Dishalicious

My Bloody Vampire

2010-10-26T12:53:00.004-04:00

I had a blood transfusion yesterday—I came home from a Chicago and NY trip, had normal blood work the next day. Ta-da, I was super anemic (Hemoglobin almost critically low.)

That would explain the head-rushes, extreme fatigue, trouble concentrating etc. Well, those seem like appropriate side-effects since not enough oxygen is getting to your brain. Thought I'd video my first transfusion. Was at the hospital until 10 p.m. Don't watch if blood makes you faint.

Still Kicking

2010-10-03T12:34:00.002-04:00

I know it's been so long. Some of you have even emailed me to say that, which I love. I've been thwarted by the thought of trying to catch you all up, but I've got to give the short version of the loooong past couple of months.

Some of the most important things:

I got a port, making chemo much easier.

I've gained a shit-ton of weight; all in my belly and lower abdomen, which I found out Friday is attributable to my menopausal state and steroids. The chemo I'm on puts me in early menopause. No period, but all the WONDERFUL effects of PMS.

I had a fabulous 35th birthday weekend, with plenty of wardrobe malfunctions. I was a total bridezilla and Mom was a fairly calm mother of the bride.

Lucius is a dream, aside from his recent development of pissing on my couch when he's mad at me for leaving the house.

I got some really amazing birthday presents, and some incredibly generous donations to my Stand up to Cancer team, Dishalicious.

And perhaps the most significant development: Friday we got the results of my latest PET scan. After SEVEN MONTHS of chemo, usually with only a week or two in between cycles, the scan was almost totally clean. The only lesion left is on my sternum and that's too small to measure. Dr. Daryl is going to take another look, hopefully he will think the same.

So, chemo continues until we can't see this spot on my sternum. And I know we thought my life was Cancerous before, but now between bloodwork and treatment and scans, I spend about ten hours a week at the hospital—more on Carbo days. Tomorrow is a Carbo day. Have I told you that a Carbo (+ Gemzar + Avastin + Zomeda + anti-nausea drugs) puts my sessions at about five hours.

Tomorrow, Schwartz is going to cut down on the steroids and, oh shit, I just realized I don't have one of my anti-nausea drugs that I'm supposed to put on 24 hours in advance. Whoopsie. And then I have to call my gyno re birth control pills. Isn't that ironic? Birth control pills when I'm closed for business down there.

Anyway, I'm posting a video of the roast my friends did at my Bday celebration last weekend. I've talked a lot about how great my friends are, but now you can see for yourselves. Mind you, half of the people at this party were my parents' friends. You can see the photos on FB and the video in the post below this.

Stephanie Green's 35th Birthday Toast!

2010-10-03T12:04:00.000-04:00

"Steph's Roast"
by Dana Eber Silver
Choreographed by Dawn Dizeo

All: We're Steph's best friends and we're here to roast
That's why we flew in from coast to coast
See there's eight of us and we know we're fresh
Party rockers non-stoppers
But we know you best

Lay: See the S is for snakes

Al: The T is for TITS

Erica: The E is for Emory

Dawn, Deb: The P and H hot

Lay & Erica: Standing over there is Cole the Hole
She's a great friend, but a crazy A hole

Dana: Now here's a little something 'bout Stephanie Green

Al: It's pretty complex and a little mean

Lay: Baby D [Dana beat boxing]

All: Super Steph [repeat]

Dawn: Super Steph's elegant and always understated
But everybody knows that her diamonds are upgraded
We know you like those pearls Roxy gave you as a girl
And you love those green earrings that just rock your world!

All: Super Steph [repeat]

Al: Super Steph has a way to get you all to listen
She writes on her blog and you pay close attention
You might not believe it, you might not even buy it
But when she shows pictures of her boobs,
You might even try it!

All: Super Steph [repeat]

Deb: Now all you Super Steph fans
She loves to write her book
You may think you're not in it
But take another look!
You better listen good to what we have to say
Cause when it comes to her book she's gonna have a field day

All: Super Steph [repeat]

Lay: Now she's the chicest JAPpy bitch from coast to coast
She's got Manolos and Choos but she don't need to boast
She's an ingrown crotch hair, but that's okay
Cause she's the bestest friend you count on any day

All: Hit it!

Dana: [Scratching]

Dana: It's finally my turn to rock the mic
Cause we've been best friends for all of our life
From sneaking out on New Years to riding in Hellrider
To raving at Simons and pulling crazy all-nighters
From sleepover contests to snakes in your shoes
To corn rows in your hair
And putting on our belts girls

All: Ha, ah, ha ha ha
Super Steph [repeat]

Al: Now you party people know
What Super Steph means
She is such a great person
And a little drama queen

Erica: But baby don't you know she means the world to all of us
But don't piss her off cause man she likes to cuss

Super Steph, ha ah ha ha
Super Steph

Lay: See the "S" is for sassy

Al: And the "U" is for unique

Erica: The "P" is for pranks, like pickles in car seats!

Dana: The "E" is for Ecstacy

Deb and Dawn: And the "R" is for RATS
So tell those nasty rodents just to stay the hell back

ALL: Super Steph—Dem big 2 kt earrings
Super Steph, we love her more than you'll ever know
Super Steph, Ya'll get the drill
Super Steph, We're all here celebrating in Jack-son-ville
So happy birthday Mark!
Happy birthday Steph
Let's toast to you, cause you both are the best

Peace out Super Steph

You've come a long way, boobie

2010-09-09T13:11:00.004-04:00

This is an older post I forgot to publish!

OMG, it's been so long, not even sure if I've got readers anymore. I've had blog burnout. And things are just happening so fast that I've got no time to devote to Dish. But I've got an hour before my love Lucius goes to the vet, so what the hell.

The thing that is occupying my thoughts the most right now—I really wish I could get over this Jewish Girl Obsession—is how fat I've gotten. I'm not exaggerating. I've gained 15 pounds this summer. Fifteen fucking pounds. This is despite 6 days a week at the gym and thrice weekly yoga. Shopping is now something I fucking hate.

Case in point: I got another port inserted Friday. A 'power port'—wouldn't it be nice if the Power Port patients actually had power over their bodies? The next day we went to the outlets for retail therapy. I'm having a fairly big 35th bday bash in Ponte Vedra on the 25th—cart blanche for a fabulous Oscar or Valentino dress. I wanted to shoot myself in Valentino. Couldn't really lift my arms; great way to shop. I left Sawgrass completely empty-handed. Soooooo depressing.

In this out-of-control life we Cancer Patients lead, our bodies are the one thing we can control. And usually chemo sheds weight!!! My Marinol addiction counteracts that, however. Quit, you say? Then what? Do you know how boring a single gal's life is sitting at home watching TV.

Everyone: "Why don't you go out then? You've got plenty of friends, are invited to the most 'fabulous' events etc."

Do you know how hard it is being almost 35 with Cancer, pretending to be happy amongst my friends, most of whom have fabulous, healthy, lucky lives. Moreover, I don't drink but like once a month now, and I hate going out to dinner cause I can't count calories. I told you I'm obsessed. I SO hate my body right now.

2010-07-17T15:06:00.001-04:00

Great news—the CT scan was vedy, vedy good! Major shrinkage, George Costanza would be proud. Start another four week cycle on Monday.

Check out this awesome video Duval Ditty about Jacksonville.

2010-07-13T12:39:00.006-04:00

Check out my latest items on eBay: Marc Jacobs black patent shoulder bag, reserve is $200.

Louboutin gold platform espadrilles, which I lurrrve, but are 4.5 inches, ensuring that I will trip in them.

Luscious Lucius and the glorious sunsets. He loves the balcony. He also now has his own Facebook page! Add him, ruff ruff.

Yikes, you can see my 'nips' in this tank. Whatever.

So, in Cancer news. My veins are as bad as those of the Heroin addicts you see on Intervention. As of Thursday, when I was scheduled to have my CT scan, not a ONE in my right arm was useable. We can't use the left arm because of the 11 lymph nodes that were removed. In short, my veins are FUCKED. So, I put off the CT scan hoping that the veins would recover somewhat in a week. I had the head nurse, Michael, an awesome gay I'm friends with, try to shoot me up last Thurs before the scheduled CT. When he tried to go into the vein we used for Tuesday's chemo, this is what happened:

And it looks even worse now. At this rate, should I get more chemo, I may be looking at another port. That bites my asshole, as the tissue that surrounded the previous port isn't even fully recovered. My life sucks, no? Having a port is the creepiest feeling in the world.

I'm going to pop in to the chemo ward tomorrow to see if Michael can find a vein. If not, well, CT gets postponed another week.

Lucius Jackson!

2010-07-05T12:08:00.004-04:00

Meet Lucius, who came my way via Facebook connections, Betsy, Lou Lou and Wally. I think they sent him to me from doggie heaven. Seriously. He's a mostly-deaf, three-year-old Havanese. His first mommy rescued him and unselfishly brought him to me. He's a joy and even though it's soon, it just felt so right.

My final chemo of this cycle is tomorrow. I'm pretty fucking tired of this shit y'all. Physically, mentally and emotionally. My hair's thinning. My white counts are shot. I just need a break. I have a CT on Thursday; Friday we get the results.

There are three possible results. One: Chemo is still working, Cancer is shrinking. Two: Chemo has plateaued and the Cancer is stable—no worse, no better. Three: Chemo is not working.

Schwartz feels scenario three is very unlikely—no jinx—however, the first two outcomes are problematic as well. Good problems, but still.

Scenario one, which I'm hoping for, means more chemo. I want the shit Cancer to have remissed even further, but like I said, my body needs a break. A real break. My veins are shot. My teeth are horrible. My eyelashes are at half-mast and I'm really depressed. The L.A. vacay was supposed to be that break, instead I found out Wally was at death's door and spent my last day there gorging on baked goods from Whole Foods and the marijuana dispensary. I need a restorative break. A beach, cocktails, rest and relaxation.

Scenario two, results are stable. This is the most difficult outcome to interpret, Schwartz says. In this event, we must make the decision either to continue chemo—hey, it can't hurt!—or stop chemo and transition to Avastin only. Mom is coming in Thursday to endure the horrific, agonizing 24-hour wait between the scan and seeing Schwartz Friday. Though I'm pretty much off the Benzos, the Xanax will be making an appearance come Thursday.

Scenario three: Let's not even go there. I'm going to bury myself in writing, editing, eBaying and adjusting Lucius this week.

Giuseppe Zanotti Peep-Toe Stilettos - eBay (item 150459713335 end time Jun-30-10 13:27:10 PDT)

2010-06-29T12:59:00.000-04:00

If readers are interested, contact me directly or post a comment and we can work out a deal. Screw eBay!

Giuseppe Zanotti Peep-Toe Stilettos - eBay (item 150459713335 end time Jun-30-10 13:27:10 PDT)

Manolo Blahnik Gold Flats Never Worn - eBay (item 150460069976 end time Jul-01-10 09:56:29 PDT)

2010-06-29T12:58:00.001-04:00

Readers, if you're interested contact me directly or post a comment and we can work a deal.

Manolo Blahnik Gold Flats Never Worn - eBay (item 150460069976 end time Jul-01-10 09:56:29 PDT)

Ha-Choo!

2010-06-19T13:51:00.003-04:00

For once I'm having luck on eBay!! Forgot to give you guys first look. (All 20 of you.)

Never-been-worn Choos. I bought them for my Heeb reading and never wore them. Oh, lol, I'm a sicko!! And I'm donating ten percent to the American Cancer Society. Have a look-see. They're a size 7.

RIP Wally Pierre Green Oct. 12, 1995—June 5, 2010

2010-06-16T11:49:00.005-04:00

Pierre was Wally's given name, lest you think he was merely a frou-frou, poo-poo lap dog. We didn't find that out until after we'd picked the name Walter, while thumbing through our temple directory. He was an old soul; the name seemed to fit.

Wally passed June 5. I hardly got out of bed for a week. It has been the most gut-wrenching, painful experience of my life. No joke.

Here's how it went down. I was in NY the week of May 17 for a Norton checkup. (A-okay, in significant remission. Now in second round of chemo with two more treatments, then another CT scan.) Wally came with me to NYC, and Mom took him home to Jacksonville to keep while I was away in Los Angeles the following week. He hadn't had much of an appetite for anything but turkey and chicken, which I attributed to age/tummy troubles. He'd been up-to-date with vet checkups and they'd pronounced him healthy. I never thought to run preventative blood work to see what was going on with his organs.

I left for L.A. the Friday of Memorial Day weekend. Where was my first stop? A marijuana dispensary. More on that later. On the 5th day of my vacay, Mom told me that Wally's health seemed to be declining.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" I demanded, sitting in front of the Pacific Ocean with my friends. I felt my world caving in. It was Tuesday; I would get back to Miami Thursday morning. I had chemo on Friday. I will cancel chemo and come home, I told Mom. Realistically, I couldn't do that. I'd already had a nearly three-week break between the last round and Friday's treatment was the first of this new cycle.

He was listless, depressed, slow, with little appetite and little desire to go out. Oh God, I knew this wasn't good. Mom promised to take him to the vet Wednesday morning, have blood work done, put him on IV fluids if necessary and keep him at the vet overnight, do whatever the vet said. (We've been using this vet in Jax for about 20 years. He's great.)

By Wednesday, when I was set to fly out on the red-eye, he hadn't improved. Mom and I thought that she'd drive him down Friday so he could be with me here. In my gut, I knew that this was probably The End. He was almost 15 after all. I spoke to the vet, who confirmed my worst fears, saying if the fluids didn't jump-start his kidneys, he had maybe seven to 10 days. I barely left the hotel room that day and flew home in a daze. I cradled his photo and spoke to him, telling him to hang on and that Mommy would be there soon to take care of him. Thursday night he came to me in my dreams and let me know that he needed me; that he was waiting. I bolted out of sleep and spoke to mom, who had already been looking into flights for me to take directly after chemo. I repacked, Hemley shuttled me to chemo, and I was booked on the 8:45 p.m. flight to Jax. After having to switch planes—losing precious hours—I arrived home at midnight. I was terrified and heartbroken at his condition. He was lying on a towel on my Mom's lap, and barely lifted his head at the sight of me. He was so weak. When I put him in my lap and kissed him, he snuffled and sighed, as if to say, "Finally."

I knew it was the end. So did he. Within a couple of days, he'd become incontinent and barely able to walk. I had to hold him up to pee. That night, I placed him next to me in bed and talked to him. I held him until I fell asleep. He was on his blankie next to me. Around 8 a.m. I woke up to him screaming in pain. I was beyond horrified to see him experienciencing a grand mal seizure, covered in feces and urine. His tongue was bleeding. I rolled him on his side and put my finger in his mouth for him to bite down on. Too painful. My brain kicked into Mommy mode and within moments I had shoved a chicken strip in his mouth for him to bite down on. That worked like a charm. And at least his last taste was of his favorite treat—organic chicken strips from Whole Foods. I had his feces all over my arms and didn't care. I ran with him downstairs panicking, waking up Mom and Dad.

"Call the vet!"

"Honey, I think it's time," Mom said.

"I know, call the vet!"

We cleaned him up with a towel, cleaned myself, and were off to the vet. I held him and soothed him and talked to him during the five minute ride. Told him it was okay to let go. He'd held on for me as long as he could. Hell, he'd even psychically communicated to me that it was time. Even though I was sobbing, I tried to soothe him and kiss him and squeeze in every last thing in his last moments.

We went in with the vet and he explained the euthenizing process. First he would get some kind of injection a la twilight—I'm still a little confused what that was—and then the poison that stops his heart. No pain. We were all in the room. I was holding his little paws and my mug was the last thing he saw.

"He's gone," Dr. Nash said.

I kept trying to close his eyes, like they do on TV.

"They won't close," the doctor said.

"Let's give her a moment," the doc said.

I don't really remember exactly what I said. After they took his body away, Mom and I picked out an urn. Retail therapy.

Three guesses what we did next. TJ Maxx. I wanted to buy something to honor his memory. (Fucking insane, I know.)

So Mom and I were wandering around TJ's looking at the pet stuff.

"What if we got a bed for Stella and Tessie to lay on instead of that rug?"

Nah, we knew they wouldn't use that. Then we saw some nice dog bowls.

"Ooh look, that one matches the urn!" Mom said excitedly.

"Oh-kay, Mom. Let's get a water bowl too. And then we saw a lovely white water bowl depicting the New York skyline with a dog prancing through the city. It was made for Wally the sophisticated, city-dwelling, world traveler. And his last trip was to New York as well.

I went home, got in bed and stayed there till Tuesday, when I flew back to Miami. In three weeks I'd finished chemo, been to NYC and L.A., started chemo again and put my beloved companion to sleep. Pretty rough three weeks, even by my standards. I was gutted. I hibernated here last week as well, and still have not returned most phone calls.

"There is no set period of grieving for something like this," Dr. Laura said. She also happens to have her degree in veterinary medicine and teaches a course at the L.A. Zoo. She spoke with me for 20 minutes out of session, affirming that Wally was more than a mere "dog accessory," that he was my man, my companion, my comfort and a huge part of my mental health. Only people who have been through this experience can fully appreciate how utterly devastating this is. I finally ventured out of the apartment this week, got back to the gym and booked a massage with Chad today.

I cannot imagine getting another dog at this moment, but I am going to look into fostering.

Wally, I love you beyond words. You were my soul mate, my caretaker, my main man, my best friend, my sounding board, my fierce protector, my savior, my life. There will never be another you. I hope you are up there somewhere romping with Betsy and Lou Lou, and I hope when you are reincarnated we will meet again. I miss you each and every second of every day. I wish you were sitting here on the patio with me now, giving me the "Mommy, it's too fucking hot out here," look.

You are remembered fondly by so many people who will never forget you. Thank you for waiting for me.

Wally's last moments below.
The night before.

The morning of, after he'd stopped seizing and we were about to leave for the vet.

At the vet.
In the room.
Mom and I trying to comfort.

One last good-bye.

And in recent happier times.

This one I'm having blown up, mounted and hanging on the wall above where his food and water was.

2010-05-25T14:15:00.008-04:00

Holy crap, I can't believe it's been nearly two weeks since I blogged. I've actually begun to dread blogging, feeling that it's run its course—in my mind at least. Giving it away for free and all that when I have 320+ pages of my now-untitled manuscript to edit. I think I'm just totally burnt on the blog. But I like to let you all know that I'm not dead yet. I updated you on the good CT scan results. I headed up to NYC last Monday for a consult with Norton. Which was really kind of unecessary, as he told us upon entering the room.

"Why do you keep coming up here just to see me?" He said sarcastically.

