THE GRACE OF FINDING HUMOR IN THE DARKEST HOUR

My "Ordinary Joe" and I were recently discussing what it takes to plumb the depths of despair and to turn a potential conqueror circumstance into a catalyst for change. Most importantly, we discussed the necessity of getting over ourselves, finding perspective and, as he would put it, to "cop on..." To Get Real. To not only find, but to celebrate the humor that resides in the darkest of our days....

My father passed away unexpectedly in the fall of 1993, just six months after I had lost my only sibling, my older brother. At that time, I shared my life with a remarkable man, a T6 paraplegic when I had met him just two years prior, who had already lost one leg to osteomyelitis. He was a Western Cherokee, a painter, poet, sculptor and community activist. He unfortunately developed another bone infection in his remaining hip and was scheduled to undergo his second leg amputation. Concurrently, he had been honored by The Downtowner magazine in Portland as being one of “Portland’s Ten Most Interesting People” of 1993. He and the other nine honorees were feted at a gallery reception, and we had plans to have friends over to celebrate the event at our home afterward. That was on a Wednesday and, on the following Tuesday, he was to check into the hospital.

When we returned from the gallery and friends started to arrive, I saw that there was a message on the answering machine. Pushing the button to play back, I heard the voice of someone who identified herself as being attached to the sheriff’s department of Yakima, Washington, the town in which my father lived. “Oh, great,” I thought, “Dad’s gotten himself into another fender-bender.” I called the number and was not prepared to hear her deliver the news that my father had been found down on the floor of his bedroom. My father was gone from me.

The house was filled with the celebratory laughter of friends and well-wishers who knew what Tony had in store the following week. None of us were prepared for the news that I would then deliver to all assembled. A hush fell over them, and champagne glasses were lowered to rest on tables when I told them of my father’s passing. Quality friends they were. Everyone in attendance offered to either stay in support or to leave in respect. I thanked them all and said from my heart, “There is nothing that I can do for my father on this night. Tonight belongs to Tony, and we need to concentrate on that. I will do for my father what needs to be done as the coming days unfold.” Our friends honored my wishes and as much frivolity as we could muster under the circumstances ensued. I was so very grateful to be supported in the loving warmth of their presence at such a dark hour in my life.

Many in attendance on that night continued to offer their support when I needed it the most over the coming weeks… trying to sort out my father’s affairs from so many miles away and trying to assist Tony in his physical transition and adjustment to having to realign his body, adapt to a new wheelchair to accommodate it, his skill-set in dealing with maneuvering about our home, balance issues… it was all overwhelming… and I continued to work at my job throughout, following my three-day bereavement leave for my father’s funeral.

Woody, a dear friend with whom I had experienced a great deal of personal growth, stepped up to the plate and offered to go with me up to Yakima to help me go through my father's necessary papers and to make arrangements for the disposition of his estate. It was a four-hour drive between Portland and Yakima and we had been hard at work most of the day in sorting everything out. Yakima is a strongly agricultural and cattle-based community, and there is a large population of Mexican immigrants throughout the valley. They had come to work in the fields, settled, and started their own thriving businesses. They brought with them the rich tapestry of their own culture, no small part of which is their wonderful food. Woody offered to treat me to dinner in one of the authentic Mexican restaurants nearby, and I readily agreed.

After our orders had been placed, we sat reflecting on the incredible synchronicity of Tony's amputation with my father's passing so soon on the heels of losing my brother. There had been so much loss all at once, and the geographical separation between the responsibilities had added to the pressure. When our frosty margaritas were delivered to the table and, in respect to my father, I raised my glass and offered the Jewish toast, "L'Chaim," or, "To Life..." Woody raised his glass immediately in response and added... "And Limb!" We both looked at each other with eyes widened, mouths opened in amazement, and then collapsed into gales of uncontrollable laughter. What cosmic choreography it had taken to corral the ethers in order to coalesce a death, an amputation, and a toast appropriate in that moment and no other... "To Life and Limb..."

We laughed until we cried, our bellies hurt, our cheeks ached and, by the time we were through, the other diners in the restaurant were laughing along with us, clearly with no idea why.... it remains one of my favorite moments in my life, and it serves to remind me of the importance of finding the grace and the release that humor provides, no matter what life may hand to us.