Haute Hospital Part 2

Well, here I am again. 5 a.m.; no food or drink; no beau. If you'll recall,Beau pulled a vanishing act before my mastectomy two weeks ago. Yet he redeemed himself by surprising me at the hospital. Beyond redemption this time? I don't think so, but my loved ones do. I'm not exactly the best man-chooser I'm afraid. Didn't bother to call to check on me yesterday, after I saw the oncologist and got my chemo schedule, which just a few weeks ago he claimed he was going to plan his touring schedule around.

No word last night. No word this morning. My crew, who previously loved him, think he's a duplicitious, sneaky, selfish bastard now. Time to stop defending him? How can I when I have never, ever loved a man like this? I had been celibate for THREE YEARS before I met him. I had never 'made love' with another man before him. Sure, I've been acting crazy. So fucking what? I just had my boobs chopped off and am now having my arm muscle taken out. I think I'm entitled to be completely BATSHIT, no?

So long story short, right now I hate him and love him, but love reigns supreme. I thought I'd finally found a man with balls bigger than mine. Was I wrong again?

That's my vent today. Now I shall primp for my axcillary lymph node removal and injection of the chemo port. My life is SOOOOOOOOOOOO fucking fun. I bet ya'll are jealous now.

My friend Josh at Heeb magazine turned me on to this brilliant cancer magazine online: Waiting Room.

Check it out and if you're feeling charitable, please donate. The world needs a site like this, for young people's sake and the sake of all humanity really.

I'm going to be working with them and I think it'll be a match made in heaven.

I have to admit I sulked in bed until 1 p.m. today and then moms dragged me out of bed. We made it as far as the T-Mobile store, where they wanted me to pay four-fucking-hundred dollars for a new Sidekick. As if. The cell phone biz is as bad as the health insurance game.

Surgery is Friday at 7:30 a.m., same location, same surgeon. Outpatient, but alien drain for another week. My titties are now B cups and not so bad looking on my frame. Will probably stick to a regular C, so that I only need one more 'inflation' session.

The surgeon injects silicon into my boob muscle, and literally inflated them like tires. Mom, Dana and I could see them inflating. Tres, tres bizarre.

Big shout out to all my friends, family, family friends and my beautiful Beau, who is excited to fondle the new boobs--scars and all. I didn't think they made men like him anymore. But they do, so don't write off the opposite sex yet ladies.

I will try to blog tomorrow, but I have an appt with oncologist to determine the chemo schedule tomorrow at 1 p.m. and then it's time for some much-needed retail therapy at the Neiman's outlet.

Thanks to all you guys for the thoughts, prayers and well wishes. Your encouragement means the world to me.

And Percocet is still a fabulous drug, FYI:)

The good news: the alien drains are gone and I've been 'expanded' to a B cup.

The BAD news: it's spread to the lymph nodes, meaning another surgery this Friday and possible radiation in addition to
chemo depending on how many nodes are contaminated.

Today is the first time I've actually broken down, bawling, in the doctors office. NYC trip and chemo will have to be postponed. They even presented my case at a conference yesterday.

I'm so fucking special. And I feel like someone cut me open at the sides and pulled the skin back together. I'm not feeling
good at all.

Frankly, this bites. Period.

New York readers:
Get off your asses and do something for a worthy cause my brother is promoting. Seriously, do a mitzvah for yourself and for these poor motherfuckers in India who live on like a penny a day.

From Brother. . .
Namaskar New Yorkers past and present—I'm having a benefit party on Friday, Feb. 29th for a friend I met in India that administers free health care to rural villagers and children with polio. He's an amazing human being with a great story—on a shoestring budget he rides 2 hours each way to the middle of nowhere (on a rented motorbike) to give extremely poor people the only health care they have.

And he's broke!

Celebrate the Leap Year come say hello and slip Sanjay some cash!

Here is the website for Sanjay and Hope Charity:

You can also read about my experience with Sanjay on my blog, under the entry titled "Sikkim," beginning on the 5th paragraph:

The party will be at The Dressing Room, on Orchard St. between Broome & Grand, on the Lower East Side, from 8:30 p.m. on.

$20 a head preferred, but whatever amount will help.

The more the merrier—please bring as many as you can!

Thank you,
Brother, aka, Michael Green

Post-Op photos. Day after surgery. Feb. 16

The Beau is prettier than me. No, he's not gay—he's just a balls-out rock star. And I love him.