"You've got a great doctor down there and he can talk to me anytime. Unless you're already up here anyway. But you don't need to keep coming here just to see me!"

Was he firing us?

"I was in Miami last weekend actually, I could've seen you there."

"Really? Where did you stay?"

"The Mondrian."

I laughed out loud. The second and last time I'd patronized Asia de Cuba there, this total hooker was wearing a skirt so short Ben, his folks and my folks got a glimpse of her vjayjay—and I'm not kidding. Dr. Larry Norton staying there? No way.

"Oh. My. God. You did not! I live on that street!"

"Oh really?"

"Omigod! That place is like call girl central. I can't believe you stayed there! It's so beyond. It's disgusting!!!"

"Yeah, you're right. And I'm like the perfect target for them—older, well-dressed man traveling alone. They were all over me."

"Shut up!!!"

Even the stoic, female doctor in Chanel ballet flats, who he'd sent in to examine me before his entree, began cracking up. I was dying. This hotel—picture Vegas-style hookers casing the lobby, with worse implants and yellowed extensions.

"Oh my god!" said the other doctor. "What did you do?"

"Well, you just don't engage them." Like, all in a day's work for the good doctor. I would love to step into his shoes for a day or so.

Man, what I wouldn't give to have seen that scenario. Just. Beyond. Well, Norton agreed with Schwartz's next protocol. Do another four treatments; two Carboplatin with the Avastin antibody and two Gemzar. With a week off in-between. Maybe it wasn't worth the trip after all? Actually it was. I get this Avastin antibody along with the Carbo treatments. That's the one harvested from mouse DNA. Sloan and Norton have now found that a dosage of 7.5 mg every four weeks is more effective than a 10 mg dosage every three weeks. He wanted to know whether I've been getting 10 or 7.5. I didn't know, but I'd definitely been getting it every three weeks. So, I was to talk to Schwartz about it and obviously change it up to the Sloan protocol next time 'round.

Yesterday, I popped by the hospital just for fun—to get a CBC before dental work cause my fucking nasty-ass, root-canaled tooth is still giving me headaches—and told Schwartz what he said. So he and Schwartz will talk, and I'll switch it up. Now, Schwartz said, this will mean me going to the chemo ward an additional day, separate from the chemo. But what the fuck do I care? The chemo ward is so non-traumatic for me. In a way, these people have become like family. It's like high school and I'm the popular kid. They all know my name, and shamefully, I don't know all of theirs.

Doc Norton did say—and I don't quite remember the exact medical reason for this—that complete remission is very, very, very rare. (So if your doc tells you you're in complete remission, I'd have a CT scan to see whasup.) Something about cells, and the bones taking a while to regenerate. He talks a mile a minute and we didn't take notes. But it's good to know—I'll never make the mistake again of saying 'I'm cured.' Or 'I'm in full remission.'

But I am definitely in remission, yay! I wasn't really sure whether I was or not. But Norton confirmed that yes, I'm in a pretty, pretty, pretty good state of remission. (BTW, when the hell is Curb coming back?)

I begin cycle two, or whatever the fuck it is, Friday June 4, a day after I get back from L.A. (I leave this Friday.) And this time, I'm going it alone. I'm going to be a Big Girl—in more ways than one; I'm a complete fat ass right now despite my diligent gym-going. There's just no need—no jinx—for Mom to come in for these treatments. It's only two of each. And it's not worth the self-imposed Jew guilt for me. Sure, in an ideal world she'd like to be here to take care of her daughter and it's uber-comforting for her to be here, knitting and drinking her red wine while we watch The Biggest Loser. But in the real world, she's got a job and has more than used up her vacation days. If this is something I'll be dealing with for life, then I need to learn how to deal with it on my own.

So, New York was good, despite the weather, which sucked my asshole. Cold, rainy and windy in May. Weather like that makes me sooo glad I don't live there anymore. It's so nice to be able to put your Winter wardrobe away in April like clockwork as opposed to having a schizophrenic one—with no closet space to boot—like you need in New York. I actually had to buy rain boots to survive the wacky weather. And since I had to buy them anyway, I may as well have gotten these:

So very practical for hurricane season. I've never even owned rain boots. despite a lifetime in Florida. They came in handy—I had Wally with me. We stayed on Central Park South and I had to actually enter the park to walk him. Despite that, he decided to pee on the hotel's bed and chair. Poor guy. He's now with Mom, Dad, and StellaCaTessie. I miss him sooo much already. The Loews Santa Monica is dog friendly, but he's happier at home. Anyway, I wore these beauties yesterday to the hospital over leggings, and I've never gotten more compliments on a clothing item. Props to Meredith for introducing me to them.

But I digress. Monday night I got to hang with Laura, of Ben and Laura, who's in living in the City while studying at the prestigious International Center for Photography. We had drinks at the Ritz on CPS, where the pappers were actually waiting outside. Within an hour we spotted (rapper?) Akon, Scott Bakula, Greg Gruenberg from Alias and Jesse Metcalfe (who held the door for us) of Desperate Housewives.

At the Ritz bar with Laura.

And the following night with Michael—thanks to Mom for not telling me that fucking annoying strap thing they put in garments was showing.

Laura, Brother, Mom and I went to Buddakan for dinner, which was fabu as always. And I drank for the first time in months. Oh, wine, how I've missed thee! Tuesday night we had dinner at Kefi with my lovely, lovely, lovely cousin Will Schwalbe and his equally lovely partner David.

(David, I'm sorry if I talked your ears off about your secret for looking at least 10 years younger than you are;) Mom and Michael got to meet them for the first time, and we're all so happy to have a 'new' member of the family. Especially one as awesome as Will!

Equally fabulous is Will's new and hot culinary Web site Cookstr. Check it out, and cook something for me while you're at it. I'm begging you—Whole Foods prepared meals department is probably going to kick me out soon.

Back to me. I leave for L.A. Friday—yaaaaaaaaaay. My two big food outings are Katsuya—you guys know I MUST see TMZ—and the Foundry on Melrose. Dr. Laura has called the chef of the Foundry and he's preparing a veggie tasting menu for me! Not to mention seating me at her table etc. etc. Could you die??? Only a Jewish, Beverly Hills shrink! I may also have the chance to check out a marij-u-wana dispensary. And of course brunch at Geoffrey's in Malibu is a must.

Natch, wardrobing for this trip is unique due to the weather and West-Coast style.

My message for Lee Ann yesterday:

"Hiiii! So, I'm soooo psyched to come on Friday, but I have some wardrobe questions. Like, what do people wear during the day? Jeans? And at night—dresses or is it too cold? How cold is it? I mean, do I need a coat or will shawls work? Anyway, call me back! I've forgotten how people dress out there!"

I did make a concession in the shoe department—I'm only bringing two pairs of daytime ones. How did I manage such sartorial restraint? By ordering new Jack Rogers! Check these babies out—they arrived today and are Ah-dorable!

This color is called Platinum, and is a perfect neutral. The heels are two-inch, great for a shorty like me.
And both match the two daytime bags I'm bringing. (Black Chanel and pewter Balenciaga.)

What's also been keeping me from the blog is I've actually been editing the book. A little more every day. Almost up to page 50 by now. So fingers crossed that one day you'll have to pay for my words. For now, it's untitled. I still think Cancer is the new black—but, let's face it, the phrase is played.

Raining CTs and Dogs

2010-05-13T10:26:00.004-04:00

I've been busy and quite fucking lazy. Dana and Baby III have been staying with Wally and me since Saturday. I even baby-sat one night—she's eight months old, so there was lots of baby food, dog toys and goo-goo, ga-ga noises involved. It's been a whirlwind couple of chemo months. Only 10 weeks in this cycle, can you believe? I've been tired, mostly. White blood counts were borderline this week, so Tuesday was an interminable day at the hospital, starting with a CT scan (to gauge whether the chemo worked or not, no biggie, right?) and a Nuprogen shot to boost me enough for today's FINAL chemo. Of this cycle anyway.

So, yesterday, waiting on the results, I was quite the bundle of hay-wired nerves. To the point where every little thing grated on me. As I was on my way to Chad for some needle-and-massage relief, "Mammo" popped up on the Caller ID, and I knew this was the Results Show. Bigger than American Idol, natch.

"Well!" Joanne the nurse says without introduction or preamble, "The CAT scan was great!"

I started crying with relief, not realizing just HOW stressed I was in the waiting. "They're even better than he [Dr. Schwartz] was expecting."

"Oh, thank GAWD."

"Yes, so there is significant improvement in all the areas. He's very, very pleased."

"Oh god, thank fucking god. So what does that mean exactly; I mean, I don't really know how CTs work. You don't need to read me the report, but like, what does it say basically?"

"Well, it says (I'm summarizing), 'patient shows significant shrinkage [save the Seinfeld jokes] in all the metastatic sites'."

So, all the Cancerous sites have shrunk significantly; even moreso than Schwartz had expected. (Chad had predicted this, as my last 15-3 had dipped from a 191 to an 81 level. Normal blood work in a healthy woman would have a number between 5 and 40. Halfway there!)

I was crying from sheer relief and for the ability to exhale. I even let a car go in front of me whereas before the call I flagged off a pedestrian on a bike—with a kid no less—for crossing the street and causing me to lose a yellow light.

During Chad's session I even passed out a couple times. Unheard of for Stephanie Green. (Okay, so I'd popped a Marinol prior to session.)

Though not fully remissed, I think this is more than what my doctahs were hoping for. I have chemo in an hour+, so I will get the full report and the 'what's next' talk. I will need another 10-week cycle of this chemo, the theory being if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Schwartz will consult with Norton; I fly up to NYC Monday and see Norton Tuesday. I return Wednesday night, then fly out to LA the following Thursday for my post-Chemo, The Sequel vacay. Five days at the Loews in Santa Monica, chilling on the Pacific with my friends.

So all is well, and I will report back with Schwartz's opinions later, I swear.

Meantime, below is moi, in my last Carboplatin-treatment-retail-therapy-sa-weeet-Manolos, drinking the Barium solution the night before the CT. Woohoo, I'm on the mend. And my hair still looks fab, no? I had a trim at Oribe a couple weeks ago. Thanks for hanging in for the long haul folks.
xoxo
Your favorite Cancer Patient

2010-04-26T12:55:00.004-04:00

Yup, I've totally been avoiding you. I've got plenty of legit excuses. Intense Chemo. Fatigue. Dental related headaches. House guests galore. But the real culprit is writer's block. It all started a couple weeks ago when a Facebook friend posted the link to her new book, Orange Is the New Black, a memoir of her time in prison. Fuckity fuck fuck. I emailed my mentor, who is good friends with her as it turns out, and who told me he thought "XXX is the new black is kind of played out" anyway.

Just one more little-big thing to make me retreat into my non-writing, non-editing hole. So now my full-time job that doesn't pay and is pretty fucking grim and boring is Cancer Patient. Natch, I'm being hard on myself because the truth is that I have house guests three weeks out of the month. For every chemo session. And while I've got company I tend to neglect reality. I've completely detached myself from the now retitled manuscript, Breast Cancer at Bergdorf's, (eh, cut me some slack; I was really married to the first title). It's just a bunch of pages sitting in a box in my living room. What is my problem? I need a session with Dr. Laura. I'm also just not all there mentally. One of the lingering side effects of this Chemo is that I just feel high all the time. Lightheaded, dulled, slow-moving mentally and physically.

On the upside, the Chemo—I only have two sessions left!—is really working. Monday, for the first time, my CA 15-3 numbers were kick ass. It went from nearly 400 to under 200. We cannot even find the node on my neck that was previously the size of a peach pit. Yay!

Al and Nicole. We're in "my room," the corner room of the Chemo Ward.

But I'm sooo fucking tired all the time. I've not seen the inside of Equinox in weeks. I'm eating a ton, but may have a tapeworm cause I'm not gaining weight. The only thing I'm doing is a few yoga poses each day. I've been working on my tan though, which is progressing nicely thank you very much. The dolphins are out in full force behind my building. Yesterday one was only about 50 yards away from me and Wally on shore. Fantastic. Mesmerizing. Dolphins in my backyard—could you die?

So, I finish Chemo on the 10th and will have scans like the next day. Dana and baby JJ are coming in for that one. I'm gonna see more boobage that week than any gal should, Dana's a breast feeding Nazi. An infant in my apartment for five nights should be very interesting. The following Monday I head up to NYC for a consult with Dr. Norton. Just to see what to do next. I'm expecting another round of the same. Ugggggggggggggggghhhhhhh.

After the Carbo treatment two weeks ago, I went back to Jacksonville with Mom. (Note to self: Quit going to Jacksonville. It only makes you angry and insanely bored and thus resentful that your family lives in such a podunk town. The people are great; the "city" is like you're back in the 1950s. The food in my 'rents fridge was certainly from that decade before I had enough and cleaned it out.)

But I digress. I went there because my two Chemo companions for last week were Nicole and Alison, who live in Jacksonville. So the plan was to ride back to MIA with them on Sunday. Well, they wanted to leave Saturday, which was fine with me. But Friday Al called—one of her daughters had come down with a 24-hour bug and had been throwing up. We couldn't chance Al being sick around me, so it seemed like she'd be unable to come. Meanwhile, Mom and Dad were at a college fraternity reunion at UF, where Alison's dad was as well. So my health care was in the hands of Nicole, and we planned to make the drive the next day.

(In a major Southern accent) "Steph, we just gotta make a stop at the Bloomingdales in Aventura on the way home. I got a $200 gift certificate and Courtney put some Louboutins on hold for me."

Court is getting married soon on the Amalfi Coast and Nicole is the maid of honor, so I didn't think it so odd that Nicole had something wedding-related to do.

"Well, it'd be a lot easier if we could go to Aventura tomorrow since it's so late."

"We gotta go there today. They're holding them for me."

"Okay. What do they look like?"

"You know, they're big and chunky."

"And?"

"That's all I know. They're big and chunky."

"Why don't you call Bloomingdales and see if they'll hold them till tomorrow."

She's on the phone with Bloomies for like five minutes and she hangs up. I start asking her about the shoes, just cause I wanna know.

After about 20 questions from me, Cole starts cracking up. "Stephanie, we gotta pick up a big package for you."

"Big package? Uh oh."

Let me back up. Nicole, Lee Ann—who lives in L.A.—and Dana have an exceptional history of embarrassing me in public. Without fail, whenever we're together at a schmancy restaurant, they tell the waiter it's my birthday and cause a big scene. I've come to expect it now.

"Okay, well, as long as it's not living or a birthday cake, that's fine." I was expecting some sort of beauty gift box or something.

We're on the phone with Lee Ann, Dana and Al for the whole ride down; again nothing unusual. All of us go back for three generations and like I said, Alison's dad Jeff was with my dad in Gainesville at the time. Well, Alison was feeling better, so Jeff was going to drive her down the next day. So now we've got two generations involved in the transportation of us to Miami. Finally, we get to Aventura Mall, and finding Bloomingdales is like locating the Lochness Monster. What a clusterfuck that place is. We pull up in front of the store and Nicole kind of stops the car in the middle of valet.

"Just go down this row."

She's like out of it and so am I, so I'm still completely clueless. To the point where she has to tell me to look through her window. Well, who do I see coming towards me but Lee Ann, flown in from L.A. to surprise me! Tres, tres cool. Accompanied by our good friend Erica from college. What a feat for them to pull off in a notoriously incestuous group. Mom and Dad were even in the know. When Al and Nicole picked a date to come in, I proffered the idea of Lee Ann coming as well, but when she told me she had a work conference that weekend, I dropped it. Plus, I'm seeing her next month in L.A. so it was doubly surprising.

Anywho, we had a crazy few days in Miami. Sunday night we went to Joe's, which was the first time I'd gotten out of gym clothes in about a month.

The real housewives of Miami Beach

Al, Erica, Lay, Nicole and me in my apartment
And they of course told the waiter it was my birthday, which I knew was going to happen. Monday we went to the hospital not knowing whether my white counts would be high enough.

They were psyched to meet Schwartz, after hearing about him for two years. So we piled in there, got the good news about the 15-3. He looks at them and says, "So lemme ask you, how come you all have Southern accents and she doesn't?"

Hahahaha. I guess I'm so JAPpy that I escaped that fate. I don't know. Maybe cause I spent so much time in NYC growing up. But it was pretty funny. We chilled for the next couple days and they were great nursemaids. But after a couple days, what started as a toothache had morphed into a constant, pounding, debilitating jaw and headache. So Lee Ann had to accompany me to the dentist—who happens to be my shrink's wife and went to Hebrew school with Erica—on the day she was flying out. I had a massive cavity filled and may need a root canal on another tooth.

"When did our friends start becoming our doctors?" Lay wanted to know. "When we got old." I said.

Thus, the chemo side-effects were nil this past week compared to this tooth/headache combo. It's finally abating, but it was to the point where my left side was swollen a la wisdom tooth removal and I was popping Vicodin every six hours.

Sooo, that's the latest. Dana's here in less than two weeks! Then it's NY and L.A. and after that, the great unknown.

Cause Every Woman Wants Parachute Hips

2010-04-06T23:16:00.004-04:00

Hmmm, wonder why these two dresses didn't sell and are now more than half-price at Neiman's.

Temperly of London (top) and Fendi

Ding Ding! Round Two

2010-04-02T12:02:00.005-04:00

In popular Cancer jargon, I think we can all agree that we've become accustomed to people using the term "round." E.G., "round one," "round two," "round fucking infinity," in my case, it turns out. (Some also say cycle; I think the two are interchangeable.)

Well, in the high-falutin world of Dr. Norton's Sloan-Kettering that I've become a part of, not only is it a pedestrian term (!), but one that's actually sort of incomprehensible and unfamiliar. In trying to schedule my next checkup with Norton, I had to find out how long I could wait between round one, and round two. (In this instance, I'll embrace being pedestrian.)

I ended up getting in touch with Norton's nurse Karen before Schwartz. I'm not sure if she's a nurse practitioner or even a physician's assistant, but Karen is one smart cookie.

"I'm trying to figure out how much time should elapse between my first round and second, so I know when to see Norton."

"What do you mean by 'round'? I'm a little confused."

"Uh, well, you know I'm done with this treatment cycle May 10th. Then whenever I start again, that will be round two, right?"

"Oh, okay, I see what you're saying. We don't really use that term."

"Oh. Well, I guess I was confused about this treatment cycle being a finite thing. I didn't really ask Schwartz about needing another round. Didn't realize that you keep doing it until I'm in, like, full remission?"

"I'm still confused. We don't think in terms of stopping and starting again."

"Ummm, well, like, the first time it was a four month cycle, so I assumed that this time it was the same type of thing."

