I spoke the other day at a luncheon for Women Against MS in Washington, D.C.

I arrived, uh, late.

I arrived at four p.m., went on a monument tour until midnight and had to speak at 11 a.m.

And that sounds like plenty of time to get onself sorted out.

But because my daughter, although an excellent person, is 11 years old, I had to spend the morning hunting under the bed for lost shoes and answering questions about why the tips of the green and rose-colored pencils always break off first and explaining about war in the Sudan and trying to stuff five ("But they were fifty percent off!") CIA t-shirts into a backpack before I could put on my makeup.

And that was discouraging.

At the beginnings of a reformation, after a winter that devastated body and soul, I look ... not so hot. It's difficult to start over. For a couple of years, I felt good. I felt like myself. But then I put on some weight and lost some emotional tread and it's back to square one only slower.

Anyway, before I went to sleep, I watched a video intended to show me how to put on this excellent new makeup I'd purchased.

And at 1 a.m., I thought, "Help me, Saint Anthony. I am watching a makeup application video and I am at the halfway point of my life on earth if not past it."

Then I got down to the ballroom to give the speech, and saw that it was not just good, it was grand. The mistress of ceremonies is a political reporter for NBC, an absolute doll, and at 100 months pregnant with twins, weighed less than I.

But she was sweet and giving and so were the organizers -- all of whose lives have been touched by MS -- because either they have it or a relative or spouse does.

So when I began to give my talk, I felt.. not horrible.

And the talk went well. I could see my little daughter's eyes on me (and on how many of the packets of gift note cards she could liberate) and felt proud that it was, coincidentally, Take Your Daughter To Work Day and here was mine. I know she noticed the words I said about her Aunt Jeanine, which is why I travel to raise funds to fight MS in the first place.

I talked about my beloved best friend from childhood, Jeanine, who ten years ago could dance all night and sing in the morning and now... she can't do that.

She is still as beautiful as she ever was. But her gait is shuffling and sometimes her eyes slip away. MS has done this. All her life, she has had a mortal terror of needles and now must give herself shots every two weeks. And she does. She fought to start a brilliant home baby business, but she just couldn't keep up with it and finally stopped. And I'm proud of her for that.

She's a loving mother to my godchild, Gemma, and her laugh comes from deep within. She puts up with no bull from anyone. Never did. When she was stricken, she had finally, after twenty years of raising her daughter as a single mom, become an actor. She was good at it.

When she could no longer act, she taught. She was good at it.

Now she cannot do that.

I spoke about being in a Broadway theater with her as Brian Stokes Mitchell sang about fighting the unbeatable foe and being willing to march into hell "for a heavenly cause." Her face was lit from within.

These are emotional events, but it's dopey to watch a speaker cry; so when I feel as though I might, I try to think of something else. And I never do cry. I always make it past that point.

That day, I thought about my pores. I wondered if this audience of 750 was able to see into my pores to my soul as my face was projected 50 times its size on two screens that flanked me.

At the end, I got a surprise.

Jeanine had sent the organizers a letter.

In part it read, "When we were kids, I was shy and tended to blend in. You were popular, and yet you chose me to be your friend. You made me part of what I never would have been part of. You got me through every literature and writing course in high school and college, as you constantly remind me. And now, you pull for me in this, with all your might. As you have been for 35 years, since we were children, you still there for me. You are all that and more. I love you."

I had to take a deep breath then, but still, I didn't cry.

And then, when it was finished, I went back to a table to sign books (as my daughter began busily collecting about five pounds worth of left-behind note cards). It was only by chance that I glanced up at the still picture on the screen, as the ballroom filled with the sounds of Billy Withers'song "Lean on Me."

It was a picture of me and Jeanine, one I'd never seen. We were laughing about something and my head was on her shoulder -- her tiny and frail shoulder.

And I realized, as tears I could not stop ran freely down through all that expensive makeup, that it truly is she who lets me lean on her, not the other way around.

Yes, I raise funds to fight the vicious disease that plagues her. But it is little compared to what she has done for me, done for me always -- for the hours she has spent on the phone, talking me through my ever-flourishing disasters, with lovers, husbands, children, work .. makeup.

When we were first able to drive, and going out for a big night to get tacos at Pepe's on the west side of Chicago, Jeanine and I would go to Carson's department store and drift through the cosmetics section.

Neither of us had any money, so at one counter, we would "try out" the mascara. At another, we would "experiment" with different shades of the blusher. Finally, we would top it off with a spritz of some horrible cologne ("Cie" or "Charlie") and dash off for our elegant evening in my mother's Chevy Impala.

And you know, those were the best nights of my life.

They weren't the nights I loved my children or my husband. They weren't grand. But they were great. They were SO great. They were the reason people can watch the movie "Grease" over and over and never tire of it. They were the nights we sat on the hood of the car and smoked cigarettes without inhaling because we didn't know how and flirted with boys in black leather jackets and were JUST SO COOL.

And so this is my letter back to her.

Dearest. I'm no longer popular. Half the time, my husband wants to break my neck for being obsessed with my writing instead of with him and my kids sass me all day long. I have friends, but no time to see them -- except for you and a very few others, who understand how little time I have. I'm not a pretty girl anymore. But ... those nights. And how we talked then, how we talk now, with no holds barred, oh no, they can't take that away from me.

No, they can't take that away from me, ever.

Jeannie, I love you, too.

Jacquelyn Mitchard