The Best Joke I Ever Told

(Now, this story may begin a little Debbie-Downer, but stick with me- I promise it ends well).



The best joke that I ever told, I told completely by accident.

About six months after graduating from college, my older brother Mike was diagnosed with Hodgkins Disease. He underwent six months of chemotherapy only for the cancer to return. The second time around, the doctors decided to throw the gamut of therapies at him (chemotherapy, radiation, and a stem cell transplant) to hopefully counter the aggressive cancer. During the time he was recovering from his stem cell transplant, and because his immune system had now been virtually destroyed, he stayed in the hospital for about three weeks in order to prevent infection or sickness. It was a two hour drive from our house to the hospital, so my mom lived there at the hospital while my dad and I would drive back and forth to visit.

It was during this first visit that Dad and I made to the hospital that I told the joke I would never forget.

Dad and I arrived at the hospital and immediately went to see my brother. Getting to his room felt like trying to get to the inner chambers of the Pentagon. We passed through a series of huge, heavy doors, the first of which would have to close in order for the second to open. Once we were through the doors, we then had to wash our hands before entering his individual room. (Talk about the best hand-washing I ever did in my life...). We finally entered my brother’s room, although it resembled a cave more than it did a hospital room. The curtains were drawn, the room was dimly lit, painting everything in dull, lifeless colors. It was quiet, but not a comfortable kind of quiet. My brother sat up in his bed, slightly hunched over the pink plastic tub he held in his lap. Every few minutes or so, he’d lean over and throw up into the tub, and then nonchalantly sit back up, as though nothing had happened. He was pale and weak but, as always, did his best to pretend he was fine.

After the four of us visited for a while, Mom and Dad stepped out of the room, leaving my brother and I to awkwardly find something to talk about. (Not that we’ve ever struggled to find things to talk about, but what on earth do you talk about in a situation like this? The weather?)

Not having anything better to talk about, my brother began to tell me how the new medication he was taking irritated his throat. He was attempting to describe to me how the medication made his throat itch, when he drew a blank and motioning to his neck asked me, “What’s the name for that thing that hangs down in the back of your throat?”

I automatically [thought I] knew the answer to this question and matter-of-factly blurted it out.

“Vulva.”

And then something miraculous happened. My brother chuckled. I hadn’t seen him laugh in months.

“Why are you laughing? That’s what it’s called.” I said, sure of myself and a little annoyed that he was laughing at me.

“You should know what that is, Day.” He said, still amused at my ignorance.

Then it hit me. I realized what body part I had just named. I burst out laughing. For a few short moments there we were, me and my big brother- in a dark depressing hospital room, giggling like two kids who had just heard someone say a dirty word.

Sometimes I think God had a hand in making me blurt out the wrong body part that evening. And the truth is- I would have said a million more dirty words to see him laugh.


Oh, and in case you were wondering, the thing that hangs down in the back of your throat is called your uvula. Simple mistake.









*By the grace of God, my brother is in complete remission. He is healthy and back to being his fearless, adventurous self who always seems to have a way better tan than me.