HAIR

Soo, my hair started falling out yesterday. As you know, I'm already shaved. But while Bam and I were sitting at the pool, my scalp was itching under my hat; natch, I scratched. Next thing I know, I look down at my fingers and they are COVERED in hair. Sure enough, I lifted my hat and the entire rim was lined in 1/8" hairs. Of course, it was a little disconcerting, but right on schedule. You know me, type-A till the end, always meeting my deadlines.

We immediately went upstairs, I sat in the bath and Bam shaved the head completely. It actually didn't feel so weird, but was def traumatic. Thankfully my sense of humor is intact, the Xanax scrip is filled and Bam is here to hold my hand so to speak. The nastiest part is the hair flying everywhere on me, so that my arms looked like (a?) Sasquatch. I have a thing about hair anyway and am never without my lint brush. So you can imagine the squeamishness I felt with my own little hairs all over my body and face. Eww. I mean, I carry a lint brush to Dana's house with me due to her pug and her Siamese cat who shed like motherfuckers. I even roll it over my face.

We got the whole thing on video. And yes, those are my tennis ball titties. I know how gross they are so save the comments. The good news is that they are almost a full C cup, so I am only going to let the plastic surgeon inflate them a tiny bit more. Cause let me tell you, my deltoids are still smarting from this skin-stretching nightmare. It's really, truly, disgustingly foul. But, surprisingly, the scars on the breastesses have almost completely faded, so I guess I have skin that heals pretty well. Can't wait to have normal, fake, silicone titties like all the rest of the South Beach women. And yes, ladies, (Nancy P.) my bras are all up for grabs.

The evidence:




Some lighter material. . .

Dana engaging in her fave hobby at chemo. They actually bring around sandwiches, salads etc while you're there. Yeah, my camera is totally ghetto and overexposed during daylight. I cannot for the life of me figure out what's wrong despite reading the manual. If anyone has a Casio Exilim and can help, I'd be very grateful.

Kobi loves my dad. Apparently after our pre-chemo dinner Sunday night, he kept saying "Mark." Meanwhile, I haven't heard him say my name in ages. Ahem. Though he is proficient in all food names and "boobie." The kid can put away food like nothing else. Whenever he goes to Rosa Mexicano, he polishes off nearly a whole tub of their guac. I'm not shitting you. It's hilarious.



The Silvers decided to celebrate St. Patrick's day on Easter Sunday. They were all, coincidentally, donning green.

So Afrika Baby Bam from the Jungle Brothers, aka Beau as you all know him, and I are getting crazier by the day. I think I'm rubbing off on him. Poor thing. And what's with this lame ass site? They publish my ghetto photos and keep talking about Bam's 'homosexuality;' are there not any other rumors for them to harp on? The comments are the cherry on the cake—every single one is an advertisement! Enough said.

I'm not very coherent at the moment. The cancer drugs not only make me fatigued and queasy, but they totally fuck with my short-term memory, for real. Lots of weird stuff happening as usual. Last night Bam and I were sitting on the couch flipping through the channels after The Apprentice—can someone please tell me what the winner actually won??—and I saw Oxygen's Snapped pop up on the guide. Dad had a case many years ago that got a lot of press. His client allegedly hired some thugs to kill her hubby cause he was stepping out on her with a teenager. Ick. The trial was live on Court TV and was the focus of an episode of Snapped and A&E's American Justice. Anyway, last night I paused on Snapped and hit info. Sure enough, dad's episode. Just random.

You guys should see Bam and me—plus Wally—padding around my apartment day by day. I'm having hot and cold flashes like a motherfucker, so my AC goes from about 65 to 80 in any given hour. Bam's always cold, so he walks around with my cancer blanket. He slept in my pink Natori bathrobe last night cause he was cold, and I stripped off my nightgown in the middle of the night cause I was boiling. And he's pretty much allergic to everything, including dogs, so natch Wally loves him and insists on crawling all over him and trying to lick him. Wally usually hates men I bring around. Today I'm sitting here doing this and cleaning, while Bam's out practicing for his 5 a.m. performance. It's the Winter Music Conference this wkd, so all the industry people are in town. My ass will be passed out obv, but if I were healthy I'd love to go see him do his thing.

