I'm happy to report that I got a book deal. Kidding. Maybe one day I'll be able to write that. But for now it's the little things that make me happy. Like the fact that I seem to be peeing with some regularity now. Finally. Meaning, the fluid retention is abating somewhat. I'm not all the way there by any means, but I feel more normal every day. I'm going to try to take a photo of my head later to show you what the 'do is doing. Acupuncturist says the lymphedema is probably not as bad as it should be because he works on my spleen a lot, which apparently has a lot to do with lymphatic drainage. I'm actually looking fwd to physical therapy, as lymphatic massage is quite relaxing. I got one in Positano at our hotel and afterwards felt like I'd taken two Valium. Ahh, the good old days of Valium. Docs are quite reluctant to prescribe it nowadays.

I'm back in South Beach with Wally. And even though last week in Jax was supposed to be a relaxing one, I'm much more relaxed here where I don't have to answer to anyone. The 'rents are great, but all up in my bizness as usual. It's what the Jews do. It's genetic, just like the BRCA gene.

On that note, mom refuses to get BRCA tested and hasn't even had a mammogram in a few years. She's approaching her 60th bday too. Maybe now that I've outed her she'll go to the fucking doctor. God, I am so looking forward to normal boobage that I feel like I should have a coming-out ball in one of the fabulous dresses that hang in my closet with the tags still on cause the tennis balls are not sartorially situated. This fashionista is eagerly awaiting getting back into normal tops and dresses. I think my recent lack of socializing has a lot to do with the fact that I feel so like a freak show in most of my clothes.

I've got my Herceptin shot tomorrow, which is another long day at the hospital. The very green nurse I got last time was a messy injector: I was bruised for weeks and my port has been a little sore. I'm demanding (in a polite way of course) the charge nurse tomorrow.

And, this is one staunch Democrat who thinks that the controversial New Yorker cover is quite amusing. I mean, come on, you know a lot of us are thinking a long such lines re. Obama and the Muslim thing. It can't be helped. After 9-11, Muslims have a major image problem to overcome. I'm completely underwhelmed by Obama and there's something about him that's a little unsettling, though I can't quite put my finger on it. And if he elects Oprah as a VP, I'll vote Republican. Yes, I loathe Oprah. Shoot me. The woman is the biggest megalomaniac in the free world and has such a huge God complex it makes me sick. Oprah is not Jesus reincarnated for shit's sake; she's a freaking talk show host!

And though she does give a lot to charities, she's no Bill Gates or Warren Buffett and, frankly, she should be.

Tomorrow I'm going to share with you the tres interesting way of eating my acupuncturist, who is also a nutritionist, shared with me. It will totally change the way you eat. A hint: Lowfat and Fat-Free foods are just bad for your bod and your metabolism. But before you run out and get a pint of Chubby Hubby, read tomorrow and I'll explain.

My mom is wandering around the house looking for her book, Jessica Queller's Pretty Is What Changes--which you must read, please. This book, for anyone who's been touched by cancer, will most likely astound you, as it did me. I am a virgin when it comes to cancer books. And I'm not sure how many more I'll want to read. Because this one so directly mirrors and illuminates what I've recently gone through. Jessica is a pretty, nice, well-educated, funny, smart, Jewish television writer. Her family is mildly eccentric in the same way that many Jewish families are and her mother and grandmother were major fashion plates. Her dad is an attorney. She has the BRCA gene. Naturally this book hits very close to home for me and my family. Mom is now reading it at rapid speed. Brother will probably read it, while dad remains oblivious as per usual. He's got very odd reading habits.

It's a book that could literally save your life, a friend or family member's life. I especially want my girlfriends with family histories to get tested (you ladies know who you are), but it's obviously an intense issue. This book manages to be a funny, touching personal memoir that's also very informative. Sure, I had statistics thrown at me left and right, but I glossed over them. When I read Jessica writing about them, I began listening again. And, I'll be honest with you, the stats are really. Fucking. Scary. If you are BRCA positive, you have an 87% chance of developing breast cancer. BRCA negative women--meaning everyone else--still have a 1 in 10 chance of developing breast cancer. Think about that. One out of every 10 of your female friends will get breast cancer. Likely more than that if most of your girls are Jewish. Read Jessica's book for all the deets; my mom is reading it in bed right now so I can't get to it. This genetic testing stuff is really just too crazy for words.

