“If we couldn’t laugh, we would all go insane.” -Robert Frost

If you were introduced to me as a new epilepsy parent or patient then you’ve probably heard me say something along the lines of, “I’m so sorry you are a part of this club, but I’m glad to have met you”. There is no official membership card or hard and fast rules to belong, but there are certain shared experiences, initiations if you will, that bind us together. Which is the case for most subgroups of society, including the shittiest club I claim membership to: The Dead Kids Club.

Now, if you haven’t lost a child, you may think that the DKC sounds harsh, maybe you would prefer I describe myself and my fellow club members as ‘parents who have lost a child’. But that doesn’t roll off the tongue as nicely, it also sounds watered down compared to our acidic reality. Nope, the Dead Kids Club is abrasive and dark, and it makes non-members a little uncomfortable which is kind of funny and kind of the point.

Ah, dark humor. My favorite. Not everyone is going to get it because not everyone is supposed to, but those who do will be treated to hard-earned LOL.

Last week my neighbor texted me that a ladybug had been stalking her and wouldn’t leave her alone. While she respects my affinity with ladybugs, she does not share it. When she was younger, she had a rather traumatic experience when a swarm of ladybugs attacked. I tried to explain it was a loveliness of ladybugs, not a swarm, but that didn’t seem to help.

When my neighbor’s ladybug stalker followed her into her car and started dive-bombing her while she was driving on the interstate, she just about lost it. My initial thought was, yep, that ladybug is definitely a sign from Adelaide. She LOVED to have seizures and stop breathing when I was driving on the interstate, especially when it was the hardest for me to pull over and get to her in the backseat.

I laughed to myself as a sequence of these horribly traumatic memories flashed across my mind along with an imagined reenactment of my neighbor with her ladybug passenger. I ALMOST typed this to my neighbor before realizing that she was probably not going to find this similarity as humorous as I did. Instead, I responded with something mundanely vague like, “Yeah, that’s Adelaide all right, she loved to cause trouble on the interstate.”

There have been countless studies on the psychology of humor: from what makes something funny, to its health benefits, to its use as a coping mechanism. There has also been a surge in dark humor specifically surrounding death and grief popping up in stand-up comedy shows across the country as detailed in this May 2023 NY Times piece by Jason Zinoman. While employing dark humor is often seen as escapism or an attempt to desensitize ourselves, it can also be used to process past trauma. It is a way to revisit, remember and remain on our feet.

I hadn’t thought of Adelaide’s interstate incidents in months, maybe even longer. The last year of her life they got so bad that I had to stop taking her to any therapies over 20 minutes away because she wasn’t stable enough. We would be pulling out of our driveway, or a parking lot, and I would tell her, “Seize now, or forever hold your peace.” But like many children her age, she didn’t listen.

Are seizures and/or the rapidly declining health of your child months before they die funny? Not especially. But connecting these memories to that of my neighbor’s ladybug assault lessens their heart-rate-inducing effects. The memories still suck. But distance provided by both time and humor makes the memories manageable.

Look, grief is weird, and change is hard. Welcome to the club – it sucks to be here, but as comedian Michael Cruz Kayne says in his comedy special where he discusses the death of his two-year-old son, “we’re all pre-dead” so at least we have that in common also.

Image description: Kelly is smiling at the camera with a snuggling Adelaide laying on her chest. Kelly is wearing a light blue t-shirt and Adelaide is wearing a pink nightgown with white polka dots and has a nasal cannula taped to her cheeks.