Tuesday Feb. 26th began as an ordinary Mt. Sinai day in the life of Stephanie Green. I had a 12:30 appt with the plastic surgeon, where he inflated my boobs to a B cup. All was well, as you can see from the photos.









Then, I traveled downstairs to the regular surgeon to have the 4 alien drains removed. He yanked 'em out (not as painful as people tell you) and then he hit me with the bad news.
The BC had spread to one of the three lymph nodes. They'd found microscopic cells. For some reason, this was the straw that broke my back. The first time I'd broken down in a doc's office. The first time I think, that I'd even cried in front of mom and Dana.

Luckily, Dana's there to document the highs and the lows.

I had already scheduled chemo to commence this Monday the 10th; finishing on June 16th. Doc explained that if two more lymphs were also involved, it would mean radiation. Another 6 mos off treatment every day, tacked on to the end of chemo. There went my 'healthy by summer' mindset.

I scheduled the surgery for that Friday, Feb. 29th. I was not breaking my chemo sched. And fuck it, after a double mast, cutting out 8 lymphs and installing a port was nothing. In and out and home by 4 p.m.

Lynn, Mom, Dana and my shrink were in tow this time. My shrink is hil-fucking-larious, genius, cool, talented and my age. Shrink, who practices at Mt. Sinai as well, apparently ran off with Dana's video camera and filmed me in surgery. Mt. Sinai authorities promptly requested him to erase the film, in front of them. Damn. But he did manage to get this Grey's Anatomy-esque photo of my surgical chart:

After surgery, in their chic little hoodie.


Me and Dana clutching our baby bellies; I got one more tube in.


After the hospital, we stopped at Epicure and brought back the celebratory cake that I slept ate.




Today I found out that there are NO more lymphs infected. Drain out. All good, but I was puking my guts out all night and morning for no reason. Mom had to physically drag me out of bed to doctor. I puked in the Mt. Sinai bathroom. In the doctor's bathroom and in the doctor's office.

Party Brownies

The only time y'all will see me baking--pot brownies, natch. With the aid of Baker Barbara and Alleycat, we had a fabulous rainy afternoon. And the brownies are to-die-for. I had a few too many apparently and passed the fuck out at 8 p.m. last night. And probably gained two pounds in the process.

Now, for the captions. Barbara is a good family friend and the mother of Crazy Ass Nicole (who is preggers btw). Barbara is very spiritual in the yoga-chakra-psychic-kabbalah sort of way. She also loves to party and is a TOTAL hoot. And a fabu baker to boot. Alison and I go back several generations; our grandparents were best friends. And our fathers are still very close friends. So after she ali and I ate lunch out, Barbara joined our baking bash. While Alison and I were preparing the ingredients. . .




and beginning to bake (Alison 99% me 1%) . . .

Barbara blazed in with some more supplies and her requisite stick of sage to balance my chakras. I have been meaning to call Barbara's spiritual healer, but I just haven't gotten around to it. So Barb holds this small stick of sage and starts waving around the kitchen. Barbara has a very high, dramatic, Southern voice.
"I'm cleansing ya'll's house! And I'm going to balance your chakras honey."

"Okay, I need all the help I can get."

"Yaaay. Okay, hold this between your third eye and breathe it in. "
My attempt at reaching my third eye wasn't successful.
"Noo honey, you got to put it so close you can feel the heat. And bend over while you do it."
She bends over and puts the fiery thing so close to her forehead that it's a mm from burning her bangs.

"Barbara you're going to burn your hair! Be careful! I can't do that. You do it for me." Hence. . .





"Oh-kay, now I need to cleanse all your chakras!"

"Okay. . . make sure you get under my lymph nodes and pray for negative results."

"Oooh yeah, I'll get it all!"
.
She kneeled down, put her face in front of my crotch and her arm underneath my vjajay.

"Oh. My. God. What the hell are you doing Barbara?" Alison asked cracking up.

"I'm cleansing her source! This is the core of it all!" Oh, man. Can you imagine what a great cooking show this would make.


The end results. . .

A Little Help from My Friends

My dear, loyal readers. I don't often ask for help, but I need yours.

My book proposal is currently being rejected, yet I am getting constant "you are inspiring" feedback, so I want to increase my blog readership as a means to an end. The end being publishing my memoirs of course. Not for fame, not for money. But for entertainment and enlightenment. If I can inspire and make even one of you take action, then surely I can do that for many others.

