I am one of the two newest members of the Laughter League. I am also the youngest, almost the shortest, and the most terrified of public speaking! So, one of the many things I’ve learned in my first year working with these superheroes of humor, is that teens can be a little harder to reach. Yet, when I look back over the hundreds of kids that I’ve connected with in this one year, the one that really shines in my memory the brightest is, in fact, a teen. This beautiful, brave, resilient young person is no longer with us. She passed away in August. So I will try to get through this without just sobbing instead of saying what I’m trying to say. But I am very thankful that I got to connect with her. This young person, who I’ll call “Muffin” - because we can’t use her real name AND because she chose that for herself as a nickname - had fought Leukemia as a child, and then gone into remission for several years. So she had already met and known many of the clowns before I was ever a part of this.
When her cancer came back, I met her in a very strange context that I had only just learned about, that we clowns sometimes encounter. It’s this: Being genuinely happy to see someone that you genuinely love, but in all honesty, because of where we work, you never wanted to see them again! (My partner told her as much, punctuated by farts and laughter) Muffin was a cool 14 year old who knew EVERYTHING, so I being shy was a bit intimidated by her, but she broke me of that quickly. She took it upon herself to become my teacher of all the most recent slang words. She gave me homework assignments. Each time I saw her I was supposed to research and bring back two slang words or phrases, and if she didn’t know them I got cool points. I never got any cool points, because she knew everything. But, she always gave me a full translation. So if anyone has any questions about “lit” or “fire” or “I stan that” or “spill the tea”, I can fill you in.
The last time we saw her, through the window in her door, she couldn’t see us. She wasn’t conscious and her face was full of tubes. Her amazingly strong mom ran to the door with tears in her eyes and threw herself into Mal’s arms.
But that’s not the way I’ll remember this awesome kid. I’ll remember the second to last time we saw her - Mal and I again - where she showed us a full scale poster she had made of the “poop scale”. A system of rating 1-7 on the quality, consistency, and liquidity (sorry) of your poop (sorry). She had even taken the time, with great attention to detail, to sculpt out each example of 1-7 in polymer clay. When we left we “showered her with glove” by throwing a bunch of plastic gloves all over her bed. I can still see the eye roll, and the huge smile.
She was an incredibly positive, hopeful, calm, composed kid. She was also weird, and funny, and creative, and wanted to share her quirkiness with us. Every time we visited together she was able to laugh and connect, forget the pain, and just be absurd together.
This is all to say... when you think of clowns visiting a children’s hospital, you are probably imagining a giggling 7 year old. Or maybe a wide eyed three year old. But in fact, the people that need humor and light the most is.... everyone! Everyone. So thank you for making this magic possible. You should never hesitate for a moment to be proud of the light you’ve brought by supporting healthcare clowns! Thank you!
