Another Day, Another Diagnosis

These past seven days in New York have been pretty fucking insane, all in good ways—until today. My appt with Larry Norton at Sloan Kettering (aka Anna Wintour of Breast Cancer) was beyond mind-boggling. Like, I think he just possibly saved my life or issued what to me feels like if not a death sentence, then a death of the quality of my life sentence. Here we go again, people.

Prior to my two-hour stint at the new Four-Seasons-esque Sloan Kettering Breast Cancer Center on East 66th Street, one block away from my former apartment, I had a lovely lunch with Mel at Bergdorf's, who looks fabulous as ever. Fun girl talk and not many Cancer thoughts. Shopping around a bit helped. Wasn't even so nervous about seeing Norton, but popped a Xannie for good measure on the 7th floor.

Though we (my parents and brother also in tow) had to wait for a while and we really cut it close with my flight (I'm in LGA right now), but we made it and he spent an hour-plus with us.

First, his nurse practitioner did a more thorough exam of my lymph nodes than Schwartz ever does. She only felt three, which is what we knew. No new ones that she could tell. Withing a few seconds, the nurse did a more thorough exam of me than Schwartz does. Yeah, I'm a little pissed at Schwartz at the moment, though I love the guy to death.

Here's the thing—I assumed (I know, I should know better than to assume anything in the Cancer Game) that because Schwartz was trained by Norton, and they conferred upon my case, that Schwartz would automatically stick to Norton's protocol.

Well, I had everything sent up from Schwartz to Norton except the actual slides, which I suppose was my bad because it may be Mesko who has them or even pathology at Sinai. The second bad omen re. Schwartz was the fact that the nurse told me—right off the bat—that they prefer one week on, one week off with the Xeloda. Schwartz has me on the most common regiment—two weeks on, one week off. Apparent-fucking-ly, not only does the shorter cycle decrease the side-effects, but it may indeed work more effectively on the Cancer cells. Are you FUCKING kidding me?

Schwartz NEVER even presented that as an option. Yeah, so my burning feet that kept me holed up at home writhing in foot pain during Art Basel? Schwartz never suggested what Norton did. After the nurse pract. did the physical, she, Norton and his nurse Karen, conferred and then Norton came in.

"We have a plane to catch, so do we have enough time?"

"Well, jeez guys, if you're going to fly in for a day in the middle of winter at least make the appointment in the morning. I want to talk!"

"No, no, I will miss the plane for you. Talk."

A.) He needs the slides of the tumor; may want the whole node removed for further testing. (Schwartz did not recommend that. God I'm fucking pissed at him right now.)

B.) He felt some enlarged nodes in the soft tissue under my arm, using a technique that again, Schwartz has never done. He actually taught the nurse pract how to do it on me. The man never stops teaching.

C.) Herceptin infusions are more effective/"better" than Tykerb. Polar opposite of Schwartz's assertion that Tykerb is a "super Herceptin."

D.) There's a possibility that this is not even Breast Cancer. This is not a good thing. This is a frightening, in the words of Gary, standing on the mountain facing death, about to fall off thing.

"The nodes don't really feel to me like Breast Cancer."

What. The. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck?

"What? What? What do you mean?"

"I'm not saying it's definitely a different kind of Cancer, but I think there's a possibility, that this isn't even breast Cancer at all. It's unusual for it to come back in these areas. Usually it's in the organs. That's why I need to see the slides [from orig diagnosis in 2007 and recurrence date this October]."

"What?" I pretty much have my head on his desk at this point. Weren't it for the Xanax, I would've been crying. I could not wrap my head around this. "What kind of Cancer? I don't understand."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, but your HER2 NU number originally was five; now it's two, which is borderline." [HER2 NU relates to hormones and what kind of treatment best suits you, e.g. why I had Herceptin].

"Jesus."

"Do you smoke?"

"I mean a little in college."

Dad: "She smokes pot!"

"Stop smoking the pot."

"I vaporize? Still?"

Get this shit fellow weed lovers: It's not just the smoke—it's the fucking THC. THC interferes with Cancer treatment. It hinders the efficacy. It fucks with your hormones. Meaning: I can't eat it, I can't vaporize.

I can no longer be a proud pothead. What the hell am I gonna do in South Beach now? Ugh.

"Yeah," he says to all of us. "In Vermont and California these patients go in, they buy all the vaporizers—they all smoke it. So much so that the hospitals stopped checking for marijuana in tox screens cause everyone in the hospitals in those states is high. All the time"

"Jesus."

"So yeah, sorry, but stop eating it and smoking it."

"Okay. I'll stop."

What else? Well, let's all keep our fingers-crossed that this IS Breast Cancer. (Time to say those prayers/cast spells/light candles/send good vibes my way again please.) Yes, pray for breast cancer.

"What other kind of Cancer could it be? I mean, Jesus."

Look, I know I have a lot of religious Christian readers, but here's the deal. Us Jews say Jesus. A LOT. We just do. So, I'm sorry if it offends, but you'll just have to get used to it. In a room full of Heebs, which natch Norton is, saying 'Jesus' is basically like saying 'wow.' We mean no offense.

Anyway: "You're jumping waaay ahead. First I need to see the path slides to make sure it's Breast Ca. There's a slight probability it's not."

"But, what kind, like lymphoma?"

"Maybe."

"Oh Jesus. Chemo? Herceptin infusions? God, I don't want another port."

"Okay, I'm going to say something to you that is as important as any other part of Cancer treatment. I see people—actors, royalty, heads of state, dignitaries, you name it. The richest, most powerful people in the world. They come in and tell me, 'I don't want to lose my hair. I don't want a port. I don't want this, I don't want that.' These people are used to controlling the world. They tell me they don’t want chemo or this or that. I tell them what I think would save their lives. And let me tell you, lawyers are the worst [looks at dad] are you a lawyer?”

“Yeah,” says Dad cracking up.

“For some reason, they just can’t relinquish control. But you’re not all bad. I’m having dinner with a lawyer tonight and he’s a very good person.”

Lolol. Is he not the funniest??

“A lot of these people leave and never speak to me again. So listen to me; I’m only telling you this cause I know you want to know. I’m telling you this because you just said you don’t want a port again; you don’t want Herceptin infusions; don’t want to lose your hair.

I’m telling you this because I tell it like it is [indicating that I’m the same] and I know you want to live.

But you can’t say things like 'I don't want this, I don't want that' to a lot of doctors—they’ll take that cue, know what you don't want, and offer you something else. That ‘something else’ may not save your life."

“I, uh, wow. Isn’t that completely unethical? For a doctor to know that a treatment that the patient doesn’t necessarily want is the one that will save their lives? Who does want this? I didn’t want chemo and a mastectomy, but I listened to you.”

“Well, it’s not an ethical thing. It’s more of a medical issue. The doctor should give you all the options, yes.

“Wow. That’s insane.”

That’s why Farrah Fawcett and Dominick Dunne went to Germany, I thought immediately. And their treatments didn’t work. As you know, Dominick Dunne was one of my favorite writers. He died the same day Oribe did my hair, August 21. I was speaking of Dominick today with someone, as I’m reading his final novel, which, unfortunately was not the book he’d hoped to write before his death. That black widow bitch Lily Safra who was beyond a shadow of a doubt somehow involved in her husband Edmond’s death in Monte Carlo and got away scott free. He was never able to write that book. So his final book, while entertaining, was more an amalgamation of his collected observations over his career.

And now—I’m on the plane back to Jax—I just finished the book. And stumbled upon this passage at the end. Dominick wouldn’t have seen Dr. Norton, but likely his doctor in New York was the best of the best a la Norton.

From Too Much Money:

“The party’s off. . . . I’m pretty sick. I just returned from a trip to the Dominican Republic, where I had a stem cell treatment, and now I’m going off to a clinic in Bavaria. I’d rather pursue those options than the chemo I’m being offered here. I have high hopes.”