So, my request to you all is that you forward the link to my blog to as many of your friends, coworkers and family as you can, and in turn ask them to do the same. A chain mail without all that superstitious BS. Emailing the link to people in the media would be helpful naturally, but I'm just as happy with friends-of-friends and the like.

Feel free to send whichever you link you like--a post you love, a post you hate, a post that made you laugh--but please type away. I'd be grateful forever.

I'm lying in my bed on dad's laptop, with Wally at my feet, my alien drain pinned to my nightgown and my pink rubber BCA bracelet on my wrist. And I'm crying; remembering how 15 years ago, lying in this same spot, things were not that much different.

I was in high school, staring up at the skylight bawling, acknowledging the fact that I was doomed to be alone, never to marry and to die young. And here I am, half my life later, the prophecy self-fulfilled. I'm alone, romantically, I very well may die young and marriage certainly isn't in my future. Self-fulfilling prophecies do exist.

I know I'm stuck in that Buddhist cycle of reincarnating until I get it right. I know I've sat in beds over centuries bemoaning the same shit. I told myself a few weeks ago that this was my last life; that this time I was going to get it right. The book is the most important part of that. I believe writing a book like this is the very reason I was put on this fucked-up earth. And I don't want to have to live another 100 lives to get a damn publishing deal. Seriously.

And God damn am I bored here. Thank God I have fun friends--tomorrow we're going to lunch then coming home and making a big batch of pot brownies for me to take back to MIA. Hey, I know I shouldn't smoke, but a girl's gotta eat. Which I have been doing a lot of BTW. Cancer is a good excuse to get fat.

I need a damn psychic. My shrinks are great, but I think it's time I delved into my past lives. I've already overanalyzed this one to death.

The Boob Bomber

I am flying out of Jax to FLL Weds afternoon. Because of my lymph node removal, I still have one alien drain:
This one is coming from under my left arm, where the nodes were excised. So I have one container with liquid. I tape the cord to my obliques and pin it up inside my shirt.

Mom: "Do you think you'll be okay to fly with the drain in?"

Dad: "Why not it's just liquid?"

Me: "Yeah, why not?"

Mom: "We-ell, what about security?"

Me: "Oh yeah, I have the port in my chest! Is it metal?"

Mom: "No, I mean the liquid in the drain's container!"

Dad: "What about it? It's just liquid?"

Me: "Yeah, I'll just empty the container before I fly."

Mom: "Noo [getting frustrated] I mean for security! The liquid restrictions!"

Me: "Oh my God. You mean like the Boob Bomber? Are you kidding?"

Now we're all cracking up.

Me: "Maybe I'll just put the container in a Ziploc and have it hanging out of my shirt!"

Dad: "Yeah, at least it'll be less than 5 oz."

Me: "Damn, this is why I need a handheld videocam! Can you imagine?"

Oh, we do crack ourselves up.




From about.com: A port infusion uses an under-the-skin (subcutaneous) port that has been implanted by a surgeon. The port is located either in your arm or your chest, and is connected by a soft, slim catheter tube that goes through your vein all the way to your heart. This catheter protects your vein during treatment.

If you think your life is bad. . .

Compare and Contrast:

I have been kidnapped by my parents and driven up to Jackassville, FL because I cannot physically care for myself.

I am being taken to court for a delinquent American Express Platinum Card account. Meaning I'll probably have to declare bankruptcy.

The man I thought I would spend the rest of my life with, wherever that may be, has unceremoniously dumped me and fallen off the face of the earth.

I have become the pathetic, needy, annoying woman crying 24/7 over love lost.

I am in mounds of physical pain.

I have a tube coming down from under my armpit, where the skin is stapled together. The tube leads into a drain that fills with bile that I must empty and measure each day.

I cannot pick up my beloved dog because I have very limited use of my arms. It hurts to drink, to eat, to lie down to sit up. Everything hurts.

What do I have to look forward to this week? Possibly more bad news: if 3 more lymph nodes have cancer cells in them, I will have to have radiation therapy after chemo. I won't know that until Tuesday at the earliest.

The end of this week I will get my final drain removed, assuming all goes according to plan, which seems unlikely.

Basically I have 6 mos of hell in front of me with nothing to look forward to at the end now that Beau is done with me.

Today, yesterday and the day before--not such good days. I've never gone this long without talking to him since we met. I ruin everything good in my life; I have a knack for it. And I know my friends will rally around and say 'It's not you it's him," but it's both of us. Relationships are two-way streets and now it's a one-way one that I'm not allowed to make a turn onto.

Ain't life fucking grand? I'm going to crawl into bed and cry my sorry ass to sleep after I shove my mouth full of painkillers.

