I laugh in the face of death.
It’s not quite what you think. What I actually mean is that I laugh at funerals and when I hear of a death. Hmm, doesn’t sound much better either.
It’s not that I’m a heartless and sadistic shrew, just that I’m come to realise that it’s my coping mechanism in extremely tense situations. Suddenly, the slightest thing seems hilarious and ends up setting me off.
Funny how you can go without noticing something for most of your life, but can’t ignore it once it’s been brought to your attention. About six years ago, a friend had called to tell me that his cousin had been found motionless in his car and that the ambulance was on its way, and I unwittingly laughed about it for awhile before the gravity of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks.
It was only months later when my friend finally came out and told me how hurt he had been at my response, that I even realised what I had done. In my mind, I had been a pillar of comfort and strength, so needless to say, I felt quite lousy about myself.
A year later, I found myself laughing – again – at my grandfather’s funeral. I had been asked to lead the hymns and to my sheer horror, I started laughing at the foot of my grandfather’s coffin. There was absolutely no reason for me to because I was, in actual fact, heartbroken. But the intense atmosphere must have caused something in me to snap.
Thankfully, I have the uncanny ability to laugh and cry soundlessly, so the others mourners probably thought I was overcome with emotion and grief.
Over the years, I’ve learned how to get a firmer grip on myself and my emotions and am quite pleased to say I’ve not gone off the deep end like my mom feared I would. I don’t want to speak too soon though, because the next time you hear someone laughing at an inappropriate time, it might just be me.