He died within a few months. Seriously, is it only me that these fortuitous, portentous events happen to? I got the message from Norton; Dominick, wherever you are, in addition to being one of my literary role models, you’ve put some fire under my belly to stay alive.

No, I don’t want to wear the wig again. Yes, I hate this. Yes, it’s unfair. Yes, I’ll be crying in public, like I am now on a fucking Delta flight. No, I don’t want to gain weight, have a port again, enter the awful chemo ward, be radiated or whatever I need to do should this not be Breast Ca—please, god, let it be Breast Cancer—but I do want to live, for now anyway.

Saturday was a very fruitful career day for me. Saturday I was on a high. I’m now the Fashion Editor at Heeb. I’ll be writing a weekly Web column for them, as well as beefing up fashion coverage, attending the shows—everything I’ve always wanted. I then went to see my mentor, the editor in chief of ESPN magazine. He gave me the pep talk of a lifetime. Insisting that I email him my book now to read. Told me he’s proud of me—coming from a former professor who’s watched my writing grow over nearly ten years—that means the world to me.

But given that my life seems to consist of extreme ups and downs, I’m hoping hard that I can keep the up part, and NOT be plagued by the down. So yes, pray that I have merely Breast Cancer. That’s right—I want this to be Breast Cancer. Please, please, please, let me just have the Breast Cancer. I’m a pro by now and my dukes are still up. I just wish I knew exactly what the enemy is.

I've been in NYC for a week now and swear to god haven't had a breather. Between work stuff and friends (and my family who I'm staying with), I'm fucking slammed.

I will talk about this day in detail later, but Saturday I had the privilege of hanging out with Professor Irwin Corey, a legendary comic from the Smothers Brothers to Broadway to movies, this man is 96 years old and a PISTOL and a half. Watch him here. Making the publishing rounds today from Heeb to ESPN and drag queen bingo on the Bowery tonight. Don't ask, I'm always down for fabulous fags and fun.

Prof Irwin Corey at 94 years old performing. Google him. Also watch this Heeb clip; it's fucking hilarious. Seriously, it's like a minute but you *must* watch.

Well, snow decided to fuck w/my vacay too. As I was leaving for Atlanta Saturday, Meredith called to tell me Delta had cancelled their flights. So I drove up here anyway, thinking she'd get out by yesterday, and if not I would just chill with the Schoenbaums for an extra night or two.

After about a day of back and forth, we came up with a plan B, reminiscent of our Patsy and Edina days—a mini vacay in the city. So Mere and I are holing up in the W midtown this week. Then the fam comes in on Xmas, Christmas dinner at Brother and Saveira's—yes a Sikh/Jewish Christmas dinner. Should make for good material.

So now I've got a week in the city to play with. Maybe this one week per month in the city plan will work out after all, organically. I won't make it up in Jan, but February is Woodstock and all that good stuff.

Anyway, most likely won't be blogging unless something interesting happens at el aeropuerto manana. So Merry Christmas to all you goyim and happy belated Hanukkah to all you Heebs. If you're snowed in, make the most of it and try to dig up some (white, powdery nose-candy) er, I mean dirt on Brittany Murphy's death. What a dumbass. xoxo

I'm trying to pack for four cities in three weeks—Jax, Atlanta, Savannah and New York. Was supposed to leave today and am still editing the wardrobe. Ugh.

Anywho, my colleagues are rolling along. You all know my friend, cheerleader, mentoress, person who talks me down from the ledge when I want to burn my manuscript, and all around bad-ass author Laura Zigman, so check out her TV appearance and book recs. Fast forward to minute 3:40.

Laura's the one who is credited with founding the Chick Lit genre. Hellooo Miss Thing! She's also a BC BRCA bitch like moi, and that's how she found my blog. Laura, can you do me a favor and declare this genre DEAD? Please? I'll take a hit out if you don't feel like committing litera-cide. If I read one more man-saves-woman happy ending I'm going to fucking hurl.

I am the Eggman, I am the Walrus, I am the Heeb Banner, goo goo gajoob ga goo goo gajoob. Wrinkles—pre-recent-Restylane.

Reading photos. LOOK at my fucking water-filled chemo arms. Seriously? I can do better push-ups in yoga than the buffest gays at Equinox and thanks to the WATER I look like I've never lifted a thing a day in my life. FUCK YOU Cancer. FuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyou.

I'm still trying to digest the reading and why it left me emotionally crippled and crying yesterday over everything including this new Van Cleef ring that I was forced to be tortured with trying on thanks to mom 'visiting' the watch she's contemplating. (I only feel justified trying on such things when I'm with people who are actually buying.) And as I beheld its beauty on my chubby, chemo-dry digit, after what was apparently a very "successful" night in my career, all I thought was: I am never going to be able to buy MYSELF a present like that. Forget about a man or a husband or a boyfriend—I'm not one of those girls who inspires gift-giving from the opposite sex. I've never had the (what I think is odd) experience of having a man take me shopping and buy me what I wanted. I think of nothing lovelier when my uncle goes into a store and buys Kim a bauble, or when dad has jewelry from Landsberg shipped to Jax so mom can choose her birthday present.

But I digress. Just because I've accepted these facts doesn't mean I have to be happy about them. And I'm not. I hate my life. I hate Cancer. I hate the fact that I don't feel like a sexual being anymore. My body is just a shell now; all pretty on the outside and diseased on the inside. I don't know what's worse—being ugly on the outside and healthy on the inside like I was in college, or the way I am now.

And I digressed again naturally. I was only on here to share this link, which I didn't know about until someone texted me that I looked hot on the Heeb site. So this is my first (and likely last) real author profile/Q&A. And you guys know I don't talk about S.E.X. here—that is the one area that is not only boring in my life but also off-limits to the public—but in this interview I do. Because it was nearly 10 years ago, and I had three questions to answer one of which was sex-specific, I basically had to.

So enjoy. Sigh. Have I mentioned that I'm still in bed, slept till 4 p.m. and can't even summon the strength to go get food? Yeah, living the life as usual. And that I'm not moving back to New York for some time—probably until I have enough money to either buy that damn Van Cleef or put a downpayment on a condo. So, like, never, apparently. Another day living the dream people.

"Stephanie Green: Cancer Is the New Black"

Wow, my brain really thinks I'm a loser.

Nightmare, Monday night about Books & Books reading Friday night: I run out of time and unable to have a cocktail before the reading.

Nightmare, last night: My friends get me *super* high and I'm too stoned to be funny.

I look forward to tomorrow night's escapade in the membrane. Actually, I think I'll refill my Klonopin scrip today so I can get some peaceful sleep. I'm actually more excited than nervous, but try telling my subconscious that. Sometimes it's hard to differentiate between excitement and anxiety. Lately I'm so unaccustomed to mere excitement without the attachment of something bad that it's even harder.

Anywho, so the reading. It's going to rock, actually. I'm going down to the store tomorrow to scope it out and meet with the events director. I basically have the mic for an hour from 8 to 9 p.m. AND, so does Wally! When Cristina said super dog friendly, well, Wally is as much a part of my story as anyone.

So I've got like a 20 to 30 minute reading and then I've got the rest of the time for Q & A etc. I'm esp glad about the Q & A since Schwartz, Chad, a couple of the Sinai nurses, Shrink etc will be on hand.

You know that Everybody Wears Sunscreen Baz Luhrmann remix video that I'm. AAAAAARGH FUCKING FIREFOX! I just lost all my Pulitzer-winning text about Oribe.

Fucking A. Version Two: A line in the song is do something every day that scares me. Not much scares or intimidates me in this town. With the exception of Oribe, Diety of Hair. Just the whole situation—like will he remember me? Have they issued a restraining order against that crazy, obsessed fan who brought in a 17-year-old book to sign? It's been on my short list to bring him one of the Heeb fliers so he could see both the cut, the gold pomade, and to invite him to the reading. Maybe that's what was scaring me—like having the nerve even to invite someone as big as him to an event starring me. While I'm quite comfortable performing in front of a crowd who will be filled with familiar faces, I'm not sure I could handle it with famous faces in the audience.

