The minute you get a cancer diagnosis, you start looking for the magic cure. For me, this meant researching the hell out of the disease and revamping my lifestyle, exercise regime, spiritual practice, and diet. Within days, I knew the latest cancer breakthroughs and snake oil salesman’s remedy for the problem. And I took on the task of miraculous cure (and possible canonization) with a vengeance. Turmeric was the new gold standard. I popped four pills a day and drank Indian golden milk and turmeric lemon tea morning, noon, and night. My skin oozed Trumpian orange, my countertops glowed with permanent yellow stains, and man, did I feel good. I knocked back shots of apple cider vinegar chased by pomegranate juice. I downed hemp hearts, chia, flax, and bee pollen. My daughter Sonja arrived one day with the Holy Grail—a Vitamix— and it became my cauldron, a sacred vessel for preparing healing concoctions laced with kale, ginger, blueberries, and coconut water.

The words “breast cancer” and “humour” are seldom in the same sentence. When it is revealed that someone has breast cancer, or any type of cancer, reactions are often in the form of sympathy, compassion, anger, denial, pity, or empathy; not jokes or laughter. While all emotions about being diagnosed or living with breast cancer are valid, having a sense of humour about it is often seen as being in bad taste or disrespectful. The role of humour in times of crisis generally gets a bad rap, whether it’s a natural disaster like Hurricane Katrina, or something personal, like a breast cancer diagnosis; however, it has been well documented that laughing about tragic or terrible things can make those things more easily borne, especially when that laughter is shared.