But I'm tired. And my hair is growing back very strangely. Wah.

What up Doc?

He changed my surgery date. Less than two weeks before it was scheduled. Basically, they messed up on the calendar, not realizing that his schmancy surgery with a bunch of European doctors was the same week. So, he's telling me that an out-of-state groundbreaking surgery with a team of international specialists takes precedence over my tata swap? That's what I'm up against? Okay, fine. If they were American doctors I would've put my foot down. But, Europeans are another story. I suppose these American breastesses can wait 13 days. But these deformed, stretched to capacity tennis ball balloons are not happy indeed. This puts off my post-surgery Neiman's retail therapy plan as well.

He apologized profusely; I said, "It's okay. Just throw in some Botox and we'll call it even."

"Hahaha."

"I'm just kidding." (I'm not kidding. I'll remind him as I'm being wheeled into the OR.)

Seriously though, now Brother must change both his airline ticket and his work schedule, mom must rejigger her work schedule, and poor dad rearranged court dates and other impt things and now must reconfigure everything.

I think all that probably equals the price of some Botox. As it turns out, I'm fine with this new schedule. It gives me more time to get my sorry-ass body into fighting shape. Aside from my jeans being happy about this proposition, it's actually an important factor. The better my physical condition is--as it was pre-chemo--the more realistic I can be about the size of my implants. Meaning, this extra 7-10 lbs I'm lugging around must go so that I can see how the implants will look relative to my size. When I get back to my normal size, I may reckon that a slightly smaller CC implant will be more proportionate to my body type.

Anyway, I'm still languishing in Jax with the doggies and the yard and the old friends. My car is in the shop for it's annual physical, and I got a really nifty loaner, a spanking new C300. I hate my car, but this model is so sweet I'm wondering what would happen if I just got on I-95 with it and never looked back. It might be worth driving a car with "Brumos Motor Cars" splashed across the rear window if it meant a brand-new benz. This rationale is naturally in direct conflict with my recent musings that I want to trade in my gas-guzzling German ride for a lower-priced, Japanese car since I hardly drive. I never claimed not to be a hypocrite. But this whole $65-to-fill-my-tank thing makes me sick. It literally turns my stomach. Everytime I fill up, I am filled with disgust thinking, 'Great, another $65 for the terrorists and Bush. Whopee. Fuck those bastards!!!!!!!' Talk about road rage. And FUUUUUUUUCK you Bush. I hope you trip on your way off the podium when you relinquish your throne to a liberal.

I'm wondering what happens after cancer. It was almost easier to battle breast cancer than to think about 'the future.' What I mean by that is--chemo, the surgeries, the follow-ups, the doctors' visits, the hospital stays, etc. were essentially my full-time job.

Though I've continued to write my columns and other articles, I'm now pondering exactly how I can consolidate my past six-month cancer trip into an actual body of work. I have the footage, the writing material and an artistic vision, but the question is: What makes my story different than all the other cancer books, shows and documentaries? (Perhaps your opinions may help me here.)

Is it my humor? The fact that I've been so open about it to the point that I've shown you both photos of my mutilated tatas and a shot of me and my pink pee pee? Maybe it's the odd phenomenon that I didn't have more than the slightest emotional hiccup over losing my breasts? (I think I lost them in a Bergdorf's dressing room.) My luck in terms of my support system and medical assistance? Or, ladies, is it my MO of dressing for chemo as if I were having a ladies' lunch?

As the person who's living the story, I'm too close to it to mine the gems, which is a common experience for writers. I'd like your input nonetheless.

I'm still chilling at the parents and cancelled my trip to Chicago for tomorrow. It's just too much right now, this close to the July 16th surgery. For 30+ years the 4th has been our version of a family reunion. It started as a fraternity reunion for my dad and his college buddies and blossomed into three decades of partying it up on a beach somewhere each July 4th weekend. The result is a delightfully tight-knit group of parents and children who look forward to a tradition that most people don't have the pleasure of experiencing.

Basically, it's a big, Jewish boozefest with all the essential accouterments. First it was my parents and their friends partying when they were my age while my generation was still in strollers. But it's more fun now that two generations of all the families get sloshed together. And the adults --senior citizens now--drink us under the table and end up four sheets to the wind dancing around with washcloths on their head. This year, mom forgot to eat before downing some Grey Goose, so the entertainment portion of Friday night was provided by her. The supporting cast member award has to go to the other Nancy, whose exact comments will be kept in the vault per her request. And no, you cannot have my shoes along with my bras, Nance. As if.

