I Believe

This I Believe

    I believe in laughter; the type of laughter that makes tears stream down my cheeks, my ribs ache, and leaves me hiccupping when I am finally able to gain control of myself. Life can get pretty serious at times, so serious that I want to escape. Opening my eyes and really seeing the humor in life and being able to laugh with friends and family is what I believe. There is nothing like a good dose of laughter that can make heavy burdens light and show that there is a silver lining to this thing called life.

    When I was sixteen, I had spine surgery. I had some complications with my lungs after the thirteen hour surgery and went into respiratory arrest, twice. After my doctors were finally able to stabilize my lungs, I was left to myself in a tiny hospital room that smelled sterile, with a hint of death, only to be checked on periodically by apathetic nurses. It was on the same floor as all of the old, cardiac arrest patients. I'm not sure why I ended up on that floor, but it made a terrible situation worse.

    I remember the first night I was finally conscious, there were three “code reds,” two of which survived. The nurses were talking about the patient out in the hall, mocking her struggle to live. “You should have seen how blue her face was, fingers clawing at the air, like there was an angel who might save her.” I just stared at the ceiling and felt terrified. Here I was stuck in a puny room, alone, listening to the machines beeping an affirmation that I was still alive, hoping they didn't start screeching, making me the next “code red.” I did not sleep at all that night. It didn't help that the nurses offered me my choice of beverage right at bedtime. Of course, being sixteen, and only having the options of water or milk at home, I chose the coke. The brown, syrupy poison was delicious as it ran down my parched throat, where only hours before there had been a breathing tube forcing air into my lungs.

    The next day, my parents brought some of their close friends to visit me. John, who was my dad's best friend since they were kids took command of the conversation. He sat down in a chair in the corner of my miniscule room. He told my parents about his daughter, who was a few years younger than I. “She heard about this 1-900 number on TV, so she called it. She called the @#$% psychic hotline! She racked up a $200 bill in one afternoon.” He went on to give a detailed account of the promises the psychic made to his daughter; promises of love and fortune, and good luck. He had everyone in the room in hysterics. I laid in my bed, staring at the same ceiling as the night before, laughing my insides out. I literally felt like I might mess up all of the work my surgeon had done on my spine. I was still on oxygen, as my lungs were having a hard time functioning on their own. My laugh was even more humorous than John's story. It came out sounding like a mix between my aunt Gay, who smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, and a barking horse. I really felt like I was going to die, while my lungs grasped for air, trying to sustain my frail body. Tears were running down my cheeks. The shaking of my body hurt so bad, yet never had anything felt so good. All the fear I had the night before vanished. I was happy to be alive, grateful that my lungs finally started to do their job, and wishing I had the strength to laugh like this forever.

    That night, instead of coke, I requested the Benadryl. I started feeling drowsy seconds after my nurse injected it into my IV. What a blessed feeling. As far as I knew, there were no “code reds” that night.

    When life gets burdensome, the best medicine is laughter. I'm not talking about a giggle or a short lived instance that brings a small grin to my face. I mean an explosive guffaw of sound that makes my stomach muscles sore for days, and leaves a memory that will be with me for the rest of my life. I believe in laughter.