Even by the loosest of standards, this is not your average comedy venue.

And most standup comics are willing — desperate, even — to perform anywhere that has a stage, a mic and an audience.

Sure, there’s the latter at these monthly shows at Gilda’s Club, the esteemed resource centre for those touched by cancer and named after Saturday Night Live pioneer Gilda Radner, who succumbed to the illness in 1989. But the architecture and atmosphere in the lower level of its hospital-district headquarters is more brightly lit, intimate group therapy than brooding nightclub or noisy roadhouse; a mic and stage would be superfluous.

Comics are inches away from the front row, a dozen or so patrons seated in a cosy semicircle. Cheery paintings hang on the walls. If the comic takes two steps backwards, they’ll likely fall into one of the plush couches.

But this isn’t your average comedy crowd, either. It’s an exclusive group of cancer patients and their support network of friends and family.

“For me, personally, I’m really glad I came,” says Clive, a post-middle-age, bearded bear of a man from Roseneath, Ont., who uses Gilda’s resources when in Toronto for treatment. “I could sit at home on the computer, feeling sorry for myself. Here, I get to listen to people making light of many subjects.”

Anna Gustafson, the show’s impresario, is keenly aware of this audience’s uniqueness — and its sensitivities.

“There’s a chance that there’s somebody who’s just lost someone and they’re here to get cheered up,” explains Gustafson, who grew up worshipping Radner and performing her SNL bits for friends in her tiny hometown of Lund, B.C. “Or they’re feeling sick and horrible and” — here, her voice deepens and slows for effect — “they … just … need … a … break.”

To that end, she’s had to exercise some careful stickhandling when selecting standups, all of whom perform for free at Gilda’s Club.

“There are open mics where (standups) show up and say what they want … and there are great places for that.” She pauses, then asserts, “But this isn’t that place.”

So veteran standup and TV host James Cunningham, who playfully mined Clive’s tie-dye T-shirt to huge laughs — including big belly ones from Clive — is a boon to this show.

“But some (standups) will do their acts with complete disregard for the people in front of them … almost to the point that they want to battle,” says Gustafson, who serves as emcee, emphasizing that she’s not necessarily looking for clean comics — just those not bent on “poking the bear.”

Dani Taylor, program and child and youth coordinator for Gilda’s Club, isn’t as concerned as Gustafson about what comics might blurt out — even if it’s cancer-related, because “Gilda made (cancer) more accessible … and would laugh about how ridiculous it is.”

Taylor says that because the centre’s raison-d’être is all about group therapy: “you have to go with the flow … everything we do is collaborative and open. I’m not too worried that a cancer patient needs to be coddled and is vulnerable. More than anything, they’re here to just have a good time.”

Still, Gustafson, a veteran standup in her own right, is cautious when booking colleagues. “I’m looking for comics who are aware,” she says. “That’s a grown-up quality.”

And that’s not about age and tenure.

Emily Bilton, 24 and in the business only a few years, brought down the house — albeit one with a low ceiling and tiny audience — with aplomb, even waxing comically about her own experience of caring for her cancer-stricken grandmother, who died a year ago. Her composed stage presence, she admits, was in stark contrast to how she really felt.

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“Super nervous,” she conceded after her 10-minute set, which also uniquely exploited her training as an opera singer. “Definitely hyper aware of reactions. (But) there was a calm and positive energy in the room. You could tell that they wanted to be there … and to hear what you had to say.”

“Standup doesn’t just have to be a self-indulgent art form. It can be something that brings people together and that heals,” Bilton philosophizes, before adding, “Or, if not heal, it allows a moment of enjoying the moment.”

Donna, who’s attended two Gilda shows, agrees. “I mean, what better escapism is there than laughter?”