|
|
The art of laughter: chemotherapy couldn't keep our writer from pursuing her career as a painter. Here's how an offbeat sense of humor helped
All my life, I've had a crooked smile, a warped sense of humor
and a defective cancer gene. As a regular member of the Chemo
Club for the last seven years, it seems like I've spent more time
in the wig shop than the beauty salon.
Recently, I had some dental work done that called for putting temporary crowns on my two front teeth. |
Halfway through my meal at a fancy restaurant, both crowns fell out onto my plate. I couldn't help milking the situation, so I wailed mournfully to my husband, "Oh, Len, will you still love me when I'm snaggletoothed and bald?" He delighted our guests by reminding me, "Fran, you are snaggletoothed and bald ... but I still love you!"
My sense of humor has helped me get through a lot of situations--like
the day a traffic cop pulled me over for speeding. As I scrambled
around for my license, I tried to take off my sunglasses, but
they got caught in my wig. I gave the glasses an awkward tug,
and the wig flew out the window, landing on the officer's feet.
I stuck my naked head out, looking around for the wig as he stared
in horror at the tousled, dark brown mess draped over his boots.
He obviously didn't want to touch it and I was too afraid to open
the door to pick it up. I stifled a giggle, and then we both started
laughing hysterically.
My medical chart is not so amusing: 21 surgeries, breast and
ovarian cancers, Graves' and Hashimoto's diseases. In 1998, I
stood beside the doctor viewing my CT scans for stage IIIC ovarian
cancer, and there, glowing in the dark, were enough tumors to
fill an English tea set--cups, creamer, pot and all.
|
|
|
