Are My Bad Jokes Hiding a Fear of Death?

The therapist looked at me. “Your doctor thinks you’re depressed. Do you agree with him?”

I considered the question. “I wouldn’t say I’m depressed, but I do have some weird dreams. Last night, I dreamt I was standing in my kitchen cutting carrots with the Grim Reaper.”

“What do you think that means?”

“That I’m dicing with death?”

She shook her head. “Maybe death is on your mind at the minute. Have you attended any funerals recently?”

“A few. I only go if they’re scheduled for the afternoon. I’m not a mourning person.”

Tennis Ball

She made a note but said nothing. “Tell me something about these funerals.”

“The one yesterday was for a work colleague. He died after being hit on the head with a tennis ball. It was a great service.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Is that true?”

“Scout’s honour! It was a Requiem Mass. Some beautiful hymns.”

“No, the tennis ball bit!”

I smiled roguishly. “Truth? He’d been fighting cancer for years. But last week the doctors covered his back with Vaseline. He went downhill fast after that.”

She frowned. “This process only works if you take it seriously. If you keep clowning…”

I held my hands up. “Okay, okay, you don’t like my jokes, I get it! Should I continue with my list of the dearly departed?” She nodded.

Family Funerals

“So, there was my brother, the caricaturist. He was found dead at his home a couple of weeks ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. How did he die?”

“Details are sketchy. Three days after that, my cousin popped his clogs. The undertaker asked me if we wanted him buried or cremated. I told him, the man was a chemist, so Barium!”

I held my breath, anticipating the reprimand, but she was reading her notes. When she looked up, it was to ask another question. “That’s three funerals in rapid succession — any others?”

Uncle Ben

“Yeah, my Uncle Ben checked out suddenly. A thoroughly decent man, gone far too soon. No more Mr Rice Guy.”

“What happened to him?”

“He fell off his yacht and drowned. We all showed up at his service wearing life jackets. It’s what he would have wanted.”

“Did he have a family?”

“He did, and people say I’ve been a great comfort to them. I said to his widow at the graveside, ‘Plethora.’ She replied, ‘Thank you, that means a lot.’ Then I went to his son and said, ‘More time.’ And he replied, ‘Oh, he would have loved that.’ So you see, I can be serious sometimes.”

“Was it a big funeral?”

“No, my family doesn’t do big funerals. Even my mother’s was low-key, and she wanted a big send-off. If she knew how little we spent on her, she’d turn in her flower bed.”

Last Words

She flicked a page on her notepad. “Your attendance at these funerals might explain your dreams, but I think there’s a deeper psychological reason for your clowning compulsion. Have you been present at the moment of someone’s passing?”

I thought for a moment. “I was there when my grandfather’s life-support machine got turned off. I was the only family member to hear his final words.”

“What did he say?”

“Don’t touch that plug, you crazy little bastard!”

Her shoulders sagged. “Here we go again. More jokes!”

“I’m being serious!” I protested. “And I was there when my father took his last breath and shouted, ‘Be positive! Be positive!’ We thought he was telling us to stay strong, but turns out he was worried the doctors had forgotten his blood group.”

Practicalities

She turned a page on her notepad. “You could address your compulsion by thinking about your own funeral. Have you considered that?”

I nodded. “I’m determined it’ll be a happy event. If anybody cries, I’ll never speak to them again.”

“Do you know where you want to be buried?”

“Why would I be thinking of burial plots? That’s the last thing I’ll need!”

“Have you set aside any money to cover the event?”

“I paid a deposit on a glass coffin, but it’s doubled in price since then. And the undertaker had the cheek to blame it on the cost of living!”

“Why do you want a glass coffin?”

“Remains to be seen.”

“You don’t want to be cremated?”

“I might be cremated. It’ll be my last chance to have a smokin’ hot body.”

She placed her pen on top of the notepad. “I think it’s clear that you’re terrified of dying. Your clowning is an attempt to hide that fact.”

“I’m not afraid of death!” I shouted. “I just don’t want to be there when it happens!”

She looked at me. “Woody Allen said that decades ago. Aren’t you worried your humour is a bit dated?”

I shook my head. “My jokes are like those thrill-seekers who throw their parachute out of the plane and then jump out after it.”

Her eyebrows shot up into her fringe. “How so?”

“They never get old.”