My dad is dying. It’s cancer.
I’m spending as much time with him as I can, but in the absolute terror of it all, I can’t help but crack jokes. And then the guilt takes over.
Do you or Susie ever joke or laugh in your grief?

Dear Roger,

I’m sorry to hear about your dad. It seems that there is genuine love between you. If this is so, I would say that he wouldn’t need you to be anything other than who you are – your authentic self. I doubt your dad wants you on your best behaviour.  If you are the kind of person who uses humour to alleviate tension – I certainly am – then do so. I can’t think of a more poignant and binding act than to be able to laugh together in this most tragic of circumstances. The thing that you don’t need in this dynamic is guilt. Dispense with it. You have nothing to feel guilty for.

For Susie and me, humour is as necessary as breathing – without it, the darkness becomes unbearable. I find there is no more heartening sound than laughter, and in particular, the laughter of my wife. There is a gentle defiance to it, a bell-like musicality that gives grounds for hope. Grief is the expansion of the essential substance upon which we order our lives. It is an unfolding of our complete nature. This inevitable and natural condition of being is something that you will soon encounter, and ultimately, you will find that humour is the leavening component in this transformation.

Joke with your dad in the dark, Roger, incautiously, even grimly, for what more profound and honest response to these sorrowful moments can there be? When your father has gone, you will know there was that – love and foolish laughter, made with a full and caring heart, in the face of eternity. Love and gently laugh your dad goodbye, Roger. There will be time enough for silence and crying.

You are in our thoughts.

Love, Nick

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