An excerpt from Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart ~Thirty Things You Need to Know Now

By Gordon Livingston, MD

With all due respect to the concept of ambivalence, people find it hard to entertain two emotions simultaneously. For example, one of the standard behavioural antidotes to anxiety is deep muscle relaxation. If one teaches anxious people to relax their skeletal muscles, they have a tool they can use when they find themselves in situations that habitually produce the sweating, rapid heartbeat, hyperventilation, and sense of doom that are standard components of a panic attack. It is revealing to ask those in the grip of depression when was the last time they laughed aloud. It is even more useful to ask family members to try to recall the last time they saw the patient amused. I am accustomed to hearing answers ranging from months to years.

So what? What is important about laughter in our lives? Some people treat humour as a minor distraction from the serious business of living rather than an important component, and indicator, of a happy life. If you ask people, even when they are depressed, if they have a good sense of humour, the answer is nearly uniformly “Yes.” (People also universally identify themselves as good drivers, in spite of ample evidence to the contrary.) If someone appears to be especially dour while claiming a sense of humour, I sometimes ask him to tell me a joke. I know that this is, for many, an unfair request, since the ability to pay attention to and remember things that have amused us is highly variable. Many people are at a loss.  So I tell them a joke, such as the current “world’s funniest story” established by voting on a British website:

Two New Jersey hunters are walking through the woods. Suddenly, one of them collapses and is not breathing. The other whips out his cell phone and calls 911. “My friend is dead!” he tells the operator. She says, “Take it easy, I can help you. First you need to make sure he’s dead.” There is a silence and she hears a gunshot. The man comes back on the line. “Ok. Now what?”

Peoples reactions vary. Many are so unaccustomed to finding anything funny that they have lost the capacity for surprise that is the essence of humour. Others, of course, are simply unprepared for the idea that a psychiatrist might try to amuse them. Sometimes, I give those who appear terminally humourless the homework assignment of coming up with a funny story before our next meeting.

All this may seem trivial when confronting the weighty issue of despair and anxiety that bring people to therapy. But what gives humour its power in our lives is that a capacity for laughter is one of the two characteristics that separate us from other animals. The other as far as we know, is the ability to contemplate our own death. There is a connection between these two uniquely human attributes that cuts to the heart of the great paradox of life:  It is possible to be happy in the face of our mortality. What allows us to do this is not just what has been labelled “healthy denial”. All humour is in some way directed at the human condition. To laugh at ourselves is to acknowledge the ultimate futility of our efforts to stave off the depredations of time. Like the New Jersey hunter, we are in the grip of forces we cannot control, including, often, our own stupidity; yet we do not give up.

To be able to experience fully the sadness and absurdity that life so often presents and still find reasons to go on is an act of courage abetted by our ability to both love and laugh. Above all, to tolerate the uncertainty we must feel in the face of the large questions of existence requires that we cultivate an ability to experience moments of pleasure. In this sense, all humour is “gallows humour”, laughter in the face of death.

There is ample evidence that humour heals. Norman Cousins devoted a book to his own experience of curing himself of a debilitating, undiagnosed disease using little more than old Marx Brothers movies. It makes sense that the internal chemical changes brought about by laughter have a salubrious effect. They are a subcategory of the well-documented benefits derived from being optimistic, healing attitude. The mind/body theory is at the heart of every theory of how we can influence recovery by the ways in which we think and feel about whatever afflicts us. Long before the advent of modern medicine, faith healers of various descriptions mobilized peoples attitudes to combat disease. That this approach works is beyond question. People still travel to Lourdes and the piles of crutches and wheel chairs outside the grotto speak for attest to the power of faith.

What you don’t see there, of course, are artificial limbs. There are limits to the “miracles” being wrought. What does seem to be taking place is some form of accelerated healing based on the belief by the afflicted that God will make them well.  The results are commonly miraculous enough.

Humour also is a form of sharing, and interpersonal exercise. To share laughter is a way of affirming that we are all in this lifeboat together. The sea surrounds us; rescue is uncertain; control is illusory. Still we sail on – together.

I saw a patient with his wife recently. “He never laughs anymore,” she complained. The man agreed: “My sense of humour is gone.” They had recently been on a trip and she had lost her wallet and credit cards. “The same thing happened to my wife,” I said. “Her credit cards were stolen. But I haven’t reported it yet because the thief is spending less than she does.” The man laughed. My wife, when I told her the story, did not.

Pessimists, like hypochondriacs, are right in the long run. Nobody gets out of here alive. But pessimism, like any attitude, contains within it a multitude of self-fulfilling prophecies. If we approach others in a suspicious or hostile way, they are likely to respond accordingly, thereby confirming our low expectations. Fortunately, the opposite is likewise true. As with any rule, there are exceptions and those we encounter will not always mirror our attitudes. If habitual optimism cannot protect us against occasional disappointment, habitual pessimism is a close cousin of despair.

We usually smile when we meet people for the first time. When we do so we are conveying more than friendliness. Smiling is an indication of “good humour”, and represents an acknowledgement of the joke embedded in our common humanity: Things may be grave but they need not be serious.