Love, Death and Improv
By drew dotson
“Great! I’ll see you in class.” I smiled giddily as I pulled the phone away from my ear.
During the call, I’d paced at least 100 oddly shaped laps around the room, dodging the hospital bed, medical equipment and my suitcase on the floor. I lay back down thinking about my new title: soon-to-be improv student.
I was in the hospital because typical fall allergies had quickly evolved into a respiratory infection. With faulty lungs due to cystic fibrosis (CF), small things like ragweed can escalate into something severe with little to no warning. Although I tried with all my might to fight the pollen unassisted, I’d been sentenced to a stay in the hospital for treatment with intravenous antibiotics. Life seemed beyond my control—a feeling I’d grown accustomed to in my 22 years on this planet.
In the 1980s, when I was born, the average life expectancy for someone with CF was around 18 years. I learned this when I was in elementary school, and I hadn’t been the same kid since. Once an imaginative child with lofty dreams, my fear of death became all- consuming.
Now, sitting in the hospital several years beyond my expiration date, my anxiety about death still made me long for certainty. Maybe this improv course would help me grow comfortable with the unpredictability of my illness.
In fact, it did so much more.
Improv is rooted in the present moment, a place I rarely allowed myself to go. But if my scene partner mentioned an earthquake, I dove under a table, and if the emcee directed us to speak in Shakespearean verse, I did, no matter how wrongeth methinks I wast.
Having spent so much of my life worried about the future, being present was a vast departure from the hell of hypotheticals in which I often dwelled. In a strange way, worrying about the statistics around my illness made me feel like I had more power over them. But I realized that, in an improv scene, if I focused on the past or future, I sacrificed the only moment that actually mattered—the one right in front of me.
“Having spent so much of my life worried about the future, being present was a vast departure from the hell of hypotheticals in which I often dwelled.”
One scene at a time, I grew more comfortable with uncertainty, even beginning to welcome its existence. As I survived each make-believe scenario, it became clear there was one thing I could control—how I responded. It was empowering to know I could handle what came my way.
At the end of the course, we showcased what we’d learned in front of a sold-out audience. But, for me, the biggest takeaways weren’t perceivable when I took the stage. They ran much deeper and laid the foundation for what was to come.
“Who is this guy?” I thought as I saw the online friend request.
I clicked on Ramón’s name, curious about our connection. I saw he’d been tagged at the improv theatre the night before, so he must have seen me on stage. After completing my improv education, I had been invited to join the cast as a main-stage regular.
“A fan!” I thought as I accepted the friend request.
I was 25 and had recently dated a series of man-boys. But this guy, Ramón, seemed to have it together, as much as one can tell from glancing at an online profile. He’d sent the friend request well after midnight, and I shot him a message—Late night, huh? That opened the floodgate.
Each new message intrigued me more. I was becoming my fan’s fan. I saw no signs of sleaze, and his messages made me laugh out loud. We were both about to head out of town, but we made plans to get a drink in a few weeks. We stayed in conversation throughout our trips, and I was so preoccupied with writing him a message that I even missed a flight.
I told Ramón my meals revolved around what I could top with cheese. He told me about the time he had to pull his car over because he’d eaten too many donuts. We messaged about topics from the mundane to the things that brought our souls to life.
Ramón: You miss me.
Me: Fine. I will admit it. I miss you, and I don't even know you.
Before we met in person, before we'd even spoken on the phone, we decided we were meant to be. I’d never been so certain of something so uncertain. Ramón and I made a pact, through messaging, to kiss immediately upon seeing each other. Maybe the improv philosophy of “yes, and…”—accepting what happens (yes) and moving forward (and)—applied to everything.
“Before we met in person—before we'd even spoken on the phone—we decided we were meant to be.”
Meeting for the first time confirmed what we already knew. Without speaking, we launched into the pre-planned kiss, and I knew Ramón was my kind of ridiculous. Our banter was even better face-to-face over tapas, and it felt like we'd known each other forever. We were confident we’d gone on our last first date.
I started teaching improv a few years later, and Ramón registered for my class. Yes, and began to permeate every part of our relationship, and being present attuned us to the beauty of each moment. We yes, and-ed our way to “I do.”
“Do you think I’ll lose my hair?” already-bald Ramón asked as the doctor exited the room.
He’d just been diagnosed with leukemia, yet we laughed. Somehow, some way, two married comedians were dealing with two terminal illnesses—one apiece. Denial wasn’t an option, so we jumped straight to acceptance. Yes, Ramón had leukemia, and we were ready to deal with whatever came next.
Ramón was admitted to the hospital for a month, and further testing confirmed the leukemia was aggressive. As a hospital veteran (humblebrag), I wanted—needed—to be by his side as he went through treatment. I never imagined cancer could be fun, aside from the actual cancer part of it all.
We dubbed ourselves the Sickest Couple in America. We spent too much time in the hospital gift shop, especially for people who didn’t bring their wallets. We sauntered to each of the hospital’s cafeterias, deciding what we’d get if we were buying food.
None of this is to say we didn’t accept the seriousness of Ramón’s illness. We did.
But we also knew the statistics reflected the past and couldn’t predict the future. Although we understood the situation was not good, we’d both been professionally trained to inhabit the present moment. We could jeopardize our sanity by wondering why this happened to Ramón or how the coming months would look. Instead, we said yes to each instance of joy—at every chemotherapy visit, every blood or platelet transfusion, and every hospitalization.
“We dubbed ourselves the Sickest Couple in America…None of this is to say we didn’t accept the seriousness of Ramón’s illness.”
Ramón’s leukemia eventually went into remission, but only for a time. A relapse necessitated a bone marrow transplant. Then nine days after he received his new cells, Ramón went into cardiac arrest and suffered a brain injury. Time would reveal its severity, but regardless, I had to remind myself the injury itself couldn’t be undone. Once things happen, they’ve happened. Yes. There’s only one direction to travel: forward. And.
As I sat by Ramón’s hospital bed one afternoon, I paused, asking myself, “What can I do to make right now better?” I played relaxing music on my phone, stood at Ramón’s bedside and gave him a massage. I was in the midst of a beautiful moment—I’d stumbled upon the here and now. Nurses popped in every so often, asking, “Oh, you’re still working on him?” I smiled, my heart anchored in the present.
“What up, widows?!” I text to a group of friends who share an important thing in common.
Although I had assumed many roles on the improv stage, “widow” had never been one of them. But, when life cast me as a widow a year after Ramón's diagnosis, I accepted the part. All the longing and wishing in the world would never bring Ramón back. I could resist it, or I could go with it. No matter my choice, the fact would remain the same: I’m a widow.
When I registered for improv, I had no clue what to expect. I would never have guessed it would lead to life, love and a deeper capacity to embrace the present. I could not have fathomed that, 12 years later, I would hold my husband as he died—in the same hospital where I made the life-altering call to sign up for an improv class.
Drew Dotson is an Atlanta-based author who uses her experience with cystic fibrosis, widowhood and humor to inspire and uplift others. She posts regularly at www.drewdotson.com.