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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Done. He’s my guy.”

We headed to Bergdorf’s and the jeweler.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Those don’t match!”

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

I threw black and white Jack Rogers out at her.

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

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

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

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

“Ah, medical technology. I love it.”

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

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

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

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

All-Kinda-Sorta-Clear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just The Stats, Please

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Random Thoughts by Stephanie Green

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

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

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

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!!

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

Obama, Your Mama

I knew there was a reason Obama rubbed me the wrong way from the beginning.

I've been a blindly Democratic voter my whole life simply by virtue of the way I was raised and because I'm a Jew. However, now I'm a Cancer patient. A Cancer patient ignorant about the whole Obama socialized health care issue because, well, I have good insurance, and let's face it people, I've got way too many issues to be vigilant about at the moment.

However, after that OB's comment about my bro's good friend Michelle Haimoff's post about me, and me posting it on Facebook like mad, I think I've just become Republican. My shrink, Dr. Ilan Melnick—shrink and friend, that is—just called me on my cell after reading the rant and explained, in plain English, the premise of Obama Care from a specialized doctor's perspective. My primary care physician is a cardiologist and family friend. He is my GP. You couldn't pay me to go to some old internist that is merely in my network and neighborhood. Thank God for that.

I'm very, very, very angry, people. SO angry that my malignant lymph node seems to be throbbing. So angry that I forwent yoga to rant for the past two hours.

Below I'm posting an email that Dr. Daryl Eber, Dana's brother and my bestest straight guy friend, sent me. Daryl is the expert, has done the research and is one of the biggest brainiacs I know. So, may I present: "My Thoughts on Health Care" by Dr. Daryl Eber.

Many people have asked for my thoughts on health care reform. So, here is a quick synopsis of one issue I feel strongly about. No surprise, I am disgusted that the issue of tort reform has not been more widely addressed.


Summary of my rant:
1. Defensive Medicine is the practice of diagnostic or therapeutic measures conducted primarily not to ensure the health of the patient, but as a safeguard against possible malpractice liability.¹
2. Tort Reform refers to proposed changes in the civil justice system that would reduce tort litigation and/or damages. ²
3. Defensive Medicine costs nationally are estimated to be $65 BILLION to $200 BILLION per year. ³
4. The cost of Mr. Obama's Health Care overhaul is estimated to be around $100 BILLION per year. ³
5. The stranglehold the legal industry has over the Democratic party as they were their top single contributor in the 2008 cycle with over $47 MILLION donated.³
6. Widespread dissatisfaction of physicians regarding tort reform. Over 10,000 Physicians signed a tort reform petition that was hand-delivered to EVERY Senator on Capitol Hill and rumored to have been delivered to Mr. Obama in the oval office.⁴

My thoughts on tort teform:
Last Wednesday Mr. Obama told Congress and the American people, "I will not stand by while the special interests use the same old tactics to keep things exactly the way they are." He is in fact doing this with the trial lawyer lobby. The issue of tort reform, or legislation that would change the civil justice system to reduce unnecessary lawsuits and exorbitant monetary damages, clears the fog of partisan war. This is the best example demonstrating Mr. Obama's hypocrisy of "Change."

There are a handful of powerful trial lawyers and powerful politicians who have been very successful blocking tort reform amendments to the health care bill (H.R. 3200). Who was the largest contributor to the Democratic party in 2008? You guessed it, the legal industry with a whopping $47 MILLION donated in 2008 alone. Here's a charming quote from Howard Dean, "Here's why tort reform is not in the bill, when you go to pass a really enormous bill like that the more stuff you put in it the more enemies you make. And the reason that tort reform is not on the bill is because the people who wrote it did not want to take on the trial lawyers in addition to everyone else." During development of H.R. 3200, there were 11 amendments regarding tort reform. Democrats, on a party line vote, killed all of them. Senator Whitehouse (Rhode Island) came out in strong defense of the trial lobby to the various committee members in the House. Since 2005 this Senator has personally received $900,000 from the trial lobby, with some large donations coming from national tort powerhouses like Baron & Budd and Motley Rice.³ Senator Durbin (Illinois), $3.6 million in lawyer contributions, crushed Senator Baucaus' (Senate Finance Chair and leader of the Health Care Reform on Capitol Hill) attempts to include the Enzi-Baucus proposal for tort reform.³ It's comforting to know that the trial lawyers are the largest contributors to the Democratic party and most of the politicians who wrote H.R. 3200 are lawyers in the pockets of other lawyers.

