Brianna helped me figure out how to share the news with my daughters, Lola and Gigi, and how to turn some of the despair into laughter. We already had an active meme exchange, but now we started sending each other daily doses of gallows humor.

Around then, I discovered the social media account @tipsfromdeadpeople by Mary McGreevy (her real name) and became fixated on her readings of particularly funny—or unexpectedly sage—obituaries. Brianna had already schooled me in just how untrue most obituaries can be: not everyone was a saint. But Mary found the honest ones—the obits that remembered people in full, from degenerate gamblers to cheatin’ hearts, with their best and worst qualities intact.

One of my favorites was Corinne “CoeMac” “Rene” Macdonald:

“Gone too fast—and so was the scooter.” Listen below.

So I casually mentioned to Brianna that we should co-host a Comedic Obituary Workshop as part of her Death Cafés series at Ma’s House, where she had curated the exhibition RECLAIMING DEATH. Within an hour, Brianna had posted the workshop to the Ma’s House website.

We were locked in. The workshop on April 19, 2026 sold out, and hilarity ensued.

Comedic Obituaries PowerPoint presentation:

And now your assignment. Grab a piece of paper and a pen.

In the 1st quadrant, list things you LOVE (not people, but objects or activities). Think, “bottomless mimosas” like Corinne.

In the 2nd quadrant, list the things you HATE (pet peeves like “white shoes after Labor Day” make for good comedy).

In the 3rd quadrant, list your REAL FEELS: the people and experiences you really love (this is the sentimental bit where your loved ones or your “long-haired dachshund Charley” get immortalized).

And finally in the 4th quadrant, list the thing you loved to do the most after “IN LIEU OF GIFTS” — like “sing a B-52’s song at karaoke night at Almond.”

And here’s one of my favorite Comedic Obituaries by my husband Carlos Lama, written in our workshop:

Carlos Adriano Lama, also known to Hamptons karaoke lovers as “Mister Lama,” met his untimely demise while realphabetizing his record collection (order: Genre, Artist, Album, Year), sadly being crushed by the same collection his loving wife, Andrea Grover, graciously allowed him to drag to New York from Texas. The albums were divided up evenly between his three children, Gigi, Lola, and Adrian, who arm wrestled to determine who got first pick, the most prized of which was his Peruvian father’s father’s record, LOS MOROCHUCOS. In lieu of flowers, please go to your local indie record store and buy your favorite music. A memorial service and karaoke party will be held at The Ponderosa Lounge, and psychedelics will be served.

Give it try? Post your own comedic obituary in the comments.

Photo of the Comedic Obituary Workshop at Ma’s House: Brianna Hernández

My body was not something I worried about. It was my trusted vehicle.

In recent memory, I had danced pogo-stick style while singing “Private Idaho” at Almond Restaurant’s karaoke night—ten feet from Fred Schneider of the B-52s—hosted by my husband/DJ, Carlos Lama, a music connoisseur who wins at most trivia nights. I never refused a dance party and walked five to ten miles a day on “vacation.” All the while, I held the executive director role at Guild Hall, a century-old museum, theater, and arts education center. I oversaw a major renovation and built a new team. Motion felt virtuous. Cram as much in, and you’ll live twice the life.

The first sign that something was wrong arrived when I was overdressed for the occasion.

On Friday, December 13, 2024, my family and I attended one of my favorite gatherings of the year: Molly and Michael’s holiday party in SoHo. Carlos came, along with our daughters, Lola and Gigi. The room was filled with inflatable foil balloons, a la Warhol’s factory. We caught up with friends from our Texas days. Artists and art professionals, activists and world changers were all in dress-up formal wear. Lola’s trio, “Whatever Lola Wants,” played a set of Christmas music and jazz standards. A drag artist followed by a doo-wop group brought it home. Then we said our goodbyes until next year and headed to Greenwich Village to my friend Christina’s brownstone for the night.

Feel the vibes?

I was wearing sequins head to toe and riding a nice buzz from the lovefest and the booze when my right leg betrayed me. I fell going up the front steps. I wasn’t hurt. I didn’t even feel embarrassed. My sequined heels must have been too high—and so must I.

I forgot about it almost immediately.

In January 2025, like millions of optimists, I bought a gym membership.

Who works out in cashmere?

Gigi was working the desk and bodybuilding at the Sag Harbor Gym, five minutes from home, and offered to be my personal trainer. We established a mother/daughter routine, two or three times a week, drinking creatine, watching instructional YouTube videos, and sharing music suggestions like the theme from Rocky. I was getting stronger—everywhere—except that damn right leg. Squats sent me tipping sideways. The glute buster almost busted my head. Progress photos showed definition building across my body, while my right leg grew thinner in circumference. But I felt great. No back pain, no nerve pain, no loss of sensation. I thought, maybe it was my spinal surgery from 3.5 years prior; I should get an X-ray.

I went back to my NYC orthopedic surgeon in February 2025; I was positive he would find a pinched nerve. He did not. I thought he was mistaken. Over the next eight months, I visited 12 or 13 more doctors and four different hospitals. There were MRIs, CT scans, blood tests, spinal taps, ultrasounds, and genetic panels. Data accumulated. Answers did not.

Just like in school, I passed every test with flying colors, save one. My EMG was “Abby something” (if you know, you know). I had chronic, active denervation in my right leg, but the cause was inconclusive. It might be an autoimmune disease, a focal motor neuron syndrome, a myopathy, a plexopathy, or a nerve issue not visible in my studies. The recommendation was to wait and see how my weakness progressed. Not a good answer. The internet told me that nerve damage is a code red that needs to be addressed asap to avoid irreversibility.

