed unfortunate characteristics that made him a sitting duck for my junior high age sons to make fun of. We actually had to bring the subject up in family therapy. The therapist informed Dan forthrightly that when persons are not able to find humor in jokes about themselves, they make the perfect target for everyone else’s humor. The therapist actually complimented my sons on their ability to laugh at themselves.

Humor even boosts your immune system!

Grandparenting 101

Tristan and Mimi enjoying bedtime stories
Photo by John Lynner Peterson AKA Poppa

Being an overachiever from birth, I want to ace this grandparenting gig also. Since we moved back to Kentucky in late February, we have had only one sleepover with both precious angels present. Tristan is five and Payden is twelve months.

Now let me just clarify. I started decorating our guest room for these little creatures before we left North Carolina. It had to be neutral to accommodate both boy and girl. Cute but not so cutesy we couldn’t use it for an adult guest room when necessary. Lots of toys, books, pictures. It’s just what I wanted it to be. Only one problem---the little angels are too scared to sleep in there!

So we agree to try the both-angels-sleepover again.

We have a king-size Tempur-pedic bed but I also have a king size husband. John is 6’5” and as Tristan likes to tell everyone, “My Poppa used to be a Viking.” (Please do not tell him that just means he’s Norwegian and Minnesotan and has very big shoulders.) So the strategy is that I will get Tristan to sleep in our bed then put him on a pallet on the floor at the foot of our bed and let the little princess sleep with us all night. My daughter-in-law assures me this plan will work because Tristan can be moved without waking up and will not realize he’s been moved until morning.

Our plan works like a well-oiled Swiss machine for the first half of the night. I have already been having a restless sleep because I’m concerned the Viking will roll over on the Princess. I finally experience true rest with my back toward both them leaving the Princess in God’s hands. Then I awaken to gentle pushing against my back. “Payden sure is pushing hard against me for such a little thing.” I roll over intending to center her in the bed so I can get back to sleep. As I look at the little blonde head beside me, I have to blink my sleepy eyes several times before accepting it is Tristan beside me. He awakened during the night, thought he had fallen out of bed and crawled back in. We are now four-in-a-bed.

There is no Plan B so we all cuddle up and get whatever sleep will come. Since deep sleep came late, Tristan, Payden and I all sleep too late to get the four of us fed and dressed for church. At this point, I’m feeling grandparent failure creeping up on me like Ghostbuster slime. I wanted the two beautifully dressed and coiffed grandchildren in church with me today. Oh well, maybe next time.

Poppa fixes his world-famous waffles and we all gobbled them down with fruit and milk. He rushes off to church without us. The yummy-ness of having both angels with me surpasses any waffle, famous or not. Tristan is entertaining himself in the family room and Payden is getting a big dose of Mimi-love. I decide that I could at least put the refrigerated items away from the breakfast table. So with Payden on my hip, I pick up the little brown jug of maple syrup to move it to the fridge. Just as I turn away from the table, I loose my grip on the syrup and it not only spills, it bounces so that syrup spatters up the walls of the breakfast room!

A “tweet” went out at that instant to the entire world of black ants, “Syrup feast at the Peterson household. One hundred percent maple syrup. No preservatives, no corn syrup. Come one, come all.”

And they did. Instantly!

I admit that I am impressed with myself that I got Tristan to play with Payden long enough for me to mop the kitchen and breakfast room with the hottest, soapiest water I could make. I am not so impressed that even that process did not get all the stickiness up so Payden crawled around with the ants until I got her in the tub.

Surely, Grandparenting 102 will be easier.