Here's another one of Laura's (unretouched) brill photos.

I'm saving these keepahs (sp whatever) to auction off one day for BC research $$.

Any-fucking-way. I went in and the hottie assistant who helped Oribe do me took a little reminding.

"Oh yeah! You brought in like this folder full of stuff for him and your whole crew and photographer!"

"Uh, yeah, the Versace book."

The Guru wasn't in yest, but I left him a postcard with a note on the back. I asked Hottie what Oribe charges. You could've knocked me over with a vat of the 24 Karat Gold Pomade when they told me his price. It's still the price of a (flat) pair of Choos, however it's about half of what Fekkai, Hershberger and Blandi charge. I think he's grandfathered his prices since the '90s. Cause I remember even back then it was only $100 cheaper at the most. LOVE him even more for that.

So now I'm on "The List" for January. Gracie who I gather runs the place for him totally knew who I was, took my name down and promised to get the card to Oribe. The List is not a BS exclusivity thing—because Oribe is literally jetting all over the world at a moment's notice, they don't know his travel sched till the last minute. Asked her to give me as much lead time as poss—cause that, not my doctors, shall determine my January schedule. Natch.

Tomorrow I'll have an update on my husband, er, Cancer I mean. Schwartz is running a FISH path report on my biopsy. He took me off Tykerb this week because of the side effects. When BC recurs, 25 percent of the time the strain can be different. I was HER 2 NU positive—being positive was what determined that I would get Herceptin. If this Cancer is not HER 2, he can put me on "better" drugs. Kinda hoping it has changed. I simply will not be able to live with the burning feet side-effect for the rest of my life. No fucking way. Hello, Manolos? My fucking sneakers have seen more action these past couple of weeks than ever. And I only have one pair of "cool" sneaks, black Costume National that I got from an outlet mall in Italy two years ago on our Amalfi Coast trip.

Okay, I'm off to traffic court.

And PS—I'm going to read a blog excerpt or two Friday night. Not sure which ones and am open to suggestion. OR should I take a really big risk—do something that really does scare me—and read an excerpt from Cancer Is the New Black. I'm actually thinking of "This is Not A Cancer Memoir" as an alternate working title. Whaddya think?


And Happy Birthday to Mel's hubby Chappy! Soo wish I were in the city for the soiree!

My Crazy Father

Saturday night. I'm laid up with my feet on fire at home, chilling and wardrobing for this Friday night. I text mom when I settle on what I'll be borrowing from her for the night.

Me: Can I borrow the Chopard, Van Cleef earrings and multicolored bangles for Fri? I'm done with the Louboutins. [Lest I get too greedy.]

Mom: Sure! If u r not wearing Louboutins then I will. [The Greens are arriving with the McNetts Friday afternoon.]

Two hours later a picture text from their good friend Nancy P. comes in.

Nancy P.: Subject: Your Crazy Father

Photo:

Me: Oh Jesus, LMAO where r u?

Nancy: what is LMAO? bar mitzvah

Me: Lol. Can't blv Andrew hasn't taught you that one

Well, then the photos started coming fast and furious.

Subject: Blogworthy

Photos:


I believe this is Gary's Dishalicious debut. Mazel mazel!

And I just *know* what's going on on the other end of that phone, for I've witnessed their shenanigans for 34 years now. Love it. Can't even imagine having uncool parents and family friends. Party like rockstars people no matter your age; you've only got so much time.

The bottom of my feet hurt from the Tykerb while: doing anything barefoot. Sleeping. Waking—that's the worst. Wearing flip flops. There is like a burn pattern on the soles of my tootsies from the ball down the outside and into the heel.


The bottom of my feet do not hurt while: wearing Louboutins, doing yoga and in sneakers working out. Silver lining of this Chemo side effect? You guessed it; excuse to shoe shop and more incentive to go to the gym. (As if the inflated flotation devices that are now my arms weren't enough motivation.) Man, I would be in serious, serious bankruptcy-level trouble if I still lived within walking distance of Bergdorf while having Cancer.

I was so beyond touched, buoyed and amazed by the eloquence and insight of a long-time reader's comment today that I'm posting it. Obviously well-written and humorous, this commenter verbalized what I've been struggling with about my memoir and marketing it to editors. How to say that it's not just a "Cancer Memoir?" As if I'd even read a Cancer memoir. They're depressing, no? This comment is the best Cancerversary present that I could ask for, so a huge thank you, Anon.

"You know, I've read your blog for much longer than 2 years and not commented, but tonight I feel oddly compelled (gin and tonic, be damned!).

And I'm going to comment on "wasting two years of your life on cancer."

Yes, that.

Ok, here's the thing: as an admittedly blessed 29 year-old, I've never had to deal with breast cancer on a really gritty, in-your-face personal level. It's not going to sound nice, but the chances that I would opt to read a blog centered around BC are slim. It's just not something most "healthy" folks are going to seek out.

But I found your blog through Gawker (I know, I know) some time ago. I was drawn into your voice on the blog - funny, current and sometimes even hilariously scathing. I have read you loyally since that time.

And it just so happens that someone I've never met but found endlessly amusing and accessible happened to be diagnosed with BC. It even started as something in the background - this was certainly not an activist blog. I mean, I came for Prada and ended up with Tykerb. Steph, I know what Tykerb is now. I mean, that's something.

And that's my point. For two years I've been reading about your experience. And I've been learning. And if I'm really lucky I may never need that information - I mean, I pray to whomever/whatever that nipple tats never become a reality to me or loved ones. But if luck has nothing to do with it and statistics come into play, I'm going to need to know about this beast. And now I do.

And that's pretty powerful. Because there's no way I'm the only person that has been affected by your writing.

I know you want to make it as a novelist, but as far as I'm concerned, you made it as a true writer a long time ago. And these two years are probably the most painful and draining of your life, but I can't help but think they've not been wasted."

Yowzers

I can't believe it's been so long. I have good excuses though.

As most of you know I was supposed to move from South Beach today. Well, after a major internal mental struggle, I realized that I'm not totally ready to leave permanently.

So I'm keeping my apartment, with the intention of spending about a week per month here. I have no concrete plans about New York yet; I've learned not to plan too far ahead when Cancer is your life partner.

I will be in the City for a week a month as well. That's about all I can plan right now. Basically, it's more fiscally feasible to keep my apartment here and come here for checkups than at Sloan. I'd be paying $800+ for Norton visits, when they're covered here.

On that note, I had my blood work done Monday. Schwartz is content with the numbers and when I talked to the nurse today, she said that a 15-point drop from October to December is "making good progress."

The fucking side-effects though. They're bizarre. The Xeloda has me retaining water in my arms of all places, so you can imagine how thrilled I am with that since I never liked my arms anyway. Chad has me on Alfalfa capsules, nature's diuretic apptly. The most troubling/annoying/painful thing I've got going on right now—aside from wanting to stick pins in my arms to release the fluid—is pain and irritation on the soles of my feet. This is from the Tykerb. So I awake in the morning with a pseudo burning feeling on my soles to the point where I can't even put on my flip flops. Thank God I've got travertine floors, which cool the tootsies. So now I'm in the habit of slathering Regenecare (sp) to Lidocaine the feet in socks. Not being able to wear flip flops in Miami = not being able to wear black boots in New York.

So my arms are fat. My clavicle area is completely swollen, which sucks because there's nothing I like more than seeing my clavicle bone protrude in that too-thin way. Yes, I'm psycho about my weight, thus it's starvation central until my Heeb reading.