Jew Crew holiday get-togethers, in my experience, usually translate to too much liquor, too much food and lots of bitching about Bush. Good times.

The shrink is back, the shrink is back! After a month in Europe--being a 90210 shrink has its benefits--she's listening again.

I marveled at how cathartic it was talking to her after so long. When you're in therapy for a while--like 12 years--you often get desensitized to the process. I guess absence makes the brain grow fonder too.


I realized today that I actually got cancer at 31, not 32 years old. I found the lump sometime in August, perhaps even July. My birthday is in September. Yes, I waited to see a doctor when I found a lump. It started out very small, so I waited to see if it would go away. It got bigger, but not out-of-control big. The nagging in my brain began during Breast Cancer Awareness month when we're inundated with commercials and PSAs about BC. I went to the doctor in November. I don't torture myself over the procrastination. The protocol would have been the same regardless. The only thing I would have saved is time--I could have an inch of hair already if I'd gone to the doctor in September.

Now that I'm done with the hard stuff I finally feel free enough to begin reading about BC. Meaning books and memoirs by people about the whole BC experience. I'm pretty selective and there are just SO many of these books out there, but I struck gold the first time with Pretty is What Changes by Jessica Queller. After her mother died from ovarian cancer after she'd beaten breast cancer, Queller tested herself for the BRCA gene, was positive and had a prophylactic mastectomy. What caught my eye about this book amongst the dozens I've been given was that Queller is a writer/producer on Gossip Girl. OMG. The book's really good though, and for any of you with a history of cancer in your family, it's a must read.

On the lymphedema front, my awesome, lovely, kind cardiologist I saw today wouldn't let my surgeon off the phone until he agreed to see me before I leave for July 4th. Thank God for doctors who are family friends. It makes such a difference. Cardiologist says it isn't bad, but that I should get into therapy asap so it doesn't get worse. In the interim, I'm supposed to elevate, squeeze one of those rubber ball things and avoid salt.

If the doctor wants me to start therapy before my tata swap on the 16th. I'll have to cancel a coupla trips, but nothing is coming between me and my new tatas!

Lymphomaniac

When is the fat lady going to sing? Seriously? Do you think I could just pay a fat lady to sing to me? Would that work?

I mean, come on folks, all I'm asking for is a little good news in my life right now. Instead, I get lymphedema.
Lymphedema: edema due to faulty lymphatic drainage

Edema: an abnormal infiltration and excess accumulation of serous fluid in connective tissue or in a serous cavity

In English, insane, out of control swelling in my left arm, hands and fingers. It's common when your nodes are removed, as the fluids redistribute themselves to the wrong places. So instead of all my fluids circulating symmetrically, a whole hell of a lot of them are in my left arm, which is where the nodes were removed. It requires therapy; putting on those tights that you get in the hospital to help circulation and a bunch of other stuff that I was unable to digest. But I won't be able to start that until August between traveling and then the tata swap. And the Herceptin? I will be having until April. I thought this saga would be under a year start to finish. Wishful thinking.

I know this latest health complication is (hopefuly) just a minor inconvenience relative to this whole entire ordeal. But it's the little things in this that have been adding up to a big old hot mess. OMG, I'm going to have to be one of those people who walk around the plane so they don't have to sit for long periods of time, which could lead to blood clots. FUUUUUUUUUCK. Dr. Schwartz says, from what he can tell it's not a blood clot, but from my understanding this is what leads to dangerous blood clots if not treated early. Okay, now I'm getting freaked out just sitting on my couch and watching TV. I'm going to have to do what my mom did to 'diet' in college--jumping jacks during the commercials. She claims she lost about ten pounds that way, but the woman has never weighed more than 115 lbs.

In summary, things are pretty much sucking all over. Heading home on Thursday for several days, so I'll get to chill by the beach, with brother and the dogs and the peace that home affords me.

I couldn't help myself so I Googled "lymphedema treatments" and found a helpful Mayo Clinic explanation.

Have I mentioned how much I love salt? Now it's my enemy.

The young, postmodern Cancer Patient: I'm sitting on my balcony with Wally, in my bathing suit, with my laptop and bald head exposed. The downside to this is that I can see my reflection in the computer screen and it ain't pretty. Luckily the boaters don't get too close.