If my deceased relatives are watching my life from up 'there' right now, I wonder what the hell they are thinking. . . .

Today we logged footage from the first tape of my ongoing documentation of this whole cancer thing. The first tape takes us through me waking up from my lumpectomy—when we all thought the lump was benign—to the visits to the oncologists etc. I have to say, I have a very entertaining posse. And sadly, my mom and Lynn look better on camera than me. Time for some more Restylane. And my hair looks so good on camera. I always took my hair for granted; now I want it back. I just want this whole thing to be over with already. As usual, the waiting is the most unbearable part.

The Bald and the Beautiful

My fabulously talented friend Tomas Loewy found the perfect backdrop—a long admired canvas of his—for my proper baldie portrait.

Does this say book cover or what?

Chemo Cometh

Monday was my second of eight chemo sessions. Dad, Dana and Dana's mom Nancy were in tow for some comic relief. My nurse Audrey hooked us up with the private corner unit again with water views. Dad left yesterday afternoon and Beau drove in last night to take the lead.

The medicine in this syringe turns your pee pink. Audrey calls it 'big red.'




The side effects have been minimal this week. No night sweats or increased urination. This product you can buy at Wild Oats/Whole Foods called Black Cohash, works miracles on the night sweats and other menopause-like symptoms. A little bit of nausea, but no biggie. Hair not falling out yet, and after watching our video footage I'm missing my own hair and hating BANGS. Ugh.

They have to take my blood pressure via my leg . . .



Anyway, only six more to go! And I tried on one of my bras today—almost there, so one more inflation session and I'll be the full-C I once was.

3 more months and counting.

Below are from the 1st chemo, I can't remember if I posted these or not. The drugs fuck with my memory for damn sure. The boobage has "settled" since then.

Group Hug

My South Beach debut of the wig went well. Beau and I joined my gay boyfriend and his real boyfriend for a night of long-overdue culture. The New World Symphony had a performance featuring John Adams and electric violinist Tracy Silverman. It was lovely to have a night out that didn't involve a bar. The fab four of us grabbed a bite on Lincoln afterwards, and the wig seems to be a hit.

Dad arrived today with my beloved four-legged guy Wally and the chemo crew rocking Sinai tomorrow will include Dana, her mom Nancy and Dad. Wally, Beau and I are now sporting similar haircuts—we are all shaved. Wally is the most hirsute of the trio.


Durrett, Afrika Baby Bam, yours truly and Steve. Notice how the new boobage doesn't exactly fill out the Vera bodice. That's cause my titties are nearly up to my chin stretching the skin until the silicone goes in post-chemo.



On Lincoln Road—and no, we did not color coordinate on purpose. We just Got it Like That.


Dad and I at dinner at Perricone's for Easter

My mini-breakdown was naturally fueled by the unfortunate convergence of PMS and menopause-like symptoms that are the most annoying side-effects of last Monday's chemo. Many thanks to all you supporters and fans for your thoughts and prayers. I truly appreciate each and every one of you to no end.

I woke up soaked through with sweat two days post chemo; the sheets were soaked; the duvet was soaked, the pillows and all. Beau was there to take care of me. It got better but lasted about 5 days. Jeez I empathize with you menopausers out there. My god.

Not much time—debuting the wig tonight for a long-overdue girl's night out. Sans the alcohol for this CP. NYC was fine, I will dissect it later. For now, the photos will suffice. The wig man Ralf is a fascinating man whose experience of 40 years in the wig/hair business has garnered him relationships with our times' most interesting characters—Doris Duke, Loretta Lynn and Helen Gurley Brown among countless others. Got myself a quality digicam and have about 3 hours of footage of my experience with him. Absolutely priceless. He recently did Robin Roberts and they filmed a segment for GMA or some other show.

So here go the photos. Friends and family might want to brace yourselves for the shaved head, but not to worry. I am totally cool with it and Beau loves it as well. Who knew I had a perfectly round head under all my Jew-fro hair. (I've been Jap straightening it for 5 years.)

