Lost: One Sense of Humor. Last Seen Before Chemo Week One

If you see my sense of humor, please return it to me immediately. It’s small, snarky, and usually found cracking jokes at highly inappropriate times (like during serious surgical consultations or while someone is recounting their childhood trauma). But as of chemo week one, it remains missing in action.

I started the week ready for this whole chemo thing with a laugh and a blink. "Chemo won’t put this baby in the corner." I told myself. Spoiler alert: it did. In fact, it didn’t just isolate me from the rest of myselves — it crushed me into thousands of tiny, green sick-emoji pieces, stomped on them for good measure, and then scattered them at the world’s saddest party somewhere in Russia. Approximately 5 hours after the needle was jabbed into my chest, an evil Vomit Cotillion secretly staged a coup and my sense of humor quietly packed its bags and ... left.

At first, I didn’t even notice it was gone. I mean, who has time to think about humor when you’re trying to figure out if crackers count as a balanced meal? But by day three, it hit me. I hadn’t cracked a single joke. Not one sarcastic comment. No self-deprecating blog entries, just ... nothing.

So, I launched a search party. I checked all the usual places. The couch cushions? Nope. My phone’s meme folder? Nada. The bottom of the junk drawer? Nope.

The turning point came on day eight, when I was doom-scrolling on my phone and accidentally stumbled upon a stupid chicken video (oh, how I love chickens). It was nothing special—just three good-looking hens dancing to Stayin Alive by the Bee Gees (oh, how I love the Bee Gees). But for some reason, the sight of that fluffy disco with those overly dramatic, self-important birds hit me like a sack of potatoes. I let out a laugh—a real, gut-buster laugh. Even Tucker, who refers to me now as a “house plant,” came over to investigate, head tilting like, "Are you okay? Is this another chemo thing? Are we going somewhere? Can I have a bickie?"

Turns out, my sense of humor wasn’t gone. It was just hiding, waiting for the nausea to settle and the clouds to part. Because even humor needs a break when things get tough. And even though I don’t like it, it’s okay.

So, if you’re going through something hard and feel like your funny has flown the coop, don’t panic. It’ll come back when it’s ready—probably when you see groovy chickens or fainting goats. Works every time.