That photo above is from my own balcony, from which most nights I view a spectacular sunset. Therefore I know I shouldn't bitch much. But it's been one roller-coaster of a week. Being inside my brain is like riding Space Mountain.

Between Dana leaving and the BC BS, I'm pretty emotionally spent and unmotivated to do much. My left hand is so swollen I can't see the veins. My watches are leaving marks on my inflated wrists. And no matter how much I sweat, pee or detox, I feel so disgusting. I imagine I feel like a preggers woman about to pop.

And here's the kicker. I popped into the cancer ward today. (How is it that I've gone from popping into Neiman's and Bergdorf's to this?) I was already at the hospital for my MUGASCAN, so I went to talk to one of the chemo nurses about the swelling and water retention. Now, survivors and even my docs told me that the side-effects work their way out of your system in a couple weeks. And I was hoping that would be the case with the swelling.

Not so much. The nurse told me it takes 4-6 months for your body to get back to its pre-chemo state of wellness. That means October. No hair. Sausage fingers and arms. Fruit fast. I've barely been holding it together this week. All my body is craving is carbs, carbs and more carbs to boot. Specifically, cake from Epicure. My chemical romance with the benzos is about the only thing that really helps me when I get so anxiety ridden I can't sit still.

I'm actually watching Enchanted for god's sake. I need a bona fide fairy-tale to take my mind to fantasyland. I think I'll go book a trip to NYC for August. And a Botox session for next week cause at this rate I'm sprouting new wrinkles every day.

Check out my new friend Janelle's fashion line Orangia. She's taking on New York now so remember you heard it here first!

Breakin' the Law, Breakin' the Law

Sitting here with Dana . We're going to recap some of our funniest stories while Kobi is presently eating an entire container of cottage cheese, Wally is under the bed, Cubby the pug is snorting and Sumner is sprawled out on the bed sleeping with her eyes open.

An early start to retail therapy:
When we were in my old house, I had a lovely peach room and bed with a canopy. Apparently, I've always had a penchant for fashion. Dana and I liked to pretend that my room was an upscale boutique. We can't recall what we 'sold' but we both remember organizing things, making the room attractive to 'buyers' and dressing up and putting on makeup.

The origin of my snake phobia:
It was my 11th (I think) birthday. I walked over to my closet to get a pair of Mary Janes for our trip to the mall to spend my birthday cash. As I reached for my shoes, a garden snake slithered out. I screamed, freaked out and ran down the hall to mom, meanwhile Dana was cracking up, so mom didn't believe me. It wasn't until I started bawling that mom believed me. Dad was in the bath. So Dana and I hid in the hall closet while Brother, who was only like 6 or so, caught the snake and carried it out the front door in a brown paper Publix bag.

The Continuation of my snake phobia:
Dana is a pretty successful practical joker and loves to prey on my weaknesses. My parents' street is very wooded with all kinds of animals lurking amongst the foilage. The snakes come out in full force once it gets hot. Dana and Nicole show up at my front door one day and greet me by throwing a dead snake at me. They picked up roadkill, carried it to my house and thought it was just the funniest thing ever.

New Year's Eve:
It's 9th grade. We were going through our slumming it phase and hanging out with these total white trash losers who were like 17 or 18. We were 14. It was New Year's Eve and for reasons unknown, our parents had trusted us to stay home and baby-sit Brother and his friend Michael. Well, naturally we had other plans. As my parents were getting ready, Einstein over here is trying on her new clothes, putting on makeup, getting the bangs up to superhuman heights and being an idiot in general. Both my parents and Dana's parents were attending the same party that night, which happened to be at one of our teacher's homes. Brother was always cool and was under strict instructions to cover for me. Before Dana had come over, she had gone through the same ritual--coated her hair in Aussie Scrunch Spray, put on makeup, etc. As soon as mom and dad left, we gave the boys instructions.

"When mom and dad call, tell them we are in the shower." Brilliant, foolproof plan.

These ghetto boys pick us up in their car that we used to call the Hellrider. Right away, the driver told us he was tripping. Well, were pretty innocent nice Jewish girls and I don't think we really understood what tripping does to you. We don't remember the sequence of events, but we both recall the driver was basically in a reclining position about three feet from the steering wheel driving. We ended up in the parking garage at the now defunct Jacobson's and the acid dude was driving around the garage at warp speed. We also went to the Landing, which is an outdoor, mini South Street Seaport type of place. It was Jax's Times Square and filled with rowdy, drunken adults. Two 14-year-olds had no business being there.

