T.J. Hooligan’s was unusually packed for a Saturday afternoon. Sister #4 and I had grabbed one of the remaining available tables and cursed our luck for having to sit next to the door. Sitting next to the door, is no treat during January in Minnesota.

We sat across from each other and studied the menus we’d each read about 1000 times before. We joked about the time Sister #2 actually ordered the ‘Oh my bacon back’ (a grilled cheese sandwich with bacon). I fiddled with the straw in my Diet Pepsi and the Trivial Pursuit cards they leave on the table for amusement whiles Sister #4 yammered on about her recent performance review at work.

I half listened to her complain about her boss and wondered how I would bring up her impending visit to the breast clinic. I wanted to know how Mom and Dad were handling it, what Sister #2 and #3 had said. But I didn’t want to make her cry.

We hadn’t spoken since she broke the news to me over the phone six days before. She had lesions on her left nipple’the doctor was unsure of what they were and recommended she go to the breast clinic for an ultrasound.

The next night the 10 o’clock news featured an in-depth story on a woman who, after suffering through a double mastectomy and months of chemo, discovered she was misdiagnosed.

‘So, how are you doing?’ I finally asked.
‘Ok,’ she said. ‘I can’t sleep. It’s all I think about.’
‘Yeah, I suppose. How are Mom and Dad handling it?’
‘Dad won’t talk about it. Not at all’I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to talk about my breasts,’ she said whispering the word breasts, ‘or that he just doesn’t want to think about it. Mom claims that her Mom Instinct says everything is ok.’
‘Mom Instinct?’
‘Yeah, it’s new.’
‘No kidding,’ I said, ‘I’ve never head of this alleged Mom Instinct before. So how do you feel?’
‘Something’s wrong. It’s not good,’ she said and her voice cracked. ‘I know my body and I know something’s not right.’
‘Oh,’ I said for lack of anything better to say.
‘I keep making jokes about it, talking about kicking cancer’s ass and how when I’m diagnosed we can have a panacake [that’s really how she pronounces it] breakfast to raise money. I joke about going to the knocker doctor and everything.’
‘I can see that.’
‘I keep telling everyone I’m preparing for the worst, but expecting the best,’ she said. ‘Mostly, I’m just afraid of telling the people that care for me the most. This is going to crush them.’ Then she quickly wiped away the tears.
‘We’ll be ok,’ I said, trying not to cry.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘So, if I have cancer can I have your other messenger bag?’

Then the conversation turned to more mundane topics. Which is good because I couldn’t handle anymore of the heavy stuff. Because every time I look at her I just want to squeeze her and tell her how much I love her. Every time I look at her my mind flashes to a future without her in it and how will we explain to Jaycie and Max what happened to Aunt KeKe. Will the peanut even remember her? What about our birthday? How can I celebrate a birthday without her?

But I keep all this stuff to myself. I don’t tell her that I am worried. I don’t tell her that the thought of her being seriously ill makes me curl up in the middle of my bed and cry until my face feels like it’s been turned inside out.

I paint on a brave face, and tell her she’s crazy, that it’s some crazy skin rash of some sort and that we’ll be making fun of her when she’s got to smear some smelly ointment all over her boobs.

That’s all I can do. I can only joke and fake bravery. Because I don’t want her to know how very scared I am.