Congratulate me--I have finally entered the wireless age! I am in my parents' car traveling north to their home for some R&R, typing on the laptop, syncing my iTouch and downloading movies from iTunes.

Now, can someone explain to me the point of downloading a movie in a car when it takes 5 fucking hours to do so????

Oh well, I'm listening to a Danielle Steel book while blogging.

I have decided to be the bigger person in the me-versus-Beau saga. Even though I AM 5+ years younger than him. After many nasty texts and emails (come on, wouldn't you be enraged if your beau didn't even check in with you after a MAJOR cancer surgery?), I have decided to take a much needed break from him and all men. Since he is still the only man I want, forsaking others won't be hard.

The hardest part will be not hearing his voice; not kissing or touching him; not making him laugh; not holding him; not sleeping with him; not talking to him on the phone for hours; not being able to lean on him; and especially not knowing what I've done to drive him so far away so fast.

Only he has the power to come around because I've told him a million times that I will be here for him whenever he comes out the other side. But this is what I'm agonizing over--how can someone who said he'd never loved anyone like this, who said "there's going to be no other woman after you," me cut me off completely and selfishly during the time when I would value his company most? If he really does love me, could he possibly do this? Can he sleep at night not knowing (unless he is reading this) that I came through the operation okay? Does he not care about my chemo schedule? My physical pain? My plans? My anything?

How can you not care anymore B?

I'm going to stop, because every time I think of him I cry. My back hurts from my lymph node removal, but emotionally I'm in more pain. But I'm channelling this negative energy into creativity and writing like there's no tomorrow. And in about an hour and a half, I will be united with my other black lover, who has loved me unconditionally for 12 years--Wally.

From now on--since I cannot rightfully call him my Beau anymore--I shall call him Beauseur: Beau + Poseur.

So ABB, Beauseur is your new moniker until you redeem yourself. How's that for a Bamboozle? Word.

Tomorrow I'm off for some R&R. In case ya'll are wondering how I'm holding up, these photos should be an indication. Of course they don't show my insdies being ripped out by the Beau.

A couple hours after surgery, with celebratory cake from Epicurre. . .


Mom and Lynn pimping the pink. . .

Me and the Jit on Lincoln Road tonight, one night after surgery. . .

7 months hence

Beau is still MIA. I know I shouldn't be hung up on him, but I can't help it. My heart literally aches worse than my surgical scars. Yesterday I had my lymph nodes removed. Not an easy operation, but I was up and about at Epicure with Lynn, Dana and mom after the hospital. We bought a fabulous post-surgical celebratory cake, which I sleep-ate last night to make up for two days of not eating.

We came home and went here, to put my face in celebrity hairstyles. Really cool tool.

Here's the thing re the Beau. He takes every little thing I say to heart, and ya'll know what a shit talker I am. He's the most sensitive man ever, and incredibly emotionally vulnerable--no father, no mother, no friends, and nobody at home to talk to. So he reads these self-help books, which he takes as gospel. I guess that's what people who aren't in therapy do. You can imagine my opinion of these books. After 12 years of therapy, I can write them. And I've tried to help him; as much as I can. Not change him, because he's a great person. Aside from the fact that he abandoned me this week during a time when I needed him most, he's still at the top of my list.

I don't honestly know what pushed him over the edge this week. And I know what a fucked up time this is for him to go MIA, and it's been since Thursday since he's gotten in touch. And it's breaking my heart.

My friends, family and loved ones--trying to protect my fragile heart--are telling me to forget about him for right now. To take a break and focus on healing my physical self. But that's the easy part, my doctors and my strong body are tackling that easy peasy. How to heal my heart is the hard part.

My mom had the most compelling idea yet. To set a meeting place months from now, when I'm healed and he's divorced, a la An Affair To Remember and Sleepless and Seattle.

I actually think it a brilliant idea. So Beau if you still love me by July 1st, which will be 7 months from the first day we met, let's meet at Geoffrey's in Malibu.
2 p.m. I'll be waiting. I'm always waiting. You'll be living the California rock star dream by then and I'll be cancer-free with luscious locks again.

I finish chemo June 10th.

I can't imagine that I would have such a happy or movie-like ending, but with a love this rare, I can't give up on a happy ending. Otherwise, what do I have to look forward to? A lonely 33rd birthday and a strapless Oscar de la Renta dress for Michael's wedding?