First Ralph cut me with scissors. He eases into it, as most women are emotional, but you know me—I told him to bring it on.


He left my bangs, some hair around my face and in the back, so that while he sewed and fit the wig, I could go out for lunch (Saks), don a hat (shearling) and get used to the feel of a shaved head. Cool.

Brother, the photog, had just caught A Chorus Line, and told me to do the dance pose a la the show. Hence the retarded stance.

Mom and me

A mullet-haired me next to my wig, while it was still uncut.

Brother thought I looked so funny and ZZ Top-ish from the back, that he conceived this photo and I went along.


Me with the new 'do, after a delicious dinner at Fresco where the wig made it's East Side debut. This dummy is the wig's BFF. And no I didn't draw on it, it came like that.


And me as a baldie.

Would I ever have thought that I would dread going to the city? Would I ever have imagined that I would be sitting at my computer with a mutilated, butchered, grotesque chest, hormonal and crying, feeling two alien life forms stretching my skin while Beau pops out to take a meeting? Could I have envisioned myself getting on a plane and showing the TSA people my fucking hospital card (resting in my fucking Prada wallet, natch) that reads: "BardPort Implanted Port with open-ended catheter?"
It has a product code and a lot number. I have a fucking product implanted in my chest. (It's a registered trademark of C.R. Bard, Inc., or an affiliate!) Would I ever have thought that my life would be this strange, surreal, real, full, empty, meaningful and meaningless at the same time? I don't fucking know. I don't fucking know anything anymore. I just want to lie down and relinquish control of my life to someone else. Someone who cares about it more than me perhaps.

All I know right now is that I don't know what I'm fighting for anymore. My dog? My family? My friends? Myself? It's certainly not the latter and it must be the former, but is that enough?

"Where do you see yourself in six months when this is all over?" Beau asked me last night.

I don't fucking know. Okay? I don't fucking know. I told him I saw myself going on a much-needed vacation, California or back to the Amalfi Coast. (Hey, if I do die this year, at least I got that vacation, right?)

But the truth is, right now all I see is a fade to black.

I felt ill earlier. Beau and I went for a walk along the water. Cleared my head but I still felt physically ill. I have no appetite yet I am supposed to feed myself six times a day. With like healthy shit and shit. So we went to Wild Oats, bought some fake chicken and Beau made some dinner for me. It's like I'm watching this utterly psychotic person's life go on from a distance. I mean, this can't possibly be me can it? But it is. This is my life. Whatever this is.

Beau just walked to Lincoln Road and called to check in when he got there.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes," I said, snuffling into a wad of paper towels.

"What are you blowing your nose?"

"No," I said, laughing, "I'm crying."

"You're crying?"

"Yes. I'm writing and I'm crying."

"You're writing and crying, like what's her—"

"Ha. Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give."

"Yeah!"

Yeah. Maybe, if the book ever does come out, you'll get the reference then.

Well, it's almost 48 hours post chemo with very minimal side-effects of which to speak. Thankfully. The pain in my rock-hard, sacks of saline has subsided for the most part. Though I am quite fatigued, which frankly kind of sucks cause I'm normally pretty on the go.

Mom left this a.m. at 6:30, and I've collected Beau from BFE. Leave it to me to drive for the first time in a month on 1-95 in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I can now fully shower myself, except, and this is really fucking gross, I cannot use a razor on my left pit. I had an electric one that I left at the parents house. At this point I don't really give a crap. Everything else is shaved.
Hoping that by the time I leave for New York on Friday I will be nearly 100%, so that I can move at my normal pace instead of in perpetual slo-mow.

Another case in point of how easily the media is manipulated. Apparently the makeup photos I took of Beau have made quite the impact.

This little blog—the comments at least—proves how unbelievably homophobic the hip hop community is. The irony is that some of the most major hip hop people/rappers are in fact gay.

I think you all will have garnered from my posts about Beau that he is most def not gay. Or bisexual. And yes I took all the makeup photos. And did the makeup. On my bed. Perhaps it's the glittery pillows. Or the retarded names he gave the photos—babe what the hell were you thinking? I don't take responsibility for the photo names. And this all came about from a few of the photos that he posted on his myspace page.