"Oh, I see. No, it's different when there's a recurrence. In that case, we just keep going until we have the response we want. I mean, you can have a small break between the treatments. And we'll look at how you're doing in terms of quality of life, and then adjust the dosage or change the schedule. Maybe you'll have one week on, one week off [etc.]. . . ."

BAM! Reality punches me in the punim and it's a total fucking TKO. 'I'm going to be one of those women in constant chemotherapy; one of those women I said I'd never want to be like. With no quality of life. Shut up Stephanie, stop thinking like that. You were doing so well with your mental state.'

Ugh, Wally just farted, so that's my cue. I will finish this later. I've got to go to Shrink, where likely I'll break down telling him this. Luckily I'm treating myself to a massage from Chad afterwards.

2010-03-30T18:58:00.002-04:00

I know, I know—It's been way too long. I'm not dead. My mom didn't leave until Wednesday, and Brother arrived on Sunday. When, I drove on the white-knuckle-inducing I-95 to Ft. Lauderdale airport and, distracted by Howard Stern and Wally, missed the exit. I've only been to the airport a million times.

I totally get anxiety attacks driving on 95. I've been to hell and back in the past month, but I get more tangibly panicky driving than I do at the hospital. On that note, even though I tolerated the chemo well last week, I've been ex-fucking-hausted. Beyond tired. Stopped the steroids on Thursday and thus had post-Cocaine-like crash over the weekend. I actually made it out of the house over the weekend; dined with all my Gays Friday night. And had dinner with Joni at Canyon Ranch Saturday night. (Canyon Ranch is my favorite property here. So chic and non-Miami-ish.)

Okay, I'm pressed for time. So two things: First, longtime readers will know of my myriad and major mice issues. Therefore, it's with supreme irony that I found out that the Avastin Antibody that I receive during the Carboplatin Chemo is culled from mice DNA. Yup. Only me.

Now for the not so good/scary part of the week. Yesterday Brother and I arrived at the hospital for the easy chemo session, had my blood drawn and then saw Schwartz.

"Well, you're not getting Chemo today!"

Huh?

"Your white blood count is too low."

It's normal, especially for the mid-point of the Chemo cycle that I'm at, but explains why I've been SO tired. It also doesn't affect treatment. He can't risk trying to give me the Gemzar and further compromising my system, which would rule out the main Carbo treatment two weeks hence. Sooo, no chemo this week. Have this week and next week to recover, build my strength back up at my beloved, long-lost Equinox, and get my shit together. Saw Chad today and he says my energy levels, in terms of core energy that your body needs to function properly, are majorly low. My Chi is not being distributed properly, so he worked on that today. Since I am a total vegetarian, nutrition-wise, there's no quick fix for my blood. Though he did introduce me to the Whole Foods peanut-butter-maker, which I will definitely become obsessed with.

Alright, we are off to Ben and Laura's for a "Sedar." We are ordering in from Big Pink.

Kicking Some Carboplatin Ass

2010-03-24T11:30:00.009-04:00

Waiting to be called into the Chemo ward.

I'm OVERJOYED and sooooo relieved to report that Monday's (formerly known as) Chemo Hell treatment, has been absolutely, 100 percent manageable. No nausea! No throwing up! No too-gross-to-get-into bathroom issues!

I awoke yesterday after Monday's treatment, popped a second-day Emend, a Dexemethasone (steroid pill), chugged some orange juice—my new addiction—and by the afternoon was out and about running errands with Mom. I even ran into gay bf at the Blockbuster/Smoothie King/For Eyes shopping center. (Thursday I finally got around to getting new eyeglasses and woke up Friday with fucking Conjunctivitis from trying on hordes of their nasty, germy frames. Just what I needed before chemo. But I went in to the doctor's Friday, got oral meds—coincidentally the same aforementioned steroid.

Dad was able to clear his Friday afternoon schedule, so Mom and him drove in, dogs in tow. Mom drove, dropped Dad at hospital and he was with me for the 45 minute Zometa infusion. Tired a bit that night. And Oh.My.God. we watched the Oscar-winning documentary The Cove. Utterly heartbreaking, inspiring, redemptive, admirable, informative and *unbelievable.* You will likely have to cover your eyes for just a couple parts. The good news is that the exposure the filmmakers brought to the evil town of Taiji, Japan worked. I immediately logged on to the film's Web site to donate, and their interface is whacked. Grrr. Anyway, PLEASE rent this film if you are an animal lover. Or a fish eater. Also, the Mercury issue is explained very clearly and is probably at odds with what you believe to be true. Anyway, we chilled all weekend. I did not feel good from the Zometa—fever, chills, bone aches and Saturday in bed. Sunday we did make it to a family lunch in Ft. Lauderdale, dropped Dad at the airport and came home. Sunday night, I wasn't really that anxious. I'd done all I could to prepare. Ate a bunch of whole grains and cooked veggies per Chad's recs. Got a good night's sleep.

On the way to chemo Monday, Dr. Norton's tres-knowledgeable and bad ass nurse happened to call. I ran everything by her. She said if I even threw up once to call Schwartz. Also, she said that my reaction to the first Carbo was indeed unusual; that it was likely the combo of the Carbo and Gemzar and the lack of steroids that did me in.

So we went into the Chemo ward armed and ready, nervous about veins holding up—remember no port this time. (My right arm is so bruised it's beyond.) Schwartz was so pleased with my progress. The largest node in the neck, per his palpation are already down from about 3 cm to about 1 cm! I've only got two Carbos left. Brother arrives Sunday for the easy treatment Monday; just the Gemzar.

I awoke this a.m. to an overwhelming stench of 409, finding Mom on her hands and knees in her Hanro nightie scrubbing my hall floors. NO ventilation. Just what a Chemo patient needs. Toxic fumes. I promptly opened the patio door and removed Wally's food and water bowl. Ugh!!
After she finished OCD cleaning—I actually hired a cleaning service on Friday and it's like they didn't even clean the floors! So not happy with them and will NOT be using them again. She's going to hit the road soon, since I'm feeling decent, but she's stepped out to go to TJ Maxx. [She's been gone nearly an hour now. It's a two minute walk.] Not that she doesn't deserve some retail therapy.

I heard he say as she was leaving (to the dogs), "I'll be right back girls! Gotta go get my fix!"

What I Did Differently This Time to Prepare:

• Put on a Sancuso anti-nauseau patch 24 hours before treatment
• Had Chad hit all my spleen points hard in Thursday's acupuncture session (He informed me that the spleen is responsible for ALL chemo side effects—nausea, loose stool and low energy!! Who knew?? He's so fucking smart it's insane.)
• Got a good night's sleep
• Ate healthy—lots of whole grains per Chad
• Kept uber-hydrated. Makes the veins pop. The last thing I want is another port. Water, juice, tea.
• Took the steroids Tuesday, today and through tomorrow
• Stayed in as positive a mental state as I could
• Ate lots of good food throughout the day Monday, knowing I wouldn't be so hungry afterwards

And that's pretty much all, folks. Not that it's not enough. It's totally more than enough. All my angels and pharmaceuticals were on my side. I must call Karen today and tell her how well I'm doing. The weather could not be greater, so I'm going to take my fucking pasty ass to the pool and get me some Vitamin D. Seriously, I look like I live in the Midwest. Thank you endlessly for all your love and support. I am so, so grateful. xoxo

The Chemo beeper, which flashes when it's your turn to enter Le Ward.

The very beginning of the infusion; not knowing what to expect.

Wally's biggest fans—my neighbors Dylan and Isabela.

Master of the house.

This a.m. in South Beach. I'm now especially on the lookout for dolphins. I don't see many due to the heavy boat traffic.

2010-03-16T13:41:00.002-04:00

Written on the airplane from my should-be-a-writer realtor gay BF. Picture a thick Mississippi, gay-tinged drawl.:

Why did I find this so funny? LOL[ing] on a flight is not cool.

Here’s the scene. Flight from Mexico City to Miami. Sitting across the aisle from me is an elderly Mexican man. Big hat, even bigger silver mustache. Short stubby fingers on chubby hands that have not seen the likes of Vaseline Intensive Care lotion in a good half a century. Not sure, but it could be his after shave that’s been overpowering the jet fumes since boarding the flight. In front of him is young kid, probably being sent to Miami to “learn English” as is common for that set.

So you’ve got rich kid navigating between his multiple iGadgets sitting in front of someone’s grandfather wearing his Sunday best and a well worn leather vest. OK, he’s Mexican—this is someones’ great grandfather.

Here’s the part that got me going. Senior Juan, after completing his immigration card needed to return his tray table to its “original and upright position.” Problem is it wouldn’t stay. It kept falling onto his bean packed belly. With those moisture starved hands, he caressed the edges looking for, well I’m not sure what. But those big, crusty hands were on a mission. Whatever it was they were looking for, they didn’t find.

Light bulb! The trick to getting the tray table to stay up was to somehow slam it into place, as if something would catch and it would stay. Magic. Guess what, it didn’t work. So in a display of that generation’s determination, Juan decided try and try, and try, and try again…with a little force.

Finally, in disgust, the earpieces come out of the English student’s ears and he sat up as if…well, as if what?!

But determination prevailed! Fondling the seat back revealed a little lever that did the trick!

Everyone’s happy…maybe a little embarrassed from sitting alone and laughing, but happy.

Hahahahaha! D is so fucking funny. We went on a fairly long—for cripple over here—walk yesterday. I'm feeling pretty good, though I think I'm PMSing on top of all this BS. Friday I have a Xometa infusion.

By the grace of the God of Jewelry, my folks were in NY last weekend and stopped into Chopard to see my Cancer partner, Vicky. Thank fucking god they did. I'd remembered that she had a very rough time after her first Xometa infusion. She texted me that Mom and Dad had stopped in but she was with a client so she missed them. And she was actually at Sloan getting the Xomeda that night! So I called her and got the DL. She is very sensitive to all the drugs, so we are hoping I will not react like her, but. . . . She said she had the worst bone pain ever; was like screaming in agony. Even her scalp hurt. She was laid up for an entire week. Couldn't work, her mom took care of her etc. I was scheduled for the infusion Monday; it was Friday night. So I call mom freaking, us trying to figure out how she was going to make it here by Monday when they just got back from NY Sunday. At this point, my mom's used all her vacay and sick days taking care of my ass and going on the usual vacays.

"You know what, fuck this. If I do have the worst-case-scenario side effects, then I'm going to need you here for 24 hours."

"We-ellllll," (Nancy voice), "I'll drive in Monday, we'll get the shot and then we'll drive back to Jacksonville after."

"Mom, it makes no sense for you to drive 10 hours in one day and moreover I don't want to be in Jacksonville all week!"

"We-elll, that's best for me for work."

"Look, we've got to find a compromise. I'm going to talk to Norton this week, cancel the shot Monday, get the downlow and I will either put it off till absolutely necessary or schedule it for late on Friday so you can work all week and then come in late Friday afternoon, stay through the weekend and be here for Monday."

Monday is another Chemo Hell treatment a la the first one—fingers double crossed, prayers sent to all the Gods in the world, that Norton's cocktail greatly improves the side-effects. Norton's out on Mondays, so I talked to Schwartz in-depth. He says typical side-effects are none at all or minor fever and joint achiness in first 24 hours. That Vicky's reaction is atypical and I shouldn't worry, but he understands my paranoia after Chemo Hell Week 2010.

So, Mom, Dad, the Shih Tzus Stella and Tessie—whom I've coined 'Stellacitessan'—will drive down Friday. Dad will fly out Sunday and Mom will stay until I don't need her. I'm doubling up on acupuncture this week; about to go now and Friday I'll have him prep me for Xometa shot and Chemo Hell treatment. I'll have about five seeds in my ear probably.

On a beauty note, did you guys know that acupuncture helps with wrinkles??? I kid you not! He's worked on my forehead line and It's better after just a couple treatments! No more Botox!! The benefits of acu are BOUNDLESS. I can't wait for Brother to try when he's here in two weeks.

Glee!

2010-03-11T19:14:00.004-04:00

This is my latest feelgood song/video—Lea Michele's cover of Babs' Rain on My Parade from Glee. This girl is the next Kristen Chenowith, mark my words. I'm having hand soreness/pain all of the sudden today; a side effect of the Jet Fuel (Dr. Laura's affectionate term for chemo) in my body I'm sure. Speaking of Dr. Laura, I booked my post chemo trip! This round—first chemo round was Four Seasons in Costa Rica with Jill and Lay—it's Los Angeles, where Jill and Lay live. (Ha! Wally just farted. Nothing better than dog farts.) I lived in L.A. after college with Lay. Moved out there before New York. Love L.A.—haven't been back though since I lived there 10+ years ago, so I'm *psyched*.

I was scheduled to fly up to New York on Tuesday to see Norton, which I obviously canceled. So, I had a Jet Blue credit and I got a fantastic deal at the Loews in Santa Monica. Esp fantastic since I'm going over Memorial Day weekend. This means that I'll have my first office visit with Dr. Laura since I moved away. She's in that famous building on Linden Dr. in Bev Hills where you always see TMZ stationed. Oooh TMZ!! I'm going to have to pretend to be a celebrity so I can say something to Harvey Levin! Yay!

Okay, I digress. Sooo, feeling better every day. Today's big feat—after sleeping through my acupuncture appointment again—was a solo walk to Publix. Publix is two blocks away if that gives you any indication of what we're dealing with here, people. (Ugh. I'm sitting here with my Tempurpedic pillow on my couch with the heating pad on my back, but since I've got hot flashes a la menopause, I'm sweating.) Okay, so, made it to Publix and back with a fairly heavy green bag. Woohoo. Baby steps.

I also called Oribe today. My hair's not been coiffed since the last time his Midas hands touched it. Hair loss—thank God, thank God, thank God, Kenahora (sp), no jinx!—not an issue this time. Though an added bonus seems to be that my leg, armpit and facial hair is growing at a snail's pace.

"Hi! Is Oribe in town any time soon?"

"Ayayay. I hope so but we don't know his schedule!"

"Okay, I was on The List for January but never got called so can I put myself on The List now?"

"He hasn't been back since December! He's been all over the world doing shows!"

"Omigod! You guys must miss him!"

"Yes we are wanting him to come back there are so many people who need hair cuts!"

"I know I haven't seen him since August!"

They expect him back sometime soon. Surely once awards season and the fashion shows are done. How the fuck is this my life? Waiting on my hairdresser to finish like the Oscars and Paris fashion week?

Next, I called Norton's office just to thank him and leave him a message. His receptionist Ariel is amazing. I may have cursed her out in the beginning when I was crazed. Oopsie.

"Hi! I just wanted to call and let the doctor know that I'm feeling much better and to thank him *so* much for what he did last week."

"Oh I'm so glad you're feeling better and he'll be so happy to know that."

"Also, I know he'll get a kick out of this [he has a killer sense of Jewish humor], but tell him that I have *never* seen that Cancer ward jump faster than when he called."

"Oh that's funny! He will definitely like hearing that!," she says laughing.

"Let me tell you, it was like Obama calling a small town mayor. I have never seen that place move so fast."

Giggling. "I will definitely send this message to him right away and definitely call him before your next [Carboplatin] treatment."

Again, how is this my life? I'm so lucky, Cancer aside. Another silver lining of Chemo Hell Week 2010? I'm completely detoxed from everything bad I was ever addicted to. You guys know I'm a Benzo whore. Well, those four days in bed forced my body to detox. No more Xanax, Klonopin, or even caffeine. Caffeine isn't something I necessarily wanted to detox from, but the smell of coffee made me so sick last week, that I can't bring myself to make espresso. I miss it though. And I gave in to my craving of the past week and drank Cancer in a Can today—aka, Diet Coke. I've had a fierce craving for that. Happens about once a year. So aside from the Jet Fuel, I'm cleaner than I've been in about five years. I'm still on one Benzo; Ativan, which to me is a baby Benzo and has the added benefit of helping with nausea.

Alcohol too, simply because the thought of it makes me want to hurl. No alcohol sucks though, merely in social situations. Like, I've got a good friend's wedding Saturday and much to toast, but no way I'm chancing it with a drink. The last thing I want is to be running to the toilet at the Ritz.

I scheduled acupuncture at 3 p.m. tomorrow so I won't sleep through it. I cannot wait. I'm sure Chad has his work cut out for him. Maybe I can book two hours. Must call about that in the a.m. Acutally, they may be open, so ta for now. Oh my god I'm sweating like I'm at the gym. Crazy!

From the 33480 to 32257?

2010-03-10T20:22:00.002-04:00

From Evelyn Lauder to . . . me? From a lovely, generous, Breast Cancer survivor like Evelyn Lauder, who has armed guards outside her PB compound (out of necessity, I'm sure) to speaking to me the other day in my parents' house in Jacksonville? Yup. He's just that fucking awesome. I want to adopt him/clone him/have him adopt me as his surrogate granddaughter/daughter/pet/whatever.

It should be said that the Lauders are truly a great humanitarian family and should be role models to all Jews with money. Dr. Norton saved Evelyn's life and in return she's heaped gobs of fundage back to Sloan in his honor. Which must mean, I'm only deducing, that Ralf did her wigs as well. Evelyn, my soul sista!

Feeling good! More tomorrow.

2010-03-08T18:05:00.002-04:00

Chemo ran me over like a Mack Truck, y'all. Last Monday. Five-hour infusion; assured by nurse and doc that the side-effects shouldn't be so bad. I mean, they saw how well I did last time around and that's their basis for comparison. I went home Monday, slept—soaking Tempurpedic with night sweats—and woke up Tuesday Morning feeling like I wanted to die. Bed to toilet until Thursday morning, could keep NOTHING down, not water, nothin'. I nearly had to go back to the chemo ward to get IV fluids and nutrients. But mom nursed me, spoon feed me bites, literally bites, of Jello. I cannot describe how bad I felt, for I have never, ever been that sick in my entire fucking life. It was bad, like kept-asking-Mom "Am I going to make it?" bad.

There was NO WAY I could make it through the rest of the week by myself. So Thursday a.m. we left for Jax and I slept the whole five-hour car ride up. Slept more Thursday afternoon. By the time Mom and Dad got home from work, I was able at least to sit up in a chair and watch TV. I think I ate Jello and Popsicles that day. I lost 5 and 1/2 pounds, I found out at the doctor today.

In Jacksonville I called Norton. He immediately called me back and was not happy. He called Schwartz and they agreed to adjust the cocktail. When Larry Norton calls, the whole Cancer center jumps like they've been electoshocked. So we drove back to MIA yesterday, thinking, hoping, that b/c they were going to mix it up a little that I wouldn't get SO sick.

"Doc, why are you trying to kill me?"

He laughs.

"You know you're not in the will right?"