Perhaps only brother (given his India expedition) can understand how fucking amazing it feels to bathe in water and Molton Brown shower gel again. (Not the Molton Brown part natch.)

So today is a good day. Yesterday was hilarious. I was naked from the waist up while the nurse was dressing my wounds and draining the alien pumps. There are still construction crews working on my balcony. I have floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Next thing we know, the scaffolding lift is lowered down past my window with 5 construction workers staring in. Picture this: The Nigerian nurse pumping my alien tubes while mom stands beside me holding the tubes. Fucking priceless. That'll teach them not to look in again. I'm quite surprised one of them didn't fall off.

We went and bought a bunch of baggy tops at Zara to wear until the alien pumps are out. Yest we managed to get this black chiffon one on. (I have to step through the tops cause I can't lift my arms.) So when it came time to take it off last night, we couldn't. And we couldn't figure out how the hell we'd gotten it on. Mom literally cut it off and now it's in the cancer souvenir closet. Beau watched on with amusement. We ate some special brownies and watched RENT.

Okay my arms hurt so that's all for right now.

A surgical diary in photos. There is just WAY to much good material to give away for free. But I'm feeling fabulous, am flat as a board, not wearing a bra, have alien-like drains attached to my body, have a home nurse coming every day, have reservations for wig March 5 to 10 in NYC and have gotten a haircut, final-fucking-ly.

Being wheeled out of Mt. Sinai's 8 Main (The 'cool' floor):


Getting into the wheelchair Monday with the nurse trying to duck out of the shot:

Me in the VIP suite that was my home for three nights. Don't ask me what the fuck is up with my camera. I cannot fix it for the life of me!


The worst part is over, yes, but the worst part right now is these crazy alien drainage pumps that suck the fluid from the tits or something like that. I have to walk around all day with these things, so I look like I've been impregnated by ET. I pin them to my clothes, don a baggy shirt and hit the road. . .



And me last night, post haircut and less than five days since surgery.


I've been doing a little bit every day, going for coffee, hitting sephora, going for lunch, chilling with friends, shopping etc. Mom is here to fetch things for me—I can't really lift my arms or use them much for that matter. Beau is staying tonight too, and the pain gets a little better everyday.

It's all good.

All is right with the world again. The Beau is back, the family is here and I've gotten a nice Franck Muller as a hand-me-down. Thanks for all the emails and phone calls. I sincerely thank you all but have no time to write individually.

In 12 hours I'll be passed out in my prvt room.

This photo's worth 150,000 words. A book's worth. Unfortunately, it seems my book is not going to have a happy ending. This is the bad thing about getting your hopes up.

A new scrip for Klonopin, a day with Dana and Jim at the hospital, early dinner at Joe's Stone Crab and two cocktails later, I'm feeling better. Don't get me wrong, I'm still dying inside, and this situation is completely out of control. Control freak not in control at all.

Anyway, I went ballistic at Sinai today, after the cunt at the front desk stopped me from going upstairs. I was screaming at the top of my lungs: "I HATE THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT HOSPITAL. FUCKING LOSERS! AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGH! WHY THE FUCK AM I PUTTING MY LIFE IN THESE IDIOTS' HANDS?"

"Well, it's not too late," Dana says.

"WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? RENT AN APARTMENT AND GO TO SLOAN?"

"Why not?"

"CAUSE I DON'T HAVE $20,000 TO THROW AWAY!"

This went on for a few minutes; Dana got some of it on camera. I was nearly arrested for disturbing the peace. But the plastic surgeon was cool. He threw in some Botox too, and was so meticulous with the application that it gave me confidence in his surgical skills.

Doc says that after the surgery I will be about an A cup and then the skin stretches over time. They put the implants in after chemo. I didn't show him Playboy. He knows what he's doing.

This week could not have started out worse. But these photos speak volumes and remind me that I experienced pure happiness if only for two months. Some people never experience pure happiness, so I know I have to be thankful for these past weeks.

(The shirts are courtesy of Sabrina Cohen. Please check out her web site. If you guys think my pathetic story is inspiring, then you'll be blown away by her.)

