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.

All-Kinda-Sorta-Clear

All's well—Schwartz literally did take out a tape measure to gauge the size of the largest node. According to his measurements, that tumor has shrunk by .4 cm in a month, which he was very pleased with.

Today I actually videotaped everything he said; asked all the questions I'm usually too fucked up to remember to ask. I interviewed him about everything from my case and treatment plan to emerging therapies to information for you guys. (He was actually talking to my "audience"—uh, you guys—at one point.) I plan on transcribing the whole convo on the blog—I was also SURE to ask him about the mammos at 40 debate; how Obama Care will affect oncologists etc.

I gathered a lot of factual information for you guys about the 40-versus-younger mammogram debate.

Heading out to dinn to celebrate—instead of retail therapy this time we headed to Books & Books so mom could see the Heeb book (and take cheesy photos of me holding it like a douche).

However, we will be at Sawgrass tomorrow morning. Winter clothes. All-clear to leave this city whenevs. Next Schwartz checkup is first week of Dec. and then next will be with Norton in NYC. Alright, time to start the NY job search I suppose!

Thank you all, each and every one of you for the emails, thoughts, prayers and general goodness you send my way. xoxo

Yup, tomorrow's C-day—my blood work is at 1 p.m. and I see Schwartz at 1:20. So by 2 p.m. tomorrow I'll either be tranquilized or tranquil. Let's hope for the latter, shall we?

I've got my Wiccan health candle burning, just saw Chad—who indeed felt that fucking bump on my rib cage, which could be an inflamed anything—for a massage and needle tune-up.

Mesko and Schwartz were both fine with me doing an ultrasound as a backup screening tool. Now, remember this is not a part of a regular follow-up protocol. This is me, the Cancer queen, going above and beyond for my own peace of mind. (And to collect the hard evidence. I think I should have X-rays and slides and such in the book, no? See? All you have to do is ask, ladies. Sure, blood work is the protocol—but I want more. And I shall receive. Good luck getting a sonogram under Obama Care without about two months worth of red tape. I'm in next week.

Oops. Wally's farting. Must walk him. If you're a friend or family friend, I will try to send out a mass e-mail w/the results. And NYC, MIA and Jax peeps we'll have a text message thing going on. Fingers crossed, candle lit—my future will literally be determined by what I find out tomorrow. No biggie.

Twenty-four percent of lives can be saved by early detection for Breast Cancer. This ri-fucking-diculous debate over advance screening is just so beyond absurd. IT CAN DO NO HARM, THEREFORE WHAT'S THE FUCKING STORY? Douchebag head of the ACS.

Anywho, whew, once again my lovely and talented Sloan doc, Larry Norton, was called in for the counterpoint in the New York Times article, Quandry With Mammograms. To tell the fucking truth—that early detection, advance screening and genetic testing save lives like mine. So I guess I'm one of that 24 percent.

Just The Stats, Please

Can someone tell me how not to freak out in the interim between now and Thursday? When I go to Schwartz to get labs and see IF this Chemo cocktail is working?

Since Cancer Is the New Black is on my runway again this season, I thought it was time for a refresher on the cast of characters whom I usually refer to by last name and or title.

This is my "team." I have a fucking team. Who am I? Phil Jackson?

Michael Schwartz—primary oncologist Miami Beach
Larry Norton (aka Anna Wintour of Breast Cancer)—oncologist at Sloan
Gary Rosenbaum—plastic surgeon
Thomas Mesko—breast surgeon
Laura Rappaport (aka Dr. Laura)—Los Angeles based psychotherapist, who I've been with for 10 years and do phone sessions with
Ilan Melnick—Miami Beach psychiatrist/psychopharmacologist
Chad Bailey—acupuncturist, nutritionist, Oriental medicine PhD, all around guru/healer
Jacob Tangir (aka McHottie)—oncological gynecologist

(For those of you in a Breast Cancer situation, yes, these are THE only doctors I would send anyone to. All of 'em. Happy to connect, as usual.)

I lay in bed at 1 a.m. last night after popping a Seroquel and was feeling around my sternum. What I felt was a lump; when I stood up it looked and felt like my breast bone. Although I was reading a Gossip Girl novel—the BEST distraction ever—after about 20 minutes of feeling myself up, I had to pop a Klonopin. I simply cannot live like this—obsessively feeling every inch of my body for lumps. I don't even know what every inch of my body is supposed to feel like—do you? I mean, WTF? Is that a tendon or a foot-long tumor? A knot in my neck or a malignancy? You get the drift.

So this a.m. after obsessing all night—though I did manage to relax in Naples over the weekend and got a great facial that eradicated the disgusting acne the Chemo cocktail is causing—I decided to be even more proactive.

The order of the recurrence events are as follows. (Some of you may remember, but it's kind of an unusual situ. Unusual, moi? No way.)

I was at McHottie's office for a regular gyno check up. He specializes in "down there;" is the onco surgeon who would remove my ovaries; and is quite possibly one of the sexiest men alive. A Moroccon Jew by way of Argentina I believe. When his hand is up your vjayjay, you don't feel a thing cause, well, you're drooling and he's talking to you in a soothing manner. He palpated my neck; found the enlarged node. Next up was Mesko, who did the ultrasound and biopsy, with the ultrasound showing lots of enlarged nodes in the neck. The largest one being the one McHottie had discovered. Finally, the bloodwork run by Schwartz proved the nodes were malignant and that The Cancer Was Back. Oct 5—four weeks ago today.

Okay, so an ultrasound (sonogram) for CPs works the same way as it does for Breeders. The diff being the only thing living inside this bitch is Cancer. The sonogram allows Mesko (and me, if I'm not too much of a pussy to look at the screen) to immediately see the tumors, their locations etc., but also enables Mesko to determine the exact size of the malignancy in centimeters.

I'm a journalist. I need the facts. I want backup for the facts. I want sources and dates and times and all the research I would need if I were covering a story on someone like me. I am covering a story on me, after all.

So, my question this morning was: Why not have another sonogram in addition to the blood work Schwartz will run on Thursday? That way Mesko could compare the films from last month to this month. I called Mesko's office and spoke to his amazing nurse Peggy and ran the scenario by her. She didn't see why not, but I had to have Schwartz verify. Just spoke to Schwartz.

"Doc, you know how obsessive I am. I just don't think I can deal with this whole feeling the lumps thing without some concrete proof they are shrinking. You know, I want the numbers. I just need this to put my mind at ease. So is that out of the question/unreasonable/paranoid crazy?"

He said there's no harm in it; whatever makes me happy. So now I'm waiting on Peggy's call back to see if Mesko can see me after Schwartz on Thursday. Mom—in her typical, sadistic way of transporting herself here—is leaving Jax at like 5 a.m. to arrive in time for the appointment. In the meantime, I'm burning my candle that a Wiccan high priestess from New York cast a "health spell" on every day and night. I have a chant and everything. It's super cool. And within the chant, I finally found myself a mantra that's easy to remember and rhymes.

I guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be for Thursday. Until then, stay tuned for the craziness.

Oh, and if you haven't already, please watch this video of Norton on ABC World News Tonight, where he smacks down that bastard who heads up the American Cancer Society, regarding early detection, which saves lives like mine.