Life Lessons from Grandma: What Public Farting Taught Me About Facing Cancer

The scene is vivid: the family cabin bug-bee-hive in Paynesville, MN, a place filled with as much laughter as it is with the scent of pine and the occasional, inexplicable draft of something... less pleasant.

It was on one of these family retreats that my cousins and I learned an invaluable life lesson from the matriarch of mischief herself—Grandma. We had ventured into town to the corner drugstore, a quaint little place that smelled of mothballs and peppermint. Little did my cousins know, I was smuggling a gastrointestinal time bomb. As we meandered through the aisles, I quietly let slip what I thought was a stealthy poot—only to realize it was more like setting off a fragrance grenade in the small, enclosed space.

My attempts at covert flatulence might have gone unnoticed, had it not been for the increasingly visible distress on my cousins' faces. Under the pressure, I confessed to my gaseous misdeeds right there among the greeting cards and gummy vitamins. That's when Grandma, with her twinkling eyes and a mischievous grin, leaned in and whispered, her voice crackling like warm vinyl, "Oh Rachel, don’t you know you’re never supposed to confess to a crime?"

We erupted into giggles, the kind that bubble up from deep within, untamed and infectious. The ride home was filled with rounds of "Beans, beans, the magical fruit," sung at the top of our lungs, as we bounced along in her brown '90 Ford Aerostar.

This lesson in the delicate art of public flatulence stuck with me through the years, a cheeky reminder of Grandma’s philosophy that life was too short not to laugh at the things which, though perhaps a bit crude, are undeniably human.

Now, years later, as I navigate the challenges of what I affectionately call 'ass cancer,' the memories of those laughter-filled days with Grandma provide a cushion of humor against the harsh realities of treatment. Cancer, much like an untimely fart, can disrupt life in unimaginable ways, but it’s also reminded me that finding humor in the darkness can be a powerful balm. The art of laughing at oneself, of finding light in the shadow, is something my grandma mastered and thankfully passed down.

Her lessons have proven invaluable, turning moments of embarrassment or pain into opportunities for connection and laughter. After all, if you can find the humor in the trials life throws your way—including the bodily functions we often deem inappropriate—you can find joy in anything.

So, here’s to Grandma, who taught us more than just how to pass gas in public and blame it on the nearest unsuspecting bystander. She taught us resilience, the importance of laughter, and how to face even the most blush-worthy moments head-on with a grin. And perhaps most importantly, she taught us that life, much like a good fart, should be embraced with gusto and a touch of mischief.

A blog post by Rachel Smak on grief, loss, and lessons from stage 3C rectal cancer