And I'm getting very excited about that. A lot of people are showing, including my amaaaazing onco Schwartz and some of the other members of my team. That being said, Schwartz will avail himself for Breast Cancer questions for you ladies. Loooove him. And of course the Shrink, Acupuncturist, Yogis, parents, family friends and probably a bunch of weirdos who are turned on by yarmulke covered tatas. You can pick up the fliers locally at Base and Books & Books on Lincoln Road.

Finally, tomorrow is the TWO YEAR anniversary of my initial Breast Cancer diagnosis. Last year I flitted off to Chicago to celebrate. This year though I want to go to the Sante D'Orazio and Francesco Clemente Basel bash, most likely I will be too emotional. Last year, I thought I was in remission. This year, not so much. Maybe retail therapy. I don't know. Alls I do know is that I never imagined I'd waste two years of my life on Cancer. So not cool.

Ciao, Cancer Chatter

I'm thinking this will be my last Cancer post till I move. The movers come one week from yesterday and I haven't packed a single thing. If I had a TV in my closet that would help; my closet, as you can imagine is one staggeringly intimidating behemoth.

Yes, I'm leaving Miami for good, but I'll have to be back once a month for check-ups and tune-ups. I've got Melnick, Schwartz, Chad, Rosenbaum, Mesko, my Yogis and my friends to come back to. In the meantime, I'll be on sabbatical based in Jax but doing Miami, Atlanta, Savannah and New York in December alone. And the last week in January I will crash with Brother and Savvy in their Chelsea pad while I skitter around uptown trying to find a suitable domicile for Wally and me.

Okay, following is part III of my transcript from my last checkup with Schwartz. Hope everyone had something to be thankful for yesterday. Moreover, I hope everyone gets some fabulous deals today on Black Friday.

Int., Schwartz's office for one-month on meds checkup:

Mom asks about dissecting the large node to determine if we are on the right treatment protocol. If at some point that might provide more information. Helloooo—TMFI already.

Here's the really super part:

"So long-term treatment protocol for me, if this is working . . . Am I on these drugs indefinitely?" "Yes." "For the rest of my life?" "Yes."

(And people wonder why I cannot envision myself having a normal future.)

"Unless something replaces these treatments."

"When it recurs, well . . . Will I ever technically be in remission again? Could I be?"

"Yeah, you could be in remission but that doesn't mean your 'cured.'"

"Even if I'm in remission I would take the pills still . . . What's the big mark? Isn't there like a five-year [Cancer-free] mark?" "In Breast Cancer, no. The numbers are very misleading." Translation: We're never safe. Five years doesn't mean shit.
I have to tell you guys that out of all my myriad Cancer friends, most of whom are well under 40, all but two have recurred.

(Exasperated.) "Every one of my young friends except for two—it's already come back. All under 35."

* * *

I ask him about Obama Care and what it will mean for oncologists.

"Our biggest issue hasn't been related to Obama. Our biggest issue is access. There's just a lot of people who can't see us. If you don't have insurance you can't be treated. the drugs are too expensive. [Each chemotherapy session in a hospital runs up to 10k I believe.] Medicare is fine. Medicare with Medicaid is fine. Just Medicaid, which is basically for young people—"

"I didn't know young people had Medicaid."

"Medicaid is basically for young people without money. They [Medicaid] don't pay for this," he gestures around the office and at me, "the doctors get paid, but the drugs don't get paid for. So you basically can't treat somebody who doesn't have insurance."

So they die. Hence, in my not very humble opinion, the soaring Cancer death rates. As the poor get poorer, the death tolls climb.

"Lemme ask you, cause a lot of my readers—oh, I have a book out, I forgot to bring you—the whole mammogram under 40 debate. Not even that, but are mammograms like, does insurance not cover mammograms for women under 40? Why do some people I know not want to get them because of insurance?"

"It's not really an insurance issue. It's more the guidelines, the 40 issue. Different groups have different guidelines. Some groups even say start at 50."

This transcript is a month before the media pounced on the screening at 50 mammo story.

"Did you see Norton on World News smacking down that [fucking asshole] head of the ACS who came out against early screening?"

"No, I read the story in the Times though."

I love having a doctor who reads the Times instead of watching Disney [ABC] News, even though I have my issues with the Times as well.

"I know [Dr.] Laura Esserman though. A breast surgeon in San Francisco whose paper has brought out all the [age issues] to re-examine the role of mammograms."

"Is she against early screening?"

Emphatically, "No. She's not against early detection. She's actually a really great doctor, but the data she collected didn't necessarily show the benefits of early detection—"

Mom: "Mmmmmh."

"And then it was misinterpreted. It basically shows that there are groups of women that detecting the tumor early, they're not cured because of that."

"Norton said in the Times story something like 24 percent of women who do go through early detection—it saves their lives or whatever. But this is what I don't get: What is the harm in having a mammogram?"

"The 'harm,' is this. You can end up having biopsies for a lot of benign diseases. That's one 'harm'—that's an inconvenience [not harmful]. So that's the minor harm is the inconvenience and the anxiety of repeated biopsies. The bigger concern, which is very difficult to prove, is there are probably some [women with] breast cancers who are better off never being diagnosed. That the on takes care of on its own."

A la prostate Cancer. When Prostate Ca shows up in old men, doctors often advise against treating it. I think something like 80 percent of men get Prostate Ca at some point in their lives, but only a sliver die from it.

"Really? That's what they're finding out now."

"It's not surprising. It's the same case with prostate. There are tumors that in effect will never affect—"

"But NOT high-grade, infiltrating Breast Ca like I [and my friends] have?"

"Exactly. But you can make an argument not to do mammograms on women over 75."

"But young people like me—"

"It's a different story. This doesn't apply to you, but it may apply to your readership."

Lol, I doubt many of you are over 75.

"My best friend is a radiology resident and he says what they're taught is 40. Is it 35 only for high-risk people?"

"Well . . ."

"You would say 35?"

"What I tell people [note how he said people, not patients] when they ask is for women to get a baseline mammogram in their 30s and then again [if everything is Kosher with the baseline] again at 40. Unless they have a family history."

"Which most people I know do. Mainly cause I hang with all Jews."

(If you girls have a family history, are in your 30s and haven't had a mammogram yet, well, you fucking piss me off if you want to know the truth. I've badgered several readers into getting mammograms. Nearly 10 of you now. Not one of them has found it 'harmful' in any way.)

Back to my case.

Mom: "So, basically it's kind of like treating a chronic disease."

"Exactly. And it's going to get more like that. [Thanks to all the cutting-edge treatments, including the PARP inhibitors. Google it if you are BRCA+ or think you may be.]

"What I tell my friends is that it's like the HIV cocktail you're on to prevent full-blown AIDS."

"It's going to get more like that. We're hoping it's not that far off."

"Well the Tykerb is new . . ." Jeez, what a cliched photo on that Web site.

"And there's a HER II vaccine. A lot is happening."

Indeed it is. Jesus I have so much to do and I'm still sitting in bed typing this. Ta. Fuck, I hate moving.

This is another one of Laura's awesome photos. Un-retouched (sorry L.) but I wanted to show you cause you can see all my scars. Yep, that's all of them. The only thing beneath the Yarmulkes are two perfect man-made mounts of mock mammaries.

Oh, Jew it

I'm too impatient, but I'm also well-aware of the need for advance notice when social planning is concerned. Last-minute notice is a HUGE pet peeve of mine. This is one of Laura's fantastic photos—despite the subject–that we did for an author Q & A Heeb's running on it's Web site, but it's also the fliers I've made up.

Anyway, the reaction to this shot has been like, 'whoah, it's racy.' Um, what's the diff between this and wearing a bikini top? And you can see my scars. That's the fucking point. I don't even think of myself as a woman from the clavicle down, so the fact that some guys find this hot is a.) weird and b.) the last thing I care about right now. What I care about is filling seats. If you're a good friend in the area and don't come, well, you may end up with a horse head on your pillow.





