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make a list of what you want from your doctor.’” Babyface Meissner’s luscious brown eyes fill my mind, and I feel a creepy, inappropriate grin start to spread over my face.
Get a grip, Quel.
“‘Four, get a second opinion. Five, journal on what it means to you to potentially lose a breast to the disease.’” I glance into the wall of lights with facial silhouettes behind them and lean in to my microphone. “Can someone please tell me when ‘journal’ became a verb? When I first met with my counselor, I read that one and was, like, what does losing a breast mean to me? And I said the first thing that popped into my head: at least five pounds!” Big laughs. “Which was sort of embarrassing. For the counselor, I mean.” Bigger laughs, which has the unexpected effect of making me feel sort of, well, good. “And ‘
numero seis,
develop a plan for talking to your kids about cancer.’ ” I glance up. “If any of you are able to do this without feeling like a complete failure as a mother, let me know, because I haven’t quite managed to pull this off. Where was I? ‘Number seven, be on alert for signs of depression following treatment,’ because, hey, what’s depressing about cancer, right?”
    The audience laughs. Hard.
    Am not Hannibal Lecter. Am irresistibly winsome comedienne.
    Laurie straightens her already straight mauve cashmere cardigan. “I have just been told that, thanks to Raquel and all of our generous callers and our sponsor, the BABCA is going to be able to fund a campaign to provide health-care advocacy for low-income women!”
    This announcement is met with a round of applause.
    “And a new Web site directed at women under thirty who are fighting breast cancer!”
    The audience goes a little crazy.
    “And launch a child-care program so that Bay Area women can get the help they need when they’re sick or have appointments!”
    Off to the side, I see Shiny Pony hold up a sign that says SHUSH. The audience complies. Sort of.
    “Thank you all for your support,” Laurie says. “Now I’d like to go back to what Raquel said earlier. What we’re hearing here is that women feel
angry
about their diagnoses. And that this anger has no place constructive to flow. That we’re letting our women, our
selves,
down, people.” Laurie turns to me. “Raquel, what do you think we could do, as a society and a community, to help women through the diagnostic stage of dealing with breast cancer?”
    Gawd, pull off one half-assed joke and they think you’re Dr. Friggin’ Laura.
    I try to think of something helpful and sage to say. Really. Contrary to family opinion, I hate disappointing people. I just happen to be really good at it.
    I stare into Laurie’s clear eyes and think:
Lucidity.
“Well, don’t expect her to get used to the idea right away. I mean, here I am on TV, pretending I know something about, well,
anything,
and I’m still in shock. Things are moving too fast. That’s what people who don’t have it don’t understand— everyone wants to rush us toward some positive outcome, but we haven’t even had time to process things, to accept it yet. A part of me still believes it’s all a dream, honest to God”— my throat clogs again—“I feel so normal. Wouldn’t I
know
if I had it? Wouldn’t I have known something was wrong? How did this happen, for chrissake? I almost feel like I did something wrong, like it’s my fault.”
    Did I just say that? Did I answer the question? Once, in college, an essay exam came back to me with the words WELL-CONSTRUCTED ARGUMENT; EXACTLY WHAT QUESTION WERE YOU ANSWERING ? scrawled at the top next to an inky C+. Plowing a hundred miles per hour toward the wrong objective: story of my life.
    Laurie grasps my hand. The word pops into my head: “sister.” It is startling, the feeling of comfort and succor that comes with it. When we were kids, we’d sometimes lie together in bed, the other’s hair tickling our cheeks, flannel nightgowns tangled