I'm having, thankfully, little side effects from the chemo. Woke up a little queasy, but the anti-nausea drugs work well. Went to the hospital for a shot that boosts your immune system. Bought surgical masks for the plane; doc said it's a good idea to bring in case there is some disgusting person hacking up a lung, which there always is.

And apparently, my hair could start falling out as soon as Saturday. Meaning I'll be in Bergdorf's leaving a trail of human fur behind me. Eww. Good thing I'm getting my head shaved and my wig fitted on Monday.

Chemo was a freaking cakewalk! Photos to come. The room was lovely with a view of the bay and Miami beach. We had a blast--dressed to the nines natch.

On another topic, this lame web site is talking bad about Beau. And I did the makeup, so I think I should at least be mentioned.

To continue. . .
Beau and Dana hang up and Beau texts mom, asking if I'm okay. Natch, the freak-outs begin. Dana and mom, Beau and mom are all playing telephone with my life.

I find it most humorous that a non-Jew, Beau, is the one who started the worry chain. Perhaps our mishegas (sp) are rubbing off on him. By the time I awake, the whole Eastern seaboard is ready to bang on my door.

Dana tells mom that if I'm not reachable by 4:15, she's coming over to the apartment. By the time I call mom, the first thing she says is "Boy, Beau was sure worried about you."

Oh, and to backtrack, in one of her conversations with Beau, Dana came right out and asked him if we'd had a convo the previous night that would have upset me. Coming up with no diplomatic way of saying this, she came right out and asked him if we'd fought the night before. Natch, everyone was thinking OVERDOSE, SUICIDE, SLIP AND FALL, etc. etc. All the while, I'm sleeping somewhat--given the pain--peacefully.

It was a modified Bermuda incident all over again.

So now mom's here, I go to the oncologist in two hours and the pain is a little better. I still have rocks in my chest and look like shit. But I've got my outfit all planned--pink cami, pink jacket, pink purse etc. And mom is wearing a pink Hanro under her shirt.

Guess I'm off to chemo. More adventures to come.

Holy fuck, I got the tissue expanders in my breasts Friday afternoon and have been in agonizing pain all weekend. Serious, horrific PAIN. I have rocks in my chest—hard to the touch and melon-like in appearance.

The pain is as bad as it was after the mastectomy, except no morphine this time. Plus, mom left yesterday. After a losing battle with my bed for a comfortable position in which to sleep, my brain finally went into REM. I noted that my phone was ringing incessantly, but my sore, tired, drugged-up ass wasn't rushing to the phone to see "Chase USA" on the caller ID.

I woke around 2 p.m., which was really 3 p.m. due to DST. There were about 10 missed calls on my cell and several "Are you okay where are you??" texts. A third of the calls were from Beau, a third from Dana and the rest from mom.

Nobody, aside from Beau and I, really knows what's going on between us on a day-by-day basis. So, when Beau called Dana around noon and said, "How is Stephanie?" Dana, not knowing whether he and I were in communication, gave a vague answer. "Oh, she's okay, just in a lot of pain this weekend."

More TK, must go pop some pills and try to sleep.

Closure

Well, the pain meds are gone, the drains are out, I have more use of my arms, can finally exercise again and will be by myself this weekend in my own apt. after nearly a month of being baby-sat.

Today marks 3 weeks from the bilateral mastectomy. Yesterday, surgeon, in between my bouts of puking called me his "model patient" in terms of healing, attitude and appearance. And it really is amazing to know that your body can endure such a pummeling and in three weeks time it only feels residual effects.

I mean I'm not going out and running four miles today, but I might walk them.

Also, my finances are finally in order, I'm getting a much needed respite from the south with my trip to NYC next week.

And y'all will be happy to know I've communicated to Bam (formerly known as Beau) that we cannot be in communication until he gets his head together and I get my body healed.