Laughs. "We had no idea you'd react this way. You were so good with side-effects last time."

And then we got some really good news.

I seemed to have forgotten that I only get the Carboplatin—the evil yet effective drug that tried to kill me—plus Gemcydabine (sp) and Avastin (sp) once every three weeks!!!! Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaay. So, week one, last Monday was the Bad Chemo. Three more of those. The cycle goes like this: week two, just Gemcydabine (sp), little side-effects so far and a short, 45-minute infusion unlike Bad Chemo's five-hour one; week three—off completely. Repeat until May 10th. Luckily, we organically scheduled it so that Alison, Nicole, Dana and Michael are here for the easy ones—yay, we can party! And Mom and Dad are here for the bad ones. What do people do without good parents? God I feel for those of you with shitty parents and know how lucky I am.

My God you guys, hearing that news was better than hearing that Bergdorf's was having a 90 percent off sale. Soooo happy!

And the better news? It's working. The tumors have already shrunk within a week and the liver is finely functioning. I'm already feeling pain relief around the tumor sites. So, good day. Lynn drove in from PB, so retail therapy after. Cute lil strapless, summer Chloe dress and chic black Escada shorts. But the best news to me remains that the toxic treatment will only try to murder me once every three weeks. Cause I had visions of me staying in bed for months on in, wasting away.

I'm still pretty tired. Certainly not 100 percent by any means, but at least able to get out and about a little bit. And by out and about I mean the barest things we take for granted—walking the dog, grocery shopping (and, okay TJ Maxx shopping), eating, talking on phone etc. I couldn't even talk on the phone it was so exhausting.

My friends and family have been amazing as usual. Thank you all so much for the calls, emails, texts, food, presents, more food (gotta love le yentas) and prayers. Love you all and am so lucky to be blessed by you all being in my life.

PS, all my friends and family friends, the best way to keep tabs on me and my health is Facebook updates. And you readers know you can always add me as a friend, just make sure to put a note that you're a reader.

Thanks for hanging in there with me.
XOXO

2010-02-26T15:35:00.003-04:00

Turns out, tumors make you tired. I don't remember this feeling from the first go round with Breast Cancer. But the bottom line is it's all I can do to make it to the gym, put in a half-assed workout, take care of Wally and myself. I am sooooooooooo tired.

So much shit has gone down since I last blogged. I told you about the bone scan results. Well, Monday I had a CT scan, which I've never had. I picked up the results/report on the Bone and CT scans on Tuesday to send to Norton at Sloan. I've decided that the protocol this time will go from Norton down to Schwartz as opposed to Schwartz calling Norton, telling him his theory on treatment and Norton yay or naying it.

Well, if you had your own bone scan report, would you be able to resist reading it? I couldn't. So I sat in the hall of Sinai and read. My fatalistic interpretation—even my vocabulary and knowledge of Latin roots proved totally fruitless—was that I had mets to the liver and lungs. A new small tumor in my left armpit, and major growth on the ones already there—sternum, neck, clavicle etc. I was just numb. No bad news surprises me anymore. I'd already secured a spot with Norton. (I'm flying up the 8th, spending the night and flying out the evening of the 9th).

I still have some residual anger at Schwartz for taking me off the Xeloda. Maybe it wouldn't have spread so quickly then. But, whatevs. That was Monday. Tuesday, I spoke with Norton's nurse Karen, who, in my opinion is the most knowledgeable nurse I've worked with. I had her translate the report for me line by line.

No, there was no lung mets; yes there are spots on the liver, but very minute. They hadn't shown up on the PET a month prior. The spot on the lung the report indicated is likely the tumor on the left rib, pushing up against the lung or something thus causing my shortness of breath. Thursday I saw Schwartz, armed with the report and notes.

"So I got my report, faxed it to Norton and had his nurse translate it."

"Okay."

I felt a little bad, so my eyes were affixed on his Hermes tie. I love Hermes ties.

"So I spoke to Norton and it turns out he recommended the exact course that I was thinking."

Carboplatin, Gemcitabine and Avastin. The first two are chemos; Avastin is an anti-body blocker. No idea what these fuckin' blockers do.

Dana did some research on the hair loss issue; the lower the dose, the less chance of loss. If you lose it you lose a little at a time, nothing like last time's. I can't wrap my head around what that will look like or mean. Will my horse's main turn into gross, stringy, thin hair? So I asked Schwartz to please start me on lower dosages of Carbo and Gem. I'm not sure which dosage corresponds to which. But since I'm young and 'healthy,' Schwartz had me on the highest dosages of everything before. Well, it's been almost three years and my body has been to hell and back, so he was fine with that.

I'm not getting another port. Schwartz says that as long as they can find a vein, this cocktail is not that hard on them. I will double-check that with the nursing staff.

"Well, okay then. Do you think that since I have such thick hair that will help?"

"I think it will."

"Okay. I'm going out to buy the horse shampoo now."

"I think that should help too."

I went to Sally and bought the Mane 'n Tail Shampoo, conditioner and spray thickener. It smells like ass; it's no Oribe. Speaking of whom, I want to get a dead-end trim, but can't cough up $400 with that. And you all know I'm not trusting anyone else with my hair in Miami.

Oh, I also have to have Xomeda, which is a bone strengthener a la Boniva, or in Schwartz' words, "You know those commercials Sally Field is in."

Uh, yeah. Anyway, the reason my case is once again so fucking unusual is that even though I'm HER2NU+, my tumors are behaving like triple negatives.

So, I will begin Monday. Go to Norton March 9 for a consult/convo (one night at the Waldorf at least), then chemo #2 on the 10th. It's two weeks in a row, one week off. Eight in total. Two and a half mos, thus ending in May. Assuming it works. Though I'm not assuming shit anymore. It's not any fun this time. I have no desire to go to Neiman's, though the offers are a plenty. I'm SO FUCKING TIRED. I got a Tempurpedic bed and oh my god, you would not believe what a miracle worker this bed is. I slept 12 hours last night.

Chad prepped my whole body yesterday, and told me it's important to exercise this weekend—makes your veins pop—and carbo load on whole grains. My diet is so beyond boring. Even now I have to go to the gym and hate it. I can do about 1/2 of what I usually could do. Forty five minutes of cardio is a miracle.

I'm soooooo tired and I hate it. I've never been affected by a lack of energy. Fucking tumors. Anyway, that's the update. Why can't they come up with an IV form of caffeine????

2010-02-19T14:53:00.003-04:00

Sorry, no news ain't good news in this case. Bone scan revealed two new spots on bone—one on rib, which explains labored breathing—one in middle of back and then the one that the PET revealed on the hip.

Likely—if the tumor marker count is over 300, we are waiting on the call—will now have to go on Carboplatin chemo. Schwartz says—though we all know nurses know side-effects btr than docs—most people don't lose hair. I'm buying some Mane 'n' Tail today. Two and 1/2 months of treatments. Seriously, my life fucking sucks shit ass. Mom, Dad, Stella, Tessie and Wally drove in this a.m. and now we're just waiting by the phone.

For those of you who want daily updates, you need to look at my Facebook page. I think it's private so you'll have to add me as a friend. I'm not going to be blogging so regularly. I'm just SO fucking exhausted all the time.

Finally, Good News (or at least not bad news)

2010-02-09T18:09:00.002-04:00

Hey bitches! Yesterday's report from Schwartz was pretty, pretty, pretty good'—the nodes have all either shrunk or held steady. (The most important thing is that no NEW nodes have formed.)

Schwartz happy with progress. Looking ahead though, he gave me 'homework'. As soon as I was re-diagnosed. Schwartz took it upon himself to research PARP inhibitor clinical trials for me and had no luck in Florida. So I'm now looking into that. I'm hoping to score one in Europe and get a vacay out of it.

Worse to worse (also looking ahead) IF (please no!!) I had to get chemo again, it would be Carbo Platinum and it does not induce hair loss [in most people; hopefully JewFro will help keep the follicle loss from happening.

On hold with the fucking answering service even though I was told to call at 5:15!!! Motherfuckers!

Random Thoughts by Stephanie Green

2010-02-07T21:55:00.002-04:00

1. The Ritz-Carlton chain needs to make up its mind whether it likes dogs or not. Mom, Dad and I had to Anne-Frank Wally into the Orlando property today. (Yeah, I drove seven hours roundtrip today to deliver my baby to Mom and Dad, who were in ORL for a legal conference. So that he could stay with them for the four days I'll be in NY. Psycho dog mommy. Oddly enough, Mom bought me several pairs of Hanky Pankys. Odd because I found myself thinking the other day: 'Hmmm Chad must really think my underwear is getting ratty. Must get more.' Yup, Acupuncturist is the only straight male who see's my undies nowadays.

2. Memo to tourists visiting Miami: Just because you are in Miami, does NOT mean it's okay to carry spring/summer handbags. It's fucking February and it's in the 50s here. Simply unacceptable.

3. I loathe tourists. I really do.

4. No, I'm not at the Super Bowl. If I were, I'd be too paranoid about being a captive audience for terrorists. I don't even think I'd have gone if I'd been invited to someone's box. Ooh, that sounded dirty.

5. Wally is pooping in the house again. Thus, this a.m. I awoke to shit all over my yoga mat. My specially-ordered one. Not to mention several ancillary shit spatterings in the living room.

6. I'm so bad at eBay, that I accidentally sold that Dior bag for $200 via a "Last Chance Offer." I've chosen to think of it as a fashion mitzvah and let it go.

7. Friday I took my mentor Gary—editor in chief of ESPN magazine—shopping at Target. My first male personal shopping excursion. He bought me a flat iron. It was just as much fun as Bergdorf's, cause he's just that fun. Moreover, I can't imagine that him pleasantly shouting across the store, making conversation with strangers would've gone over that well at Bergdorf. Gary has the immense privilege of being the first reader of Cancer Is the New Black.

Speaking of whom, shameless plug for Gary's recently reissued book: Why Smart People Make Big Money Mistakes. I'm totally going to read this one; "Big Money Mistakes" could be my first name.

8. My back still hurts. My clavicle/sternum hurts. I had two acupuncture sessions and a massage at Equinox this week and I'm still in pain. I have plenty of Vicodin, but I hate how it makes breathing labored. Haven't done yoga in weeks.

9. I have no appetite without weed. I cannot smoke weed. Therefore, today I've eaten: a banana, most of a mediocre veggie sandwich from the aforementioned Ritz and part of a fruit salad, which I'm nibbling on now just to have something in my body. But seriously no appetite. I may actually have to start taking Marinol. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

10. Tomorrow is Herceptin number two out of three (then the PET to see if it's working.) Will the painful side-effects get worse cumulatively or will my body acclimate? Who the fuck knows. I cannot deal with this waiting. I scheduled a bone scan on Wednesday just for my own information. That suspicious spot on my hip that showed up in the PET—well, I wanna know exactly what it is, measurements etc. Not to mention I want to know what other bones have lesions. Will I even want to get the results before I leave for NY Thursday, or shall I wait till I get back, so that if it's bad news it won't ruin my trip.

11. Cancer sucks even worse the second time around. I'm becoming fatalistic again. How can I not be? I've considered drafting a will, but I (seriously) cannot work out who would get my jewelry. Dana would be the obvious choice, but she can't even keep track of her keys. My shoes would go to Mom; clothes I don't know. A free-for-all amongst my NY girlfriends probably.

12. I have no idea who the fuck TPain (sp) is and I don't care. Moreover, I have no idea who Little Wayne (sp) is or what he has done to earn himself a spot in the "We Are the World" remake.

14. OMG, just switched back to the Super Bowl and the Saints are winning. Fierce! That city deserves something.

2010-02-04T10:09:00.002-04:00

Wow. Happy February; can't believe I haven't written. My back has been seriously fucked up. Over the weekend I bent the wrong way and what had been centralized as upper back pain, traveled down to my lower back. Thus semi-immobilizing me. I was freaking the fuck out on Friday because of the pain, thinking 'Oh, fuck, what if it's new Cancer growth and that's the pain?'

Then a nurse assigned to my case from Humana called; started describing the side effects to her—all of them are a result of adjusting to Herceptin. I'm still on Vicodin and sleep isn't fun, which is why I'm awake at this normal-people hour. We are all hoping that my bod adjusts to these side-effects before Monday, when my next Herceptin infusion is. I leave for NY Thursday, so even if I have to go see Chad three days in a row, I *will* be back pain free for Fashion week(end).

So when I went to Chad on Tuesday, he needled the fuck out of me. He put a THREE INCH long needle in my hip. Seriously, I saw it—he's never needed a needle that long on me. (And no, it doesn't hurt.)

Saturday night I've got to drive to meet my folks in Orlando, who are there for a legal conf, and smuggle Wally into the Ritz-Carlton so that he can go home to Jax with them on Sunday and stay while I'm in NY. You know, hoteliers—my life (and lots of other dog-owners' lives) would be a hell of a lot easier if small dogs were always allowed. Even for a fee. So annoying.

Schwartz didn't like hearing that I was in such pain that I needed more Vicodin—"He doesn't like hearing that you are in pain," said Juanita, one of his nurses. "Oh no, it's fine. I can deal. My body will adjust."

Because I know what Schwartz is thinking (compassionately): If she's in this much pain, maybe it's not the right treatment. Well, note to all: I'd rather be writhing in pain than lose my hair again. I can work through the pain. I can treat it with acupuncture and stretching and pills. I can NOT work through hair loss again. No, no no. Speaking of which, I was supposedly on Oribe's "list" for January and never heard from them. The hair is growing in shapely, but since I haven't had it trimmed since August, I may get a dead-end trim in NY. Though I am loathe to have anyone else's scissors in my hair.

So today I've got a Qi Gong/Tuina massage with Chad, which, if you are a massage head, is the most relaxing massage technique ever. And if you're in NYC, you'll see a million Chinese massage parlors advertising it on their shopfronts. I'm not sure which of those places are happy-ending free, but it's worth looking into. (If you are really interested in exploring acupuncture and Asian massage, check out the Pacific College of Oriental Medicine, which Chad recs.) It's really reasonably priced; maybe I should schedule something in NY just in case. After my flight perhaps.

Anyway, that's about it. Almost halfway through editing Cancer Is the New Black, so will have it in hand for New York and my readers there. The funniest parts so far are the dialogue that Manny transcribed from our videotapes. Especially Dana's bits—her kids are going to read this in 10 years and realize what a potty mouth their mommy has. Kobi's definitely gonna learn some new curse words from Auntie Stephie.

Choo, Dior for Sale!

2010-01-28T15:41:00.006-04:00

On that note, I've been dragging my feet on eBaying some of my items—when they don't sell it's so annoying to have to pay! I've got this amazing Dior that I've worn about 10 times in 8 years (see below). It's black deerskin with gold hardware. I loooove this bag I just never wear! This bag was upwards of $1,500 years ago. I will happily part with it for much, much less. It's probably worth about $2,500 in today's ridic handbag price scale.

This could work as the poshest diaper bag thingy/whatever you call your lil pregnancy purses, as it has like 20 pockets for all kinds of shit. It even has a special cell phone slip inside.

And this is the worst—I went out and bought this pair of fabulous, camel patent Choos to wear to my Heeb reading and then wore the gold Guccis instead. I simply cannot do four-inchers. Consequently, these have never been worn and are actually one of a kind. Size 37. For some reason the Choo in Merrick Park (Coral Gables) was the only one to get them. Why Florida of all places, no idea. You know my camera is ghetto, but you also know you can trust me when I tell you they're fab. Consequently, thanks to ghetto camera, the shoe color is true camel—even though it looks a lil off in these shots. These retailed for $595. (I got them on sale, natch.)

Editor's note—Danielle has first dibs on the Choos. Dior bag still avail but posting today on eBay.

Buh-Bye Roxy the Unfriendly Ghost

2010-01-27T13:15:00.003-04:00

Yesterday's phoner with Dr. Laura:

"How are you doing with the anger?"

"Oh, well, let me tell you about the Roxy curse and the antiques show Saturday. I've been yelling at that bitch all weekend."

I'd sort of thought a psychologist—even though I've been with her for 10 years now and we have more than a patient-doc relationship—wouldn't give much credence to the afterlife and her patient yelling at her dead grandmother.

Just the opposite.

"I had a friend who gave my family a whole bunch of stuff from the Czar of Russia, Nicholas or whoever, you know who I'm talking about. And all of these gifts were given in good conscious."

"Right."

"But one of the things was this priceless, heavy, three foot high [vase or something like that]. And when this woman gave it to me she said, 'Now you'd BETTER make sure it doesn't get stolen!'"

I think Dr. L lives in the 90210; so you know, I'm sure a cat burglar is scoping out that pristine, cop-patrolled area. (If you know the city of BH, well, it's like, pretty fucking safe.)

So anyway, this lady gave her this object, and for years Dr. L. had it displayed prominently—ready for the robbers' taking! Then they had to move out of the house for a few months, so she packed it up and has since not unpacked it yet. 'Gifts' given in such a spirit—not so great, no matter how priceless they are.

"Would you ever just donate it to a museum?"

"I've thought about it and been approached, but one of my son's friends accidentally broke off one of the ivory bits so it's not museum quality anymore."

"Okay. Interesting."

"So this Roxy Curse—"

"I swear I think she's in Hell, cursing me. Mom agrees. So, yeah, I was walking around the house yelling at her and telling her to 'bring it on, biatch.'" Actually, I think I called her a cunt. That's more appropriate.

"Well, if she is a spirit visiting you and 'fucking with you' getting angry at her is what she wants. So what you need to do is just let her go. Get her out of your life."

"I've already saged the fuck out of this place."

"So if that's not working for you, then you're just going to have to mentally get rid of her."

"I can do that. I can ignore Roxy. I can totally do that."

Easy peasy, right? So I'm henceforth ignoring the hateful and haunting spirit of Roxy. Take that, GRANDMA! (We were forbidden from calling her anything but Roxy.)

Wherever you are, you're not in my life anymore. What kind of spirit hangs around for SEVENTEEN years fucking with her family? An evil one, for damn sure. Unwittingly to her—and perhaps this has something to do with her recent spirit shenanigans—she's brought me around to one of my cousins. Who is the bomb and whom I'll meet for the first time in NY in two weeks. I'll bet you one of her beloved baubles that she's petrified that I'm going to get even more information on her from Will. His grandpa and my great-grandpa were brothers. And he says he's heard some crazy Roxy stories too. Sooo, anyway, aside from her precious 'things,' connecting with Will could just be the best thing Roxy's ever been responsible for. Except birthing my mom and aunt of course.

