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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy. Psychic. Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, so here's the email from mom:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Herceptin Innovation re HER2+ Breast Cancer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"DON'T JINX ME!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Day, Another Diagnosis

These past seven days in New York have been pretty fucking insane, all in good ways—until today. My appt with Larry Norton at Sloan Kettering (aka Anna Wintour of Breast Cancer) was beyond mind-boggling. Like, I think he just possibly saved my life or issued what to me feels like if not a death sentence, then a death of the quality of my life sentence. Here we go again, people.

Prior to my two-hour stint at the new Four-Seasons-esque Sloan Kettering Breast Cancer Center on East 66th Street, one block away from my former apartment, I had a lovely lunch with Mel at Bergdorf's, who looks fabulous as ever. Fun girl talk and not many Cancer thoughts. Shopping around a bit helped. Wasn't even so nervous about seeing Norton, but popped a Xannie for good measure on the 7th floor.

Though we (my parents and brother also in tow) had to wait for a while and we really cut it close with my flight (I'm in LGA right now), but we made it and he spent an hour-plus with us.

First, his nurse practitioner did a more thorough exam of my lymph nodes than Schwartz ever does. She only felt three, which is what we knew. No new ones that she could tell. Withing a few seconds, the nurse did a more thorough exam of me than Schwartz does. Yeah, I'm a little pissed at Schwartz at the moment, though I love the guy to death.

Here's the thing—I assumed (I know, I should know better than to assume anything in the Cancer Game) that because Schwartz was trained by Norton, and they conferred upon my case, that Schwartz would automatically stick to Norton's protocol.

Well, I had everything sent up from Schwartz to Norton except the actual slides, which I suppose was my bad because it may be Mesko who has them or even pathology at Sinai. The second bad omen re. Schwartz was the fact that the nurse told me—right off the bat—that they prefer one week on, one week off with the Xeloda. Schwartz has me on the most common regiment—two weeks on, one week off. Apparent-fucking-ly, not only does the shorter cycle decrease the side-effects, but it may indeed work more effectively on the Cancer cells. Are you FUCKING kidding me?

Schwartz NEVER even presented that as an option. Yeah, so my burning feet that kept me holed up at home writhing in foot pain during Art Basel? Schwartz never suggested what Norton did. After the nurse pract. did the physical, she, Norton and his nurse Karen, conferred and then Norton came in.

"We have a plane to catch, so do we have enough time?"

"Well, jeez guys, if you're going to fly in for a day in the middle of winter at least make the appointment in the morning. I want to talk!"

"No, no, I will miss the plane for you. Talk."

A.) He needs the slides of the tumor; may want the whole node removed for further testing. (Schwartz did not recommend that. God I'm fucking pissed at him right now.)

B.) He felt some enlarged nodes in the soft tissue under my arm, using a technique that again, Schwartz has never done. He actually taught the nurse pract how to do it on me. The man never stops teaching.

C.) Herceptin infusions are more effective/"better" than Tykerb. Polar opposite of Schwartz's assertion that Tykerb is a "super Herceptin."

D.) There's a possibility that this is not even Breast Cancer. This is not a good thing. This is a frightening, in the words of Gary, standing on the mountain facing death, about to fall off thing.

"The nodes don't really feel to me like Breast Cancer."

What. The. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck?

"What? What? What do you mean?"

"I'm not saying it's definitely a different kind of Cancer, but I think there's a possibility, that this isn't even breast Cancer at all. It's unusual for it to come back in these areas. Usually it's in the organs. That's why I need to see the slides [from orig diagnosis in 2007 and recurrence date this October]."

"What?" I pretty much have my head on his desk at this point. Weren't it for the Xanax, I would've been crying. I could not wrap my head around this. "What kind of Cancer? I don't understand."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, but your HER2 NU number originally was five; now it's two, which is borderline." [HER2 NU relates to hormones and what kind of treatment best suits you, e.g. why I had Herceptin].

"Jesus."

"Do you smoke?"

"I mean a little in college."

Dad: "She smokes pot!"

"Stop smoking the pot."

"I vaporize? Still?"