In fact, this is the text I sent, for he never answered my calls anymore. No response from him, natch:

"Baby this is goodbye for now for both our sakes. I must focus on my health and your kids need you to themselves. I will always love you and be here. When you get through your troubles and figure out what you want for the future, rest assured I will be on the other end. xoxo"

I know many of you will think this too nice, but I do care for him immensely and have no desire to hurt him the way I've been hurt. The last thing I need right now is bad karma. It sucks, it fucking hurts and I won't lie, I cry about him every day. As you girls know, there is nothing more painful than love, esp love that you think will stand the tests of life.

But it gets a little better every day and thankfully we are not in the same circles where I would run into him.

And thankfully I have my tremendously supportive and fabulous support network, too large to mention. But in general shout outs to my childhood friends, the Jacksonville crew, the New York Crew, the Miami Crew, the Californians, the Atlanta peeps, the Palm Beachers, all of Florida really, the family, the friends, the family friends, coworkers and the near-strangers who have reached out. And thanks to you readers, whose comments and support I truly take to heart.

Tuesday Feb. 26th began as an ordinary Mt. Sinai day in the life of Stephanie Green. I had a 12:30 appt with the plastic surgeon, where he inflated my boobs to a B cup. All was well, as you can see from the photos.









Then, I traveled downstairs to the regular surgeon to have the 4 alien drains removed. He yanked 'em out (not as painful as people tell you) and then he hit me with the bad news.
The BC had spread to one of the three lymph nodes. They'd found microscopic cells. For some reason, this was the straw that broke my back. The first time I'd broken down in a doc's office. The first time I think, that I'd even cried in front of mom and Dana.

Luckily, Dana's there to document the highs and the lows.

I had already scheduled chemo to commence this Monday the 10th; finishing on June 16th. Doc explained that if two more lymphs were also involved, it would mean radiation. Another 6 mos off treatment every day, tacked on to the end of chemo. There went my 'healthy by summer' mindset.

I scheduled the surgery for that Friday, Feb. 29th. I was not breaking my chemo sched. And fuck it, after a double mast, cutting out 8 lymphs and installing a port was nothing. In and out and home by 4 p.m.

Lynn, Mom, Dana and my shrink were in tow this time. My shrink is hil-fucking-larious, genius, cool, talented and my age. Shrink, who practices at Mt. Sinai as well, apparently ran off with Dana's video camera and filmed me in surgery. Mt. Sinai authorities promptly requested him to erase the film, in front of them. Damn. But he did manage to get this Grey's Anatomy-esque photo of my surgical chart:

After surgery, in their chic little hoodie.


Me and Dana clutching our baby bellies; I got one more tube in.


After the hospital, we stopped at Epicure and brought back the celebratory cake that I slept ate.




Today I found out that there are NO more lymphs infected. Drain out. All good, but I was puking my guts out all night and morning for no reason. Mom had to physically drag me out of bed to doctor. I puked in the Mt. Sinai bathroom. In the doctor's bathroom and in the doctor's office.

Party Brownies

The only time y'all will see me baking--pot brownies, natch. With the aid of Baker Barbara and Alleycat, we had a fabulous rainy afternoon. And the brownies are to-die-for. I had a few too many apparently and passed the fuck out at 8 p.m. last night. And probably gained two pounds in the process.

Now, for the captions. Barbara is a good family friend and the mother of Crazy Ass Nicole (who is preggers btw). Barbara is very spiritual in the yoga-chakra-psychic-kabbalah sort of way. She also loves to party and is a TOTAL hoot. And a fabu baker to boot. Alison and I go back several generations; our grandparents were best friends. And our fathers are still very close friends. So after she ali and I ate lunch out, Barbara joined our baking bash. While Alison and I were preparing the ingredients. . .




and beginning to bake (Alison 99% me 1%) . . .

Barbara blazed in with some more supplies and her requisite stick of sage to balance my chakras. I have been meaning to call Barbara's spiritual healer, but I just haven't gotten around to it. So Barb holds this small stick of sage and starts waving around the kitchen. Barbara has a very high, dramatic, Southern voice.
"I'm cleansing ya'll's house! And I'm going to balance your chakras honey."

"Okay, I need all the help I can get."

