Laughter as the Best Medicine

Improvisors Entertaining at a Children's Hospital

Many years ago, I had what I can only describe as a spiritual experience in an improv class—one of those inexplicable moments when your heart takes over and guides you, no questions asked.

At the end of class, a fellow improviser stood up and invited anyone interested in performing short-form improv for patients and families at Lurie Children’s Hospital in Chicago to talk with him afterward. Without hesitation—as if pulled by an invisible rope—I made a beeline for him. That decision changed my life in a million ways.

(Okay, maybe only 500,000 ways. 😄)

Funny Bones Improv

Our group was called Funny Bones Improv. We had six weeks to rehearse before our first show—because performing for children in hospitals requires a different touch than your typical Chicago theater gig. We built a tight, playful setlist and got to work.

As the Child Life Staff got to know us, they encouraged feedback from patients and families. We began making t-shirts and crafting cardboard medals for kids who attended, adding little touches to make the experience even more joyful.

Eventually, we connected with Child Life Specialists at Rush University Medical Center, where we met Robyn Hart, a child life consultant whose insights transformed our show. With her guidance (and her book in hand), we shifted control of the show to the kids themselves. We introduced a custom prize wheel they could spin to choose what game we played next.

The effect was immediate. Parents began sharing their gratitude with the staff—and we heard that for many, it was the first time they had laughed in months. For kids and families navigating illness, laughter became a gift. Their laughter became our medicine.

At our peak, we were performing six shows a month across four Chicago hospitals. With 30 volunteer performers, and an expansion to New Orleans underway, we grew bold. We approached Laughing Cow Cheese for support, and—true to their slogan “Have you laughed today?”—they provided grants, created our medals and tees, and even invited us to lead Laughter Yoga at their Wisconsin headquarters.

High Fives for Everyone

When my husband and I moved to Pittsburgh in 2013, I kept performing improv and got involved in a new kids’ show called The Penny Arcade—a blend of crafts, props, costumes, high fives, and improv.

I suggested we bring the show to The Children’s Institute of Pittsburgh, and the team said yes. We arrived beaming, full of energy and encouragement. We explained that in improv, you high-five your scene partner to show support.

One patient stood out—let’s call him Charles. About 13 years old, recovering from a spinal injury, and early in rehab. He and his mom sat quietly through our show, his face unreadable. A few days later, I followed up with the hospital staff. The therapist said, “Do you remember Charles in the wheelchair? He hadn’t been interacting with anyone. After your show, he started giving us high fives—and his mood has lifted.”

That’s the power of a single moment. Of laughter that lingers.

Kansas vs. Missouri (and the Tub O’ Laughs)

After two years in Pittsburgh, we moved to Tulsa, where I joined the small but mighty improv scene. I began coaching, teaching, and eventually pulling together a troupe to perform for patients at the Cancer Treatment Center of America.

We couldn’t call ourselves Funny Bones—it was reserved for pediatric shows—so we created a new name and our own twist: a bright orange Tide Pods container dubbed the Tub O’ Laughs, filled with paper slips for game suggestions.

At first, we performed in a small conference room, but eventually we moved into the dining hall: Dinner and a Show. At one performance, I noticed a man in the audience—let’s call him Chuck—seated with his family. He barely reacted during the show, even as others laughed. But when one of our improvisers (a die-hard Kansas fan) cracked a joke about Missouri basketball, we suddenly had a family feud on our hands—Chuck’s family was from Missouri. The light teasing struck a chord, and for a few seconds, we saw a spark.

Later, the staff told me that Chuck had been withdrawn since his arrival. But after the show, he smiled at the team, started chatting, and eventually became a welcoming face for new patients. It was a transformation that began with a simple moment of shared joy.

500,000 Ways It Changed Me

These experiences taught me that laughter is more than sound—it’s connection. That empathy and presence matter more than punchlines. That's when we say “laughter is the best medicine,” we’re not just making a joke—we’re offering relief from stress, fear, and pain.

I didn’t enter these hospital rooms to “make people laugh.” I came to offer a pause. A breath. A shift. A moment to remember what joy feels like—even in the hardest places.

This work also reconnected me with something deep inside—a spark of compassion I’ve had since childhood (I apparently used to run up to strangers’ babies and hug them). It unlocked creativity I hadn’t accessed any other way. It reshaped my purpose.

And for that? I’m grateful. Every single laugh—shared, quiet, unexpected—was a gift. And I carry those gifts with me, still.