SAD, BUT FUNNY

A True Tale With A Somewhat Happy Ending & A Wacky Epilogue

Last week on FaceTime Hilary and I struggled through the most painful talk we’d ever shared. Heartrending. Agonizing. Sad.

Not the hysterical I-may-have-to-hurt-myself sad. But the sad where your head pounds and your heart cracks hard like polar ice. The sad where you’re flooded with regret and angst and the worry you will never heal and nothing will ever again be okay.

Tears splattered down my daughter’s cheeks. When she clenched her eyes shut, I wanted to reach through the screen, hug her tight and make things better right that moment, but of course I could not.

Then, just as Hilary unclenched her eyes and peeked out from her pain, fluorescent greens and reds and pretty shades of pinks and blues – fluttered about our screens.

Balloons they were. Several. An ethereal vision set against a dark backdrop.

What was happening?

Here we were, mother and daughter — knotted up, distraught — with neon balloons aswirl before our bleary eyes. The more we tried to talk, the more we lost ourselves in merriment and tears.

We discovered you can generate those FaceTime balloons with a simple peace sign – which I’m sure you know means holding up your index and middle fingers with a space between, just like the victory sign. In my defense, I may be impulsive; I may be lacking a filter; I may be missing a few maternal boundaries, but even I would not use my phalanges to flash the peace sign or any other sign to my child in the midst of her angst.

Besides (and this is crucial and maybe not true), I suffer from a rare disorder I call digital dysfunction.

My index finger flops forth and my middle digit fails to get erect.

So I’m physically incapable of sending those balloons. We finally end the foolish talk and hang up. Minutes later, Hilary sends me this:

And just like that, our story takes a double helium twist.

Which by our standards means a little wackier and way more fun.

And because these weird connections so often happen to us, odds are our next balloon is drifting our way.

Three days later the two of us are face to face at dinner.

Mom, you know what you said to me Wednesday when we were FaceTiming and I was sobbing?

I look into her brown eyes and shake my head.

You said, “Things are not going to get better.”

What?

You said “Things are not going to get better.” And you said it in your annoying way.

Annoying?

Monotone.

I did?

Yup.

She mimics my dreary tone and my dead eyes.

And then you know what you said?

Again I shake my head.

You said you couldn’t find any words to comfort me.

I try to take this in.

Then we both lose it.

Laughter grips us. We feel breathless and trembly and unsteady and yet – dare I say it? – giddy. Yes. Giddy. Gloriously Giddy.

I say I'm sorry, sometimes I’m too direct, and she says It’s ok, Mom, and we both mean this more than any other sorry we had ever shared.

When we regain some semblance of control, my daughter and I move on, one tiptoe at a time.

Which reminds me that decades earlier, just after I married Hilary’s stepdad, he and I awoke to the sun beaming and a balloon peeking up at us from the bottom of our bed.

After our wedding, I’d shown that wily balloon to his quiet quarters down the hall. A restless guest, a shapeshifter, he drifted room to room, his silver tail trailing. Days passed. His tail tangled and tarnished. No longer tall or stately, this shrinking latex bubble – this creepy Benjamin Button of Balloons – he had to go.

What to do? Shoosh him away? Tuck him in the trash bin? A pinprick? A dodgy finger poke? Flash the peace sign and pray for the best?

We couldn’t risk a pox upon our marriage.

We let the baby balloon be.

Soon after, he blew his final breath and just like the Wicked Witch, he shrank away to nil.

Which, of course, is what will happen to us all.

And which is also a good point, but too dead serious to conclude this quirky tale.

So instead, let’s end with this trio of gentle life reminders:

Forgive your mother. She means well.

Find the funny always, especially when you’re sad.

Be Gloriously Giddy. Wherever and Whenever you can.

********

EPILOGUE

THIS.

Just one hour after I first shared this story with Hilary.

THIS.

THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY

My daughter is sad. So am I. Life is challenging and painful right now, yet we are in the thick of creating lighthearted content for our platforms – videos, stories, photographs, podcast episodes – content based on my diaries and our often silly lives.

To persevere, to thrive, Hilary and I know we must find the fun, no matter how hard.

Which may sound like Fake it ‘til you make it, but it’s not that.

Hilary and I share the same self-deprecating, sarcastic humor, the same love for life’s silly nuances, and when we’re together, we genuinely laugh almost all the time. We are doing our best.

When I wrote the first paragraph, I had no idea where this piece would lead. I knew the piece could go dark; what I did not know is that it would so quickly find the light.