the irony of laughter
She sat on the examination table, her feet dangling over the edge. She thought about swinging them, but childish fidgeting didn't seem quite right, despite the colored pictures taped haphazardly onto bright primary-colored wall paper.
She was sitting, waiting. The doctor had left the room briefly to find some sort of vaccine or another. She didn't really know, and to her, she didn't really care. These were the last of the shots, the last of the bitter pain and pricking needles.
More sitting, more waiting. Her mom was there, sitting quietly in a chair at the side of the room. They didn't say much - then again, they didn't really need to. Silence conveyed their conversation without filling the air in empty sound.
The doctor returned, the vial in his hand. Quick prick, in-out. As she prepared to hop off the table to leave, she gave her mom a quick glance, a questioning look on her face.
Nodding with understanding, her mom spoke. "We just have one other question..." The girl kept her head down, her face blushing as symptoms were described. Questions were asked and to the doctor she nodded, yes or no. Shame clouded her face as she listened quietly as her mother explained the words she had never been able to speak. At 18 years old, she still couldn't talk about this, especially when others mocked, refusing to understand her fear and embarrassment as it spilled out around her, making her uncomfortable to be herself.
The doctor listened quietly, asking questions here and there, watching her with a sad look on his face. Finally he spoke, his authoritative voice softened by the palpable tension created by her anxiety.
'That is unfortunate, so unfortunate." He paused before continuing. "As a pediatrician, there isn't much I can do. I can send you to a specialist at the research hospital. They may have treatments, suggestions..." His voice trailed off as he paused, pulling out his prescription notepad, writing down names to see, places to go. Scribbling hurriedly, he looked up, allowing silence to give weight to his next phrase. "There is one known cure, however..."
Her eyes lit up as she finally lifted her head to look at him, her face hopeful, expectant.
His face steeled with expressionless professionalism, the doctor spoke slowly.
"Some doctors suggest medication, but the side effects make it difficult for me to want to recommend that to you. Even then medicine doesn't always work. The simplest and the most tried and true treatment is this: You must never laugh again."
Startled, a bitter laugh escaped her throat, the sound marred with irony. "You've got to be joking." Her voice was quiet as she challenged his white-coat authority.
The doctor's quiet nod confirmed his words. Falling into a brooding silence, she stared at her dangling feet, her hope shattered by the awfulness of the phrase. To never laugh, to never smile, to have to choose not to be happy was synonymous with choosing not to live, not to be. To have to change all of herself... the immense impossibility weighed down on her, causing tears to sting her eyes. Refusing to cry, her face grew cold, stone-hard as she looked at the man she suddenly hated because of his inability to help. She hated him, but most of all, she hated herself because it would always hurt to laugh.
The car ride home felt empty and lonely as tears finally fell from her eyes. Why did it hurt to be happy and to share that happiness with others? It wasn't fair that laughter and joy should be taken from her, only to be felt but never expressed. She wished it was cancer, she wished she were dead rather than fill this medically-imposed depression that weighed down on her happiness.
And then it hit her like a wall of bricks. It could be death, it could be cancer, but it wasn't. How wonderful the thought of life suddenly seemed! Laughter would never kill her, though not laughing certainly would. The choice spread itself out before her again. She could choose to grin and bear it, to laugh it out and endure the pain while celebrating the ability to live and laugh, or she could sink into misery, wishing her life away for greener grass.
The tears still fell from her face as she looked out the window, her mind strengthening its resolve. It hurt to laugh, but it felt good, too. And somehow, despite the fear of future pain, she could take comfort in the ability to laugh and the happiness found in a life with many days to come.
She was sitting, waiting. The doctor had left the room briefly to find some sort of vaccine or another. She didn't really know, and to her, she didn't really care. These were the last of the shots, the last of the bitter pain and pricking needles.
More sitting, more waiting. Her mom was there, sitting quietly in a chair at the side of the room. They didn't say much - then again, they didn't really need to. Silence conveyed their conversation without filling the air in empty sound.
The doctor returned, the vial in his hand. Quick prick, in-out. As she prepared to hop off the table to leave, she gave her mom a quick glance, a questioning look on her face.
Nodding with understanding, her mom spoke. "We just have one other question..." The girl kept her head down, her face blushing as symptoms were described. Questions were asked and to the doctor she nodded, yes or no. Shame clouded her face as she listened quietly as her mother explained the words she had never been able to speak. At 18 years old, she still couldn't talk about this, especially when others mocked, refusing to understand her fear and embarrassment as it spilled out around her, making her uncomfortable to be herself.
The doctor listened quietly, asking questions here and there, watching her with a sad look on his face. Finally he spoke, his authoritative voice softened by the palpable tension created by her anxiety.
'That is unfortunate, so unfortunate." He paused before continuing. "As a pediatrician, there isn't much I can do. I can send you to a specialist at the research hospital. They may have treatments, suggestions..." His voice trailed off as he paused, pulling out his prescription notepad, writing down names to see, places to go. Scribbling hurriedly, he looked up, allowing silence to give weight to his next phrase. "There is one known cure, however..."
Her eyes lit up as she finally lifted her head to look at him, her face hopeful, expectant.
His face steeled with expressionless professionalism, the doctor spoke slowly.
"Some doctors suggest medication, but the side effects make it difficult for me to want to recommend that to you. Even then medicine doesn't always work. The simplest and the most tried and true treatment is this: You must never laugh again."
Startled, a bitter laugh escaped her throat, the sound marred with irony. "You've got to be joking." Her voice was quiet as she challenged his white-coat authority.
The doctor's quiet nod confirmed his words. Falling into a brooding silence, she stared at her dangling feet, her hope shattered by the awfulness of the phrase. To never laugh, to never smile, to have to choose not to be happy was synonymous with choosing not to live, not to be. To have to change all of herself... the immense impossibility weighed down on her, causing tears to sting her eyes. Refusing to cry, her face grew cold, stone-hard as she looked at the man she suddenly hated because of his inability to help. She hated him, but most of all, she hated herself because it would always hurt to laugh.
The car ride home felt empty and lonely as tears finally fell from her eyes. Why did it hurt to be happy and to share that happiness with others? It wasn't fair that laughter and joy should be taken from her, only to be felt but never expressed. She wished it was cancer, she wished she were dead rather than fill this medically-imposed depression that weighed down on her happiness.
And then it hit her like a wall of bricks. It could be death, it could be cancer, but it wasn't. How wonderful the thought of life suddenly seemed! Laughter would never kill her, though not laughing certainly would. The choice spread itself out before her again. She could choose to grin and bear it, to laugh it out and endure the pain while celebrating the ability to live and laugh, or she could sink into misery, wishing her life away for greener grass.
The tears still fell from her face as she looked out the window, her mind strengthening its resolve. It hurt to laugh, but it felt good, too. And somehow, despite the fear of future pain, she could take comfort in the ability to laugh and the happiness found in a life with many days to come.
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