Eileen, my friend...

has been diagnosed with inflammatory breast cancer.

Unlike some years ago, a diagnosis of i.b.c. is not a death sentence. Sure, it's a bad thing and it will be a fight, but she isn't giving in to self-pity nor is she morose and wailing "woe is me." No sackcloth and ashes, no whining, just the spirit I have come to expect from her.

She is someone who (though we have never met in person) has my respect and my friendship. She talks very little about herself even though she freely speaks her mind. It surprises me, sometimes, when her words echo my thoughts so closely.

She speaks of losing her hair during chemo. Not like it's the end of the world but matter-of-factly. She says she'll shave her head when the hair starts falling out. Then she should get a flaming skull stick-on tattoo and apply it right in the center of her bald pate. In back. And smile when people stare.

After all, if you can look cancer in the face and not quail, what's to worry about some people thinking you're nuts?

Stand tall, Eileen, you know where to find me.

P.S. Really. Get a flaming skull....