I'm too impatient, but I'm also well-aware of the need for advance notice when social planning is concerned. This is one of Laura's photos that we did for an author Q & A Heeb's running on it's Web site, but it's also the fliers I've made up. Anyway, the reaction to this shot has been like, 'whoah, it's racy.' Um, what's the diff between this and wearing a bikini top? And you can see my scars. That's the fucking point. I don't even think of myself as a woman from the clavicle down, so the fact that some guys find this hot is a.) weird and b.) the last thing I care about right now. What I care about is filling seats. If you're a good friend in the area and don't come, well, you may end up with a horse head on your pillow.

I Heart Schwartzes

That's just for lack of a better title. Following is the second half of my checkup with Schwartz. In this portion of our story, I learn several fun things including: I'm married to Breast Cancer and divorce is not an option. My only option is to widow the BC.

And a word about my move, since none of my friends seem to know what the hell my plans are and seem to be in denial that I'm leaving. I'm moving out of my SoBe pad the 2nd or 3rd of Dec. Head back to Jax for a week, then travel back down here for the Books & Books reading Dec. 11. Then back to Jax. Dec 19 I head up to the ATL for four nights, Savannah for a night, back to Jax then NYC for the holidays. Back to Jax for New Years, where Dana will be in town with all the rugrats and I'll finally get to meet Jaylen. Then the last week in January I'm back in the city for a whole week. So, yes I'm moving—around, with Jax. being my home base for the next couple months.

Okay, Part II, interview with Dr. Michael Schwartz, my lovely and talented onco. Before I go on, I have to say that Schwartz is incredibly soft spoken to the point where I had to hold the Handycam up to my ear to transcribe.

Me: "So this is the treatment protocol [for me] . . . oral chemo. Not infusions? Okay, I'm curious about the people who are always in chemo. [Like indefinitely, for years]. Does that mean they . . . "

Schwartz: "I'd imagine that the person would have that from the original diagnosis."

Mom: "So at this point in time with how she's doing in a short three weeks it's the way it should be?"

"Yeah—"

"But he hasn't gotten the workup back—"

Schwartz: "But you're tolerating the meds. Not every body does."

(Me, in a whatever tone.) "That's fine."

"That's the first thing—tolerating the meds. Second now we have to see whether it's going to work. It [the biggest node] does feel less bulky. Subjectively, I feel like we're moving in the right direction."

Mom: "So the bloodwork we're waiting on is the [tumor marker] and you'll get those in?"

"A couple days."

Here the light goes on and I realize that the CA 15-3 isn't in the books for today. Ruh-roh—that's the test I've been waiting for to put my mind at ease. I'd assumed the tumor markers should've gone down over a month.

"Ohhhhhhhh. You're not getting that today?" Apparently, the main thing that day was the CBC panel, which indicated that I was tolerating the meds—not everbody does, you know, natch, I'm a Cancer superstar again. Woo-fuckin'-hoo.

"Now, I'm not too concerned with today's 15-3." Uh, I was. "It's the next one [Dec. 1 check-up]. [Tumor markers] Often goe up when you start the treatment."

"Oh shit. I was thinking the [15-3] bloodwork would be back today." Sigh.

"At the start it's common for the numbers to go up . . . It's called a tumor flair."

"Omigod. I totally thought I was going to have the bloodwork today."

"It's feeling less bulky."

"For sure? So that's basically some physical proof."

* * *

Since mom is holding the camera, after almost every bit of 'good' news, I can hear mom make that pre-crying noise. Brother will know what I mean.

And next the fun part, which in my Xanemory I hadn't necessarily paid attention.

Meanwhile I'm heading to the Sawgrass Outlets to find a frock for my Heeb reading.

I'm feeling a little overwhelmed in a good way—Books & Books is probably the largest indy bookshop in Florida. Uh, no biggie! And it's Hanukkah, so hopefully I'll be able to move some books. I'm wondering if other writers think like me—from PR to marketing to thinking in terms of 'moving books.' It seems like we should have other people to do this stuff for us. Like an agent perhaps that I haven't even tried to get. Haven't even emailed the ones I know.

Fuck 50; Here's the Truth Part I

Along with Louboutin and Hermes, I had the Sony Handycam in tow for my Nov 5 checkup with Schwartz.

I wanted the detailed DL on my case, and on bigger points as well, including the 40 vs 35 debate. Why am I not up in arms about the 50 year old thing? Well, here's the thing people: I'm a journalist. I know how the sausages are made. Briefly, here's how it goes. A leading publication/news show produces this story. It gets a HUGE reaction. The other networks/publications scramble to keep up with the Joneses. "Shit, the editor/producer says, NBC's share was huge last night. Reporter X write this story up NOW. Before the other ones get it."

Think about the saturation of ridiculous stories of late: "Balloon Boy," "Octomom," Jon and Kate and all this other 'news' that's really no news at all. It's the same thing with this. Studies and stories like this spiral out of control and cause mass fear because the media picks up the story, then the Cancer orgs are forced to spend more money on PR to take a stand against these ridiculous stories. Anyway, what I'm saying is just chill out a little. As this interview proves, the 50 thing is nothing new!! I hope at least one of you will get a mammogram or a BRCA test after this post. I really, truly do. xxoo

Int. Schwartz’s office, Mom and I bickering over who will hold the camera. I win—she gets to hold it. Meaning the mic is really far away from Schwartz who is very soft spoken.

“You’re waiting on the bloodwork, right?”

“Nope,” Schwartz says, “It’s done.”

Mom: “Oh, goooood!”

“We’re not worried that the bloodwork will be thrown off by this.”

He starts talking about the side-effects, and how that’s what he was concerned about after being on the meds for a month. Then I begin to realize we’re not on the same page.

“So how much did my blood levels (sic) improve?”

"Oh, you’re talking about your marker? [CA 15-3 tumor marker bloodwork]. No, I don’t have that yet.”

“Oh, that’s what I was talking about.”

“No what I have now is the CBC . . . Have you felt any new ones? [nodes].”

“Okay, it’s just hard for me you know, I’m not a doctor; I don’t know what everything is supposed to feel like.”

Mom keeps whispering, “That’s good. That’s good.” I have no idea ‘what’s good’ or why she’s whispering. Maybe that's her mantra. I like mine from a Wiccan High Preistess better.

Schwartz brings a tape measure out.

“Oooh! So I can just measure this with my own tape measure?" Hello psycho obsessive control freak! Welcome back!


Mom: “Oh no, don’t tell her that.” Lol.

In the meantime I have to say that my boobs look damn good on camera.

“Okay so regarding me and the self exams. Like, what am I looking for?”

“I have to tell you that you’re going to be here every three or four weeks for a blood count check and to adjust the dose. So it’s [the progress/success of meds] probably going to be appreciated by me before you. The only thing that could change that is if you see a new spot.”

I was confused about how the same form of Breast Ca could return when I have no tissue in my boobies. I asked if it were possible that they didn’t gut me enough.

So, here’s a key bit of info, I think: “You recurred in the internal mammary nodes. And that’s an area they don’t remove.” So we have to worry about internal nodes like those under the sternum. Which we cannot physically feel. Cancer is the ultimate lurker.

“So, the course of treatment for me if things are going well, is just these pills indefinitely?”

“What I’d like to do, if things are going well after a certain amount of months is drop the Xeloda and continue with the Tykerb . . .”

“Is that safe though?”

“Yes, well we don’t have to make the decision now; see the Xeloda has cumulative side-effects. . .”

Blah, blah, skin side-effects, which include, as I learned last week, sensitive, painful soles of your feet. Yum. Tolerable though. Who the hellcan’t tolerate a little foot pain? Oh, wait, non-New Yorkers who don’t walk miles in Manolos? Hey dad—looks like my “you’re going to regret wearing all those dumb Manolos and Choos when you’re older and have bunions” stilettos may pay off!

