I read a book called “Warrior Queens” in college, and attended an event hosted by the author, Lady Antonia Fraser, who discussed the topics of her book: women who defied history (and odds) to challenge the status quo of the hand they’d been dealt. Boadicea of the Celts, Elizabeth I of England, Isabella of Spain, all woman who led their people against the threat of foes, foreign or domestic. (All Loud Girls, in my opinion.) Were Lady Fraser to add an addendum to her book, it would most assuredly include my sister Shelli who quashed a misguided revolt in her body by breast cancer (with the help of a top-notch and well-armed medical army.)

When she called me to tell me about her diagnosis–something we were all waiting to hear about–it was the second time in as many months that she called me with bad news; the first time being when she called me to tell me my father had died. You really gotta mix it up once in a while, Shell! She handled the news calmly and rationally. I reassured her as much as I could. We were lucky: stage one without signs of spreading anywhere outside her breast.

Her mastectomy was on Tuesday. My mother, sister and I descended upon the hospital in Indianapolis in the early morning hours to join my steadfast brother-in-law and niece to support and wait. We had some time to visit with Shelli before they took her away for the 3-4 hour surgery and recovery. Her spirits were high before battle–as is the case with a warrior queen. And as I devoted subject, I performed the role I’ve always done best: the jester. She may have been cold in her hospital gown, but the little alcove where she held court brimmed with warmth, love and…life.

Like the warrior queens of old, Shelli is a Loud Girl. (So is our sister Ronda. And our mother.) She bore the news of her diagnosis with strength and heart. And thankfully…humor. Humor is the ingredient that–for me and my family, at least–when injected into situations of great pain or stress, keeps us pliable; allows us to be flexible; to bend. It keeps us from breaking. And there has been no lack of it in our conversations since this journey began.

I’m not bragging when I say our area of the waiting room had the loudest laughs while the doctors did their work to remove her breast–and much more importantly–the cancer. But I’m not ashamed or embarrassed by it either. My experience with Ken taught me long ago to give up on trying to control things I have no control over. I’ve learned to worry less, knowing it won’t impact the outcome. But my brother-in-law paced like a caged tiger–much like we all know my father would have. (I think maybe he was pacing for both of them.) We could all feel his need for this to be over. And for her to be okay. He personified everything we all wanted so badly.

Team Shelli broke for lunch after we found out she was out of surgery–which went according to plan–and would be allowed visitors in about an hour. We didn’t rush, hoping to kill enough time to get to the room and actually have her be in it. And she was! I led the charge to room 226 and once I peeked in and saw her in the bed, stepped aside to let my brother-in-law be the one to touch her and let her know we are all there. He was the one she was waiting for.

“These people are all alcoholics,” Shelli murmured to her attending nurse.

“I guess the anesthesia has worn off,” I said to my sister Ronda. “She sounds pretty coherent.”

“Did they get it all?” she asked my brother-in-law.

“Yes,” he replied lovingly. “It all went according to what they told us.”

“Did they find anything else?” she asked.

“No,” I interjected. “Not even your brain.”

And for the next hour we smarted off, traded barbs, ribbed and told each other how much we loved each other. It was just like any other family gathering.

One of the things that stood out the most to me–and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one–was that it was the first serious crisis we’d faced as a family without the presence of the pillar of my father. Dad was emotional, and this would have been difficult for him, of course, but it’s the first time it wasn’t the core 5 of us standing together in our well-rehearsed family choreography built over a lifetime. Though we’d had some practice when he died and we pulled together to create his celebration of life, that was surreal. It somehow felt out of space and time.

But he had been with us the entire time, Shelli assured us. She saw him and heard him. I did, too. I saw him in each of us. And though I’m most happy my sister endured this trial like a champ, I’m grateful that we’re a family, and I know my dad would have been proud of how we all handled it–Shelli most of all. And in my family’s very lucky case, we are connected and loving without end. We’re also fierce knights and loyal subjects and talented jesters. We don’t know how to be any other way.

I know first-hand, it’s not the easy times that inform who you are; it’s the challenging ones. It’s only in the difficult times in life when your true character is shown. It’s not a choice you can make or something you prepare to do or be. That’s not possible. It’s in the darkest moments of despair, sadness and doubt where strength is revealed. It’s in the vulnerable moments when it feels like hope is lost where the faintest twinkle of light somehow sparks, shining on something you didn’t know was there. It’s in these moments when warrior queens (and kings) are unleashed–forever unable to be contained or restrained–and forever ready to fight whatever comes next.