We got back to my house around midnight and saw Harvey's, Dana's dad, car parked outside the house. We panicked and had another brilliant idea. We through our shoes into the bushes and put our purses in the mailbox.

"Ok, we'll tell them we just went for a walk."

"Ok. That will totally work."

We crept into the front door and Harvey, an intimidating and strict father, was planted in the foyer.

"You get your ass over here now."

While we were out, the 'rents had called, and one of the Michaels had done as told.

"Uh, she's in the shower."

Natch, both sets of parents raced home. From that point on, we were on and off restriction for most of ninth grade. And the kicker: We had to go to class on Monday and face our teacher whose house the party was at. She called us out in front of the entire class, saying something like,
"So, you guys were quite the conversation topic at the party."

The Spacemobile

We still had some very WT friends. The same year, in one of our breaks from restriction, we convinced our parents to let us go hang out at this girl Rhonda's house. Our parents insisted on talking the our friends' parents before allowing us to go over to other people's houses. Mom spoke to Rhonda's mother, who was a little drunk I think. Nancy and Nancy were leery of letting us go over there in the beginning. We got over there. The mom was completely wasted. The dad was a character out of "To Catch a Predator." Literally leering at us. The three of us went out with some other WT boys; meanwhile it hadn't escaped mom and Nancy's attention that this family was a little off.

We got back to her house and saw the lights of my mom's Spacemobile in the middle of the street. Busted, again. Back to restriction.

Dana Detox Diet

I asked acupuncturist today about a detox diet that didn't involve the master cleanse or fasting. He suggested the fruit detox, which is: 1st day only solid fruits. 2nd day only fruit juices (including those Odwalla smoothies and stuff. 3rd day back to solid fruits. Totally doable. So tonight my dinner will be fruit salad. And I bought this Chinese tea from Whole Foods. He says that will definitely help me pee. I mean, I peed like two times today and I drank 1 large cup of coffee; one Snapple; and 30 oz of water and counting. UGH.

We finally have at least one foursome for the Costa Rica trip and I'm beyond psyched. Jen is the only one who hasn't booked her plane ticket yet, but she is definitely in. And a friend from college and L.A. is joining us, which is fabu because I haven't seen her in like seven years!

I'm kind of bewildered (and grateful, natch) at how good I feel and how the only apparent side effect I'm still having is the bloating, swelling--my fingers are sausages--and mouth thing. And the hair loss of course. I drove around bald today; it was fucking sweltering. But now I'm thinking that I need to go see Ralf the wig guru to cut the wig and have him show me how the hellI'm supposed to secure the wig when I have just like a 1/4 inch of hair. I can't use the wig tape cause it's so strong it pulls out the hair. I suppose there may be other kinds of toupee tape that aren't as adhesive.

Dana leaves Thursday a.m. I rescheduled my MUGASCAN and have the day to be with her. I think I'll take a few Zannies. I'm going to dedicate the next several posts to hilarious stories of our 32 years of misadventures together, so I think if I bring over the laptop tomorrow she can dictate to me while I write them up. That should keep us laughing instead of crying.

And I'm determined to make an indelible impression on Kobi before he leaves. I shall teach him a curse word. Jim already got fuck. How funny would it be if I pointed to myself and said "bitch?" He already knows me as Stephie though, so it probably wouldn't work. Ooh, I know. I'll teach him dick. Or cock. I will demonstrate on Wally and Cubby. Loves it.

Hey the kid won't remember living in Miami, but he'll sure as hell remember "cock."

And Crazy Ass Nicole the hole is having a baby on Friday. Inducing of course, for which I do not blame her one single bit.

And I think I just burnt the water I was boiling for the tea. Fuck.

A moment of laughter and cursing for the legendary George Carlin.

And while we're at it, a moment for Tim Russert and Bo Diddley too.

Life, death, life, death. Shit happens. Time is short, people. And I'm still bald. Everywhere.

I can't believe Dana's leaving. I'm going to be comfortably numb and in denial probably until I go to Chicago. And I'm sure leaving Chicago is going to unleash the waterworks. I'll double up on meds for that flight home.

Our last dinner downtown tonight with the Glassman Girls (who are going to be a triple threat soon), Dana, Jim, Kobi and Sumner.

