Even in death, the laughter lives on

“Took the missus out on a date night. Debating if I will call her again.”

And that Facebook memory pretty much sums up one of the biggest components of life with My Favourite Husband (MFH): humour.

I love to laugh. And I love to smile. And I love to inspire others to do the same. I was very fortunate to have been married to a man who has a great sense of humour. MFH was a quiet man who did better in small groups of people but, with them and especially with me, that wicked sense of humour came out. Practical jokes, “groaner humour,” witty repartee — he was a master at all of them. One of his favourite ways to kick back was to watch comedian specials on Netflix.  He looked for shows that would make both of us laugh because he knew laughter is a beautiful, healthy stress release. One of the biggest strengths of our marriage was the ability to find humour in a situation. Even when we fought — and we did fight — one of us would break the silence by making the other one laugh, even if we really didn’t want to. I couldn’t stay mad at MFH when he came into the living room wearing a metal mixing bowl on his head and banging another with a wooden spoon, singing a made-up song about forgiving him.

When he died, my laughter stopped. My smile went away. It was pretty much inevitable that I would find nothing to laugh about, nothing to bring a smile to my face. My circle, my strong arms — they know how much humour brings me to life and, after the first month, they gently tried to infuse a little humour into my grief. I wasn’t angry at their attempts; in fact, some of them were successful. If the people who know me best can’t bring out one of my strongest essences, who can?

I don’t remember when I started engaging in my new world with bits of humour. I can’t pinpoint when I laughed, when I smiled in amusement, I just know that I did. I laughed at memories of MFH. I laughed at situations and comments that were funny. I laughed at myself. Laughter was a mix of familiar and strange, friend and stranger. Laughter was a welcome partner in my life.

However...

Not everyone saw it that way. There were detractors who commented about my “happiness.” There were some who thought my humour was disrespectful, shameful, improper. I needed to be mournful, sorrowful, somber for at least a year. If I let laughter and light into my life any sooner, I wasn’t being a “proper widow." I had a decision to make: live the way they wanted or be true to myself, put the boots to conventional thinking and do widowhood my way. If you’ve read my posts, you know which path I chose.

When I talk about MFH, it’s almost always a story that will make myself and others laugh. For example, there was a time that I came home from working at a greenhouse. I noticed a lily in a pot on the front step needed staking. I was having a look at it when this big, booming voice out of nowhere said: “Lady, what are you doing? Leave that flower alone!” So, after I finished piddling in my pants, I realized the voice was coming from the doorbell camera. Apparently, my presence on the step alerted MFH that someone was at the door and he, along with his dialysis nurse, decided the right thing to do was scare the crap out of me. My response was the only one appropriate in that situation: I flipped the camera the bird! When I went back to gather the staking materials, my phone rang and it was MFH just checking in. We had a good laugh about it. How could I be mad? It was all in fun.

Sharing this story is all about the love, no matter where I am in my grief journey.

I laugh at myself. I’ve laughed at different situations I’ve found myself in; different things I’ve said. If I’m laughing, it takes some of the awkwardness out of the situation for people around me.  It's not only what I want to do; it’s what MFH would do as well.

Here’s a good example. While I was in Portugal, my heart sister and brother-in-law took me to visit Batalha, a beautiful, historic monastery. We spent time exploring this magnificent, magical place and, in our journey, there was an opportunity to drop coins into a box. When you did, an electric candle would light to honour the memory of a loved one. My heart sister did just that, dropped some euros into the box. I was slightly turned at the time and, when the coins dropped, I heard a muttered “shitballs” from behind me. You see, it turns out she didn’t catch which candle had been lit for MFH! When I realized what had happened, I began to giggle, uncontrollably. Why? Because it’s funny. And she started to giggle as well. You see, it was a beautiful gesture in a beautiful place but I’m not going to lie: the mischievous man MFH was, I’m sure that the “miss” and her response were completely his doing! Although raised Catholic, he was never a religious man. He tended more towards spirituality rather than tradition. He thought that love, light, fun and inclusion meant more than human judgment of others. So, especially that moment in Batalha, I knew he was with us. 

I have times of sad. I have times where I can’t find the humour because it’s buried so deep that it’s temporarily unrecoverable. I also know that if I’m patient, if I’m kind and gentle with myself, the smiles and laughter will return.

❤️