Laughing to death

Grandma was lost in a fog of drugs – drugs to ease the pain, drugs to help her sleep, drugs to keep her alive. Teri and I entertained ourselves with tabloids. Teri flipped to an article about Sharon Stone and her sister. They smiled up from the page in a sisterly embrace. Sharon her usual perky, pretty self. Her sister, less so. A lot less so.

We exchanged a few comments about how difficult it would be to have such a beautiful sister when you were … not. It brought to my mind another pair of attractive/unattractive celebrity sisters.

“That reminds me of…” I began.

“You and me? I know, how sad for you,” said Teri.

And we laughed. The kind of laughter that cannot be reigned in. Your sides ache with stitches and tears roll down your checks, but you just can’t stop.

Grandma doesn’t mind. She doesn’t even stir. But the ICU nurses do. The ICU is a place for tears, sure, but the crying kind. Not the laughing kind. They shoot daggers at us with their eyes and although they say nothing, they urge us to stop. We can’t.

Grandma wouldn’t be angry with me for laughing myself silly at her death bed. She loved to laugh. We laughed at each other a lot. I know she loved me, even though she never told me so. Well, she did once, but she was dying at the time, and dying people are liable to say anything.