Haute Hospital Part 2

Well, here I am again. 5 a.m.; no food or drink; no beau. If you'll recall,Beau pulled a vanishing act before my mastectomy two weeks ago. Yet he redeemed himself by surprising me at the hospital. Beyond redemption this time? I don't think so, but my loved ones do. I'm not exactly the best man-chooser I'm afraid. Didn't bother to call to check on me yesterday, after I saw the oncologist and got my chemo schedule, which just a few weeks ago he claimed he was going to plan his touring schedule around.

No word last night. No word this morning. My crew, who previously loved him, think he's a duplicitious, sneaky, selfish bastard now. Time to stop defending him? How can I when I have never, ever loved a man like this? I had been celibate for THREE YEARS before I met him. I had never 'made love' with another man before him. Sure, I've been acting crazy. So fucking what? I just had my boobs chopped off and am now having my arm muscle taken out. I think I'm entitled to be completely BATSHIT, no?

So long story short, right now I hate him and love him, but love reigns supreme. I thought I'd finally found a man with balls bigger than mine. Was I wrong again?

That's my vent today. Now I shall primp for my axcillary lymph node removal and injection of the chemo port. My life is SOOOOOOOOOOOO fucking fun. I bet ya'll are jealous now.

My friend Josh at Heeb magazine turned me on to this brilliant cancer magazine online: Waiting Room.

Check it out and if you're feeling charitable, please donate. The world needs a site like this, for young people's sake and the sake of all humanity really.

I'm going to be working with them and I think it'll be a match made in heaven.

I have to admit I sulked in bed until 1 p.m. today and then moms dragged me out of bed. We made it as far as the T-Mobile store, where they wanted me to pay four-fucking-hundred dollars for a new Sidekick. As if. The cell phone biz is as bad as the health insurance game.

Surgery is Friday at 7:30 a.m., same location, same surgeon. Outpatient, but alien drain for another week. My titties are now B cups and not so bad looking on my frame. Will probably stick to a regular C, so that I only need one more 'inflation' session.

The surgeon injects silicon into my boob muscle, and literally inflated them like tires. Mom, Dana and I could see them inflating. Tres, tres bizarre.

Big shout out to all my friends, family, family friends and my beautiful Beau, who is excited to fondle the new boobs--scars and all. I didn't think they made men like him anymore. But they do, so don't write off the opposite sex yet ladies.

I will try to blog tomorrow, but I have an appt with oncologist to determine the chemo schedule tomorrow at 1 p.m. and then it's time for some much-needed retail therapy at the Neiman's outlet.

Thanks to all you guys for the thoughts, prayers and well wishes. Your encouragement means the world to me.

And Percocet is still a fabulous drug, FYI:)

The good news: the alien drains are gone and I've been 'expanded' to a B cup.

The BAD news: it's spread to the lymph nodes, meaning another surgery this Friday and possible radiation in addition to
chemo depending on how many nodes are contaminated.

Today is the first time I've actually broken down, bawling, in the doctors office. NYC trip and chemo will have to be postponed. They even presented my case at a conference yesterday.

I'm so fucking special. And I feel like someone cut me open at the sides and pulled the skin back together. I'm not feeling
good at all.

Frankly, this bites. Period.

New York readers:
Get off your asses and do something for a worthy cause my brother is promoting. Seriously, do a mitzvah for yourself and for these poor motherfuckers in India who live on like a penny a day.

From Brother. . .
Namaskar New Yorkers past and present—I'm having a benefit party on Friday, Feb. 29th for a friend I met in India that administers free health care to rural villagers and children with polio. He's an amazing human being with a great story—on a shoestring budget he rides 2 hours each way to the middle of nowhere (on a rented motorbike) to give extremely poor people the only health care they have.

And he's broke!

Celebrate the Leap Year come say hello and slip Sanjay some cash!

Here is the website for Sanjay and Hope Charity:

You can also read about my experience with Sanjay on my blog, under the entry titled "Sikkim," beginning on the 5th paragraph:

The party will be at The Dressing Room, on Orchard St. between Broome & Grand, on the Lower East Side, from 8:30 p.m. on.

$20 a head preferred, but whatever amount will help.

The more the merrier—please bring as many as you can!

Thank you,
Brother, aka, Michael Green

Post-Op photos. Day after surgery. Feb. 16

The Beau is prettier than me. No, he's not gay—he's just a balls-out rock star. And I love him.

Perhaps only brother (given his India expedition) can understand how fucking amazing it feels to bathe in water and Molton Brown shower gel again. (Not the Molton Brown part natch.)

