Since I DVR everything I watch, it’s rare that I catch a commercial–which is why I’m so out of touch on pretty much everything. But the other day I was distracted while watching the boob tube and forgot to fast forward through the commercials. There was an advertisement for the movie “50/50” with that kid–who is hardly a kid anymore–from “3rd Rock from the Sun” and Seth Rogan (who I have a comedic crush on). When I realized the movie’s description was encapsulated as a “comedy about cancer” I knew that was going to be the first movie I’d ever seen alone. It seemed appropriate and even something a little stronger than that–though I’m not sure what word would describe it accurately. Ken found comedy during even the darkest parts of his journey. It’s not that cancer itself is hilarious, but sometimes life that happens around it–in reaction to it–most definitely can be. I think having a sense of humor about anything gives you an elasticity that is necessary in times of great pain and turmoil. It keeps you from going rigid and shattering into countless jagged pieces.

The weather that day was odd. As I walked up Lincoln Avenue to the Davis Theater, there was a huge patch of cloudless open sky with the sun beating down on me, the kids practicing football and the group of old Eastern European men playing Bocce Ball in Welles Park. But on all sides of us tall, threatening clouds were stationed–waiting for the sun to take a powder, it seemed. It was a striking visual on a scope which unfortunately my iPhone couldn’t properly capture. But it’s another note that will forever help make this day memorable for me.

I was catching the last matinee and figured there would only be a handful of people able to get home from work so quickly in order to make a 5:30 pm show. I’d purchased my ticket online as added insurance that I would actually go. (I hate waiting in line or dealing with people if I proactively take care of it online.) To my surprise there were about thirty people in the theater to see the same movie. I think I was secretly hoping for fewer people “in case” I was blubbering, but I’d have to trust that the darkness of the theater would be enough camouflage to hide the identity of “the cryer.”

Once I was sitting there waiting for the movie to start, I wondered “now why is it that I have never seen a movie by myself?” I actually couldn’t figure it out because I was pretty excited–even about seeing the previews. Again, not watching commercials I don’t even know what movies are coming out. But for a few long minutes before the movie started I could see enough to notice I was the only solo person there. And the couple behind me were clearly on a date and speaking to each other in low, hushed tones. Though my solo-movie phobia predates Ken, I was struck by what a shared experience movies had been for me, and that I didn’t have anyone’s hand to squeeze during a touching or scary part or to speak to in low, hushed tones–though I used to.

“Stay in this moment.”

“Stay in this moment.”

“Stay in this moment.”

The movie was pretty much everything I expected and hoped it would be. Ken could have written it–and starred in it. For me it was filled with “familiar” moments. I laughed a lot. I cried a lot–sometimes during “insignificant” parts that I don’t think many people would understand as touching or emotional. But by the end, the entire theater was filled with sobs and sniffles–as you might expect. At one point the woman in the row in front of me was crying so hard and for so long I felt a great relief in knowing I was clearly not the hottest mess in the theater. Thank you, lady. Thank you.

After the movie ended, I reached into my backpack to pull out tissue I was too hesitant to get during the movie because of the noise the Velcro closure would have made when I ripped it open. As the lights came up there was a symphony of nose blowing, throat clearing, and congested laughter.

This had been a shared experience, after all.