I find my life rather funny today. I get up in the morning and say out loud to myself, “Now where did I lay my breast?” I couldn’t say that before.
(S.R., Columbus, OH)

I would have lost my sanity without humor. I began wearing a wig when my daughter was around two. Instead of saying she wanted to go somewhere, she’d say, “Mommy, put your hair on.” She knew we weren’t going anywhere without that hair.
(Julie Austin, Little Rock, AR, diagnosed in 2000 at age 30)

I made it a point to tell my friends to make me laugh, and they did. Some days I felt worse than other days, and I am sure I did not smile as easily on those days.
(Peggy Scott, Waldorf, MD, diagnosed in 2002 at age 46)

It really helps to have a sense of humor. I have never laughed as much or enjoyed life more. I have learned not to take crap from anyone.
(Chris Lengert, Campbell River, BC, diagnosed in 1996 at age 52)

My sister and I had cancer at the same time and we each bought a wig. She named her wig “Brown Betty.” Instead of asking her hubby if her wig looked presentable, she would ask if Betty looked okay.
(Kristina, diagnosed in 1995 at age 39)

I did not lose my sense of humor during cancer; if you lose this, you are already dead.
(Karen Lisa Hilsted, Denmark)

I did not lose my sense of humor—I fell back on it. I was always kind of a prude, very shy about my body. In radiation I had to undress from the waist up and put on a hospital gown, then walk across the room. I was horrified at first because people in the waiting room could see me. After my 11th treatment, I was so tired and had become so used to the gown and the hallway cross, that I was walking out of the waiting room when one of the technicians called me back, “Donna, where are you going?” “Home,” I said, confused at the question. Until she answered, “Dressed like that?” I looked down and I was still in the hospital gown! We laughed so much and so did people in the waiting room. The technician said, “I was tempted to follow you to see how far you were going to go before you noticed!”
(Donna Tremblay, diagnosed in 1992 at age 33, recurrence in 1996)

“Don’t take life too seriously. You’ll never get out of it alive!” This is one of the best slogans I ever heard. When all my hair had fallen out, I took some pictures with a boy who shaves all his hair on purpose. Two bald laughing heads! It was fun and I still like to look at those pictures from time to time.
(Annemie D’haveloose, Belgium)

I call myself “Uni-boob.” One day I was teaching a class when my falsie slipped out of my bra and lodged in the waistband, so I kept talking with my arms glued to my side while backing out of the door.
(Yvette, Victoria, BC, diagnosed in 2002 at age 47)

I tried not to lose my wit during my journey. At a Tai-Chi class, my body was contorted in many directions. Ooops, my prosthesis was up around the top of my shoulder somewhere. I made a comment about it taking talent to be able to do that with one’s breast and put it back in place. Everyone laughed. It eased a moment that could have become embarrassing.
(Virginia, diagnosed in 2001 at age 57)

At work, when I’m trying to persuade someone to see things my way or give me more money for a program I wish to pursue, sometimes with colleagues I’m close to I say, “Don’t make me use that cancer card!’

When you can laugh again, you are reaching a stage of knowing that healing is available. Humor is not only a powerful healing tool, it is the signal that you are heading in the right direction. Laughter has power over fear—deep belly laughing, not stifled laughter trying to cover our pain or fear, but deep soul laughter. It stirs within us the reminder that living life, not just being a puppet existing but feeling life and letting it vibrate within our body, our emotions, and within our soul is a deeply liberating experience. Laughter and humor raises us from being victims to new perspective of feeling. It helps remind us to feel differently than what cancer would want us to feel.

My cancer journey is ongoing so I try to laugh as much and as often as I can, even if it hurts.

Laughing at my bald head, laughing about the expression on a young boy’s face when he came to my door and saw me hairless. Talking rudely with my breast cancer volunteer and laughing uncontrollably with her. I don’t think I lost my sense of humor, I think I gained it.
(Cheryl Otting, Elkford, BC, diagnosed in 2002 at age 53)

My coworkers played a game called “Spotting Dawn” because I had a number of different wigs in various styles and colors.

There is perhaps no greater ability one can possess than to laugh at oneself.

Our small son had lost all of his hair (from chemo due to leukemia) and today he can relate to my husband who is bald. We all laugh about that. No, I didn’t lose my sense of humor during treatments, just my energy.

I wanted to get a T-shirt that said “chemo sucks” and wear it to my treatment, but I was afraid that some older people might think that it wasn’t funny at all so I didn’t. A lot of older patients are more serious about this than the younger crew. I’m not sure why that is since they have lived most of their lives already.

I wore a wig for a few months. I usually took it off before I left the office and donned my cap for my drive home. One day, being in a hurry, I didn’t take the wig off until I was pulling out of the parking lot. As I whipped it off my head and threw it on the back seat, another car passed by and I couldn’t help but notice the startled look on the other driver as the wig went flying into the backseat!

I am not inhibited anymore. I always say what’s on my mind. I really don’t care what people think of me so I dance in the middle of the street if I want to.
(Catherine, Pointe Claire, QC, diagnosed in 2001 at age 39)

My son has a great sense of humor and it has been a huge blessing. When I email him I sign myself “Baldy.” My parents took me to a chemo treatment once. My mother came into the room to see what all the laughing was about because she could hear my laughter in the waiting room. And there’s plenty to laugh about. I make a truly ugly bald person, and I laugh when I see myself in the mirror, partly because I’d probably cry if I didn’t.