Get this shit fellow weed lovers: It's not just the smoke—it's the fucking THC. THC interferes with Cancer treatment. It hinders the efficacy. It fucks with your hormones. Meaning: I can't eat it, I can't vaporize.

I can no longer be a proud pothead. What the hell am I gonna do in South Beach now? Ugh.

"Yeah," he says to all of us. "In Vermont and California these patients go in, they buy all the vaporizers—they all smoke it. So much so that the hospitals stopped checking for marijuana in tox screens cause everyone in the hospitals in those states is high. All the time"

"Jesus."

"So yeah, sorry, but stop eating it and smoking it."

"Okay. I'll stop."

What else? Well, let's all keep our fingers-crossed that this IS Breast Cancer. (Time to say those prayers/cast spells/light candles/send good vibes my way again please.) Yes, pray for breast cancer.

"What other kind of Cancer could it be? I mean, Jesus."

Look, I know I have a lot of religious Christian readers, but here's the deal. Us Jews say Jesus. A LOT. We just do. So, I'm sorry if it offends, but you'll just have to get used to it. In a room full of Heebs, which natch Norton is, saying 'Jesus' is basically like saying 'wow.' We mean no offense.

Anyway: "You're jumping waaay ahead. First I need to see the path slides to make sure it's Breast Ca. There's a slight probability it's not."

"But, what kind, like lymphoma?"

"Maybe."

"Oh Jesus. Chemo? Herceptin infusions? God, I don't want another port."

"Okay, I'm going to say something to you that is as important as any other part of Cancer treatment. I see people—actors, royalty, heads of state, dignitaries, you name it. The richest, most powerful people in the world. They come in and tell me, 'I don't want to lose my hair. I don't want a port. I don't want this, I don't want that.' These people are used to controlling the world. They tell me they don’t want chemo or this or that. I tell them what I think would save their lives. And let me tell you, lawyers are the worst [looks at dad] are you a lawyer?”

“Yeah,” says Dad cracking up.

“For some reason, they just can’t relinquish control. But you’re not all bad. I’m having dinner with a lawyer tonight and he’s a very good person.”

Lolol. Is he not the funniest??

“A lot of these people leave and never speak to me again. So listen to me; I’m only telling you this cause I know you want to know. I’m telling you this because you just said you don’t want a port again; you don’t want Herceptin infusions; don’t want to lose your hair.

I’m telling you this because I tell it like it is [indicating that I’m the same] and I know you want to live.

But you can’t say things like 'I don't want this, I don't want that' to a lot of doctors—they’ll take that cue, know what you don't want, and offer you something else. That ‘something else’ may not save your life."

“I, uh, wow. Isn’t that completely unethical? For a doctor to know that a treatment that the patient doesn’t necessarily want is the one that will save their lives? Who does want this? I didn’t want chemo and a mastectomy, but I listened to you.”

“Well, it’s not an ethical thing. It’s more of a medical issue. The doctor should give you all the options, yes.

“Wow. That’s insane.”

That’s why Farrah Fawcett and Dominick Dunne went to Germany, I thought immediately. And their treatments didn’t work. As you know, Dominick Dunne was one of my favorite writers. He died the same day Oribe did my hair, August 21. I was speaking of Dominick today with someone, as I’m reading his final novel, which, unfortunately was not the book he’d hoped to write before his death. That black widow bitch Lily Safra who was beyond a shadow of a doubt somehow involved in her husband Edmond’s death in Monte Carlo and got away scott free. He was never able to write that book. So his final book, while entertaining, was more an amalgamation of his collected observations over his career.

And now—I’m on the plane back to Jax—I just finished the book. And stumbled upon this passage at the end. Dominick wouldn’t have seen Dr. Norton, but likely his doctor in New York was the best of the best a la Norton.

From Too Much Money:

“The party’s off. . . . I’m pretty sick. I just returned from a trip to the Dominican Republic, where I had a stem cell treatment, and now I’m going off to a clinic in Bavaria. I’d rather pursue those options than the chemo I’m being offered here. I have high hopes.”

He died within a few months. Seriously, is it only me that these fortuitous, portentous events happen to? I got the message from Norton; Dominick, wherever you are, in addition to being one of my literary role models, you’ve put some fire under my belly to stay alive.