I can hear you now, we appreciate your concern but Mr. Obama addressed some tort reform in his speech. Let's try to understand why he touched on this topic, only the second time publicly. The first time was at the annual AMA meeting in Chicago where he told thousands of physicians, "The only tort reform you'll see are more guidelines." You have to respect his courage for saying that in front of a room full of physicians, but don't forget he has a Secret Service detail. [LOL] Physicians were up in arms and have been loudly voicing their opinions ever since. Over 10,000 physicians signed the Sermo tort reform appeal which was hand delivered to EVERY Senator on Capitol Hill, and rumored to have been delivered to the Mr. Obama in the Oval Office.⁴ This is why you heard Mr. Obama say, "I have talked to enough doctors to know that defensive medicine MAY be contributing to unnecessary costs." Mr. Obama says this is no "Silver Bullet," but his plan is estimated to cost $100 BILLION per year and current estimates of defensive medicine are around $65 to $200 BILLION per year.³ I don't understand, "they may be contributing to unnecessary costs?" I'm no mathematician, but if you cut the costs of defensive medicine in half, it sure seems like a silver bullet. Tort reform is widely popular among voters with polls showing 70% to 80% of Americans believe there is excess litigation.³ Whether you are a Republican or Democrat, doesn't this meet the definition of a consensus? I believe these facts contribute to the general distrust of Mr. Obama's proposal. If Mr. Obama truly believes in real health reform, he needs to advocate the best "medicine" for our country and stand up to this powerful lobby and pass substantial tort reform. Let me see, "Financial Reform," "Health Care Reform," "Legal Reform" easy sell!

So, Mr. Obama suggested test projects. I'm not a huge Sarah Palin fan, but I'm pretty sure she tweeted that Texas and California passed successful medical liability reform years ago. Is the data not available? Were the tests too successful so more need to be performed? I'm a little concerned that Kathleen Sebelius, his secretary of health and human services, is in charge of these new test projects. Mrs. Sebelius only spent eight years as the head of the Kansas Trial Lawyers Association. No conflict of interest there.

So how do other doctors feel about this issue? Try asking one. I guarantee this is one of their top priorities regarding health care reform. DEFENSIVE MEDICINE IS REAL. As a Radiology resident I see extra, unnecessary studies on a daily basis. So far, the record is about $3,600 worth of unnecessary imaging studies in one hour. Research conducted and sponsored by the Massachusetts Medical Society in 2008, found that defensive medicine in the state of Massachusetts alone costs a minimum of $1.4 Billion annually. National costs put that number around $65 to $200 BILLION A YEAR (re-emphasizing that number for effect)!² In South Florida, physicians live in unnecessary fear. We understand the gift and responsibility we undertake when we treat a patient, but everything we've worked so hard for and sacrificed so much for can be taken away overnight. All because of "Jackpot Justice." To avoid this nightmare scenario, it's easier to order extra tests "just to make sure," or "to defend ourselves in front a jury." This is wrong, wasteful and against our oath as physicians. Studies from opponents of tort reform try to demonstrate no financial impact of the "few" wasteful and illegitimate lawsuits, but we know the real data is not being captured. The data that is difficult to calculate because these so called "justified" tests can fall within a spectrum of treatment, but are unnecessary to patients' outcome. We have no doubt that curbing defensive medicine through LEGITIMATE tort reform will lead to substantial cost savings throughout the system.

Make no mistake, if tort reform is not part of the completed bill, we have all been duped by a political process that hasn't "Changed." Physicians understand this and will revolt. It is already starting. Please keep these thoughts in mind any time you discuss health care reform. Feel free to forward this email to anyone you want. I welcome debate on the issue.

Daryl Eber, M.D.
PGY 5, R4
Miami, FL


References
1. Wikipedia 2009. 1 August 2009 < http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Defensive_medicine>.
2. Wikipedia 2008. 1 December 2008 < http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tort_reform>.
3. Strassel, Kimberley . " The President's Tort Two-Step " Wall Street Journal 11September 2009 <http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970203440104574404984255332524.html>.
4. Sermo 2009. 9 September 2009 <http://www.sermo.com>.
5. Hypocrites, Democratic. H.R. 3200 - America's Affordable Health Choices Act of 2009 1 August 2009 <http://www.opencongress.org/bill/111-h3200/text>.


XOXO Cancer Chick

Oh No She Dit-int

We need to take this bitch down, ladies. Read Michelle's blog GenFem in its entirety, but read this post about me first. And then read the comment from an OBGYN named Abby.

I haven't been this mad in a long, long, long time. I wonder how many of her patients have died from this doctor's ignorance and misinformation. Once again proof positive that good doctors can make or break you. Thank you, thank you, thank you to the good doctors out there.