"Yaaay. Okay, hold this between your third eye and breathe it in. "
My attempt at reaching my third eye wasn't successful.
"Noo honey, you got to put it so close you can feel the heat. And bend over while you do it."
She bends over and puts the fiery thing so close to her forehead that it's a mm from burning her bangs.

"Barbara you're going to burn your hair! Be careful! I can't do that. You do it for me." Hence. . .





"Oh-kay, now I need to cleanse all your chakras!"

"Okay. . . make sure you get under my lymph nodes and pray for negative results."

"Oooh yeah, I'll get it all!"
.
She kneeled down, put her face in front of my crotch and her arm underneath my vjajay.

"Oh. My. God. What the hell are you doing Barbara?" Alison asked cracking up.

"I'm cleansing her source! This is the core of it all!" Oh, man. Can you imagine what a great cooking show this would make.


The end results. . .

A Little Help from My Friends

My dear, loyal readers. I don't often ask for help, but I need yours.

My book proposal is currently being rejected, yet I am getting constant "you are inspiring" feedback, so I want to increase my blog readership as a means to an end. The end being publishing my memoirs of course. Not for fame, not for money. But for entertainment and enlightenment. If I can inspire and make even one of you take action, then surely I can do that for many others.

So, my request to you all is that you forward the link to my blog to as many of your friends, coworkers and family as you can, and in turn ask them to do the same. A chain mail without all that superstitious BS. Emailing the link to people in the media would be helpful naturally, but I'm just as happy with friends-of-friends and the like.

Feel free to send whichever you link you like--a post you love, a post you hate, a post that made you laugh--but please type away. I'd be grateful forever.

I'm lying in my bed on dad's laptop, with Wally at my feet, my alien drain pinned to my nightgown and my pink rubber BCA bracelet on my wrist. And I'm crying; remembering how 15 years ago, lying in this same spot, things were not that much different.

I was in high school, staring up at the skylight bawling, acknowledging the fact that I was doomed to be alone, never to marry and to die young. And here I am, half my life later, the prophecy self-fulfilled. I'm alone, romantically, I very well may die young and marriage certainly isn't in my future. Self-fulfilling prophecies do exist.

I know I'm stuck in that Buddhist cycle of reincarnating until I get it right. I know I've sat in beds over centuries bemoaning the same shit. I told myself a few weeks ago that this was my last life; that this time I was going to get it right. The book is the most important part of that. I believe writing a book like this is the very reason I was put on this fucked-up earth. And I don't want to have to live another 100 lives to get a damn publishing deal. Seriously.

And God damn am I bored here. Thank God I have fun friends--tomorrow we're going to lunch then coming home and making a big batch of pot brownies for me to take back to MIA. Hey, I know I shouldn't smoke, but a girl's gotta eat. Which I have been doing a lot of BTW. Cancer is a good excuse to get fat.

I need a damn psychic. My shrinks are great, but I think it's time I delved into my past lives. I've already overanalyzed this one to death.

The Boob Bomber

I am flying out of Jax to FLL Weds afternoon. Because of my lymph node removal, I still have one alien drain:
This one is coming from under my left arm, where the nodes were excised. So I have one container with liquid. I tape the cord to my obliques and pin it up inside my shirt.

Mom: "Do you think you'll be okay to fly with the drain in?"

Dad: "Why not it's just liquid?"

Me: "Yeah, why not?"

Mom: "We-ell, what about security?"

Me: "Oh yeah, I have the port in my chest! Is it metal?"

Mom: "No, I mean the liquid in the drain's container!"

Dad: "What about it? It's just liquid?"

Me: "Yeah, I'll just empty the container before I fly."

Mom: "Noo [getting frustrated] I mean for security! The liquid restrictions!"

Me: "Oh my God. You mean like the Boob Bomber? Are you kidding?"

Now we're all cracking up.

Me: "Maybe I'll just put the container in a Ziploc and have it hanging out of my shirt!"

Dad: "Yeah, at least it'll be less than 5 oz."

Me: "Damn, this is why I need a handheld videocam! Can you imagine?"