To this day—since Roxy had a mean old potty mouth directed at her children—Mom never curses. Like never. She'll say 'darn it all.' Or something along those lines. Now, my mom is super-sweet, but she can bitch along with the rest of us like any proper Jewess. But can you imagine having the restraint never to curse? Fuck—you all know I can't. I think fuck is perhaps the best word ever—oh so versatile!

The Broken and the Beautiful

2010-01-26T14:27:00.004-04:00

Lest you all think I'm exaggerating about the Roxy curse. I really don't exaggerate much here. My life is just fucking bananas. And I don't even delve into my personal social life. That's going to be a major hurdle to deal with in Cancer Is the New Black. (Yeah, that's the partially edited 300-plus-page manuscript adjacent to the baubles. Christ, I hope Roxy's curse can't extend to the manuscript.) Though I really don't editorialize my narrative in that way—it's more pure reportage. My editorializing is done here, which is why I love blogging so much. It's really embarrassing for me to write about S.E.X. because I'm actually a total prude and incredibly private about that part of my life.

The cursed bag.

The goddamned waste of $300 Le Coultre.

One of my favorites—the pocket watch from Edith Ringling's estate. It's the other side, the face that broke.

Mom's restored Tiffany from her high school or junior high years. Thank god this one didn't break; so that $300 wasn't totally wasted.

It's finally beautiful here again, so I've thrown in a (terrible) photo of my view from my couch/'home office.'

A nice distraction, my view. Sometimes I have to remind myself that life isn't all that bad when you've got a view like this. I do so love this view and this apartment. I woke up with some very strange hip/side pain on the left. Which is either sleeping related or another Cancer spot! Let's hope for the former; I'm heading to Chad to see if he can needle it away.

But first a phoner with Dr. Laura, who's going to kick my ass and try to make me optimistic.

I did—while on the toilet nonetheless—realize that my work is not yet done here so I won't die yet. Cool? It's you guys—my longtime readers and commenters who inspire me to move forward with my writing. I've come to think of you guys as like, my grandfathered-in fans. It's weird, I know, but I do have personal relationships with some of you. Anyway, you know who you are and I can assure you your comments and emails and such are always valued.

PS, speaking of toilets, I highly recommend Kathy Griffin's memoir Official Book Club Selection. It's not only LOL funny, but pretty fascinating and poignant—she's led a very interesting life. It's one of the few books that scores in all three of my book-reading categories—gym book (fast-paced, entertaining); toilet book (so addictive you just can't even put it down for a short poop); and bedtime book (something I can look forward to before crashing out.)

Yup, girls have toilet reading material too. TMI? Too bad. Who do you think invented the concept of toilet reading? It's fairly odd right?

The Curse of the Jade Roxy

2010-01-25T14:24:00.005-04:00

Stupid title, I know. Allow me to properly introduce you to Roxy, my mother's long-dead diva mother, as she really did curse me this weekend.

Roxanne Schwalbe Paver was a born and bred Manhattanite. Grew up on the UES, matriculated at Dalton and NYU. (Dalton is a Gossip Girl—yet coed—esque private school.) She was an only child, and apparently, quite the catch in those days. Before marrying my awesome, also long-departed grandfather Stanley, she was set up with all the power Jews. "Marrying well" has always existed amongst the Heebs, clearly. She dated Schuberts (the theatre family) and Pressmans (Barneys) and the like.

Roxy was a daddy's girl; her mom was apparently pretty batshit, like everyone else in my ancestral lineage. Her dad, Dave, and her mother Tassle (sp)—yes, Tassle, don't ask me—divorced when she was young and Tassle up and moved to Las Vegas of all places. Where she lived and played the slots until she died, which warranted the Green's first family vacay to Vegas, back when the Mirage was THE place to be. That's how bad relations were between Tassle and Roxy—she left it up to Mom and Dad to go deal with her mother's death. Can you imagine?

Anywho, Roxy and Stanley met—much of my abrasive, elitist, ball-busting behavior is in line with Roxy's. So I can imagine my larger-than-life grandfather thinking this ballsy woman was the bee's knees. Apparently he wasn't such a great judge of character. But he liked strong women; I think that's the part of my personality that he most respected and loved. Given that he died when I was 17 and a freshman at Emory, I suppose I'll never know.

Back to Roxy, The Curse and her complete ineptitude at doing anything for herself. It's like she was born with an imaginary assistant or something. So they met and married young and I believe that Roxy was like 20 or 21 when she popped out mom. Clearly, too young, but for Roxy, even worse. The examples are too numerous to name—but the quintessential one is that she had a wake-up call service awaken Mom and Aunt Cheryl for school. Her days in Sarasota were spent at one of two places. John Baldwin when it existed—an upscale retail shop—and when Baldwin folded, McCarver & Moser jewelers. (Those lovely boys ended up opening up a second shop in East Hampton.)

I'm not exaggerating when I say she spent her days there. Customers probably thought she worked there, and was just the laziest salesperson ever. Roxy was a fashion and jewelry addict. A Social by default. While Stanley and his family were working hard to develop Sarasota, Roxy was, well, shopping. And couldn't even be bothered to pick up the kids from school. I think they took the public bus. Seriously.

Some of my favorite Roxy stories: Stanley came home one day, saw a new plant and remarked, "Oh great, now I have to hire a gardener?"

Another one that just came to light: Stanley was away or something and had put Roxy in charge of decorating the house he'd built for her—they were in real estate. Well, according to Mom, she couldn't even lift the phone to hire a decorator. This went on for so long that Stanley had to hire someone for her.

They divorced. She was 31 or 32, with two daughters and I do believe she invented the Latchkey concept of parenting. I must issue a caveat about Roxy—had she been nice to her children, perhaps she would just be a funny character in the fabric of my family's life. Well, she wasn't nice to them. In fact, she was a complete bitch. Never told them she loved them. No physical affection. No cares about them at all.

I think the wake-up call service pretty much sums it up. So they divorced, and whatever the custodial arrangement was, Mom and Cheryl had to adapt to Stanley's playboy lifestyle—golf, boys' nights out etc. But he was still kind, and fabulous and loving and just an all around badass.

Having connected with a cousin on Roxy's side recently, that got Mom talking about some never-before-heard stories.

I was sitting at the breakfast table when I was home recently and Mom casually threw in something about Roxy taking flying lessons post-Stanley split and Mom and Cheryl being her passengers on a prop jet. WTF. First of all, in those days, I don't think flying lessons on private planes were all that common. Certainly not for a thirtysomething Roxy type.

So Roxy decides to take flying lessons and then forces Cheryl and Mom to go in the plane with her while she's at the helm and the instructor is shotgun. Apparently, Mom never got over this one. I cannot even imagine that scene.

"What the hell Mom? I can't believe I've never heard this! Roxy actually did something?!"

"Yeah, I guess it was her post-divorce thing."

"Chanel had probably just come out with an aviator line."

"Or John Baldwin was having a sale on stuff like that."

Seriously people, there is no other explanation.

Okay, time to focus, I actually have an assignment to do today.

Well, all my jewels come from Roxy via Mom. Unfortunately, aside from to-die-for stories, her physical possessions are Roxy's legacy.

Soooo the crazy bitch actually wrote in her will that none of her progeny were ever allowed to sell her baubles; we could remake them at the jeweler, but we could never sell. Or she would curse us. Literally in the will—she'd curse us.

Remember the Jaeger le Coultre watch I found in one of mom's 'junk' bags of Roxy's jewelry? Ugly as sin, but definitely not junk. I had it restored completely by my watch guy on 47th St. Picked it up last month.

"We-ell," Mom says, "I would tell you not to sell it because of the Roxy Curse, but you have Cancer so what else could she do?"

She could, apparently, as Durrett can attest, turn me into a Hot. Fucking. Mess.

Saturday D & I went to the antiques show here to show and tell and get an appraisal from a watch guy on 47th who had a booth. (We never found him; Roxy probably took a hit out on him.)

We walk in and I'm toting two Chanels—one packed with baubles. When you deal with 47th St., often you carry around your stuff in plastic baggies. I took out the bag that contained the le Coultre, the vintage pocketwatch that Sotheby's informed me was once Edith Ringling's (Ringling Bros. founder's wife, based in Sarasota, purchased from Roxy's estate jeweler), a restored Tiffany watch, another pocketwatch that I'd never paid attention to etc. I dropped the fucking bag on the way in on the hard floor of the MB Convention Center where Art Basel is held.

THREE watches shattered. The Ringling—ugh, I'm very upset about that one—face shattered, the le Coultre cover and two other layers of it came apart and the other pocketwatch's face shattered as well. Let me tell you, I have years of experience toting around jewels in Ziplocs. I have never, ever, broken anything.

We hadn't even entered the exhibition hall. I mean, come on, could there be more palpable evidence of the afterlife? Well, I've been cursing the bitch back all weekend. I would sell everything to spite her—if I weren't such a jewelry whore.

So now, after spending $300 on repairs for this stupid ugly le Coultre—and it took my watch guy THREE MONTHS to refurbish it—it's like in layers in a plastic bag. And the thing is only worth about $800 to $1k. I was *such* a mess that every jewelry booth we visited chastised me for my jewelry-toting technique and one watch guy even repacked everything for me. Another came running after me cause I also was hoping to get a battery for my Tank, and I'd dropped a screw/post.

Oy vey!! So that was my weekend escapade. Thank you Roxy!

I cannot wait to hear more Roxy stories from my cousin when I see him in NYC next month. Maybe I can get to the bottom of the childhood that fucked her up beyond belief.

I did just see Michael Caine at Publix, so maybe this will be a better week than last. Ta and happy, healthy Monday. Let's hope for a curse-free several days.

Stanley, his second wife Sara and Roxy a couple of years before they died.

Editor's note: Jan. 26. Tassle was Sara's mother! Roxy's was named Jeanne. Jeez, proof of just how little we know about Roxy's mom. Mom told me; I never would've even remembered.

2010-01-22T12:14:00.002-04:00

Well, this week has really sucked ass. I suppose when you kickstart a week with your first trip back to the chemo ward in I don't even know how many fucking months, it's not a good omen. Herceptin is given to me in the chemo ward even though it's not chemo. There are no side-effects.

I've been in excruciating back pain from the fucking Xeloda cycle Norton suggested. Tomorrow will be two fucking weeks I've been off this shit! Imagine just how toxic a drug is that takes that long to get out of your system. I tried everything—even (unaffordable) acupuncture sessions two days in a row. Finally, after going to Vinyasa yoga yesterday and not being able to do like one-half of what Nicolay was teaching and barely being able to handle 40 mins of cardio afterward, I hit a physical wall. And I just had to give in. I called Schwartz for Vicodin. Even those didn't help more than just fucking me up. So yesterday from about 3 p.m. till midnight, I marooned myself on the couch with my Tempurpedic pillow, Wally, heating pad etc. It's so comforting with Wally, who knows when I'm in pain and hangs tight with me. What will I do without my little booger? The longest opposite-sex relationship I'll ever have—14 years.

Wednesday, I got an odd call from Shrink. Below conversation is taken from an email to a mutual friend and patient. (I write emails in all lowercase and I ain't fixing it here.)

"so, ilan calls me from his cell today in a very non ilan [professional] demeanor/voice:

"i'm with pharmacist and we think there's a drug out there that might be good for you."

"mentally or physically?"

"both! it's a synthetic form of marijuana."

"you mean marinol?"

"yes! [like we'd never discussed this before. we have. several times]."

"yeah, but you said i'd have to eat a whole bottle to get high."

"true! but a pill or two might give you the same effect and then you wouldn't have to keep making your brownies." [though i find baking brownies fun and therapeutic.]

so, i uh think that ilan and pharmacist basically marijuana "Intervention"ed me and are attempting to placate my weed addiction and enjoyment of with marinol. wtf. only me. nonetheless, i have a bottle of marinol in the fridge."

I got a real kick out of the fact that it reads (handwritten) on the label: "refrigerate." Just like real weed! I'm only on 5 mgs now, and clearly a pothead like me will need a higher dosage.

So let's take stock of just what I ingested yesterday to numb body and mind. I'm at the point of crying in public again. I wanted to bawl yesterday in yoga. I'm usually so good at yoga—the only 'sport' I've ever been good at. So much so that when I'm not up to par, the instructors actually throw in poses that they think would help me. Yeah, the Equinox instructors—esp Javier on Saturdays and Joey and Nicolay for those of you SoBe members—are amazing.

Back to yesterday. Came home, popped a Marinol. (Kinda nice, mellow high a la Xanax or Klon.) Popped a Vicodin. Didn't help. Popped another Vicodin. Watched The Invention of Lying—couldn't have gotten through this week without Gervais, and those of you who think he sucked at the Golden Globes, well, I don't think I can be friends with you anymore. And part of Inglorious Basterds, which I am enjoying despite my dislike of Tarantino's—uber-pathetic-shoot-em-up-pseudo-masculinity and Brad Pitt's horrific overacting. I mean really, he's gotten as bad as Jason Schwartzman.

Anyway, two Klons before bed, another two Vicodins and still restless sleep—though better than I've had all week.

Sigh. What. Ever. I wonder if I moved to a city where nobody knows my name if I could lead a normal life. A life where every cute guy I meet doesn't know that I'm a dead woman walking. At the very least, it would be nice to fall in love before I bite it.

Moreover, Lady Gaga every time I turn on the TV—what is the BFD? The new Madonna? I don't think so. She's unattractive, her style is beyond atrocious—Thierry Mugler meets Patricia Field in the 90s—and her songs are good, but still. What is the big deal? I don't get it. Then again, I contend that nobody past present or future will top the music of my parents' generation. Beatles, Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell, etc and Lady Gaga. Pshaw.

Yeah, I'm hating everything and nearly everyone this week, most especially myself, natch. So what. Cut me some slack. At least—sliver of a silver lining—the weather is beautiful and I can go soak my sorrows in the sun and pool downstairs. Which is exactly what I'm going to do. Hope everyone else's week has been better than mine. And if not, do share your craptastic stories in comments. A group vent may not be a bad idea.

2010-01-20T15:11:00.002-04:00

Norton, I love you to death—hopefully not literally on my part—but could kill you in lieu of this one-week Xeloda cycle. A week+ after I stopped, my back is still in agony. So much so that despite acupuncture yesterday, I'm going back to Chad for a massage today. Swear to fucking god, just one week without pain, okay?

It's a beyond-beautiful day here in South Beach, so I went to the pool for some much needed Vitamin D. But, I multi-tasked and—wait for it— finally began editing Cancer Is the New Black. And to my surprise, it's not nearly as cringeworthy as I suspected. There were a lot of LOLs. I got through 40 pages.

Fortunately, I've got several VIPs in publishing willing to read the book for me before I send it out to agents. However, given that Gary was my original mentor (and former professor) he's first in line. He knows me best. He offered, well commanded really that I email him the manuscript, saying something along the lines of "Just fucking send it to me already. Now! Stop listening to your shrinks and listen to me!"

Somehow that was easy to do; to listen to him as opposed to my shrinks—though Gary isn't the one who just called me to offer up a Marinol scrip;). So Gary has the first look—Gary who is as brutally honest as yours truly. He won't pull any punches, has known me for nine years now and is, well, a VVIP and a dear, dear friend, whose input will be priceless. And probably a little hard to take, but hey, must thicken this fragile artiste's skin.

Anywho, major hurdle accomplished. I'm like 1/8th the way through editing this monster now.

Aaaargh my back hurts. Can't yoga. Cannot. Fucking. Sleep. If I can't sleep, you know it's serious. It's to the point where I'd definitely pop a Perc or Vicodin if I had 'em. Or to where I need to go get a Tempurpedic mattress to supplement my pillow. I may try some herbal Chinese pain meds if this continues.

Okay, gym, acupuncture massage and dinner with Joni at Canyon Ranch Grill. What a healthy day! Hmmm, that's odd, no?

Esprit de Green

2010-01-17T12:25:00.003-04:00

In fifth or sixth grade, I declared that I would wear nothing but Esprit for the entire school year. For some reason, the parents and Roxy gave into this absurd request. (Today, even I wouldn't want to be glued to one brand for a year. How boring.)

On one of our first Griswold-esque family vacays, we arrived at a hotel in D.C. only to find out that Dad had booked us for the entire wrong week. Randomly, we ran into the Rosenblums, and ending up hanging out with them. We took a limo ride around D.C. to see the sites. And apparently Lee Ann and I did some amateur modeling. She found this photo amongst her brother's stuff.

This was also the year that I insisted on wearing my hair slicked back on one side with mousse. Yeah, so the right side of my Sun-In-d hair was poufy Jewfroish, and the left side was slicked down with so much mousse that Dana's mom Nancy thought a bird had shit in my hair one day. I am so not kidding. Ask Dana.

We're all so lucky to have friends like these, whose grandparents were BFFs. They lived a much more glam life than we do though—summers in Europe, yachts everywhere and Chanel suits as uniforms.

But anyway . . . My first Herceptin treatment is tomorrow. Friday I found out the full results of the PET scan. Some of the nodes in the sternum shrunk; others grew. The nodes in the neck shrunk by 50 percent in some cases. Unfort, the PET picked up on a new area of concern on my right pelvic bone—I don't even know where the fuck this bone is. My vjayjay? Aside from my hip bones, I don't feel any bones down there. So, the new spot on the pelvic bone is too small for the PET to determine what it is. Obv it's Ca, but small enough not to worry too much about. Apptly, PETs are notoriously bad with bone reads—that's why people get MRIs and CTs. Although it won't change treatment protocol, I will likely get an MRI for peace of mind.

Sooo, the new treatment regiment: Herceptin infusions (in the fucking chemo ward) every three weeks combined with Tykerb and possibly Xeloda—Norton and Schwartz will talk tomorrow about whether to keep the Xeloda. As bad as the side-effects are, I think I'd be more comfortable with some kind of chemo mixed into the cocktail.

I was planning on going solo tomorrow, but then the rents offered to come so Dad is driving down today. I warned him that I'd be glued to the Golden Globes fashion coverage—YAAAAAAAAY Joan is back on E! One good thing to come out of all this Cancer crap is that it's def brought dad and I closer together, given that he's had Prostate Ca and knows what Cancer feels like. I get my temper and my bawdy side from Dad, and I still remember when he was on out-of-control hormones, him almost getting us kicked out of Asia de Cuba in New York. Ha.

So how am I feeling? Like a guinea pig. There is no common sense in Cancer. It's a crap shoot and I'm the chips (or whatever the fuck is used in craps. Dice?). Schwartz and Norton are optimistic this will work. I'm beyond not. I mean, nothing else has worked. Nothing. Not the strongest Jet Fuel chemo out there. Herceptin is my last chance before being told I should go back on real chemo. Which, well, fuck that.

