There’s a ton of reasons to lie, but experts have found that lies are most beneficial when they’re not selfish. In this week’s episode, both our storytellers do their best to play along for the sake of others.

Part 1: While working as a camp counsellor at a camp for children with chronic and life-threatening illnesses, Gabe Mollica is determined to keep his promise to one of the campers.

Gabe Mollica is a comedian and writer living in Astoria, Queens. He’s performed his critically acclaimed hour “Solo,” a show about friendship, at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, the Winnipeg Fringe Festival, Manhattan’s prestigious 59east59th street theatre, and cities across the globe including New York, Dallas, and Dublin, Ireland. His Off-Broadway show "Solo: a show about friendship" reopens for a 3rd extension on March 23rd at 9pm at the Soho Playhouse. He has appeared on The Moth Radio Hour on NPR, BBC Radio 4, and wrote for the 2020 and 2019 New York Video Game Awards with the writers of the Daily Show with Trevor Noah. He performs nightly in New York City.

Part 2: Collette Micks finds herself going along with her mom’s absurd plan to act like her father isn’t dying of cancer.

Collette Micks is an actor, storyteller and corporate trainer. She studied theatre in Paris at Ecole Jacques Lecog and performed in theatre, film and television (Naturally Sadie, The Kennedy's, Murdoch Mysteries). Collette has been offering an extremely successful Storytelling Course at The Second City Training Center in Toronto for several years. Collette continues to tell True Stories Live on stage for several Storytelling Shows in Toronto such as The Story Collider, Confabulation, But That's Another Story and Raw Storytelling among others. Check out her storytelling blog www.collettemicks.com

Episode Transcript

Part 1

When I was 22 years old, I got a job at a summer camp for children with chronic and life‑threatening illnesses. It was founded by Paul Newman. Familiar with him? Yeah, the inventor of salad dressing. He's a good dude. He's in a couple movies, right? Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Cars 3, all the classics. He's in the good ones.

I get this job and I had never experienced, like I didn't know anything about diseases of children, but a buddy recommended me and I got the job. I was very excited to have the job.

All the counselors at camp keep telling me, “Oh, you're gonna have a camp moment. You're gonna have a moment with the kids where you feel like you belong.”

And I had one session day one. Two boys enter my life. Their names are Austin and Jake. Austin and Jake have what's known as Duchenne muscular dystrophy, which is a muscle‑wasting disease. First, they walk. Then they use a walker. Then they use a wheelchair. Then they use a power wheelchair.

By the time I meet Austin and Jake, they're 15 years old and they're best friends. One's from Boston and one's from Philadelphia.

I meet these two boys and they zoom up to me. I know I like them right away because Austin has a diamond earring and the joystick on his wheelchair is a skull.

So, I meet these boys and I'm like, “Hi, boys. It's nice to meet you. I'm your new camp counselor.”

The thing about Austin and Jake is they're kind of like a classic comedy duo, because Austin is little and does all the talking and Jake is big and doesn't say anything.

So I'm like, “Hi, boys. I'm your new camp counselor.”

And Austin looks at me and he shakes his head, and he goes, “You're my new camp counselor? Well, I guess it's time for you to wipe my ass.”

Now, I've never wiped an ass before but I went through the training, so I'm like, “Okay, it's time to wipe these boys asses.”

So we come up to the cabin and I pick up— I have to do all the steps in my head, so I'm like I'm going to take off Austin's seatbelt. I'm going to pick him up with my legs, not my back. I'm going to safely transfer him to the toilet area. I'm going to take his pants and pull them down by his ankles. I'm going to safely put him on the toilet. I'm going to close the door.

I'm going to have a conversation with Jake. He's not really saying anything to me because he doesn't really talk a lot, so he's giving me one‑word answers.

But Austin's pooping. I've safely got him on there. Great.

I go back in there. He's done pooping. I pick him up. Oh, wait. Now, he has to wipe. I wipe him with a regular toilet paper. If that doesn't work, I have to use the special wipes. I put those in the special bag and put those in the special trash can. Take the regular toilet paper, wipe his butt, throw that in there, flush. Pick him up with my legs, not my back. Pull up his pants. Put on his belt. Put him back into the wheelchair. Put on his seatbelt.