Today I head to my first solo doctor's appointment; the plastic surgeon, where I will have to choose new breasts. I have a Playboy, my only companion today. I don't know how this week will end. I am still hoping for the best, but it's getting more difficult to have faith each day. And I'm not even referring to the surgery. I wish the surgeons could cut out the part of my brain responsible for emotions so that I have no feeling there anymore as I won't with my fake tits. Just when you thought life was good—despite CANCER—God throws you another curveball. I will get through this because I know I have to for my friends and family.

But the raw truth is that now I'm half hoping I will die during surgery. Thank God I have two shrinks. Though I've run out of Xanax. Sunday morning and yesterday were 2 mg days.

The crew, the Beau and the Bye Bye Boobie Bash.

The photos speak for themselves. (Cause I'm all talked out.)

I woke up yesterday afternoon, read my rejection email and crawled back into bed. I haven't had that don't-want-to get-out-of-bed feeling in a while. I called Beau, told him what had happened. He consoled me. I promised to shake it off and get out of bed. I fell asleep again. He called and woke me up.

"Alright, you think your morning was bad? I woke up to about six SWAT guys pointing guns at my head. I didn't want to tell you cause you were already having a bad day."

That got my ass right out of bed. You all know how I love me some drama.

And no, he's not a "gangsta" rapper. It was some retarded misunderstanding, but totally Cops. They were literally pointing guns in his face, having gotten the key to his place from the bldg mgr.

One of the reasons we get along so well is that his life is as drama-filled as mine. He can match me crazy story for crazy story every day. I can't tell you who he is primarily b/c he is not divorced yet, just legally separated. Plus, I kind of like the mysterious element.

Anyway, I can't remember what I've written where—given my 3 Filofaxes, blog and book—but following is the latest.

Saturday night Dawn and I are throwing a "Bye-Bye Boobie Birthday Bash." It's her 30th and my last weekend with my own boobs. My beau is performing and we'll both be wearing this shirt, from my friend Sabrina Cohen's foundation.

Another friend, the brilliant photographic artist, Tomas Loewy, has offered to do a portrait of me while I'm still au natural. His work is fabulous, so I'm psyched about that.

My friends are the best in the world. Big shout out to all you guys. You rock.

My double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction is Friday, Feb. 15th. My family, at least six of their friends, my beau and my friends will all be in attendance. They'll be laughing it up while my tits are sliced and diced. Not that I'd expect anything less from them. Natch they'll be filming that. Assuming I don't croak, I'll pretty much be fully recovered from the operation two weeks after. In the third week I'll go to NYC to see the wig maker.

Well, I will be fully recovered aside from having no nips—I can't remember if I shared this here yet. Who wants to look at their boobs with no nips? Not me. (They don't put the nips back on until after chemo. Ick.) So I had Beau go to Hustler on Sunset Blvd. to get me some hot pasties to substitute for nipples.

"What are pasties?" he asked. He's as naive about pop culture as I am about hip hop.

I explained to him, but he still didn't get it. "Ohhhhh! You mean like Lil Kim wore?"

Ha. I LOVE that that's his frame of reference. So he got me some really cute pasties. A pair of cherries, some butterflies, among others. He picked the butterflies because the color matches my hair color. I'm really not making this up. And you all know how cynical I am about men, so if I can find a man like him, there's hope ladies.

And my fruitless search for a Playboy has ended. Beau told me last night:

"I did it! I found you Playboy! And it's perfect because it's all about Hooters girls so they have 10 centerfolds instead of just one! So you have 10 boobs to choose from."

"I have 20! Did you pick me out some nice ones?"

"Yeah actually I saw a couple that were nice."

Oh my God. And my life's not interesting?

Rejection Report

Let's see, I awoke this afternoon to find a rejection email from my former agent.

Not commercial or marketable enough. Not unique enough to distinguish it enough from other cancer memoirs.

Now, aside from the fact that publishing is a machine as commercial as the Hollywood machine, let's discuss how ass-backwards this rejection is.

First of all, be honest. Tell me it sucks and I'd have a lot more respect for you than you following the party line.

Second, third, fourth, 100th. Not marketable or unique enough? Nigga please. (I can say that now that I'm with a black hip hop artist.)