Oh, we do crack ourselves up.




From about.com: A port infusion uses an under-the-skin (subcutaneous) port that has been implanted by a surgeon. The port is located either in your arm or your chest, and is connected by a soft, slim catheter tube that goes through your vein all the way to your heart. This catheter protects your vein during treatment.

If you think your life is bad. . .

Compare and Contrast:

I have been kidnapped by my parents and driven up to Jackassville, FL because I cannot physically care for myself.

I am being taken to court for a delinquent American Express Platinum Card account. Meaning I'll probably have to declare bankruptcy.

The man I thought I would spend the rest of my life with, wherever that may be, has unceremoniously dumped me and fallen off the face of the earth.

I have become the pathetic, needy, annoying woman crying 24/7 over love lost.

I am in mounds of physical pain.

I have a tube coming down from under my armpit, where the skin is stapled together. The tube leads into a drain that fills with bile that I must empty and measure each day.

I cannot pick up my beloved dog because I have very limited use of my arms. It hurts to drink, to eat, to lie down to sit up. Everything hurts.

What do I have to look forward to this week? Possibly more bad news: if 3 more lymph nodes have cancer cells in them, I will have to have radiation therapy after chemo. I won't know that until Tuesday at the earliest.

The end of this week I will get my final drain removed, assuming all goes according to plan, which seems unlikely.

Basically I have 6 mos of hell in front of me with nothing to look forward to at the end now that Beau is done with me.

Today, yesterday and the day before--not such good days. I've never gone this long without talking to him since we met. I ruin everything good in my life; I have a knack for it. And I know my friends will rally around and say 'It's not you it's him," but it's both of us. Relationships are two-way streets and now it's a one-way one that I'm not allowed to make a turn onto.

Ain't life fucking grand? I'm going to crawl into bed and cry my sorry ass to sleep after I shove my mouth full of painkillers.

Congratulate me--I have finally entered the wireless age! I am in my parents' car traveling north to their home for some R&R, typing on the laptop, syncing my iTouch and downloading movies from iTunes.

Now, can someone explain to me the point of downloading a movie in a car when it takes 5 fucking hours to do so????

Oh well, I'm listening to a Danielle Steel book while blogging.

I have decided to be the bigger person in the me-versus-Beau saga. Even though I AM 5+ years younger than him. After many nasty texts and emails (come on, wouldn't you be enraged if your beau didn't even check in with you after a MAJOR cancer surgery?), I have decided to take a much needed break from him and all men. Since he is still the only man I want, forsaking others won't be hard.

The hardest part will be not hearing his voice; not kissing or touching him; not making him laugh; not holding him; not sleeping with him; not talking to him on the phone for hours; not being able to lean on him; and especially not knowing what I've done to drive him so far away so fast.

Only he has the power to come around because I've told him a million times that I will be here for him whenever he comes out the other side. But this is what I'm agonizing over--how can someone who said he'd never loved anyone like this, who said "there's going to be no other woman after you," me cut me off completely and selfishly during the time when I would value his company most? If he really does love me, could he possibly do this? Can he sleep at night not knowing (unless he is reading this) that I came through the operation okay? Does he not care about my chemo schedule? My physical pain? My plans? My anything?

How can you not care anymore B?

I'm going to stop, because every time I think of him I cry. My back hurts from my lymph node removal, but emotionally I'm in more pain. But I'm channelling this negative energy into creativity and writing like there's no tomorrow. And in about an hour and a half, I will be united with my other black lover, who has loved me unconditionally for 12 years--Wally.

From now on--since I cannot rightfully call him my Beau anymore--I shall call him Beauseur: Beau + Poseur.

So ABB, Beauseur is your new moniker until you redeem yourself. How's that for a Bamboozle? Word.

Tomorrow I'm off for some R&R. In case ya'll are wondering how I'm holding up, these photos should be an indication. Of course they don't show my insdies being ripped out by the Beau.

A couple hours after surgery, with celebratory cake from Epicurre. . .


Mom and Lynn pimping the pink. . .

Me and the Jit on Lincoln Road tonight, one night after surgery. . .