At this point, I'm completely exhausted. And Austin looks at me with such disdain and he says, “You, idiot. I'm ambulatory. I can wipe my own ass.”

And Jake, who doesn't say anything, goes, “I can't believe it fucking worked.”

So, I love Austin and Jake a lot and I'll do whatever they say. I realized that, three days in, these are my favorite people in the world, Austin and Jake.

One of the great things about summer camp is that every week, every session, we take the kids to the Six Flags Great Escape in Lake George, which is one of the worst places on Earth. But the kids love it and they get to ride rides and be outside and cause some mischief and so I'm like, great.

We take them there and I'm really excited to be paired with Austin and Jake in the afternoon. It's a hundred‑degree day. We've just eaten nothing but PB&J and no water.

I go up to the boys and I'm like, “Oh, boys. You want to ride roller coasters, right?”

And they're like, “Absolutely not. We do not want to ride roller coasters.”

So I'm like, “Okay, like what do you want to do?”

Jake and Austin are like, “We think it would be pretty fun if we tried to get free stuff from some of the Six Flags employees, because they'll feel bad for us because we're in wheelchairs.”

You're not supposed to enable that type of behavior. You're supposed to be like, “That's wrong. No, you shouldn't manipulate people.”

But they're like, “Wouldn't it be so funny if they felt bad for us because they're in wheelchairs? That means they're stupid. Because we're just like everybody else. If they judge us for that, that's their fault.”

So I'm like, “Okay. When you put it that way, it's kind of a fun idea.”

Now, here's the thing about camp. There's kind of unwritten rules for the counselors. The two unwritten rules are, one, if you make a promise to a kid, you have to follow up on that promise, because the kids are sick. Some of them are really sick. You don't want to be promising things you can't deliver. That's a real red flag no‑no. You can't make promises you can't keep.

And the second unwritten rule at summer camp for the counselors is if you can make it happen, you have to try.

One time, we had a kid who wanted to see a unicorn. We took out a horse from the barn in the middle of the night, we put a little horn on him, rode the horse by the kid's window at night, the kid saw a unicorn. Stuff like that. You go above and beyond because, the kids, they only get five days to be at summer camp. It's very sacred.

And so the boys, they don't want to ride rides. They just want to trick people into giving them free stuff on this 100‑degree day. So, a couple of counselors and I are like, “Okay, let's do it.”

So, we start getting water, ice water from the concession stands and going over to the guys who run the games. And we get the kids to wheel over and be like, “Hey, it's a really hot day. Would you like some water?”

And the people running the games are like, “Yeah, that's kind of nice.”

And they're like, “Can we get a prize?”

And they're like, “No, no. We're not really supposed to do that.”

We keep doing this to every game and, eventually, we go to one of the concession stands and the boys are like, “Hey, I'd love to get a free snack, because I'm in a wheelchair.”

And one teenage kid is like, “Do you want nachos?”

And they're like, “Yeah, we want nachos. Hell, yeah.”

So they're just eating nachos like, “That guy's an idiot. It's just because we're in wheelchairs.” You know? Like they're trying to manipulate him in a way that it feels pretty harmless and fun.

Then Austin goes, he has to use the bathroom with some other counselors and so it's just Jake and I. We walk up to this young kid and we're like, “Hey, man. You want to talk to Jake?”

And Jake's like, “I'd love that stuffed animal.”

And the guy goes, “All right. Nobody's looking,” and he hands Jake a stuffed animal which is a pickle with a mustache and a western cap.

And Jake is like, “Hell, yeah. I got Steve's pickle.” And he's really excited about it.

But Austin, who it was his idea to do the prank comes out from the bathroom and sees Jake with a prize, he kind of gets jealous. I think he's like 14 or 15 years old.

He's like, “Oh, that was my idea to manipulate the people to get free prizes and now Jake's getting all the free prizes, so I want a free prize.”