Assuming the disease is under control, I may be able to drop the chemo and stick with the Tykerb, aka, Super Herceptin.

“Okay, continue on with my protocol.”

He says he can continue to up the Xeloda dosage until I can’t deal with the side-effects. Shit, bring it on—he knows I must have everything! Oh, wait, Wally—we’re not in Neiman’s anymore? Wants me to come in every three or four weeks until we can determine that everything is ‘working.’

Here’s where I make a yucky face and actually use air quotes: “So ‘working’ means shrinking the tumors or keeping them at bay?”

Keep in mind that I’m in full makeup, hair and jewelry. (Including my Talismans, the most prominent of which is a thick red string around my neck Brother brought me from India. It looks pretty ridiculous against my naked body.) So I’m sitting on his doctah chair with my robe open exposing the girls and my fat-rolls.

“Either is possible, I’d rather it shrink them.”

“Shrink them into non-existence?”

Schwartz: “So, ‘non-existence’ means a complete remission. No evidence of Cancer.”

“Okay, lemme ask you: Was I ever in remission?”

“You were 'technically' in remission but in reality you weren’t.”

“'Technically' because I was on chemo.”

“Right, and you had no evidence of Cancer. [Gauged by the frequent CA 15-3 bloodwork].”

“So I was in remission from Feb 2008 [date of mastectomy] to whenever this came back.” A year and a half. Less because I was on the Herceptin after I finished chemo.

“So your opinion—if I remember last time correctly cause I was on so many Xanax—is that the Herceptin was keeping this shit down. Do you think there was any stuff [Cancer cells] still in there or it just came back as soon as soon as the Herceptin left my system?”

“I hope it came back after it left your system.”

“I’m a fairly unusual case because of everything I did and how fast it came back right? Don't you think I should be studied?” I ask deadpan, then smile and get my first laugh out of him for the day.

(Laughing) “I mean, I don’t know how you go about that.”

“Well if my case is unusual enough to where the point that . . . I don’t know, like, ‘why me,’ not like, ‘Why Me God? but—"

“No I understand.”

Hey BRCA ladies who are debating on chopping them off—listen up!

“I did every fucking thing prophylactically. You know what I mean? I would be dead. Right? I mean I would be like a goner.”

“I would imagine.” It's interesting how freely I talk about my own death in realistic terms. To be honest, I've never been afraid of 'death.' To me that's like being afraid of the sun setting. It's gonna happen. It is what it is.

“This Tykerb? Super Herceptin? Same formula?”

“Works on two receptors so it’s a double blocker.” Coolio. We like having more than one of things.

Next I go into 'overscreening' myself. Because I choose to. Because I insist on it. Because the whole freaking Cancer Center knows me by now and knows that I'll keep bugging them and 'popping in' till I get what I want. Sometimes I do pop-ins on Schwartz; it's easier than going through/relying on the call staff for messages. And he always, always takes the time to answer my questions, no matter how paranoid or over the top they are.

“And you’re okay if I do the sonogram just for peace of mind."

“Yeah, I’m okay with it.”

I swear I'm transcribing Schwartz's report on me today after my to-do list has enough scratch-outs on it.

I have 17 days to hire movers and get out of dodge. Fuck me. I was SO psyched to try PODs, but they're booked on my date. Gah.

Photo Fantastic

These are Ben's photos of the end of the shoot with Laura for Heeb on Wednesday. Eagerly awaiting Laura's edits so I can post all of hers, which kick ass!

You all should hire Ben (shameless friend-plug). This was the night before Mesko, surprising how relaxed I was, huh? Because it feels so fucking good to be creative in an editorial way.

Kicking Ass in Chanel

That may be a decent book title.

I do so apologize for the lack in blogs.

I tend to forget to post the major news here, as I kind of assume that you readers are among my 1,000+ Facebook friends? But some of you are not, soooo. . . .

Yesterday was my sonogram with Mesko. Eight-thirty a.m. Yes, I woke up. The only exceptions to my sleeping-late schedule are doctors' appts, surgeries and flights.

I'll save you the suspense except to say that I was tres nervous—I was by myself, potentially facing baaad news for the first time.

And I should point out that my insistence upon a sonogram in addition to last week's checkup with Schwartz was all me. Translation: I was requesting 'overscreening.' For factual evidence and peace of mind. Schwartz and Mesko were happy to participate and, though technically the sonogram was not necessary this early, they said "we'll do whatever you want."

Overscreening and insisting on what you need is where it's at, Cancer kids. Maybe overscreening is the new black? The head of the ACS would love that (the fucking idiot).

Well, let me tell you, the comfort I got by looking at the sonogram pictures with Mesko was beyond priceless. Not only could he measure each enlarged node to tell me how much they've shrunk—yes, all the tumors have shrunk! I totally buried the lead here. But by requesting a sonogram I could see with my own eyes the physical effects the meds have had. Thank fucking god that all the nodes showed significant shrinkage in a mere month!

I saw the proof. I overscreened. And I can tell Mesko was pleased both with the results and the fact that he did the sonogram. Thank god for doctors and nurses who heart me!

I've run out of time but lots more fun stuff to talk about. Wait till you see the AH-MAAZING photos Ben and Laura shot of me on Wednesday. They are beyond and we had a fucking blast doing it.

The most major (non-Cancer) news is that I'll be reading at Books & Books (not sure which one yet) Friday December 11—come one come all! xoxo

Some of you are new readers, some are friends, family and colleagues. I’ve been writing about my Breast Cancer journey for nearly two years now. Thinking that my Breast Cancer babbling was a finite thing. I mean, Schwartz (see Cast of Characters) calculated my recurrence chance at eight percent. I’ve always been at the top of my class, so perhaps I should’ve seen it coming. After being diagnosed with Stage II, high-grade, infiltrating, ductal cell carcinoma on Dec. 4, 2007, I tested positive for the BRCA1 genetic anomaly. Aka, I had one of the “Breast Cancer genes” that statistically indicated that at 32 years old, doing anything short of a bilateral mastectomy and chemo, the Cancer would likely come back fast and furious. After dumping El Schmucko—the negligent surgeon who performed a lumpectomy and before the biopsy results informed Mom and Dana that it was “nothing,”—and the first, dour-verging-on-bitchy oncologist we consulted with, I went on Sloan-Kettering’s Web site. I scrolled through the masthead of its breast oncologists.

At the very top of the list is Dr. Larry Norton, the Anna Wintour of Breast Cancer, I knew I had to get in to see him; my family and friends were hopeful I’d get the mastectomy and do the chemo. Prophylactically. I think I went through the five stages of grief in about two weeks. I’ve always been an overachiever. An impatient one at that. After the initial, ‘I’m-single-I don’t-want-my-fucking-breasts-cut-off” stage, I began to come around. ‘Oh, fuck it,’ I thought, ‘I hate my saggy, 34C stretch-marked boobs anyway.’ My family and I put out our feelers—we needed to get in to see Norton ASAP. Within a day or two, I was in. There is no doubt in my mind—no doubt whatsoever—that being extremely well-connected was an integral part of my wellness. I make no bones about it—I’m just lucky that way.

The four of us piled in to Norton’s office in the winter of 2008. Mom, Dad and Brother, who handed me a sacred red string from some holy place in India. I’d only seen dad cry once in my life; at his father’s funeral nearly 20 years ago. I sat down across from Norton, still wearing my gloves while paging through a magazine.

“Why are you wearing your gloves?” he asked.

“Germs. I’m a germaphobe. And all these ‘please wash your hands signs are freaking me out even more.”

“You don’t need to worry about germs on things like paper,” he said bemusedly. “It’s mainly surfaces that absorb human heat—metal, glass,” etc.

“Ha! See why I don’t ride the subway,” I gloated to my Brother, finally vindicated.