Humor is important and has always kept me going. Laughing about breast cancer with those “in the boat” is fun and gives us a special connection.
(Bev Parker, Naperville, IL, diagnosed in 1985 at age 40, recurrence in 2001)

The whole cancer journey started with misunderstanding when my doctor called after biopsy to say, “I am sorry but the sample doesn’t look good.” I was just leaving for a European business trip so in rush I
assumed he was my business contact. I angrily argued that nothing can be wrong with the samples, since I had checked them myself! One elderly man at the hospital was worried that if I lose my breast it would devastate my husband since I am so young and beautiful. I was wondering who would take my cancer but there were not bad enough enemies. I was even ready to trade my life with a bum on the street corner to sell shoelaces for a daily “Cambina.” I didn’t stop to think what illnesses the poor bum had and felt guilty about my imaginary trade later.

Through laughter, my tears have found another place to call home. I think that tears of joy, or tears of sadness, live together to get anyone through a rough time. Everyday that I wake up with the grass under my feet is a good day. When I wake up and the grass is above me, I have big problems.

I didn’t lose my sense of humor during treatment, but it probably was stuffed in a closet for awhile.

This is not a funny thing but I meet people who tell me how their diagnosis were missed, and we can laugh at it now that we are recovered.

No, one can never lose their sense of humor. It is the one thing that will always be there to help you out. Just about all caregivers, friends, relatives, neighbors, react favorably to humor, especially to humor about oneself.

The plastic surgeon was quite good looking. When he said to let my stomach out so that he could make sure there was enough stomach fat needed to reconstruct a new breast, I didn’t want to let him know I had a stomach that big. Finally, after he convinced me to quit holding my breath, my husband suggested that he roll me over and take some off the backside instead. Men! Further to this, when I got the nipple reconstructed at a later date, he pierced my belly button at the same time! Fancy that...

My humor helped others feel at ease around me.
(Lori Hughes, diagnosed at age 35)

My husband has a goofy sense of humor and at times I didn’t appreciate it when I was going through treatments. I think I can laugh with him better now than I used to. My 2-year-old daughter can be very silly and is developing a fun sense of humor. I often laugh out loud with her, and I know this is a great gift.

I found that I was almost never laughing. That’s why I really appreciated when I’d hear a joke from someone.
(Laura, Navarra, Spain, diagnosed in 1998 at age 41)

For years, after getting out of a shower, I would complain to my husband about the two small extra “breasts” I had on either side of my tummy which were due to a caesarean section. After I decided on the double mastectomy, I told my husband that the two on top are being vacated and the two below were “moving on up.”

Humor is important, but I have found that it is easiest to laugh with the members of my support group. It helps.

Let loose and laugh about treatments, side effects, whatever, and I guarantee you’ll feel better.

Just before the mammotome biopsy, I asked the radiologist, “Since we are suctioning out breast tissue, would you mind doing the thighs, stomach and buns also?” The room liked that.

I didn’t pay much attention to underwear choice as I figured I would be in my birthday suit as before. When the nurse said take everything off but my underwear, I looked down to see my leopard print french cut bikinis.

You have to laugh or you will cry. It is part of being fearless.

I’m one of those people who don’t get jokes, but my friends and I usually find things to laugh about. This didn’t stop because of cancer.

We were once caught while I was giving my wife a morphine shot in the backside in a storage room of a local restaurant. It appeared that we were in the middle of some kind of unusual sexual practice.

I never lost my sense of humor and my husband always had his. He had to hold my drain while I showered the first time after surgery and got completely soaked fully clothed.

Because of my dad, our family knew a lot of the medical people helping me. My radiologist went to medical school with my brother and she was about my age. She went on vacation during my treatment and one of her partners filled in. So I’m lying on the slab waiting to be nuked, stripped to the waist. Suddenly, this handsome head of brown hair comes into my vision and he says, “Hi, I’m Dr. So-and-so and I lived with your brother during med school.” So I said, “That means we were at the same parties together. Why don’t you just give me a pelvic and I’ll really have nothing to hide from you!” I thought he was going to die laughing. When I got cancer, I thought that it couldn’t be real because Barbie never got cancer. They have an Astronaut Barbie, a Doctor Barbie, a Teacher Barbie, but there’s no Breast Cancer Barbie. So I made one. My girlfriends came over one afternoon and we defaced Barbie. It was hell cutting through those plastic boobs with a paring knife. I still have her, but very few people see the humor in this as much as I do.

Driving along Boulevard René-Lévesque in Montreal on a beautiful sunny summer day with a friend in her convertible car with the top down and my hair falling out and flying through the air. Imagining my hair sticking to the windshields of the cars behind us!

At the entrance to the hospital I felt as if I had made a deliberate decision to check my brain at the door and let everyone else do the thinking for me. The ultrasound technician said, “This screen shows me that all your body parts are where they are supposed to be and they are working well.” We both laughed, and this was my first experience with the power of comic relief.

I had visions of delivering my home-business humor speeches that fall either half-bald or in an ill-fitting wig, which unsettled me far more than the thought of losing a breast.

The whole procedure was surreal. The surgeon, the radiologist, the entire world looking at my breast! The only thing I could do was laugh about it because if I didn’t I couldn’t get through it. I didn’t lose my breast. But if the cancer comes back, I’ll whack it off so fast it’ll make your head spin.