Tomorrow will indeed be tough as hell. I know that as soon as I step back into the chemo ward, see my nurses, etc I'm going to have a terrible visceral reaction and break down. No happy photos this time. No "1 down 7 to go signs." Maybe video, I dunno. In the two years of horrific treatments, I rarely cried at the hospital, now I walk around bawling and not giving a fuck.

This disease may have some mind-over-matter component, but that doesn't mean I have to be positive. I do not have a positive attitude people. I can believe I can beat this, but I don't have to be "positive" shiny happy about it. Just because I have a sense of humor about this doesn't equate to me having a positive attitude.

Moreover I've changed up my talismen. Clearly, they didn't work. I've shelved the Wiccan health candle. And switched out the Indian pendant Brother got me for an old ring of my grandpa, Mom's dad, Stanley, who was a total bad-ass and I know is looking down on me.

That's all for now. I'm heading to NY for Fashion Week just for the helluv it. Must book flight today.

I won't be able to type during chemo now, as I have no port and the needle will be in my arm or hand I guess. The infusion lasts 90 minutes. So Mondays are chemo days once again. What a life I'm leading. What a fucking life.

2010-01-14T18:38:00.002-04:00

Just a little good news, that's all I ever hope for. It's why, without fail, I do a mitzvah every day. Lately it's been made easy—the Publix across the street is collecting for the Special Olympics and the Haitian thing. I always give a dollar, even if I'm not flush. But today, whatever fighting spirit I had left in me has now grown wings and flown away from this toxic house.

I live by the principle of Karma. Yet for the past three years, you'd think—given my luck—that I walked around South Beach with an Uzi picking off people left and right.

I can't think of one really fabu bit of news I've received since the great gift that is Fucking Breast Cancer. No news, typically good news in medicine. So I waited for Schwartz to call me today. I was not medicated when I saw the "Mammo" pop up on caller ID. But I was already expecting not the 'best' news anyway. So I took it like a woman. And as I suspected, I am indeed a dead woman walking, running and yoga-ing.

The PET revealed a "mixed response." Translation: The nodes in the neck have shrunk (good). The nodes behind the sternum have grown (vvv bad news). Why? Schwartz and Norton think that the Tykerb is what's working and the chemo isn't. The full report tomorrow will reveal how much the sternum nodes have grown and how much the neck ones have shrunk; obv it'd be nice if the sternum nodes had only increased marginally, but I'm not holding my breath for anything anymore.

I know I've said this time and time again here, but I genuinely believe it now. This fucking thing is going to kill me. Soon. Like, I'm banking on being dead by 40. Let's look at the facts: None of the chemo I put my body through in 2008 even worked. Sure, maybe it kept the Cancer from spreading, but it didn't eradicate it. I was never really in remission. So, basically everything I've done, what I've been told to do, what is in all experts' opinions the best course of treatment has failed. Chemo failed. Mastectomy, meh. Herceptin was, in Schwartz' and Norton's opinion, the only thing that my fucking HER2NU Breast Ca really responded to. Herceptin and Her2NU are BFFs. I'd rather have Dana.

So, what now? Norton and Schwartz have decided to take me off the Xeloda (chemo); they don't think it was working at all and that is the drug that is causing my hands to hurt even while typing this. Monday, I go back on Herceptin infusions. Every three weeks, report to the chemo ward, get a needle stuck in my arm and sit hooked up to an IV while god knows what kind of chemicals are pumped into my eroding insides.

That study that I linked to last week, about Herceptin plus Tykerb, is what we're banking on. I go in on Monday for my first (second-round) infusion, take five Tykerb pills a day and in six weeks we will know just exactly how long I've got left on this very confusing planet we live on.

If this treatment doesn't work—why should I think it will, when none of the other stuff has—then they'll try to put me back on regular chemo. Which I will not do. Period. Even mom seems to have accepted the fact that I will, when push comes to shove, choose to die rather than live my life as a chronic Cancer Patient.

So yeah, great news in the life of your's truly as usual. And this isn't even taking into account the Ovarian Cancer risk factor that gives me an 80 percent chance of getting that. So, what, I'll be removing my ovaries while I'm being infused with Herceptin in the vain hope that removing them will eliminate the possibility of Cancer? Puh-fucking-lease. That's why I had the mastectomy and those crafty cells still found a way to re-enter my body.

Oftentimes, and I don't know if it's cause I'm a depressive to begin with, but I honestly feel like dying is easier than living out a future that I can not see any goodness in.

Sigh. I'm about to call Dr. Laura in Bev Hills for my phone therapy. After this news, I may just go from Fashion Week in New York to Los Angeles and just try to run the fuck away from what has become of my life.

2010-01-12T14:48:00.002-04:00

Is it really economical/time-is-money thing for me to write a column that takes me three hours of writing and research for $60? Aren't I worth more than $20 an hour by now? And being paid the same amount as when I started three years ago, when the company has gone from start-up to being sold to a major corporation?

I think I'm getting screwed and am pretty close to asking for a raise or letting it go.

For the moment I'm saying screw it and going to the gym. Less than 24 hours till the PET scan which will fucking determine the rest of my fucking fucking fuckity fuckish Cancer treatment and hence the rest of my life, quality of and span. No biggie. Nope, not at all.

Honestly, I can't even make dinner plans at this point, cause if I get bad news on Friday—like, "Hello, you're not responding to treatment and we're recommending infusion chemo,"—likely I won't be good company. I'm so beyond sick of this bullshit and my own life I just want to go to sleep for like a month and wake up on another planet.

I know Norton said not to say things like this to doctors, but I'll say it to you. I will not lose my hair or go on infusion chemo again. I will be a guinea pig—as in trying Herceptin + Tykerb + Xeloda. At least then I'd be doing a service to research. But, sorry—quality of life is more important to me than longevity. Plus, a dead author sells more books and earns more respect anyway.

At a certain point, I have to live for myself and not my friends and family.

Holy. Psychic. Shit.

2010-01-10T17:30:00.005-04:00

I just had to pop a Xannie even to deal with writing this. Psychic—thank god I didn't name names—gave mom a list of eight things about me. Psychic was so happy that her mom still possessed this portentousness while in the throes of full-on Alzheimer's dementia.

Mom looked at the list and immediately saw how applicable it was/is to me.

So, here goes, in the order that she saw or felt things. (Remember, this woman has no idea who I am; that I'm a writer or that I have Cancer):

1.) She sees lots of "pins" and "needles" and says to "keep it up," that it's a great thing. That would be Chad, acupuncturist extraordinairre.

2.) Wanted to know if I talked/spoke/taught—and if not, that I should be doing it exclusively for women. Would this platform right here not be the thing? I've got some straight-male lurkers, but I'd venture that 95 percent of you are ladies.

3.) That I should surround myself with "blues." In the living room, sitting on the couch as I am now, I stare at the turquoise water through floor-to-ceiling windows. It's the reason I decided to keep this apartment. My bedroom has always been in blues and whites.

4.) She asked if anything with "pottery" meant anything to me; that I should be using my hands. I've always painted and drawn, but pottery was never my forte. Clearly I use my hands while writing, but I'm pretty sure I know what she's talking about. One of my talismen is an aqua, blown glass, genie-bottle type of mini vase that I bought in Safed, Israel. The birthplace of Kabbalah, where an aged, bearded man plucked me from the crowd and read my palm. It's filled with sand from the Negev Desert that, yes, I brought back from Israel. It's on Roxy's dresser where all my talismen are.

5.) There's a "young man" in my life, whom I confide in and to keep it up, that he's a very good person and friend to me. Again, I know exactly who this guy is, and without my cognizance, I really hurt his feelings last year. And I've apologized and all that, but I certainly didn't realize the extent of his feelings for me, friendship wise. And she's really right on the money again here—since seeing him in NY, he's been a little distant and I know that I've still got some fences to mend with him. Pardon all the cliches.

6.) She wanted to know if I owned a house—says that money is coming to me from the sale of a "property." Natch, Pollyanna Mom thinks this is my book. I don't think she gets that the days of six-figure advances for unknown writers are totally gone. Personally, I think Psychic is referring to Roxy's Jaeger le Coultre watch that I had refurbished recently. So I really do need to get an estimate on that ugly-but-perhaps valuable timepiece.

7.) That money is always on my mind and not to worry; that it's not a problem. That I needed to get rid of the thoughts. It was at this point that I lost it and started crying in my car in the parking lot of Whole Foods where I was on the phone with mom taking these notes. I'm a constant money-worrier and guilt-carrier. Not as in keeping up with the Jonesfarbs, but in terms of earning money as a writer. After all, we live in a capitalistic country. What other tangible way do we have to gauge our success in our respective careers than money? Or the ability to earn money and take care of yourself/your family. (Thank god I don't have a family; they'd be living in a box.) But then again, money is the only thing holding me back from moving back to New York, so . . .

8.) Lastly: There's a 40-to-50 year old man or woman in my life who I spend time with, but it's not a healthy relationship and I need to get rid of this person and listen to my inside voice about him or her. This is a really tricky one; I cut the toxic people out of my life long ago. And they were mainly in their 20s and 30s. I have a substantial group of older friends, but they're all amazing. I'm thisclose to going through my Facebook friends to figure out who the fuck this person is. But I have faith that they will reveal themselves soon enough.

So that's it. Christ, I'm emotionally spent from hearing and writing about this. She did NOT mention anything about my health, which is honestly what I was hoping for. Wouldn't it have been nice if she'd said something along the lines of "Do the initials PET mean anything to her?" But I'm not looking this gift-horse in the mouth.

Time to curl up with Wally and watch chick flicks. Though realistically I'll be pulling all my blue clothes to the front of my wardrobe rotation.

2010-01-10T12:38:00.003-04:00

Have I mentioned before the JCC (Jacksonville) psychic who works with my mom? I think I have—she's the one who told me my aura is golden and that I'm a 'new soul'. You guys know I'm not religulous, however, I DO believe in people who have natural psychic abilities. I think you're born with it, a la my fantastic Breast Ca gene! You may remember the psychic in India Brother visited a year or so before I was diagnosed: "Tell your sister she needs to get her breasts checked in the next couple of years." Time beat that psychic, but still.

So the JCC psychic would go into mom's office and say things like: "Don't worry Stephanie's surgery is going to go well today." (Without prior knowledge.) She is intuitive, but her mom was like a major psychic. The mother now has dementia, so she doesn't do readings anymore. Anyway, I was at the JCC in Jacksonville the other week and ran into her.

She was working the front desk when dad and I walked in. "So what's my aura today?"

"Golden, always golden." Hmm, gold—24k? Can I get upgraded to Platinum?

After my workout, I passed her again and she ran up to me.

"Stephanie, you have to start keeping a journal about your Cancer cause this is a book!"

(I assumed that everyone at the JCC knew I was a writer.)

"Uh, you don't know that I'm a writer and I've been blogging about this since the beginning. And it is a book [well, in the making anyway]?"

"No, I had no idea. You must keep a journal! And sage, sage, sage!"

"Ugh, I know I just hate that smell." It really is vomitous, that sage. But maybe that's why it works—like garlic to a vampire. I like garlic, however. Natch, I had to go get sage. Where the fuck am I going to find sage sticks in Jacksonville, I thought.

On a lark, I asked the dude at the fairly new Whole Foods. Surprisingly, they had it. So I went home and saged my room at the 'rents house, under my armpits, in the Cancer-y areas and my 'root,' aka, the v-jay-jay. Barbara taught me that one. Though I think my root is probably obscured by some cobwebs. But that's neither here nor there.

Yesterday morning, after I slid barefoot in a pile of Wally's shit he decided belonged in the kitchen, I saged the fuck out of this apartment. I did everything, the doors, the balcony, the bed and, yes, Wally's bunghole. (Can't hurt right, he is 14 years old after all.)

Having been out of Miami for nearly a month, it basically took me all week to unpack and get my apartment back into it's OCD-ruled order. So after I finally vacuumed, scrubbed the floors that Wally did his bizness on, and—most importantly—organized the wardrobe, I saged. (Three weeks, three cities, three vastly different climates=three wardrobes.)

Have I mentioned that it's in the 30s here? And I live right on the water in a wind tunnel cause the geniuses who built this complex, were, well, fucking geniuses. With the 20 mph winds behind my building, it feels like the teens. So I'm walking around South Beach in my full-length shearling. With more layers underneath than I needed in New York. I think the Apocalypse is coming right for me. Then again, I love busting out the winter wardrobe down here. There's something so wrong about it that it's right. Perhaps because I could be wearing my PJs under a fabulous coat and hat and shoes and you'd never know. But I digress about fashion as per usual.

Sooo, the psychic and why I'm literally sitting on my couch with my poopy dog waiting to hear from mom. Mom's at the office today and ran into Psychic. I'd given Psychic my calling card last time, and when she took it, she declared it "mmmh, so warm."

Okay, so here's the email from mom:

"Hi Honey….i’m at work today until about 3pm but just saw [Psychic]….she visited her mom yesterday and gave her your card and she wrote down a whole bunch of psychic things to tell you. She was amazed her mom even got a reading because she has dementia and said if she asked her about it today she wouldn’t even remember doing it!! Anyway the stuff she said is so interesting….i’ll try to call you later and tell you everything…I know you’ll want to know!!"

I'll post what she said later—unless I feel like I'd be jinxing myself by putting her insights out there.

Maybe it's about the PET scan on Wednesday or Norton or something good. Like, maybe these fucking drugs are actually working and I won't need to go back on regular chemo? Norton was certainly off-base with his contention that the one-week-on, one-week-off Xeloda cycle lessons side-effects. Pshaw, my back has been in agony all week and I'm literally—I'm not kidding, it's fucking disgusting—shedding skin on my yoga mat thanks to my peeling feet.

Alright, I'm out. Time to get off my ass.

2010-01-09T15:32:00.002-04:00

It's so cold in Miami that I've been wearing my full-length shearling. They're even predicting snow tonight, which I would love. Curling up with Wally on my couch, watching snow fall over the water from my window? Too good to be true, so I'm sure it won't happen.

My mentor Gary told me I needed to write about S-E-X in Cancer Is the New Black. I can barely deal with sexual relations in the first place—reliving them on the page isn't my idea of fun. But he's the expert, a straight guy and if he's curious about what sex is like with Breast Ca, then I can only assume other people are. (FYI, it's not that much different. You just can't feel anything on your nips. So breast-fed men beware. There's something SO beyond grossly animalistic about nipple suckage anyway that I'm always a little wary of men who are into that. I feel like they must have a really weird mommy complex. No offense, teet dwellers.)

So I wrote eight pages between yesterday and today about my latest sexcapade. I mean, I do talk about sex with my friends freely, but writing about it is somehow more personal. If this piece 'o Cancer crap ever is published, then yeah, you'll get to hear about my decidedly boring 'sex life'.

But at this rate, I'll either be dead by then or sans-ovaries, so I probably won't give a shit. The guys I'm writing about—well you guys know you'll make a literary appearance somehow when you hang with me. They'll have pseudonyms out of courtesy, but whatever.

My fucking back and feet are fucking killing me. This one-week on Xeloda regiment is actually giving me worse side-effects. Despite acupuncture with Chad Thursday and an amazing massage last night.

Have I mentioned how I hate you Cancer? How I would gladly buy an Uzi and riddle you with bullets if I could? Ah, yes, I suppose I have. But here's another big Fuck You. Ta.

2010-01-07T19:32:00.002-04:00

I just awoke from a much-needed Klonopin nap. I cried in Schwartz's office today. I cried in acupuncture. I cried on the way from the hospital to acupuncture. This is becoming an annoying, more frequent occurrence lately.

Between the inundation of information I received from Larry Norton, the confusion over what my "copy" number is on the FISH test [aka, my HER2NU leve, guaged by this pathology test called FISH; no idea what it stands for], and the fact that I have to face that, should Wednesday's PET scan not show marked improvement, the possibility of infusion chemo again.

I'm not ready to face that option, so I shall choose to believe that the PET will reveal NO NEW GROWTHS. I never want to see Ralf again. I didn't ask mom where she put him. (New readers, Ralf is my couture wig.) That's what we're hoping for—no new nodes and shrinkage of the original ones. Tomorrow the CA 15-3 results come in. I'm hoping (fingers and dried, peeling, repulsive toes crossed) for a number less than 100. Fifty would be divine, but that may be asking too much. If everything looks kosher between 15-3 levels and the PET, we can continue with the current regiment and add Herceptin infusions every three weeks.

I've just come around to the end of unpacking. Having been gone three weeks, well, you can imagine the luggage I'm saddled with.

On a couple positive notes (I can't remember who I tell what, so bear with me) I'm the new (and first-ever) fashion editor at Heeb magazine. I'll be penning a weekly column, a la this here blog, with more of a fashion perspective. As you can guess, Roxy, Mom, Lynn etc will be making frequent appearances in this column. And I got another major mag assignment today too. So happy these things fall in my lap; Cancer is too much of a full-time job to pitch.

Ugh. Back to laundry. 2010 can't start this badly right? Must focus on the positive—like booking my NYC fashion week and Woodstock trip. Yeah, Woodstock in the middle of winter—only me. I have these delusional visions of the Cotswolds from the movie The Holiday. Though I have a feeling it's going to be more like sleepaway camp on ice. With all women.

"Ooh will there be some hot lesbo action," my uber-straight friend asked.

"Hahaha. Actually, I guess it is kind of a Sapphic thing huh?"

Didn't take that into consideration either. So Jude Law will be played by Judy Law? And It's over Valentine's day to boot. Surely there will be a couple straighties like me to bitch about men with, no?

2010-01-06T22:55:00.004-04:00

Tomorrow at 11 a.m. I go for bloodwork and see Schwartz at 11:30. I won't get the CA 12-5 back till Monday probably. After all this insanity with Norton and the "these don't feel like Breast Cancer nodes," declaration by him, I'm a little anxious.

I just popped another 1/2 Klonopin. Anywho, Jesus, I'm. Fucking. Exhausted. I can't wait for acupuncture tomorrow. First time in three+ weeks; a record.

One of the highlights of the Mercury-Retrograde-fuckedupedness of this week so far has been connecting with Mom's second cousin, Will. He's on Roxy's side of the fam. And just a *doll*.

For my gays and literati crowd, read the Larry Kramer cover story in NY mag in which Will makes an appearance. (For those of you who haven't read Kramer's seminal Faggots, it's a graphic, riveting look into the life of the debaucherous gay scene in the 70s and 80s; I read it when I was in college and it truly is both a page-turner and profound book.) Kramer was the co-founder of Gay Men's Health Crisis and started Act Up.

Anyway, Will's now on a culinary adventure over on Cookstr. Recipes, chefs and authors, oh my! Even this non-cooking bitch is going to try a (very easy) recipe. I'm sure it will result in a delivery order. I am indeed Roxy's granddaughter!