What I lost first was not strength, but my patience.

I wanted to bound up the stairs at work, but I was forced to take the elevator. I soon needed a walking stick, and then two. I groaned every time someone asked if I was going skiing. The runner-up dumbest question was, “What did you do to yourself?” I don’t know.

In case you didn’t know, there is a fine art book about walking sticks.

I gave up my gym membership when Gigi went back to college in August. I was too unbalanced to use the machines alone. Not long after, I found the YMCA’s well-heated pool and tried lap swimming. I struggled through three laps, feeling like I needed a life preserver to stay afloat. “How about a water aerobics class?” Jeannie at the front desk kindly suggested. So, I joined a senior-citizen-level water fitness class and was winded after 45-minutes.

It happened fast enough to feel unreal and slow enough to be undeniable.

Instead of waiting to see how bad it got, I asked my neurologist for a reference to Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota—”the miracle in the cornfield.” I was accepted and waited 73 days for an appointment, many of those days spent self-diagnosing via internet searches.

My daily countdown finally reached zero, and on January 20, 2026, Carlos drove me at sunrise to LaGuardia Airport. I flew to Minneapolis alone, then to Rochester. We decided it would be too hard for Carlos to deal with my mobility issues, given his own; he uses a wheelchair due to a 38-year-old spinal cord injury. Instead, my sister Jo would fly from Miami to Rochester to meet me.

At the airport, I learned a new trick. I asked for help. It was the first time I’d ever been pushed through security all the way to my gate in a wheelchair. It felt foreign and oddly luxurious. People and porters could not have been nicer (even in New York). Minnesotans were kind and welcoming. “Take good care” was a common refrain.

That night, when I arrived at Staybridge Suites, five minutes from the Mayo Clinic, my sister Jo was peering out the lobby window, waiting for me. It was as if we were taking a sister’s vacation together. Perfectly timed, it was happy hour and the hotel “cruise director” Mike kept pouring us wine and introducing us to others seeking “miracles in the cornfield.” There was Sandy from Stillwater, MN, on the St. Croix River, whose husband Scott was hospitalized for an emergency heart issue, and Deborah and Mike from San Antonio, Texas, who were searching for answers to Deborah’s mystery illness. They were like beams of sunshine in the cold Minnesota winter. We were not from the same place, we held different beliefs, and sounded different, but we were instant family.

Jo and I spent ten suspended days between Staybridge Suites happy hours and Mayo Clinic. She was my roommate, grocery shopper, ATM, and full-time concierge. The temperature dropped to minus twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and it made it clear that frostbite after ten minutes of exposure was not theoretical. Stepping outside to catch the complimentary shuttle—the Pink Line, driven by Shelly, a lovable Elmo-voiced oddball who collected and wore flamingo flair—was like a polar plunge.

Thirteen months after my first symptom, I met with the Mayo neurologist on January 22, had bloodwork, and another EMG right away. In less than 48 hours, I was diagnosed with ALS, a terminal illness that typically leads to progressive paralysis and respiratory failure. The average lifespan after diagnosis is 2–5 years.

WTF.

Instead of talking, I asked Jo to find us an art tour of the Mayo’s Collection. There was one starting in 30 minutes, so we joined the group. Jo pushed my wheelchair from artwork to artwork. There were works by Warhol, Miro, Albers, and a three-story male figure reaching for the heavens by Ivan Mestrovic—all donated by grateful patients.

I was not feeling grateful.

I was unusually aggressive about my art history knowledge, taking my shitty news out on the Mayo volunteer who was doing his best.

That night, there was no happy hour. My sister made phone calls out of earshot, informed family members and friends of the news and how to help, and made sure I had everything I needed, including a drawing pad and colored pencils to “art it out.” I drew some fruit my sister had gotten from Costco. I thought I was taking the news in stride. I am, after all, resilient.

But in the middle of the night, I woke up howling like a banshee. My sister hugged me until I fell back asleep.

Minnesota’s ICE protests dominated the television in our hotel room. Friends asked on social media if we were in Minneapolis protesting. In spirit, yes, but technically, we were ninety miles southeast. I changed the channel to ESPN winter sports and watched snowboarders get airborne, marveling at how well their right legs worked.

Jo and I on our way to Peace Plaza in negative 20°F (we never made it there).

On January 24, after dinner, I insisted we join a candlelight vigil at Peace Plaza for Alex Pretti, who had just been killed by ICE agents in Minneapolis. I made it about 50 feet outside and tripped on a paver, straining my right foot and landing on my side. My sister, trying to help me up, accidentally dropped her refillable water bottle in my face, giving me a black eye. People on their way to the vigil stopped to help—almost all were Mayo employees. They were kind, supportive, got me back inside the building, and made sure Jo and I were OK to get back to the hotel.

I learned another new trick: don’t overdo it.

I spent the next 24 hours in bed, icing my foot, and watching more winter sports on ESPN.

The days that followed included meetings with a physical therapist, an occupational therapist, a physiatrist, an ALS nurse, and a geneticist. They broached subjects like “voice banking” and motorized wheelchair options.

I wasn’t ready.

And that’s when I turned to comedy.

Turns out, ALS is hysterical.

Welcome to ARTISTS SEE THE FUTURE.

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