This is the place for healing humor and quality humor, and the site is growing.
**Also, if you entered the site through this page, click here to see all the links and frames**

A Life in the Balance Okay okay. I'm pushing the product here. But really, it's a pretty good book. I know. I've read it.

The James Lileks Page --Nationally syndicated columnist. Lots of fun stuff at his site. AND he's a funny guy.

Lots of Monty Python Pages If you like Monty Python, these folks claim to be the largest Monty Python site in the world.

Kcuf Recnac This is specifically cancer humor. It is irreverent and sometimes raw, but this guy knows comedy.

Book-A-Minute I know everyone's got their own sense of humor, so this may not be for everyone. But these ultra-concise synopses sure cracked me up -- especially the classics.

The Learning Place: This place is chock full (or chockful, or chalk/full, or you know, whatever) of articles and information to keep the survivor whole. Navigate around and you'll find a "Lighter Side" section

Jest for the Health of it This is Patty Wooten's site -- a nurse who understands how laughing heals.

The Tonight Show Laughs Page Check out the Headlines section. It's mostly shake-your-head, laugh-to-yourself comedy,
but occasionally there's some very funny stuff.

David Letterman's Top Ten List Unfortunately, the top ten list is the single most abused comedy premise in America. But, in the hands of the originator, it is almost never not funny

Come back again when I've taken some time to pool other quality comedy sights. And, in the meantime, read on for another essay piece posted below. See you soon.

**For MORE humor articles

click here **

The Hospital That Time Forgot

by Scott Burton

Great strides have been made to make the experience of chemotherapy as positive as possible, from artwork in the halls to VCRs and video games. But, when I went through seven rounds of chemo in 1992, an upbeat environment was the last thing on the list of my hospitalıs intentions.

Ambling down the stark corridor, wearing a paper-thin robe that covered everything except things I really wanted covered, I remember thinking, "This is the place where I will receive chemo a week at a time for seven months. This is the place that will define the greatest struggle of my life." "And yet," I remember adding, "This place looks like the Gulag, but not quite as cheery."

It was a University hospital, a teaching institution, which in this case meant, while the medical technology was up-to-date, the décor hadnıt been altered since the Eisenhower administration. Upon entering the building, it seemed Iıd stepped into a time warp. There was indeed work on the walls, but it was a stretch to attach the word "art" to it. Instead, it looked as if the 1960ıs had a garage sale; macramé flowers in plastic frames and a couple pictures of a large-eyed boy and girl with huge Bambi-like eyelashes, innocently, yet ambiguously naked, with captions under them that said things like, "Love is... giving her the last half of your candy bar."

Once through the long hallway and many entry doors, seeing the elevator to the 3rd floor part open for me, I felt like Maxwell Smart marching through the top secret, government hallway and multiple security doors at the beginning of the old sit-com, Get Smart.

The name of the floor was Masonic 3, which, right there, shouldıve been a give away. It even sounded old. Masonic 3? I couldnıt help but feel I was being treated by Shriners.

Fortunately, and contrary to my somber surroundings, the nurse leading me to the check-in desk did not look like Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckooıs Nest.

While checking in, I sat on a mustard yellow/brown Naugahide chair that only mid 1950ıs hospitals seem to find attractive, which stuck to my legs as I got up. (I soon realized never to get up from a phony leather chair wearing shorts or without a shirt, because doing so feels like someone ripping a giant band-aid off your body). The host of magazines displayed next to me only confirmed my suspicions of antiquity. Shuffling through the periodicals, I felt like an anthropologist uncovering layers of fossilized remains, each magazine dating further back than the next. At the bottom of pile I caught the headline, "Lucky Lindy crosses the Atlantic!!" "Hmm? Way to go." I thought. If, of course, I wanted something more current, I found a Newsweek cover which mused, "Should we pull out of Viet Nam?"

Once checked in and resting in my hand-crank adjustable bed, I wondered if it were truly important whether I had all the creature comforts I was used to or not. Was it not more important that the medical staff be competent? Was it not more important that they save my life?

Both good care and comfort would be nice, I concluded. But, since I trusted my doctor and had support of the nurses, I decided to accept my surroundings. Whether they made it easy for me to do or not, focusing on the positive was my mantra. So I sat up, put another 78 on the Victrola and faced my battle as we all have done ­ one day at a time.