I've put some stuff up on eBay.

Wouldn't it be nice if you could sell your entire self on eBay?

Taping the Tatas

I had a four-month check up with my surgeon (regular, not plastic) today. Have I mentioned how hot he is? George-Clooney-esque. Married, natch.

It's not stopped raining for 2 days here. I shaved the head again yesterday to get rid of the peach fuzz. What came off in the razor resembled blond dust. Tres, tres bizarre. Fucking fuzz. I'm just going to keep shaving until that nasty shit is gone and the real, thick, Jew hair comes back. Surgeon seemed impressed that my eyelashes and eyebrows didn't come out. I'm lucky I'm one hairy biatch, because while I did lose some eyelashes and a few eyebrow hairs, I had enough to spare. I really wish the V-jay-jay hair would stay gone though. And the armpit hair. What a treat it was never having to shave.

As a beauty tip aside, those of you who buy oils, potions and creams to reduce scarring, save your money. The plastic surgeons instead recommend using silicone tape or steri-strips to flatten the scars so keloids don't form. Thus, I'm about to go tape up the perimeter of my tatas.

Cabin Fever

It's absolutely apocryphal outside. Wally's been hiding in the closet/bathroom/kitchen for two days now. We are all stuck inside. I'd like to go out and skip around the streets, mingle with the crazy crackheads and SoBe characters, shout from the rooftops, but instead I'm on the computer.

Summer is officially here. If you want to see all the chemo photos, you can check out my Facebook album.

I'd invited about 15 of my closest Miami friends to join me in the chemo room Monday. We brought 3 bottles of wine, upon my insistence.

"Do you really think your friends are going to drink wine during the day?" mom asked.

"Uh, yeah."

Surprisingly, they only went through one bottle of rose. They all seemed to get a kick out of me lounging in the hospital bed in my four-inch Giuseppe Zanottis. Stace said she knew it was me in the room because she saw the shoes peeking out behind the curtain. Love it. By the end of the day, we walked out of the room with about 3 bags of food and two bottles of wine. The charge nurse saw Cunty in her stroller and basically kicked her out. The reasoning? Insurance of course, they don't want the baby to get poked with needles. I can assure you she would've come nowhere near a needle. But poor Dana and Cunty had to evacuate the chemo ward and wait in the hallway.

I also brought my Tempurpedic pillow with me, which some of you may know weighs about 10 lbs. I can't sleep without this pillow. After collecting all our things from my room--laptop, flowers, food, cards, video and still cameras, magazines and the like, we arrived home.

"Fuck! Where's the pillow?"

All three of us forgot. It was about 6 p.m. and I was convinced someone would either steal it or contaminate it. Dad rushed back to the Cancer Center and the whole place was locked. Went in yesterday a.m. for the shot and the lovely nurse--whose name I don't know as he was new--had stowed the pillow for me.

"Honey, I have one of these, so as soon as I picked it up I knew it was too heavy to be one of ours."

Ah, the kindness of strangers. The staff also gave me a chemo graduation certificate and a piece of cake. Very cute.

I've got that victimy-looking peach fuzz thing going on. I'm just going to keep shaving the head until I see normal, dark, healthy hair grow back in. And since it's about to be 100+ here every day, this baldie will probably be walking around that way for most of the summer.

Feeling remarkably well. Though for some reason every muscle in my body aches, despite my lack of excercise in the past few days. Think it's a side effect of the Nulasta shot.

What a long, strange drip it's been

I am done. I am done. I am SO done (hopefully) with chemo. Hell fuck yeah. It's definitely been a long four months that at the same time went very fast. I know some of you new readers are curious for the whole cancer saga in a nutshell, so here are some links that should give you the bigger picture. The phone call. Diagnosis. The facts. The hair. The wig. The photos. The surgeries. The alien drains. More surgery photos. The lymph nodes. More lymph nodes. Chemo.

I am so grateful for my wonderful, amazing, supportive friends, family and family friends who have been so helpful. I never needed any of those "support groups" because my people were that for me. I am truly blessed by these people. You'd be amazed how many patients I saw in the chemo ward completely alone. It's pretty heartbreaking. I'm also very grateful to my readers who have been incredibly encouraging and whose comments and emails mean a great deal to me as well.

