J Would Have Laughed

In my family, we joke about everything, including, but not limited to death. We’re Jewish - it’s in our DNA - that’s how we survive. If it hurts, we laugh. Because laughter is the only weapon small enough to hold when life throws something too big to carry.

My mom always said, “Death is going to happen whether we talk about it or not, so isn’t it better to talk about it?” And she meant it. She didn’t just talk about death in theory; she gave instructions. Don’t bury me in my diamonds. Make sure I’m really dead before they take my body [because her blood pressure was so naturally low the machines sometimes missed it]. She wanted Dad to find someone to love if she went first, but she was exceedingly clear: “that woman doesn’t get a single piece of my jewelry.” That was my mother. She was the best of us: gentle, kind, warm, wise - and hysterically funny.

One of our family’s running bits is that it is selfish when the dead didn’t call us on our birthdays. “Can you believe Grandma didn’t even call? I haven’t gotten a birthday card in years” someone would say, shaking their head. “Unbelievable. The nerve.” And we’d laugh. Because in that moment, instead of sitting in the ache of silence, we got to imagine our dead loved ones in on the joke, just as present as if they were alive. It was our way of pulling up a chair for grief and loss and daring them to sit with us at the table. And maybe it was our way of preparing for the inevitability that the number of people at that table would continue to dwindle

Not everyone got it. My ex once whispered to me after dinner with my family, “It’s so weird the way you all joke about death.” I wanted to tell him: What’s weird is pretending it won’t happen. What’s weird is acting like you’re in control, when really death has been circling all of us the entire time. But I just shrugged, because how do you explain that for us, humor isn’t morbid - it’s just love with teeth.

By the time I was 21, all four of my grandparents were gone. Later, it was my mom. Then J. And still, even with death stacked against us, we laugh.

And Jason - my G-d, J laughed at death until his very last conscious moment. I have never seen anyone face cancer with more wit, more sarcastic grace.

The night we first found out about the massive tumor in his lung, the doctors came into the hospital room and asked if they could speak in front of me. Jason grinned and said they could, “because for all intents and purposes she’s my significant other — but not like, in Kentucky.” He waggled his eyebrows, then added, “She’s my sister. And my lawyer. So watch it.” The doctors didn’t know whether to laugh, but I did.

Because that was my brother: cracking jokes at the edge of devastation.

So yes, I make jokes about his death. I couldn’t for the first year or so. Now I say crazy shit about him not calling me on my birthday just to see how people react. People sometimes look shocked, like I’ve crossed some invisible line. Seriously, though, I know my brother and he would have thought it was hilarious. He’d be the first one making the joke. Honestly, he’d probably be offended if I didn’t.

The wild part is J still makes me laugh every day even though he has been gone for 3 years. And I know somewhere he’s proud that I’m able to laugh about him - with him. I’m carrying on the fine family tradition of laughing at death in its face. One day, I know I’ll be with my family, all together at that table again, laughing about some other dark bullshit. It’s what we do.