In that hour consult, Norton elucidated all the muck and jargon that other doctors had thrown at us. This man knew his shit. There’s indeed a reason he’s been at the top of the masthead for years. There’s a reason why his patients go on to donate billions to the Sloan Breast Center. Yes, billions. His patient list—a Jewish Social Register; The Forbes List.

I asked him the question I always ask doctors—penetrate their AMA guard and force them to see me as Stephanie Green, not patient number whatever.

“If I were your daughter, what would you tell me to do?”

“I would tell you that the safest option would be to have the mastectomy and the chemo.”

“Okay then. Done. Let’s lop ‘em off and put ‘em back on. Who is the best oncologist in Miami?”

“I trained Michael Schwartz [at Sloan].” Schwartz’s name had also come up in our research.

“Done. He’s my guy.”

We headed to Bergdorf’s and the jeweler.

After I got back to Miami Beach, I was never alone for one minute of any of my treatments, consults or procedures. My family came down in planned out rotations. Mom and Dana at nearly every chemo, Dad when he didn’t have a trial or something going on, Brother flying in from NY for the mastectomy and what would turn out to be my worst chemo treatment yet. After seeing Schwartz and gathering my “team,” (also see Cast of Characters), I gutted my insides. Had “jet fuel,” as Dr. Laura calls it, pumped into my system for four months, Herceptin infusions for one year, had inflatable balloons inside my hollow chest for months, had aureolas and nipples constructed from a skin graft by Rosenbaum, lost all my hair—in short engaged in every possible Breast Cancer treatment as a safeguard against a potential, deadly recurrence.

Cut to 20 months later. Hair back thick and gorge as ever, assisted by Oribe and Momotaro. My oncological gyno, McHottie, aka Jacob Tangir, felt an enlarged node on my neck. On October 5, mom, Lynn (see Characters) and I were back in Schwartz’s office. I could read his face instantly—he’d only ever given me good news.

“It’s a malignancy. The Cancer is back.”

Last night, I was sitting on my couch replaying that day in my head and I started cackling with laughter. There we were again, in Schwartz’s office, mom and Lynn in their matching Jimmy Choos (unplanned), me on three Xannies and Schwartz. And as soon as he said It Was Back, three high-maintenance women hysterically bawling, his head swiveling from one to the other. Any other man would’ve run for the hills. But Schwartz knew us; he could take the three coiffed, bejeweled (in our ‘every day’ jewelry) women throwing an emotional hissy.

“But—eight percent! You said eight percent. I don’t understand. Are you surprised?” I think it was the only time I’d ever harbored any resentful-esque feelings toward one of my docs.

But Schwartz was pretty fucking shocked. He’d reached out to Norton after palpating the enlarged node, before Mesko had even shot me with the biopsy gun. Hell, I’ve never been ‘normal,’ why should Cancer be any different? After the PET scan, he was relieved to tell us that it had only come back in the neck nodes and the nodes behind my sternum. Yup, behind our sternums lurk potentially deadly nodes. Fun! Immediately I was started on oral chemo. Eleven horse pills a day with minimal side-effects and no hair loss. I never wanted to wear my $4k, couture wig by Ralf again. Nobody was fucking with my Oribe. Fuck you, Cancer.

After another agonizing month of waiting, this time to see whether the Chemo Cocktail was working, Mom arrived on Friday for our 1 p.m. appointment with Schwartz. When she walked in to my apartment, after her typical bat-out-of-hell-drive from Jax—‘wake up at 5 a.m. be to Steph’s by 11 if I go, 90 mph and have a good book on CD,—the first thing I noticed were her shoes. I’m very superstitious. She was wearing the cursed Choos.

“Take those shoes off!” I screeched and retreated from her like she had the H1N1. “Take them off! You can’t wear those!”

“What, why? What’s wrong they match?!”

“Those are the shoes you and Lynn were wearing when I was re-diagnosed! Hurry, take them off!”

“Okay, okay! I need some sandals or flats then!”

I ran into my closet and began projectile vomiting shoes. Gold brocade Manolo flats.

“Those don’t match!”

I didn’t feel like having the old ‘gold is a neutral’ argument with her—I had my own Talismen-guided wardrobe to consider.

I threw black and white Jack Rogers out at her.

“Ok, well, you’re going to be introduced to Jack Rogers Mom. Seventy-five bucks, available in every color combo under the sun and comfortable.”

The Wiccan Health Spell candle I’d received from my friend at the New York Post was burning, I’d said the chant, and had my Talismen on. Hermès cuff Mom and Dad bought me on the post-It Hasn’t Spread Bal Harbour jaunt; holy red string from India; pendant from India that circulated the Subcontinent with both Michael and Hemley; an Indian ring from Hemley; and mom’s black patent Louboutins. Which really held no spiritual value except for the fact that they are the only Louboutins that have ever fit my wide, chubby feet. I briefly thought about taking off my Tank watch, for Acupuncturist had taken it off the night before so as not to inhibit my Chi, but I didn’t quite go that far. You have to draw the line around crazy at some point.

Off we went to the hospital, again. I barely let mom speak because she’s so Pollyanna that I see nearly everything she says a jinx with regards to the Cancer. Christ, I was on two Xannies and still wired. Blood work was drawn. I asked to see Schwartz stat so that I could film what he said, as mom’s note-taking skills were not that of a trained journalist. He determined that the cocktail seemed to be doing its job—the CBC showed that my body was tolerating the Xeloda and Tykerb well. I was slightly disconcerted that the CA 15-3 tumor-marking blood work was not ready. That’s always been the guague of whether treatment is working. Yet, as your body’s levels of whatever spike when you start chemo, that test won’t be accurate for another month. However, he felt the lump and liked the way it felt. Ooh la la! He took out a tape measure. Ha! The only reason I hadn’t done that is because I couldn’t find mine. He took a Bic and drew a circle around the lump. It’d shrunk by .4 cm in a month. Sweet.

“Ah, medical technology. I love it.”

I was used to this blend of high and low culture in medicine. Rosenbaum had used the remnants of a roll of surgical tape to trace the size of my aureolas he would create. They turned out perfectly. Genetic vaccines, PARP inhibitors, new and improved Breast Cancer drugs developing at warp speed—and tape measures.

It was once again, “the best news we could hope for.”

Shit, I started writing this as an intro to the transcription of my check-up interview with Schwartz and it’s turned into this 1,500 word essay. Oy. Haven’t even checked email or changed out of my PJs. But I’ve already taken nine horse pills!

I’ll transcribe the tape later. I suppose I should start my Saturday.

Weediculous!

Quote of the Sleepless Night: "Dude! You guys like, inspire me to become an adult!"
—The "Tiki Kids," Lincoln Road Saturday Nov. 8, 2009

Some of you are new readers, some are friends, family and colleagues. I’ve been writing about my Breast Cancer journey for nearly two years now. Thinking that my Breast Cancer babbling was a finite thing. I mean, Schwartz (see Cast of Characters) calculated my recurrence chance at eight percent. I’ve always been at the top of my class, so perhaps I should’ve seen it coming. After being diagnosed with Stage II, high-grade, infiltrating, ductal cell carcinoma on Dec. 4, 2007, I tested positive for the BRCA1 genetic anomaly. Aka, I had one of the “Breast Cancer genes” that statistically indicated that at 32 years old, doing anything short of a bilateral mastectomy and chemo, the Cancer would likely come back fast and furious. After dumping El Schmucko—the negligent surgeon who performed a lumpectomy and before the biopsy results informed Mom and Dana that it was “nothing,”—and the first, dour-verging-on-bitchy oncologist we consulted with, I went on Sloan-Kettering’s Web site. I scrolled through the masthead of its breast oncologists.