I'm not, however, done with the hospital yet. Because of the kind of BCa I had, I can take this drug called Herceptin, which greatly reduces the risk of recurrence. Now, because we've had so many percentages and numbers thrown at us over the past seven months, I asked my doctor to recalculate what my percentage of recurrence possibility will be. I think it should be lower than 5%, but I can't fucking remember what I said two paragraphs ago, so obv. I could be wrong. But I do have to go back to the hospital and chemo ward every two or three weeks for the next several months, where, again I'll have to receive fluids for a half-hour to an hour-and-a-half through my port.

My Costa Rica trip to the Four Seasons on Peninsula Papagayo is set for the day after my 33rd birthday (ugh), then I'll have one day in between to come home and fly out to Vegas for my dad's 60th and Lynn's son's wedding, where I'll debut my Oscar dress to much fanfare I am sure. Though mom's Reem Acra is a show-stealer too.

Let me tell you, I am sooo looking forward to the boob swappage. My boobs will finally be soft and low enough to fit back into my clothes without having to wear a tank under everything to cover the tops of the tennis balls. All in all though, with the nipples not going on until October likely and then tattooing in the color after that, I'm not going to be completely done until Nov/Dec. Meaning, this whole ordeal will have taken an entire year. I suppose that it's been the most formative year of my life; at least let's hope so. I'm still considered a high-risk cancer getter and will eventually remove my ovaries. . . .good times.

Anyway, I'm off to start my life again. So far so good with the side-effects today.

Hooked up to my last chemo IV hopefully forever! Thanks to all my friends for stopping by.



Check out my friend Melissa C. Morris' article about her May December blog in Sunday's NYT Styles section.





Loyal readers will remember Mel and I meeting up at Bergdorf's for lunch when I went to NYC to see Larry Norton. We had a lovely long lunch. And she's still the only blogger friend I've met in person.



Go Mel and Monty.

CP in CR

I'm quite excited that this is where I'll be for my birthday and post-cancer trip this year.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh.

Running out for dinner and a movie at the gay boyfriend's house, where I'll finally meet his two Jack Russell's, Ruby and Otis, but I have to write this before chemo brain erases it.

Went to the tata doc today for the final pre-op consult. Following is what he said, after Dana, Cunty and I discussed the TPC course with him; he was in Jax recently and thought of me. Aww. I wonder if when he thinks of his patients he sees their boobs instead of their faces.

Anyway, apparently my thin skin makes for a bad recipe in terms of size and cleavage. Since there is nothing but "skin and bone" between the boobs, he can't put them too close together without it creating rippling/wrinkling. So you know how on 90210 Tori Spelling looked like a freak of nature with those implants and that weird concave wall in the area where cleavage should be? We finally have an explanation! Skinny bitches do not make for good breast implant candidates apparently. You'll notice that when she got preggers her boobs normalized. . . .

So, get this—he's actually going to pop the balloons in my chest! I can't tell you how long I've been wanting to do that! He pops the balloons, pulls them out of the small incision space, then slides in a couple different silicone implants to see which ones fit the best. He thinks I'll probably be a small-to-regular-C cup. Fine by me; just get it over with already. At this point I just want my clothes to fit me normally.

He says that he will literally have 8 different implants in there for sizing purposes. Also, there won't be any additional scarring, which is good. The recovery time is about a week or so. The liposuction issue—the reason there is extra tissue/fat on the flanks of my rib cage is that when they removed all the tissue from my underarms, breasts etc, the stuff redeposited itself in the flanks. Basically it has nowhere else to go so it drips down.

"Are you planning on having nipples made?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah."

He said to wait until they put those on—about two months later—to do the lipo. There's a slight chance that tissue will redeposit itself and if I did it in this surgery it would just add to my recovery time. I almost forgot to ask him the most important question:

"Can you do some Botox and Restylane when I'm under?"

"Well, it depends. . ."

According to him, the fucking BS hospital people insist on charging the patient for the 10 minutes in the OR it takes to do the shots. So, if you're in there for an hour-long surgery covered by ins., the hospital would charge you separately for that minute it takes to inject you.

Now, whether the hospital knows about this, it all depends on who's in the OR. One nurse narced on him for doing it once. How fucked up is that? These hospitals really milk you for all you're worth. It's horrifying.

I also sliced open the top of my big toe the other day. It was really gushing. Ya'll know what a crazy germaphobe I am, so I've been bandaging it, cleaning it obsessively etc. He took one look at it and put a band aid on it.