Herceptin Innovation re HER2+ Breast Cancer

2010-01-02T13:38:00.002-04:00

Only the new Four Seasons, er, Sloan-Kettering Breast Center, would have comfy seersucker robes for the VIP(atient)s. (Some of whom probably bring in their own Frette robes anyway.)

Just a couple of weeks ago, the results of a promising study regarding Herceptin and Tykerb success rates among HER2+ Breast Ca patients.

Dr. Larry Norton at Sloan-Kettering, told us about it in my Dec 29th appointment with him. The study found that:

"Ian Krop, MD, PhD, principal investigator of the study, will report that the hybrid agent, called T-DM1, shrank tumors by 30 percent or more in 40 percent of women with confirmed HER2-positive cancers. Another 13 percent had stable disease for at least six months, for a total clinical benefit rate of approximately 53 percent. The median time before the disease progressed was 7.3 months, including both responders and non-responders. Patients received T-DM1 as long as it was effective and well-tolerated. A total of 110 women were enrolled in the study."

This is when I said to him, with bowed head, body bent over Norton's desk: "I don't want another port."

After talking to Michael Schwartz, my Miami Beach onco, he said that yes, if my tumor IS the same as the first time—he's 98 percent sure it is; while Norton wanted to see the slides, en route to him now—Herceptin plus Tykerb would be something for us to explore going forward. I wouldn't need a port and it would require an infusion once every three weeks. Says it won't fuck up my veins. I SO do not want to Amy Winehouse my arms.

I go for bloodwork next week in MIA, so depending on that and Norton's report on the slides, hopefully this is an option that will kick some more Cancer ass.

Of all the things Norton had told me—the freakiest of the lot was that "the nodes don't feel like typical Breast Cancer nodes." Shit, is anything about me typical? Let's hope so. After talking to Doc Schwartz on the phone Weds, I'm off the ledge.

"Look, you don't have another type of Cancer."

"DON'T JINX ME!"

(Laughing) "I'm not jinxing you. The slides look almost exactly the same. I'm nearly positive [no jinx!] that it's the same type of Cancer."

Re the Xeloda schedule: "Yeah, I know that's how they're doing it at Sloan now. His [Norton's] opinion is that you get more of the drugs that way and that it's more effective."

Not to mention, hopefully minimizing the side effects. Additionally, since we were rushing Norton: "We have a plane to catch!" We think he may have misread the FISH test (comp pathology test of tumor) number, which was why he thought I may not be HER2 NU positive anymore. Original number was 5; Norton said it was now 2, which would be a neg/borderline HER2+. It's actually now 4.7—clearly HER2+.

"He must've read the ratio instead of the numbers [paraphrasing]. But it's definitely HER2+."

I finally exhaled. Again, the lesson here is second, third, fourth opinions never hurt. You may learn something good or bad, but speak up and get those second opinions ladies.

I promise a full report on NYC non-Cancer news; right now I'm busy lying in bed with Wally and his sissies. And heading to the Saks outlet with mom, natch.

Another Day, Another Diagnosis

2009-12-29T20:04:00.008-04:00

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.

2009-12-28T12:45:00.002-04:00

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.

2009-12-21T10:09:00.002-04:00

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

2009-12-17T13:21:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-12-16T13:09:00.001-04:00

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

2009-12-13T20:11:00.004-04:00

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.

2009-12-13T18:01:00.002-04:00

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"

2009-12-09T11:32:00.005-04:00

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

2009-12-07T21:34:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-12-05T21:17:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-12-04T21:36:00.000-04:00

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

2009-12-03T18:32:00.003-04:00

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

2009-11-27T10:56:00.014-04:00

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

2009-11-24T18:20:00.003-04:00

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

2009-11-20T12:14:00.007-04:00

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

2009-11-17T18:05:00.009-04:00

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.”

2009-11-16T12:40:00.002-04:00

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

2009-11-14T00:01:00.004-04:00

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

2009-11-13T16:48:00.002-04:00

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

2009-11-09T21:29:00.002-04:00

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!

2009-11-08T20:19:00.002-04:00

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

2009-11-07T16:05:00.004-04:00

“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.

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.”

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

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

All-Kinda-Sorta-Clear

2009-11-05T19:25:00.003-04:00

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

2009-11-04T21:04:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-11-03T20:45:00.002-04:00

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

2009-11-02T16:09:00.004-04:00

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.

Random Thoughts by Stephanie Green

2009-10-30T20:27:00.002-04:00

It didn't occur to me that Jack Handy's "Random Thoughts" on SNL were really just odes to 420, most likely written at or after 4:20 p.m.

I often think of doing a random thoughts post, and since I'm presently ensconced alone in a soft bed at the Ritz in Naples with nothing but time on my hands, here goes.

My Vaseline-sealed rose-colored aureolas are looking mighty fine. The marks the paper tape has left all over my boobies are not.

Ever feel like when you watch TV the voices don't match the actors' mouths?

I wish they'd cancel Law & Order just so I'd stop watching it.

I don't like being topless. It's cold, and I have to look at my fat rolls when I'm sitting.

Today I've eaten two bites of a Publix veggie wrap that sucked ass (hence the two bites), a bag of Soy Chips, a banana, a split of champers and four of these amazing biscotti balls from the restaurant.

I like the *idea* of traveling alone, but then I quickly realize I don't like myself that much as a travel companion.

I'm staring at a coral reef replete with shells, sea life and sand—composed entirely of chocolate and sugar. Standard yet stunning touch for VIPs.

I'm usually a 'VIP guest' merely for being a writer. We don't get paid a lot, but we get treated like godesses. Natch, I love every minute of it. So do my friends who travel with me.

The beachfront restaurant here closes early because of the Sea Turtles. Must investigate that tomorrow.

I'm going to lay out in the sun and get a sick tan while I'm here despite the fact that I'm on Chemo pills that advise against it. Fuck you, Cancer.

My god why am I still watching Law & Order?

Julia Louis-Dreyfus is a fucking bad ass. Did you know she's a Dreyfus, Dreyfus? Like the banking family . . .

I'm reading Carol Alt's roman a clef—thanks a lot, Mackenzie!

FranBrand? Seriously? Oy.

Tattoos Round Two

2009-10-27T14:49:00.006-04:00

People wonder why I love Dr. Rosenbaum so much? His office # doesn't hurt!

Disclaimer: This is a full-frontal post, as my nips were tattooed for the second time yesterday and journalistic (e.g. not so pretty) photos are below.

I woke up back in fighting mode yesterday as opposed to surrender/give-up mode. I took the weekend to be alone, which I needed after a few weeks of constant attention and overpopulation in my little world. I've also booked myself for this weekend at the Ritz-Carlton in Naples—only an hour-and-a-half drive from here, it's an easy getaway. I'm heading there solo as well, I love traveling by myself, catching up on reading and writing etc.

I think my mind just got sick of one emotion—grief—and decided it was time for me to harness my anger into something constructive like kicking some Cancer ass (hopefully). Some really fabulous things have been happening lately too. I have my little literary guardian angels doing some leg work for me regarding Cancer Is the New Black.

I also learned today that Heeb scored me a reading of Sex, Drugs & Gefilte Fish at Books & Books, which is basically The Strand of Miami. (Date TBD.) In fact, they recently renovated and have an entire Assouline room, not bad for the South! I went in to grab a gift for one of my angels and was pleasantly surprised to see a fat stash of the Heeb book. So rather unexpectedly, I stumbled into the Requisite First Time Author Experience—seeing your book in a bookstore. Pretty cool. I'm slowly accepting the fact that though I have nary a dime to show for it, maybe I'm (kinda sorta) successful after a mere 14 years in this biz.

I have a rescheduled session with Dr. Laura in a few, since I slept through the last one, though I shouldn't have popped 1/2 a Klon cause she can totally tell when I'm medicated. Boys, you may want to stop reading at this point.

Oh, the point of the post: I had my second nipple tattooing yesterday. Esther Steinberg, the permanent makeup artiste, was SO thrilled with how the nips looked from the first session. She wants to put me—er, the boobs—on her Web site to show off. So now I'm a model too. Hemley came with again, and our off-the-wall session served as our farewell before he moves to L.A. for love:)

Hems and I hamming it up in the waiting.

She's just beginning to fill in the color here, so what you see is how they looked before, after the first tatting.

Filling in the color and making the aureolas a little bigger, to conform with the graft Rosenbaum did.

More of the same. One week of Vaseline—did you know that Vaseline seals up wounds?—and bandages under clothes. When I'm alone at home, I just walk around topless slathered in Vaseline, which is how I'm typing at the moment. Trust me, it ain't sexy in the least.

I don't have time to edit or spell check. So, ta.

Sunday Bitchfest

2009-10-25T19:33:00.005-04:00

Even though the song is about a woman, Tom Petty pretty much nailed life with one line: "The waiting is the hardest part." In my case waiting till Nov. 5th to get the results on whether the chemo is working or I'm dying.

I'm going to go from bad to good right now, in an effort to cheer myself up, so to speak. If I were "cheery," I'd send myself straight to Bellevue. I've been oversleeping—which to me means like 12 p.m. and after—that's what I do when I'm depressed. So much so that I fucking slept through my phoner with Dr. Laura on Friday; that extra hour of sleep cost me $210. (And that's a grandfathered rate.)

The Xeloda side effects—bone and joint pain and stiffness—subsided about 30 percent this week. In yesterday's Ashtanga class, my instructor said my 'flow' looked a lot better. Chad and I figured that the reason the pain was centralized in the sternum, neck, back and shoulders is that the oral chemo (Xeloda) finds the Cancerous areas and goes right there. For, my sternum area and neck and clavicle are really swollen. Like, I can barely see my clavicle bone and I'm a size two (finally, again), who's clavicle is usually jutting out.

Went to Chad Friday who said that the node—fuck you node!—felt about the same. Which to alarmist me translates to: Omigod it's not working, oh shit what if it's not working how am I going to get through Nov. 5th. Fuck I can't believe this isn't working, then again why should it work the last regiment didn't fucking work.

Then what's left of my rational side—aided by Klonopin, natch—thinks: Calm down you motherfucker. You're making this psychosomatically worse and given what Chad told you about the Oriental medicinal philosophy about disease recurrence, you need to check yourself on these thoughts.

So the 'rational' side of my brain is trying to tell the other part to recognize that the fact that the node hasn't grown is perhaps an indication that it is working. I need to get away; I'm looking into going to Naples for the weekend. Haven't been there in years, hear the Ritz is nice and it's a short drive. It's either that or Restylane, which I'm in desperate need of at the moment. My skin seems to be really hating the chemo. Which ever works out to be cheaper—two nights at the Ritz or Restylane.

I have my second nipple tattooing tomorrow, but don't expect any photos as I'm going alone.

Okay here's the bad stuff, in no particular order:

• The Cancer has made New York living seem like an impossibility in 2009, which means moving back home. To Jacksonville. With the parents. At 34. With nary a thing to do in the town. Nothing to do and too much time on my hands is always a bad thing for me.

• I am scared to make plans. Because just when I decided to leave this fucking place, the Cancer decided to put the kaibosh on that plan. This fact—that my only plan is once again giving up and moving in with my parents—makes me want to rip my eyeballs out when people (who mean no harm) ask me, 'So what about New York?' What about it? I don't fucking know. These non New-Yorkers don't realize that moving to New York is not exactly simple. When New York? I don't fucking fuckity fuck know, okay? At this point, it's looking like New York, New York only if I magically get a job or a book deal or something really un-bloody-likely like that. I'm going up in December for a visit and another Jap straightening session.

• I'm having extreme difficulty being around outwardly shiny happy people right now. I've begun to realize that when people call Los Angelenos and South Beach people 'fake,' what they really mean is fake-happy. Like smiling all the time happy. When I go out with my NYC girls, we have a blast, but we bitch. There's always something fucked-up happening to one or more of us; that's life. And it's interesting and keeps you on your toes and is infused with a sense of urgency and greatness because you're in the center of the universe together. Not here. Bad shit happens here but somehow people still smile because, why? The ocean? The drugs?

• I'm going to get a lot of flack for this, and to my wonderfully supportive friends whom I'm speaking of I mean absolutely no harm. I envy your happiness and am pleased that your lives are sunshine and roses. Well, mine's not. And you readers know better than anyone that faking it is pretty hard for me. So jesus, is it hard for me to be around shiny happies now. At dinner the other night with like eight or so of us, I found the girls literally going around the table and updating everyone on their lives. Like, normal people stuff. Babies and boyfriends and sex and all that stuff that makes life fun. And then they arrived at me. The Cancer patient. I can imagine them thinking, 'Oh, whoopsie, maybe going around the table announcing how great our lives are is not the best thing to do when you have a Cancer friend sitting at the end of the table.'

So what was my update? I had to wrack my brain for something decent. "Well, my first book came out. So I guess that's kind of cool."

Oohs and ahhs all around like the great supportive friends they are, however it was all I could do not to run out of that dinner, take a cab home, and bawl to the point of needing sedation. (Serious sedation—Seroquel. Google it. It's an anti-psychotic. I'm no James Frey. I'm the real fucking thing. Goody.)

This feat is very "eh" to me. The Heeb magazine storytelling collection Sex, Drugs & Gefilte Fish (Hachette, I believe, I'm too lazy to get up and check) is now available. I'd been directing people to the Amazon Canada site since it seems to have launched there already when it officially releases in the States tomorrow. I've got one essay in the book. And the book looks good—though it's in paperback—but having it in my hands cheers me little. Mom bought several copies and mailed me one—paying for my own book? Don't think so. I admired the cover, magically opened straight to a page of my essay by sheer coincidence. Read my bio at the back and then stashed it with all my other coffee-table books. Let me ask you other authors and writers—should I be over-the-moon about this? Or is being in a book such as this just as lukewarm a career move as it feels? I'm sure it's a great book. It's just not my book. My friends in the industry tell me this will be a good resume-builder, but I don't exactly know how to work "Sex, Drugs & Gefilte Fish" into a proposal about a Cancer memoir.

Now I can't really think of any good things happening—except for Laura Zigman and Mackenzie and the Wiccan goddess, all of whom really rocked it out for me these past couple of weeks and gave me some stuff to look forward to. Love you guys. And simply cannot wait for my Wiccan candle, with magic spell and mantra attached to arrive. More on that later.

Buy the book, don't buy the book. What does it matter? Otherwise, you can read my essay for free here. It's pretty much word for word. Save the money and buy yourself a good bagel and schmear. Actually, buy Laura's books—I've actually read and highly recommend those. Chances are I'm not even going to read the book I'm in.

God, I'm really hitting a self-loathing Zenith. Another milestone!

Thank god for Curb.

The Final Word on Early Screening

2009-10-22T14:20:00.004-04:00

Go doctor, go doctor. That BCA article in Vogue by Elizabeth Weil that so pissed me off because it purported that early screening was not only unnecessary but can do us harm? That IDIOTIC head of the American Cancer Society who just came out questioning the benefits of early testing?

My doctah at Sloan, Larry Norton, once again smacked those bitches down last night on ABC's World News Tonight. Mel alerted me to his appearance. Watch it here on ABC.

Loves my Doctah Norton!!

2009-10-21T13:37:00.003-04:00

Although I stay away from the pervasive PINK-ness of this month—this site is totally cool. Boobicon. Make your own nifty photo badge like moi.

Some good things have happened this week, natch I can't discuss. But my spirits are a little lifted. Still obsessively feeling the node though. Who knows of cool pill-cases? Cause fuck it all to hell, I keep fretting over whether I've taken the right pills at the right time.

On another note, directed at my powerful-yet-anonymous readers—I can track your domain names, sillies—I'm compiling a list of agents that would be a good fit for Cancer Is the New Black. If people have suggestions and/or you're an editor or agent, holla. Facebook is best.

Meanwhile, don't forget to buy the Heeb magazine book Sex, Drugs and Gefilte Fish. Though I haven't bought it yet—seems weird that I should pay for my own book—it comes highly recommended by Mom and Dad. Dad probably went straight to the Sex part and not my essay; Mom probably went straight to my essay and then Drugs, maybe? I don't know, do they have a red wine or Grey Goose straight up chapter? I've sold about 100 copies so far via the Yenta Network. Help a sister out so I can prove that this bitch can move books!

If I Had a Fan, It'd Be Doo-Doo Brown

2009-10-20T15:18:00.004-04:00

I've been mired in a vortex of self-pity, depression, anxiety and just a little bit of anger. Fear that this cocktail won't work. Not totally irrational because, hellooo, I did everything and more first go-round and was "in remission" for, let's see, 18 months. (Remission begins after the most major surgery. In my case, the mastectomy was Feb. 15, 2007.)

Can you imagine if I hadn't had the mastectomy or chemo? I'd be fucking dead. Dead. Literally. How many people have to stare death in the face not one, but two times—or three times if you count my near-death accident on I-95 in May of this year.

Which brings me to Sunday. I've had a pretty unlucky October. Aside from the PET scan coming up clean—thank you thank you thank you whom/whatever is out there—it's been just shitty. I think the Walgreen's on 6th and Jefferson is like the Bermuda Triangle of karmic wrong-ness for me. This is the Walgreen's where beg-for-money-yet-luscious-weaved Scary Tranny hangs out. And where I go nearly every day for my Snapples.

Now, I'm avoiding that place like the Swine Flu. The week they found my enlarged lymph nodes, I backed into this gargantuan SUV in that parking lot. So, I'd chilled all weekend—malaise, pain, exhaustion—but still managed to get to the gym all seven days. Sunday, went to Walgreen's for pre-gym Snapple. As I'm walking out to my car—I kid you not—there's a cop car facing me and I hear from its megaphone:

"Stephanie Green, you've got a little problem." W.T.F. I was already in such a resigned, defeated, deflated state of mind that I just sighed and walked over to his car. I knew my driver's license had been suspended because I forgot to pay the ticket for the near-death collision. (Escaping death costs you about $180 in Palm Beach County. You can't really buy anything big on Worth Ave. for that amount, so it could be worse.)

The cop actually radios for backup. Let me explain to you where this Walgreen's is. The street I live on is perpendicular to 6th street, which becomes a little sketchy as you head East. Walgreen's is around the corner from where Ben and Laura live and near one of the most notorious drug-dealing and crime-infested areas on the beach. Crack deals, robberies, crazy homeless shamans with feces all over their togas and shit. The sight of blue lights is an almost every day experience; we often watch the action from B & L's window. My point is that the Pigs have a lot to worry about in this hood. But no. Instead of patrolling the nabe, this cop is PARKED IN THE WALGREEN'S LOT RANDOMLY RUNNING LICENSE PLATES. Bing! I win.