So me and the counselors were like, “Okay, we got to figure out a way for Austin to get some free prizes.”

So we keep going up to all these different people to try to get free prizes and it's not working.

So the counselors are like, “We got to go above and beyond.” We start spending our own money to try to play the games. We're doing the slack line, which we all can't do. All those games are a scam and we can't do them and now there's pressure, because this thing means more to me than anything else in the entire world. I'm 22 years old and I'm very romantic. I'm like, “I got to get this kid a toy.”

Eventually, Austin decides, he's like, “No, no, no. I want that toy,” which it's a Gremlin doll from the movie Gremlins. Movie theme parks are like 20 years behind.

And he's like, “I want this Gremlin.”

So, Austin's away with another counselor and I walk up to the guy and the guy's wearing a red shirt. He's not wearing a green shirt, which means he's an administrator. He makes like $9 an hour instead of $8.

I'm like, “Hey, man, that's my friend Austin over there. We'd love to be able to get a Gremlin for him. You see Austin sitting over there?”

And the guy's like, “Yeah, I see him but there's nothing I can do.”

So I'm like, “Hey, man. How about a couple bucks? Can I give you a couple bucks to give Austin a free prize?”

And the guy goes, “Yeah, it's gonna cost you, I don't know, 50 bucks.”

So it occurs to me that I'm talking to the devil, like the worst person who's ever— because he's not going to spend that money on something wholesome. Like he's going to buy weed or something idiotic.

I just give him the money because I want Austin to feel like his trick worked. I want Austin to be proud of himself, because he's pretty clever for a 15‑year‑old.

I know it's going to work now so I run up to Austin. I go, “Awesome. I bet if you go over to that guy and you tell him, ‘Hey, man, I'm having a Six Flags day,’ I guarantee you, I promise that he's going to give you that stuffed Gremlin.” Because I'm sure.

And Austin goes, “You sure?”

I say, “Yeah, man. Tell him you're having a Six Flags day.”

So Austin zooms over to the guy in the red shirt and he says, “Hey, man. I'm having a Six Flags day.”

And the guy goes, “Sweet.”

And Austin's like, “What?”

And he zooms around and he zooms back over to me and he's pissed. He's like, “You lied to me. You promised. You said I was going to get a Gremlin if I told him I had a Six Flags day.”

And I'm like, first of all, I'm pissed at that guy but I feel bad that I've hurt Austin's feelings. That I made him feel less than. And so I tell another counselor, “You take care of Austin.”

I run over to the red‑shirted guy. I'm like, “Dude, that's what the money was for. Like what are you doing?”

And he's like, “, Oh I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. Like whatever.”

So I'm like, “Give him the toy.”

I go back to Austin and Austin is really upset. I think it's because it's 100 degrees and he's had no water and only peanut butter and jelly, but he's like really pissed.

He's like, “You're a liar. I'm never going to trust you again. I'm never listening to you anymore.”

I'm like, “Austin, you got to try again. I know that that sounds weird but you got to work up the courage and ask again.”

And Austin, the thing about these boys is sometimes they use foul language and I had to beat that out of them a little bit. You can't swear. This was a couple years ago. They used to call stuff ‘gay’ and I'd be like, “Boys, you can't call stuff gay. It's just like it hurts a whole group of people. You can't say gay.” So, I'm trying to train them not to say that.

And so Austin goes, “I don't want to hurt a whole group of people. I only want to hurt you.”

So I was like, “Well, that's not very thoughtful. When you think that, when you think something is lame, because I know you don't feel that way about gay people, when you feel like something is lame, I want you to just say, ‘Oh, that is so Gabe.’”

And the boys are like, “Okay, we'll just call bad things Gabe,” because my name is Gabe. That stuff is Gabe.

So, I go to Austin. I go, “Austin, you got to run over there and try again.”

As I'm saying this, it occurs to me all the times in my life where I got to try again. I had the privilege of trying again, failing at something and trying again. Moving to a new city, failing, trying again. Telling somebody I love them, failing, trying again.

