"#@$% Cancer; I'm Going to Paris!"

I noticed her right away. I mean, it was impossible not to. In a roomful of middle-aged, stressed-looking, kerchief-bedecked women, she was the only one who didn't look like an auditioner for the part of Golde in "Fiddler on the Roof!"

It was May 2008 when I entered the infusion center for the first time for my second round of chemo. I had already received round #1 a few weeks earlier, while I was still hospitalized following surgery to remove a massive malignant tumor on my ovary, thus leaving me with a 10" scar that effectively ended my two piece swimsuit career (and dashed my dreams of one day becoming Ms. Hawaiian Tropic). I felt anxious and out of place, like a transfer student entering homeroom right in the middle of roll call. I nervously tugged forward on the bangs of my wig, hoping to cover the word "newbie" that was surely stamped on my forehead.

For a few agonizingly long seconds, I stood by the entryway, unsure of the proper protocol. Was I supposed to be shown to my recliner, like at a restaurant, or was it more bar-style, where I just pick one out for myself? Funny, though a well-meaning social worker had given me fistfuls of informational pamphlets, (I found their sweet pastel-hued illustrations ironically evocative of sympathy cards), none of them seemed to contain any practical tips concerning real-life cancer situations. Then, just as a chemo nurse came to ask my name and (very quickly) glance at my plastic ID bracelet (making me wonder if perhaps I could've just hired a replacement, like someone who stands in line for you at the DMV...or takes your SATs), I saw her patting the chair next to hers, the universally recognized sign for, "Come sit by me."

The nurse then excused herself to go in the back to "mix my cocktail" (make mine a Cosmo!), and I gratefully made my way over to the saved seat, feeling like the most popular girl in class had just invited me to join her at the cool table in the cafeteria.

"Hi, I'm Maureen," said the friendly woman, as she held up her right hand, palm forward in a maneuver that, back in less politically correct times, we referred to as the "How" sign. I'm guessing she would've offered a traditional handshake had the top of her hand not been impaled by a giant needle connected to yards of tubing which led to an IV pump.

Now, the first thing that struck me about Maureen was her complete baldness. Whereas I had spent an hour that morning stenciling on fake eyebrows, applying mascara to my two remaining eyelashes, and deciding which wig to wear (should I go with the Beckham-like bob or the long modified "That Girl" flip?), Maureen did not have a single visible hair anywhere on her pale, lightly freckled body, not even an eyelash. "Yes, I have cancer," her look seemed to say, "Do you have a problem with that?" I certainly didn't. To me, she looked like a beautiful Irish alien.

After immediately immersing ourselves in a round of "What Are You in For?" (the requisite chemo conversational icebreaker), we quickly connected upon discovering that we were both "Ovarians," which, we joked, sounded more like an astrological sign than it did a disease.

What drew me to Maureen on that initial day and throughout the next 2 ½ years was her effervescent spirit and totally irreverent demeanor. Nurses loved her; doctors seemed slightly afraid. Ever the good girl, I was endlessly charmed by this seemingly sweet-looking woman who could, when pressed, swear like a longshoreman. "#@$% cancer!" she proclaimed during a particularly grueling session. You gotta love a chick like that.

It's a risky thing, developing a friendship that is initially based upon mutual serious illness. The gamble is inherent. You share your jokes, your stories, and your lives with this new person, all the while knowing that there's a good chance that one of you will wind up heartbroken. I didn't care; I rolled the dice.

As the months progressed, my health improved, but hers did not. Throughout her long ordeal, Maureen bravely endured two tough surgeries, several hospitalizations and countless chemo combinations. Most people in her position would go home and cry. Not Maureen. Upon learning that the renegade cells were busily marching through her body, she figured, "#@$% that! Why should they be the only ones to travel?"

So, after securing her doctor's blessing (and watching "The Bucket List" multiple times), Maureen renewed her passport. In the summer of 2010, she visited the Eiffel Tower, traipsed across the cobblestones of Montmartre, went clubbing at The Moulin Rouge, and floated down the Seine. She also she saw the majestic mountains of Montana and the white sandy beaches of both Key West and Turks and Caicos. Along the way, she even fulfilled her wish to meet The Dog Whisperer. For someone who wasn't given long to live, Maureen was surely living.

Over the winter, I visited Maureen at her beachside cottage for what I knew would likely be the last time. At that point, her cancer was everywhere and she had recently made the decision to suspend treatment and "let nature take its course." She was physically worn out, but wanted to talk. I was emotionally worn out, but wanted to listen, so we spent the afternoon drinking tea and shooting the breeze at her dining room table while Jazz, her beloved German shepherd lay protectively at her feet. She told me about her childhood growing up in Fairfield, her career as a nurse and later a massage therapist, her travels, her struggles and her achievements. She was particularly proud of her participation in the Discovery to Cure Patient Advocacy Program at the Yale School of Medicine, and repeatedly expressed her enormous gratitude for the compassionate care she received from "Dr. Dan" and the team of nurses at Yale Medical Group. Despite her dire circumstances, Maureen had an intense appreciation for what she deemed an incredibly lucky life.

Not wanting to ignore the elephant in the room, we also talked about dying, and even laughed over an irreverent joke about a hospice patient who agonizes over whether or not she should purchase green bananas. It is the kind of humor that healthy people would find appalling.

It was cold and dark outside when it was time for me to leave. I gave Jazz one last belly rub and hugged Maureen goodbye. I held on extra long.

I thought a lot about Maureen during that last drive home, and surprisingly, instead of feeling sad, I found myself happily inspired by her utter joie de vivre. And about a half hour later, when I got home, I walked through the front door, greeted my loved ones (both human and furry), and went directly to the bureau in the bedroom ... in search of my passport.

Layla Ann Silver is a freelance writer whose friend and fellow Ovarian Maureen recently passed away from complications of ovarian cancer. She can be reached at laylaannsilver@hotmail.com