Good Medicine for Sick Children

I’ve been performing for children since the 1950s: clown and magic shows for birthday parties, library, school, recreation center, hospital and hospice audiences. If you collected all the laughter associated with my presentations, you could probably create lighting.

Most kids have a natural inclination to appreciate “silly.” I hold up an inflated balloon. All of a sudden, and for no apparent reason, it gets stuck on my nose. That’s all. That’s enough. Laughter happens. The joke was just as funny at the orphanages in Vietnam during the war as it was yesterday at a birthday party performance in West Seattle.

Unfortunately, the ability to experience silliness has been suppressed in some children — impoverished kids, neglected kids and sick kids, among others. I work with youngsters from each of these groups, and feel a responsibility to help such children learn to laugh. I believe that once a child experiences the sensation, a door opens. A new way of seeing the world, of knowing and appreciating life, becomes part of the future.

For the past 20 years, the Starlight Starbright Foundation has been sending me to hospitals to perform in recreation rooms, waiting rooms and at the bedside of youngsters in need a little humor-intervention. My goal is not to turn a somber situation into a rollicking afternoon. I’m after one moment, when the joke is right and the presentation appropriate, a split second even, when poor health or circumstance is trumped by a youngster’s smile. When a boy or girl is so in the moment, that the only feeling is a silly one.

Amazingly, war zone, ghetto, hospital — performing in utterly depressing situations, where most of the children are quiet and subdued, one or two will have managed to hang on to their senses of humor. My routine begins. Then, because laughter is contagious, two laughing kids become three, then four. Pretty soon the entire audience has caught the concept. The loneliest little boy becomes part of the group, the tallest and the shortest, healthiest and sickest all united into an endorphin ablaze.

When a child is too ill to leave the room, it’s time for me to go visiting.

Four-year-old, Jose is in his hospital bed, with mom and dad at his side. The room feels sad and tense. The boy’s parents have asked me to stop by, but I can see by the expressions on their faces, they are don’t think I’ll make much of a difference.

I enter softly, taking gentle steps. When I’m just barely into the room, my giant dog puppet, Biscuit Dog, starts to show me around. This, he tells me, examining an I-V stand, is a chicken salad tree. Biscuit Dog peaks at Jose, then turns and hides in my arms.

“What’s the matter, Biscuit?”

“I think I see a boy, or maybe I was watching a toy, could have been a toy boy.”

“Biscuit, we are in a hospital and ..”

“In a hospital. I thought we were in a popsicle. Say, who is that kid in the bed?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be afraid. His name is Jose, and he’s very nice.”

“If he’s nice, I’ll ask him twice. But I’m still afraid. I’m afraid of lemonade.”

So now, Jose is peeking at us from the safety of the blanket he’s pulled up to his nose. His parents are watching him. For the moment, interest and laughter have replaced medical symptoms.

Biscuit and I approach slowly.

“I’m gland we’re in a hospital,” Biscuit tells me. “I have to see the doctor, because I have a headache in my tummy.”

I look at Jose, and we share the joke. “Biscuit Dog is very silly!”

When we reach the bed, Biscuit says to Jose, “Hi doctor, I…”

“Wait a minute. This is Jose, he’s ?”

“He’s a doctor, and he can help me to feel better. Doctor Jose, my name is Biscuit Dog, and I don’t feel very well. My nose hurts too much to smell, so instead of my nose, I’ve been smelling with my toes.”

Laughter is a coping mechanism. It is sitting right there, right inside, ready to erupt, ready to react to something silly. Good medicine for sick children. Actually, for all children. I believe children should be in on the joke.