At the very top of the list is Dr. Larry Norton, the Anna Wintour of Breast Cancer, I knew I had to get in to see him; my family and friends were hopeful I’d get the mastectomy and do the chemo. Prophylactically. I think I went through the five stages of grief in about two weeks. I’ve always been an overachiever. An impatient one at that. After the initial, ‘I’m-single-I don’t-want-my-fucking-breasts-cut-off” stage, I began to come around. ‘Oh, fuck it,’ I thought, ‘I hate my saggy, 34C stretch-marked boobs anyway.’ My family and I put out our feelers—we needed to get in to see Norton ASAP. Within a day or two, I was in. There is no doubt in my mind—no doubt whatsoever—that being extremely well-connected was an integral part of my wellness. I make no bones about it—I’m just lucky that way.

The four of us piled in to Norton’s office in the winter of 2008. Mom, Dad and Brother, who handed me a sacred red string from some holy place in India. I’d only seen dad cry once in my life; at his father’s funeral nearly 20 years ago. I sat down across from Norton, still wearing my gloves while paging through a magazine.

“Why are you wearing your gloves?” he asked.

“Germs. I’m a germaphobe. And all these ‘please wash your hands signs are freaking me out even more.”

“You don’t need to worry about germs on things like paper,” he said bemusedly. “It’s mainly surfaces that absorb human heat—metal, glass,” etc.

“Ha! See why I don’t ride the subway,” I gloated to Brother, finally vindicated.

In that hour consult, Norton elucidated all the muck and jargon that other doctors had thrown at us. This man knew his shit. There’s indeed a reason he’s been at the top of the masthead for years. There’s a reason why his patients go on to donate billions to the Sloan Breast Center. Yes, billions. His patient list—a Jewish Social Register; The Forbes List.

I asked him the question I always ask doctors—to penetrate their AMA guard and force them to see me as Stephanie Green, not patient number whatever.

“If I were your daughter, what would you tell me to do?”

“I would tell you that the safest option would be to have the mastectomy and the chemo.”

“Okay then. Done. Let’s lop ‘em off and put ‘em back on. Who is the best oncologist in Miami?”

“I trained Michael Schwartz [at Sloan].” Schwartz’s name had also come up in our research.

“Done. He’s my guy.”

We headed to Bergdorf’s and the jeweler.

After I got back to Miami Beach, I was never alone for one minute of any of my treatments, consults or procedures. My family came down in planned out rotations. Mom and Dana at nearly every chemo, Dad when he didn’t have a trial or something going on, Brother flying in from NY for the mastectomy and what would turn out to be my worst chemo treatment. After seeing Schwartz and gathering my “team,” I gutted my insides. Had “jet fuel,” as Dr. Laura calls it, pumped into my system for four months, Herceptin infusions for one year, had inflatable balloons inside my hollow chest for months, had aureolas and nipples constructed from a skin graft by Rosenbaum, lost all my hair—in short engaged in every possible Breast Cancer treatment as a safeguard against a potential, deadly recurrence.

Cut to 20 months later. Hair back thick and gorge as ever, assisted by Oribe and Momotaro. My oncological gyno, McHottie, aka Jacob Tangir, felt an enlarged node on my neck. On October 5, mom, Lynn and I were back in Schwartz’s office. I could read his face instantly—he’d only ever given me good news.

“It’s a malignancy. The Cancer is back.”

Last night, I was sitting on my couch replaying that day in my head and I started cackling with laughter. There we were again, in Schwartz’s office, mom and Lynn in their matching Jimmy Choos (unplanned), me on three Xannies and Schwartz. And as soon as he said It Was Back: three high-maintenance women hysterically bawling, his head swiveling from one to the other. Any other man would’ve run for the hills. Man, poor guy. But Schwartz knew us; he could take the three coiffed, bejeweled (in our every day jewelry) women throwing an emotional hissy.

“But—eight percent! You said eight percent. I don’t understand. Are you surprised?” I think it was the only time I’d ever harbored any resentful-esque feelings toward one of my docs.

But Schwartz was pretty fucking shocked. He’d reached out to Norton after palpating the enlarged node, before Mesko had even shot me with the biopsy gun. Hell, I’ve never been ‘normal,’ why should Cancer be any different? After the PET scan, he was relieved to tell us that it had only come back in the neck nodes and the nodes behind my sternum. Yup, behind our sternums lurk potentially deadly nodes. Fun! Immediately I was started on oral chemo. Eleven horse pills a day with minimal side-effects and no hair loss. I never wanted to wear my $4k, couture wig by Ralf again (holy shit, forgot to include Ralf in the cast of characters. Raphael Mollica, couture wig-maker to the stars and the A-list Cancer Patients. Apprenticed under Vidal, saw Doris Duke every week of her life.) But now I had Oribe. Nobody was fucking with my Oribe.

After another agonizing month of waiting, this time to see whether the Chemo Cocktail was working, Mom arrived on Friday for our 1 p.m. appointment with Schwartz. When she walked into my apartment, after her typical bat-out-of-hell-drive from Jax—‘wake up at 5 a.m. be to Steph’s by 11 if I go, 90 mph and have a good book on CD,—the first thing I noticed were her shoes. I’m very superstitious. She was wearing the cursed Choos.

“Take those shoes off!” I screeched and retreated from her like she had the H1N1. “Take them off! You can’t wear those!”

“What, why? What’s wrong they match?!”

“Those are the shoes you and Lynn were wearing when I was re-diagnosed! Hurry, take them off!”

“Okay, okay! I need some sandals or flats then!”

I ran into my closet and projectile vomited a pair of gold brocade Manolo flats.

“Those don’t match!”

I didn’t feel like having the old ‘gold is a neutral’ argument with her—I had my own Talismen-guided wardrobe to consider.

I threw black and white Jack Rogers out at her.

“Ok, well, you’re going to be introduced to Jack Rogers Mom. Seventy-five bucks, available in every color combo under the sun and comfortable.”

The Wiccan Health Spell candle I’d received from my friend at the New York Post was burning, I’d said the chant, and had my Talismen on. Hermès cuff Mom and Dad bought me on the post-It Hasn’t Spread Bal Harbour jaunt; dress worn at Cunty's birth; holy red string from India; pendant from India that circulated the Subcontinent with both Michael and Hemley; an Indian ring from Hemley; and mom’s black patent Louboutins. Which really held no spiritual value except for the fact that they are the only Louboutins that have ever fit my wide, chubby feet.

I briefly thought about taking off my Tank watch, for Acupuncturist had taken it off the night before so as not to inhibit my Chi, but I didn’t quite go that far. You have to draw the line around crazy at some point.

Off we went to the hospital, again. I barely let mom speak because she’s so Pollyanna that I see nearly everything she says a jinx with regards to the Cancer. Christ, I was on two Xannies and still hopped up like a Meth head. Blood work was drawn. I asked to see Schwartz stat, so that I could film what he said, as mom’s note-taking skills were not that of a trained journalist. He determined that the cocktail seemed to be doing its job—the CBC showed that my body was tolerating the Xeloda and Tykerb well. I was slightly disconcerted that the CA 15-3 tumor-marking blood work was not ready. That’s always been the guague of whether treatment is working. Yet, as your body’s levels of whatever spike when you start chemo, that test won’t be accurate for another month. However, he felt the lump and liked the way it felt. Ooh la la! He took out a tape measure. Ha! The only reason I hadn’t done that is because I couldn’t find mine. He took a Bic and drew a circle around the lump. It’d shrunk by .4 cm in a month. Sweet.

“Ah, medical technology. I love it.”

I was used to this blend of high and low culture in medicine. Rosenbaum had used the remnants of a roll of surgical tape to trace the size of my aureolas he would create. They turned out perfectly. Genetic vaccines, PARP inhibitors, new and improved Breast Cancer drugs developing at warp speed—and tape measures.

It was once again, “the best news we could hope for.”

Shit, I started writing this as an intro to the transcription of my check-up interview with Schwartz and it’s turned into this 1,500 word essay. Oy. Haven’t even checked email or changed out of my PJs. But I’ve already taken nine horse pills!

I’ll transcribe the tape later. I suppose I should start my Saturday.