At a loved one’s memorial, I got the giggles. Why we laugh at the worst moments

2 days ago 5

Opinion

September 12, 2025 — 5.00am

The other day, I was slicing bread on my kitchen bench as my daughter did her homework at the table. Now, it’s never a good idea for me to be slicing anything. I am notoriously bad with sharp implements, and have maimed myself (and, occasionally, others) more times than I can recall.

Still, I had bought an unsliced loaf, and I really wanted a piece of toast.

“Ow!” I yelped, as a stab of pain shot through me. I looked down and saw on the cutting board a pool of blood, as well as a small (but alarmingly significant!) section of my thumb.

I am prone to inappropriate responses to heightened situations that call for empathy.

My daughter looked up. “What happened?” she asked languidly.

The pain was searing. “I chopped off the top of my thumb!” I yelled, jumping from foot to foot. I waved my hand in the air to shake off the sting, scattering a fine spray of blood over the kitchen. My daughter raised her eyebrows quizzically.

“Help!” I cried more urgently, still shaking my spurting thumb. “I need a towel!”

“Oh no!” my daughter said. She jumped to attention, a look of profound concern on her face. “I’ll fetch it right away!”

At least, that’s what one would expect a loving daughter to do. My daughter started laughing. Yes, she rose from the table and grabbed a tea towel for me, but she was laughing so hard as she did it, she doubled over. I’m not sure why the sight of me dancing a jig while helicoptering blood was so hilarious, but as she approached me to wrap my wounded hand, she was literally gasping for breath.

Now, don’t get me wrong: my daughter is very caring and will come to my aid if I am in distress. She just laughs hysterically as she is doing it. One time, when our toilet had overflowed and I was retching uncontrollably as I surveyed the mess, my daughter laughed so violently she actually fell over. Another time, our cat brought a mouse into my bedroom, and as I screamed and stood on a chair, and my middle child chased the rodent out of the house, my youngest lay on the bed, heaving with laughter.

Of course, I wasn’t at all in danger on those occasions; it was my ego and aesthetic sensibilities that were bruised. But there was also the time I choked at dinner on a piece of steak and was genuinely panic-stricken. I gestured wildly towards my throat and rolled my eyes to indicate distress, and both she and her sibling burst out laughing. Happily, I coughed and saved myself before any intervention was required, but I was a little shaken by the incident.

I am great in a crisis, and will respond appropriately to bad news, but if I anticipate bad news, I will feel the urge to laugh.

KERRI SACKVILLE

My kids assure me they didn’t realise I was choking, and they would have come to my rescue had I started to turn blue. I wonder if both of them would still have been chuckling as they performed the Heimlich manoeuvre.

I know that nervous laughter is a physiological response, and that it does not correlate with lack of love. And truly, I am not in a position to complain about my daughter’s reaction. I, too, am prone to inappropriate responses to heightened situations that call for empathy. I am great in a crisis, and will respond appropriately to bad news, but if I anticipate bad news, I will feel the urge to laugh.

Tell me, “Oh no! Auntie Edna died” and I will hug you and well up with tears. But tell me, “Brace yourself, I have sad news about poor Auntie Edna” and my mouth will twitch with giggles as I do my best to look sombre.

Any event that requires solemnity is particularly challenging for me. At a memorial for my beloved sister some months after she died, I got the giggles during an extremely earnest (and rather dull) speech. The more I tried to swallow the giggles, the more they rose in my throat and threatened to burst forth. When a kind friend noticed my heaving shoulders and laid a comforting hand on my arm, I staunched my laughter by clenching my teeth with such determined force I almost broke a tooth.

It gets worse. Not only have I laughed inappropriately, I have cried inappropriately, too. At the funeral of a friend’s 90-something grandmother, I sobbed so loudly during the eulogy that I needed to run out of the room. I didn’t know the deceased, and the family were all composed, so I felt utterly mortified at my display.

I did the same at a wedding I attended with my partner, only with tears of joy instead of sadness. I wept all through the ceremony, and again during the speeches, despite never having met the bride or groom.

Clearly, I have problems with emotional regulation in the face of joy, sadness, fear, or even boredom. So, it seems unfair to be annoyed at my own child for her reaction when I hacked into my thumb. She shares my genes; why shouldn’t she share my nervous laughter?

And the thumb has healed well, leaving only the faintest scar. Perhaps laughter really is the best medicine.

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