The effect of this relentless brightsiding is to transform breast cancer into a rite of passage -- not an injustice or a tragedy to rail against, but a normal marker in the life cycle, like menopause or graying hair. Everything in mainstream breast cancer culture serves, no doubt inadvertently, to tame and normalize the disease: the diagnosis may be disastrous, but there are those cunning pink rhinestone angel pins to buy and races to train for… cheerfulness is more or less mandatory, dissent a kind of treason. Within this tightly knit world, attitudes are subtly adjusted, doubters gently brought back to the fold… What has grown up around breast cancer in just the last fifteen years more nearly resembles a cult -- or, given that it numbers more than two million women, their families, and friends-perhaps we should say a full-fledged religion… I know this much right now for sure: I will not go into that last good night with a teddy bear tucked under my arm.