All this is running through my head and it's occurring to me that Austin might not get all those same chances because of his medical condition but, today, he gets a chance to fail and try again. So I'm trying to convince him, I'm trying to convince him.

I finally go, “Austin, just go up to the guy and say, ‘Hey, man, I'm having a Seven Flags day.”

Austin looks at me and he goes, “I don't want to say that. That's so Gabe.”

And I started sobbing, I think because I've had no water and only peanut butter and jelly. And Austin doesn't want to watch me cry so he zooms away to the guy.

And the reason I'm sobbing is I'm thinking of all the things that Austin won't get to do probably in his life, but today he gets to try a second time.

I'm sobbing uncontrollably in public. People are staring. And Austin zooms back and goes, “Gabe's crying like a little bitch,” but he's holding a Gremlins doll.

And for years, for years, I kind of thought of this as like a profound moment in my life where I got to help Austin try again at his little evil plan, but the beautiful thing about knowing these boys for a long time is that Austin and Jake grew up and they accomplished way more than I thought they might.

Austin spoke at the FDA hearings to raise money for Duchenne muscular dystrophy research. Jake got on the local news for advocating for himself when his school district discriminated against him for being in a wheelchair on field day. These boys are incredible.

And it occurred to me at a certain point a couple years ago, when I was thinking about what these boys have done, like that day, I kind of just saw them for their disability in the same way that the people at the park did, and I don't want to do that anymore. It's so Gabe.

Thank you.

Part 2

My story starts where I am in Montreal. I lived, I grew up in a beautiful little townhouse, Victorian townhouse that my mother and father had purchased. They had both emigrated from Ireland and raised four daughters. I was the youngest of the four daughters. I like to say if my mom and dad were a team, an Olympic team, that their four daughters would be the gold medals that they wore. They were so proud of us.

I was the youngest. At this point when the story starts, I was trying to make it in Toronto as an actor and my dad had just retired.

Now, my dad was the breadwinner in the family. Came from the west coast of Ireland. Strong, strapping Irishman. Good-looking. Looked a little bit like George Clooney, but better looking. He's my dad. And my mom had the spirit of a Betty White with dark brown hair. Together, it was them against the world.

My dad worked in construction. His first job in Canada as a construction manager was up in the Arctic and his last job was in the desert in Kuwait. He worked. The span of his career, he worked very hard. He supported us, he gave us a great life and he finally was retiring.

He got sick and my mom would call me in Toronto and she'd say, “There's something wrong with your father. He's got hernia or something so I'm bringing him to the doctor.”

So, I would get these phone calls and then, finally, my mom said, “You have to come. I need your support.”

When I arrive, I go up to my favorite little perch in the house. I just want to describe this for you. You walk up the steps to the front door, you go in the front door to the porch and then you go up these steep stairs that curve around to go to the second floor of the house. And there was this wedged stair where you curved and I would like to sit there. As a little girl I would sit there and be invisible and I'd watch my three older sisters come in the house after school.

I was sitting on this perch waiting for Mom and Dad to get back from the Montreal General Hospital. It was taking longer than they had said so I was waiting a long time. Something was different because when I looked down, there was a mirror in the front hallway and you could see the kitchen being reflected. The lights were shining through the windows and I had this weird, eerie feeling.

Then I looked at the front door and my mom was there and my dad was behind her standing looking up at the sky. My mom was very serious reaching in her purse looking for the keys. Her lips were pursed and she was completely silent.

Now, this was not characteristic. My mom was the boisterous one. My dad was the strong, silent type.

Dad opened the front door, not Mom. But this time, Mom came in, Dad came in behind her. He looked up. He knew I was there. He said, “Ice cream?” And he went into the kitchen to get some ice cream, Rocky Road, our favorite.

And my mom looked and she said, “Come, come.”

I raced down the stairs. I said, “What is it Mom?”

She put her hands on my shoulder and she said, “Sweetheart, it's not good. The doctor told us, both of us, he was sitting right beside me, your father was right there, and the doctor said, ‘Three months.’ He's got three months to live.”