So I'm standing there with my Walgreen's shit and he's pulling up all the stuff and telling me my license is suspended in both Miami and Dade. (I didn't know about Dade.) I didn't pull the Cancer card on purpose. I mean, I'd been bawling off and on all weekend. Everywhere. In public, private, you name it. Why should the Walgreen's parking lot be any different? I started crying.

"Look," deep, sobbing gulp, "I know I should've taken care of this but I've," gulp, "been rediagnosed," gulp, sob, "with Cancer this month. And I just haven't been able to take care of this."

The cop, youngish, not bad looking but kinda red-necky, softened.

"Look, I'm not going to take you to jail." I knew that. I have good luck with cops while Brother has exceedingly bad luck. Once I lose my looks—which I'm expecting to commence in the next year—I suppose I'll have to become a law-abiding citizen.

I just had to take another half a Klonopin, as I felt the rapid pulse that precipitates a lovely anxiety attack. (I'm up to 13 pills a day including Lamictal and Pristiq, but not including however many Benzos I pop. Small dosages that get me through the days and help me sleep at night.]

So back to Walgreen's. The officer walks me over to my car, where I'm pretty much just sitting and crying, and tells me to call a place called The Ticket Clinic, where I can hire people to take care of this for me.

"Okay, but my license . . . how do I, uh, get home since, you know, it's suspended?"

"I'm going to pull out while your still parked and as far as I know you were sitting here parked when I left."

Cool. Only mildly shaken up, I proceed to the gym. I'm *so* used to things like this that they barely phase me. Moreover, I'm in severe self-destructive mode right now. I don't have much fight left in me; had I been taken to jail, I wouldn't have resisted. I didn't even call dad, attorney extraordinaire. I just don't care.

The shit just keeps hitting the fan, but I'm half-heartedly weathering it, hoping that all this bad luck will lead to something good. Pessimistic optimist? If 'sigh' were an adjective, that would aptly describe my state of mind.

I'm terrified. I'm guilty. I'm in pain—the joints and bones from Xeloda. And I'm unsure of the future, which is a very scary prop for a type-A like me. I'm fearful of making plans because as soon as I decided to leave Miami—I even gave notice I was leaving to the condo's attys—and head back up to New York, I had the recurrence.

The scariest part? Well, every day until Nov. 5th when I go for my check up. Because this time, I can physically gague whether the cocktail is working by feeling the leader of the enlarged nodes on my neck. I'm trying not to obsessively feel, but I still touch it a few times a day at least. Went to Chad (acupuncturist) yesterday for a tune up and pain relief, and he said he thought it was the same maybe even a little smaller. It's all I can do to not get out the tape measure like a complete fucking psycho to see if it's below 1.8 cm.

In short, I have to admit, I'm really, really scared. Depressed about everything, though mostly the fact that no matter what happens I cannot edit my manuscript, and just so resigned to life as a Cancer Patient.

Even more frightening is the prospect of having to remove my ovaries while I've still got Cancer. Shit, I'd take 'em out tomorrow if I could, but Doc Schwartz won't let me. I feel like gutting my own body and my brain. I feel like giving up and moving back into my parents' house indefinitely. I feel like I did at 28, when American Media sued me for writing Dishalicious and there was no light at the end of the tunnel. (Remember, before I went and got myself Cancer, I was that girl who wrote that roman a clef that was allegedly about Bonnie Fuller and working at Star magazine.) After two years of agenting and legal battles—which I won, totally screwed AMI—I actually burned the manuscript in my kitchen sink on the Upper East Side.

Hence, my hesitation about getting Cancer Is the New Black out to agents—potential, profound failure on top of Cancer. Can't do it alone this time. I decided to try to hire a trusted writer and friend to read the manu and edit it, which Dr. Laura thought was a good idea. If this writer has time to do it, then I'm golden. I just am too close to the work, and now, more than ever, do not feel like reading about the past two years.

Truth is, right now, I'd rather be someone else. And somewhere else. Which is why I'm seriously thinking of booking a plane ticket somewhere next week. I'd like L.A. but biz class tix just so pricey out there. But a face-to-face with Dr. Laura and seeing all my West Coast friends would be a nice break.

Oh, well, ta, I'm off to the gym. I'm reading one of the Gossip Girl books on the eliptical—such a great break from my own brain.

Live Strong? Duh.

2009-10-18T12:10:00.010-04:00

With regards to me and my current Cancer situ, the most overused word being lobbed at me is strong. It's not a bad word, don't get me wrong. It's just one of those words people use in times of crises. There are pat phrases people employ—myself included—in tragic times. I mean, what are people going to say?

But the one I get almost daily is: "God, you're so strong. How can you be so strong?" It's not a choice I made. It's a character trait, in my opinion. Weak people don't last. They certainly don't succeed or educate or entertain or write stuff that seems to make their readers think they're strong. I've been thinking about this word because writers think about words. Words aren't throwaways to us. Words are our building blocks. Words are our weapons. But I want to examine this word, for my own edification really.

So, Merriam-Webster:

Strong:
1 : having or marked by great physical power.

Not at the moment—the Xeloda is causing my bones, joints and muscles to ache intensly. I was one of the slackers in yoga this week. My Ashtanga teacher yesterday: "Are you okay? I noticed that you seem to be having trouble even doing chaturanga, and I know you're strong, what's going on?"

2 : having moral or intellectual power. I won't take issue with this one. Morality is one of the character traits each and every person I take into my life must possess. And, yes, I'm smart. I have never had any insecurity in the intelligence department. I do have some dumb friends though; they can't help it.

3 : having great resources (as of wealth or talent)
Very interesting that this falls under the "strong" word, no? I always thought of this as luck. But if it's strength, I'll take it. I suppose it takes strength to ask for help from those resources you have, and I did ask for help. Plenty of it. That's how I got my doctors, wig, care, private hospital rooms, drugs etc.

4 : of a specified number
Uh, okay, I have an army of 420. Actually, I have an army of Heebs and token MOTs from here to Cali to New York.

5 a : striking or superior of its kind
Strong willed? Strong character?

b : effective or efficient especially in a specified direction
I'm trying to work on this one re my book. I'm trying, but if I have one area of "strong" weakness, it's this one.

Everyone—even fellow Breast Cancer-ers—asks me how I stay so strong. I can't answer them because that's like asking me how my eyes stay brown or how old I am. I am who I am. Strength isn't a choice, I was born strong. Only the strong survive right?

This doesn't mean strong people are strong all the time. I'm okay being wheeled into a PET scan or surgery, but I cry like a baby at really bad romantic comedies and when I'm alone at night, watching TV with Wally and eating take-out or thrown-together salads. I cry. I feel sorry for myself. Not really for the Cancer, but because the Cancer has made even slimmer the possibilities of leading a happy life. I wasn't optimistic about men before Cancer and now? Well, you don't get the big white wedding or Mr. Right or the Oscar dress and four carats when you're 34, single, living with Cancer, likely for life. Moreover ladies, let's face it, boys our age don't want strong women. They're scared of us. Strong women like me? We eviscerate boys our age because most of them are weak. (Can you imagine a man having his balls and dick chopped off and remaining strong and manly? I don't fucking think so.)

Here's what I think—single people have to be strong. We don't have husbands or wives or lovers to fold into. We don't have someone waiting for us at home to carry us to bed or run errands for us. We don't have help. We don't have an 'other-half' to share responsibility. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I've heard the stories—"marriage is hard!" Whatever. Try being single. At least you have someone to help you do dishes and walk the dog. We are strong by default. Trust me, it would be nice not to have to be strong once in a while. It'd be nice to be able to cry on a lover's shoulder instead of in Wally's snuff. (Though nothing smells better than doggy snuff.)

I'm strong because I was born strong. I come from strong stock. I have strong resources. Strong family, strong friends, strong doctors, advisors, connections and therefore I am strong. I am strong thanks not only to myself but to the hordes of strong people I'm surrounded by—my parents, their friends, relatives and my best friend. Can you imagine how hard it is for a mother to watch her daughter go through this? A brother who lives thousands of miles away? A father who knows that this killer gene his daughter has was passed on from him? A best friend who for the first time in our lives is not just a car ride away? They keep me strong, but it's also okay for them to cry around me and vice-versa.

When I was rediagnosed, I wasn't strong. I collapsed emotionally and folded into myself. I weeped openly despite three Klonopins. It's okay not to be strong when you're watching your mom, her best friend and even your doctor go into shock.

But bad news, bad luck, shitty fucking circumstances—they don't make you strong or weak. They make you shore up your reserves unconsciously. I don't know how to be weak. Sometimes I try—crawl in bed and crawl with Wally. Then I get bored and go to the gym. Even though I can't even do fucking chaturanga without pain.

These are just a few of the people over the years who've made me who I am—strong and lucky.

Below is dad's mother Lilian, who I got the BRCA gene from. She died of Ovarian Ca when I was very young.

2009-10-15T14:07:00.004-04:00

I woke up with a blank mind and unfortunately, Wally shit in the kitchen. I don't have too much on my mind at the moment aside from Cancer and career, my twinset Achilles. Started the Tykerb last night. So now it's 11 Cancer pills a day. Five (!) Tykerb in the a.m. on an empty tummy; three Xeloda twice a day with food. Adding in my mental health meds, that's a lucky 13 pills a day! So far, so good on the side-effects.

I must say that the frightening thing about this 'cocktail' is that I myself will know whether it's working by feeling the protruding node on my neck. If it's working, the node will shrink. If it's not, it won't. As you can imagine I'm practically sitting on my hands to prevent me from feeling the fucker several times a day. I've also stopped wearing my every day necklaces—they get in the way when I do decide to obsessively feel the lump. I'm also trying to avoid carrying heavy bags on the right side. So I need a new light-weight, black, every day bag. Until this shrinks at least.

Some—well, most of you—probably are unaware that, yes, I do have some regular freelance gigs. I've been writing the Miami fashion, beauty, events and luxury goods pieces for Juli B practically since Juli started it, and have been impressed by their growth. Especially since they've become affiliated with a global corporation but have retained editorial control. Meaning, the writing style hasn't changed. And contributors like me still get to be creative. (This month's fashion + beauty picks.)

Sometimes it's difficult for me to select my fashion picks, as I'm not a trendy shopper, which you know, but as a fashion writer It's my job to keep on top of the trends. One of which this season is the motorcycle jacket, which I'm completely on board with if it's done the right way.

I was perusing the usual sites—Bergdorf, Neiman's, Barneys etc. when I found the Holy Grail of biker jackets.

I'm completely, utterly obsessed with this one from Alexander McQueen:

Ob-fucking-sessed.

Luckily, at nearly $6,000, it's not an obsession I can even entertain the idea of indulging in. But behold the goodness of this work of art by looking at all the photos at Bergdorf. And if you want to receive my two monthly columns directly from Juli B to your inbox—plus editions in other cities—sign up here.

Aside from this blog, Juli is the only place where I can really exercise my high-fashion muscles. When I'm not shopping with mom, that is.

On a nipple note, I've got the second tattooing of the color Oct. 26. So even though my insides are still a mess, I'll be whole on the outside. A whole helluva lot of good that's doing me though. The men aren't exactly lining up and I almost feel sorry for my mom and her yenta friends who actually still hold out hopes—and vocalize them quite fucking frequently—that I'm going to meet a man and marry.

No pity party here people, just my usual, fact-based realism: A 34 y/o single woman with Breast Cancer—probably lifelong—, bad genes and an inability and lack of desire to procreate. (Did I mention that now that this fucking Cancer's recurred that removing my ovaries is even more time-sensitive?) Like, I could potentially have the surgery next year as a 35th birthday present to myself. Imagine the retail therapy that would entail! Yippeeee!

Okay, so it's October 15th. Which of my readers aside from Kim (and I believe Donna) has scheduled their mammograms?

PS Get this shit—I just called my hospital to ask if there was any sort of "free mammogram" day; there's not. But there is a SPA DAY for all of us CPs treated at Sinai! Woot woot.

Heeb book

2009-10-14T13:49:00.002-04:00

Finally, I'm a legitimately published author! Buy it—or don't, I've already earned my $50!—on Amazon.

Sex, Drugs & Gefilte Fish, a Heeb magazine compilation. There are scores of stories by better-known authors, but what beats My Chemical Romance with Cancer?

Of Bidets and (Bull)Shit

2009-10-13T11:42:00.002-04:00

Looks like we're back to square one on this blog, huh? No-holds-barred Cancer talk. I didn't necessarily want to be back here, but if this is my life right now, this is what you get.

Xeloda—oral chemo that I started on Saturday. Six pills a day—three in a.m., three in p.m., with food. Major side-effect dia-ree-ree.

"Oh, that's fine," I told Schwartz. "Frankly, I could do with a little help in that department." Oh, real smart Stephanie—the woman who believes in even the tiniest of jinxy statements.

So I didn't re-up my stash of Miralax and began the Xeloda.

Now—Jesus, I can't believe I'm talking about my BMs for the world to read, but fuck it—it's AWARENESS month, right? So, I'll make you aware of the fact that this germaphobe hasn't taken a dump in a public restroom in more than a decade. Yep. And if I've absolutely had to, well, thankfully I've got killer quads. Moreover, I've not sat on a public toilet seat even with covers in probably fifteen years. Therefore, I get my squats in each day.

But now, I'm going to have to become the George Costanza of Miami Beach. Remember this Seinfeld exchange?

"JERRY: Anywhere in the city?

GEORGE: Anywhere in the city - I'll tell you the best public toilet.

JERRY: Okay.. Fifty-fourth and Sixth?

GEORGE: Sperry Rand Building. 14th floor, Morgan Apparel. Mention my name - she'll give you the key.

JERRY: Alright.. Sixty-fifth and Tenth.

GEORGE: (Scoffs) ARe you kidding? Lincoln Center. Alice Tully Hall, the Met. Magnificent facilities."

So far, I've avoided the use of public facilities. I've kept my days close to home—gym, Whole Foods etc. However, there's the bidet issue. Most luxury apts in Miami have bidets. Including mine. Which stores magazines.

You see, I have some deep-rooted psychological issues with bidets. Roxy, mom's long-deceased, good-for-nothing-but-jewelry-and-fashion mother, had a bidet in her bathroom. Brother and I simply didn't get it. (She died when I was only 17 and Bro was 13.)

We dubbed it "the tushy cleaner," and were loathe to imagine our Roxy, with her flaming read hair, stillettos, diamonds and stiff Upper East Side demeanor, on the tushy cleaner. So when I moved into my first apartment in Miami and noticed the bidet, I most likely had a visceral, subconscious reaction along the lines of: "Oh, a tushy cleaner. Okay." Roxy! And promptly put my bathroom reading materials in the bowl.

Same thing in this apartment, but not necessarily something I gave a shit (no pun) about. I have a hand-held shower head in the shower and the Whirlpool, and I'm not a baby, so I think I have that hole covered. Then, one of the first times Mr. and Mrs. X came over, they reacted towards the bidet as I react when I go into Bergdorf's.

"Oh my God, you have a bidet! Oh, Mr. X, I miss our bidet." I think they were drooling over my bidet for a good five minutes.

"Ugh, the tushy cleaner? Take it. Fucking gross."

Cut to yesterday. I was on the crapper more than usual.

Texted Mrs. X: "Looks like I may have to start using the tushy cleaner."

"You will love."

"Doubtful."

So I turned it on for the first time, and, for the first time realized that it's just a normal faucet.

"I don't get it," I texted the tushy cleaner expert, "Roxy's had a spout that just shot up from the bowl." Which, kind of is what you want it to do, no?

Here are the instructions I receive: "Push your booty back; It will go in the right direction."

I ran into the bathroom and piled the Vanity Fairs and Vogues back into that motherfucker. (PS, check out Oribe's 'do on Penelope Cruz on this month's VF cover. I have the same bangs as my girl crush!)

I'm waiting on the Tykerb, which has to be shipped directly from a "specialty pharmacy" called Caremark. Was on the phone with the insurance gal at the onco's office for an hour-plus yesterday trying to secure this drug, which the FDA is apparently regulating strictly. Only 15 "specialty pharms" in the U.S. can sell this shit.

What's the only thing up my ass right now? The fact that Humana is only covering 25 percent of the oral meds—my out of pocket cost will be $1,800 a month. Yep. Two months and I could've nearly bought a Birkin. Chemo—100 percent covered in hospital. Twenty-five percent out of hospital. I'm sick over these numbers. Sick. That's more than my (foreclosure-reduced) rent per month.

You can put a price on life these days when you're sick. And if you can't pay the costs for your own life—guess what? You lose it. You die.

Someone, tell me how the Obama Care plan will help these costs, for people like me and other less fortunate people. Yes, I can pay the fucking money okay? Regardless, that doesn't make it right. I swear, if this fucking Cancer doesn't go away, I'm going to cause the 'rents to be knocked down to a lower tax bracket. That, I will not accept. Chemo but no Bergdorf's for mom? Unacceptable. Cancer-free but traveling in steerage? I don't fucking think so.

Which brings me to this: My readership is approaching 100,000 people. I mean, if this were a book that sold 100,000 copies, that's a fairly respectable number, no?

And the more I think about it, the more inclined I am to just pitch my memoir as is—a compilation of my blog over the past couple of years, with less narrative woven in than I would've hoped. Because now if I ever make some real money via writing, it's going straight back into mom and dads' pockets.

Oh, but I'm a legitimately published author this month, via Heeb mag's Sex, Drugs and Gefilte Fish. Member? That's the one I got paid $50 for. Yeah.

That's all for now. I've got to straighten out the meds and I haven't showered since Sunday. I'm one hot Cancer patient right now. And I'm seriously, seriously upset about the cost of these meds. They *may* save my life, but they *will* make my quality of life suffer.

Yes, this is Cancer from the perspective of one of the lucky ones—I get it. I can only offer you my own experiences. I don't pretend to know anything about how less-fortunate people can deal with Cancer. I welcome comments and stories. I mourn the people who've died because money comes before health in this country. But don't think that just because you're blessed with financial resources that Cancer costs don't effect you. No matter how much money you have, $1,800/mo for two meds is a lot of fucking money.

This post has depressed me. I can't believe I'm back here. I can't believe that with an eight percent chance of recurrence, I fell into that eight-fucking-percent less than six months after stopping Herceptin. If happiness could be bought even for a day, I'd take that $1,800 and buy it. Cause I'm not happy. Not happy at all. In fact right now instead of working on two assignments I have due, going to the pharmacy, the gym, acupuncture etc., I want to lay in bed with Wally and cry. And let me tell you, PMS on top of Chemo side-effects? Not a walk in the park.