Cause Every Woman Wants Parachute Hips

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

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.

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

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.

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!

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?

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.

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

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????

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)

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

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.

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!

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.