Then she said, “But it flew right over your father's head. Sure, I don't think he heard it.”

When she said that, all of a sudden, I was plunged down into this dark lake. I didn't know what I was feeling. Three months! It was like I was underwater and I could hear mom's voice and all I heard were like these bubbles of sounds of “three”, “denial”, “horse.”

And I was like, “Horse?”

And I said, “What? What's going on?”

My mom was cupping my face with her cold hands and she said, “Focus, sweetheart. Focus. Are you listening to me?”

And I said, “What? What is going on, Mom? Three months?”

She goes, “It's Stage 4 cancer.”

I said, “How many stages are there?”

She said, “Four. There's only four. Now, listen, sweetheart. This is what we're going to do.” And then my mom started to hatch a plan.

Now, you have to understand something about my family. Our love language was telling lies and hatching cockamamie plans so that we wouldn't upset the other members of the family.

For example, my mother hatched a plan when she decided to help me by defrosting my freezer in my apartment in Toronto with a carving knife. She bludgeoned it, punctured a valve, destroyed the fridge, then covered it up with a paper bandage and Scotch tape and told me to tell the super that I just found it like that.

And she said, “Because you won't get a free fridge otherwise.”

She's the woman who, when my ex‑boyfriend called me a year after he had proposed to me, and I said no, he called to tell me he found someone else he was getting married to. My mother, of course, was listening in and she wrote out word for word the script of what I should say. “Tom, I'm so happy for you and her.”

And she said, “Because we won't give him the satisfaction that he broke your heart.”

So, now, my mom is hatching another plan. She says, “If your father thinks he's as healthy as a horse, well, then, by Jesus, he's as healthy as a horse. So what we're going to do is we're not going to tell him he might be dead in three months. God help us. Do you promise me, Collette? You won't tell him.”

“All right, Mom. I promise.”

So, for the next month, I put on my best acting outfit. Dad seemed to be in the sweetest denial I'd ever experienced in my life. He said, “Sweetheart, let's go to Steinberg's. Let's buy some bottled water. I hear that's very healthy. Let's get some natural food. Organic ice cream, why not?” And we bought all this healthy food.

A friend of mine from an acting group, the Monday Night Group, had given me all these DVDs of old westerns. And I said, “Trevor gave me these DVDs, Dad. There's The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Do you want to watch that?” And we would sit down and watch my dad's favorite movie. My Dad loved Clint Eastwood.

And we would watch and I'd be smiling and eating ice cream with Dad. We had those old LA‑Z Boys where you'd lean back and put your legs up. Sometimes, I'd hold my dad's hand. I was always exercising my facial muscles smiling all the time.

Then Dad would get tired and he would fall asleep. Then I would drop my face and I'd look at him. I go, “I don't think I can do this. I mean, he might be dead in three months. My God, there's Civil War and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. There's a cancer waging war inside his body. I should talk to him about this.”

But then Dad would wake up and then we’d be right back having more ice cream and we'd just keep moving forward.

Dad kept going to the hospital. More pills. I wanted to be in charge of that so I got a notebook. I wrote down when he had to take his pills, how many, when. I bought these little pill containers.

Then in the front bedroom, we had a special bureau where I organized everything. Dad was in bed behind me and I was organizing everything and he started laughing. I'm not looking at him. I'm hearing him laughing.

“What's so funny, Dad?”

He goes, “Jesus Christ, you’d think if I didn't take all those millions of pills that I might be dead.”

And I'm like, “Yeah. You think? I think you would be,” but I can't say that. And I wanted to just say, “You know, let's talk about life. Let's talk about all these things.” I'm an actor. I want to live in the truth. I want to talk about these things.

But I had promised my mom that I wouldn't, so we just keep moving forward.

Dad starts to not be able to hold down his food. He's getting more and more sick. He gets a cane. I'm watching him come up the front stairs very slowly. He's losing his hair. His clothes are loose on him. And we have to eventually bring him to the hospital. We can't care for him anymore.

He has to go on dialysis. His kidneys start to fail and it's getting really, really hard to keep up the front.