So today is a good day. Yesterday was hilarious. I was naked from the waist up while the nurse was dressing my wounds and draining the alien pumps. There are still construction crews working on my balcony. I have floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Next thing we know, the scaffolding lift is lowered down past my window with 5 construction workers staring in. Picture this: The Nigerian nurse pumping my alien tubes while mom stands beside me holding the tubes. Fucking priceless. That'll teach them not to look in again. I'm quite surprised one of them didn't fall off.

We went and bought a bunch of baggy tops at Zara to wear until the alien pumps are out. Yest we managed to get this black chiffon one on. (I have to step through the tops cause I can't lift my arms.) So when it came time to take it off last night, we couldn't. And we couldn't figure out how the hell we'd gotten it on. Mom literally cut it off and now it's in the cancer souvenir closet. Beau watched on with amusement. We ate some special brownies and watched RENT.

Okay my arms hurt so that's all for right now.

A surgical diary in photos. There is just WAY to much good material to give away for free. But I'm feeling fabulous, am flat as a board, not wearing a bra, have alien-like drains attached to my body, have a home nurse coming every day, have reservations for wig March 5 to 10 in NYC and have gotten a haircut, final-fucking-ly.

Being wheeled out of Mt. Sinai's 8 Main (The 'cool' floor):


Getting into the wheelchair Monday with the nurse trying to duck out of the shot:

Me in the VIP suite that was my home for three nights. Don't ask me what the fuck is up with my camera. I cannot fix it for the life of me!


The worst part is over, yes, but the worst part right now is these crazy alien drainage pumps that suck the fluid from the tits or something like that. I have to walk around all day with these things, so I look like I've been impregnated by ET. I pin them to my clothes, don a baggy shirt and hit the road. . .



And me last night, post haircut and less than five days since surgery.


I've been doing a little bit every day, going for coffee, hitting sephora, going for lunch, chilling with friends, shopping etc. Mom is here to fetch things for me—I can't really lift my arms or use them much for that matter. Beau is staying tonight too, and the pain gets a little better everyday.

It's all good.

All is right with the world again. The Beau is back, the family is here and I've gotten a nice Franck Muller as a hand-me-down. Thanks for all the emails and phone calls. I sincerely thank you all but have no time to write individually.

In 12 hours I'll be passed out in my prvt room.

This photo's worth 150,000 words. A book's worth. Unfortunately, it seems my book is not going to have a happy ending. This is the bad thing about getting your hopes up.

A new scrip for Klonopin, a day with Dana and Jim at the hospital, early dinner at Joe's Stone Crab and two cocktails later, I'm feeling better. Don't get me wrong, I'm still dying inside, and this situation is completely out of control. Control freak not in control at all.

Anyway, I went ballistic at Sinai today, after the cunt at the front desk stopped me from going upstairs. I was screaming at the top of my lungs: "I HATE THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT HOSPITAL. FUCKING LOSERS! AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGH! WHY THE FUCK AM I PUTTING MY LIFE IN THESE IDIOTS' HANDS?"

"Well, it's not too late," Dana says.

"WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? RENT AN APARTMENT AND GO TO SLOAN?"

"Why not?"

"CAUSE I DON'T HAVE $20,000 TO THROW AWAY!"

This went on for a few minutes; Dana got some of it on camera. I was nearly arrested for disturbing the peace. But the plastic surgeon was cool. He threw in some Botox too, and was so meticulous with the application that it gave me confidence in his surgical skills.

Doc says that after the surgery I will be about an A cup and then the skin stretches over time. They put the implants in after chemo. I didn't show him Playboy. He knows what he's doing.

This week could not have started out worse. But these photos speak volumes and remind me that I experienced pure happiness if only for two months. Some people never experience pure happiness, so I know I have to be thankful for these past weeks.

(The shirts are courtesy of Sabrina Cohen. Please check out her web site. If you guys think my pathetic story is inspiring, then you'll be blown away by her.)

Today I head to my first solo doctor's appointment; the plastic surgeon, where I will have to choose new breasts. I have a Playboy, my only companion today. I don't know how this week will end. I am still hoping for the best, but it's getting more difficult to have faith each day. And I'm not even referring to the surgery. I wish the surgeons could cut out the part of my brain responsible for emotions so that I have no feeling there anymore as I won't with my fake tits. Just when you thought life was good—despite CANCER—God throws you another curveball. I will get through this because I know I have to for my friends and family.

But the raw truth is that now I'm half hoping I will die during surgery. Thank God I have two shrinks. Though I've run out of Xanax. Sunday morning and yesterday were 2 mg days.