Tell me what other "cancer memoir" includes a 32-year-old hot, funny, talented, spoiled, social, well-connected, perfectionist who glides into the hospital with a gaggle of girlfriends as if it's Bergdorf's. Who is having a true love affair with a multi-platinum award-winning black musician with three kids and a soon-to-be-ex wife. Who decided to throw a party and register at Neiman's minutes after being diagnosed with BC. Who describes her upcoming double mastectomy procedure as "lopping 'em off and putting better ones back on." Who dons her best clothes and baubles for hospital visits. Who shows off her cancer hospital cards as if they're black cards. Who manages to get in with the top breast cancer expert in the world, knowing that he doesn't even take new patients. Whose trip to the fabulous Upper East Side wigmaker to the stars will be followed by a fabulous New World Symphony party and forays to 47th St. and Fifth Avenue. Whose family is as fucking crazy as the Bluths of Arrested Development. Who is looking forward to chemo because it means no shaving for four months anywhere. That's right, a painless Brazilian for four months. (Well, treatment may hurt a little, but shit, not shaving for four months? Totally worth it, right ladies?) Who called her reconstructive plastic surgeon yesterday and asked him to throw in some Botox with the pre-op consult. Who embarks with her friends on a fruitless quest for Playboy so she can handpick her new tits. (As an aside, I've been to two sex shops and every gas station and bookstore looking for Playboy. None of these motherfuckers carry Hugh's rag. Shit, I bet I can get to Hugh with no more than a few calls.) Whose Miami shrink will attend the operation—along with about 20 family and friends—and whose Beverly Hills shrink offered to fly in. Who has secured a private, VIP suite at Mt. Sinai, when they are exclusively reserved for hospital founders. Whose already razor-sharp wit is heightened after diagnosis. Whose standard answer to the "how are you" question is, "Aside from the breast cancer, I'm fabulous!" Whose beautiful beau, whilst professing his love for her says, "Breasts, no breasts, hair no hair, that's not ever going to change my feelings for you." Whose card table is littered with gifts from Neiman's and Saks. Who is seeing the bright side of chemo—no driving, no blow-drying, no shaving, losing weight and being catered to. Who has people flying in from all over the world—on private planes, natch—to care for her. Whose life was a fiery ball of drama before the BC struck.

Oh, the list goes on. You guys, my loyal readers, haven't seen anything yet.

So for the formulaic, unadventurous agents out there: It's cool. In 6 months roll up the New York Times Magazine with my photo on the cover and smack yourself on the head with it.

One of you gave me the name of lit agent Kate Garrick a while back. I think she's someone's relative or friend; I'm thinking it was a reader in Virginia maybe?

(Aly I know you gave it to me yesterday too. . .)

Anyway, whoever it was, please get in touch again and remind me what the connection is.

Cindy P. is it you? Short term memory loss. But I need to get this fucker in the hands of someone before my tit surgery next Friday in case I like die. Which is a distinct possibility. In which case, I'd be able to go in peace knowing that my main mission in life, to publish a book, has been accomplished. Cause I know my mother ain't going to know how to find my manuscript and go to 49 different publishers like John Kennedy Toole's mama. My mom doesn't even know who Bob Marley was for Christ sakes.

The private jet thing ain't happenin before next Friday, but if I hustle and if I find a BRILLIANT, tenacious, ballsy agent who works as fast as I do, well then that's good enough for me.

I'm PMSing so hardcore right now and I just had to drive my beau up north, which should have taken 1/2 hour and instead took an hour thanks to these FUCKING IDIOTIC GODDAMN SOUTH FLORIDA DRIVERS WHO CLOG UP 95 FOR AN HOUR JUST TO RUBBERNECK. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE. JUST KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD IN FRONT OF YOU AND LET THE GODDAMN PIGS DO THEIR FUCKING JOBS.

I was so pissed I flipped off about 10 cars, including a cab driver who pulled in front of me on Alton. He made the mistake of pulling up next to me and rolling his window down. So he got the finger plus the added bonus of a "FUCK YOU!" You guys should see how these cabbies drive down here. They make NY cabbies look like freaking Einstein.

FUCKING PMS. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Being a woman fucking sucks sometimes. Am I right ladies?

Sneak Preview

An offer to my loyal (and well-connected readers): Email me at stephgreen17@gmail.com with the name of a top lit agent and you'll get a sneak preview of my new book.

This memoir is based on my insanely adventurous life of late—the blog barely scratches the surface. Think Entourage meets Sex and the City meets Jungle Fever, with the added bonuses of cancer and a love story between this Jewess and a world renowned hip-hop artist. With dashes of fashion, jewelry, nightlife, sex, love, Manhattan, South Beach and the usual craziness that characterizes my stranger than fiction existence.