One time, I was in the hospital room with Dad. They had given him all these medicines and they said, “If he acts bizarre, he's on an antipsychotic. Just let us know.” I was on it.

And dad looked at me and he said, “Do you see them?”

I said, “Yes, I do. Yeah, I do.” And I looked at the corner. I didn't know what he saw but I was going to go along with it. If he said it was so, it was so.

He goes, “You do?”

I go, “Yeah, I do. Yeah. Just I don't have my glasses so can you explain?”

And he goes, “The men in the black with the top hats, do you see them all?”

This is something the Irish do. They see the pallbearers in corners of the room. I swear to God.

And I said, “Yes, I see them, Dad. I see them.”

He goes, “Now, listen to me. You're going to help me get out of this. I built this east wing. I know where the exits are. Don't tell anybody. Get me in the wheelchair and we'll get the hell out of here. You can't tell anybody.”

And I was like, “Okay, Dad.”

I walked out of the room and I was like, “I can't tell anybody? I have to tell somebody.” And I told my older sister, who was a nurse, and she said, “That's the medication. It's okay.”

And I told my mom, “He built this?”

And my mom said, “He did, actually. He worked on a job for the Montreal General.” He does know where the exit is.

It gets worse. Finally, the doctor comes to us and says, “Listen, we did our best. His kidneys are failing and we really recommend this beautiful new ward in the Montreal General.” This was 20 years ago. It's the palliative care ward.

And my mom starts crying. “No, no, no.”

I don't know anything about what palliative is. It sounds really peaceful to me. I go, “That sounds good.” Because there are all these students coming into the rooms and checking on my dad waking him up all the time.

They said, “It'll be very peaceful for him but he might not last longer than two weeks.” And my mom just she can't bear this.

And he goes, “I think it might be a good idea if you talk to your dad.”

By this time, my three older sisters had arrived from overseas. They're all here. I look at Mom and I go, “So, we should do this, right, Mom?”

And Mom goes, “Well, I can't tell him. You have to tell him, sweetheart. I can't. It'll be too much for me. This is your thing. You like telling the truth. You could do it now.”

So I'm like, “Okay. All right. I get it all ready in my head. I'm going to tell Dad and I'm going tell him the truth.” I wanted to tell him the truth for several months now.

And we go into the hospital room and we are circled around the bed. My mom, she can't bear it. She's flitting around the room, arranging flowers, humming a song. She cannot handle this.

I am bracing myself that I am going to tell my dad the truth. There's a lot I want to say, like I'm really mad. I'm mad that I've had to lie for— it was seven months, by the way. It's seven months at this point. He made it past three.

I have to lie and say, “You know what? This was really hard for me to act in front of you as if life was grand when it certainly wasn't. And, by the way, this could have all been different if you hadn't raised us to tell lies and create cockamamie plans.”

But, anyway, I didn't think I'd start there.

And I held his hand and it was very cold, very tiny. He was lying there in the bed. The minute I touched his hand, his eyes opened. And my dad had the most beautiful, blue, piercing eyes. Even though he was only about 90 pounds, just so frail and tiny, he looked at me and he looked at my three older sisters.

And he said, “Sweetheart, there's something I have to tell you.”

I was like, “Okay,” and I looked at my sisters. We're like, “What is he going to say?”

And we said, “Yes, Dad, what is it?”

And he goes, “I think I'm dying.”

And I was like, “Really? You think? You think you're dying?” I mean, this was so comical which was so typical of my family life. That if you could go from Point A to Point B, no. Why do something direct if you could go zigzag all around? Make it interesting.

But of course, I was like, “Okay, this is unexpected. I have to keep the act up for Mom one last time.”

So I look at him and I go, “No. Dad, no.”

And he goes, “Yes, but I don't think your mother knows.”

And my mom's rearranging flowers, “Lalalalala, whoopee doo dah,” in the back and he looks at me, goes, “Now, Collette, you have to promise me you'll tell her, but tell her gently. Do you promise me?”

And I told my dad the truth. I said, “I promise, Dad.”

Thank you.