No, I don’t want to wear the wig again. Yes, I hate this. Yes, it’s unfair. Yes, I’ll be crying in public, like I am now on a fucking Delta flight. No, I don’t want to gain weight, have a port again, enter the awful chemo ward, be radiated or whatever I need to do should this not be Breast Ca—please, god, let it be Breast Cancer—but I do want to live, for now anyway.

Saturday was a very fruitful career day for me. Saturday I was on a high. I’m now the Fashion Editor at Heeb. I’ll be writing a weekly Web column for them, as well as beefing up fashion coverage, attending the shows—everything I’ve always wanted. I then went to see my mentor, the editor in chief of ESPN magazine. He gave me the pep talk of a lifetime. Insisting that I email him my book now to read. Told me he’s proud of me—coming from a former professor who’s watched my writing grow over nearly ten years—that means the world to me.

But given that my life seems to consist of extreme ups and downs, I’m hoping hard that I can keep the up part, and NOT be plagued by the down. So yes, pray that I have merely Breast Cancer. That’s right—I want this to be Breast Cancer. Please, please, please, let me just have the Breast Cancer. I’m a pro by now and my dukes are still up. I just wish I knew exactly what the enemy is.

I've been in NYC for a week now and swear to god haven't had a breather. Between work stuff and friends (and my family who I'm staying with), I'm fucking slammed.

I will talk about this day in detail later, but Saturday I had the privilege of hanging out with Professor Irwin Corey, a legendary comic from the Smothers Brothers to Broadway to movies, this man is 96 years old and a PISTOL and a half. Watch him here. Making the publishing rounds today from Heeb to ESPN and drag queen bingo on the Bowery tonight. Don't ask, I'm always down for fabulous fags and fun.

Prof Irwin Corey at 94 years old performing. Google him. Also watch this Heeb clip; it's fucking hilarious. Seriously, it's like a minute but you *must* watch.

Well, snow decided to fuck w/my vacay too. As I was leaving for Atlanta Saturday, Meredith called to tell me Delta had cancelled their flights. So I drove up here anyway, thinking she'd get out by yesterday, and if not I would just chill with the Schoenbaums for an extra night or two.

After about a day of back and forth, we came up with a plan B, reminiscent of our Patsy and Edina days—a mini vacay in the city. So Mere and I are holing up in the W midtown this week. Then the fam comes in on Xmas, Christmas dinner at Brother and Saveira's—yes a Sikh/Jewish Christmas dinner. Should make for good material.

So now I've got a week in the city to play with. Maybe this one week per month in the city plan will work out after all, organically. I won't make it up in Jan, but February is Woodstock and all that good stuff.

Anyway, most likely won't be blogging unless something interesting happens at el aeropuerto manana. So Merry Christmas to all you goyim and happy belated Hanukkah to all you Heebs. If you're snowed in, make the most of it and try to dig up some (white, powdery nose-candy) er, I mean dirt on Brittany Murphy's death. What a dumbass. xoxo

I'm trying to pack for four cities in three weeks—Jax, Atlanta, Savannah and New York. Was supposed to leave today and am still editing the wardrobe. Ugh.

Anywho, my colleagues are rolling along. You all know my friend, cheerleader, mentoress, person who talks me down from the ledge when I want to burn my manuscript, and all around bad-ass author Laura Zigman, so check out her TV appearance and book recs. Fast forward to minute 3:40.

Laura's the one who is credited with founding the Chick Lit genre. Hellooo Miss Thing! She's also a BC BRCA bitch like moi, and that's how she found my blog. Laura, can you do me a favor and declare this genre DEAD? Please? I'll take a hit out if you don't feel like committing litera-cide. If I read one more man-saves-woman happy ending I'm going to fucking hurl.

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

Reading photos. LOOK at my fucking water-filled chemo arms. Seriously? I can do better push-ups in yoga than the buffest gays at Equinox and thanks to the WATER I look like I've never lifted a thing a day in my life. FUCK YOU Cancer. FuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyouFuckyou.

I'm still trying to digest the reading and why it left me emotionally crippled and crying yesterday over everything including this new Van Cleef ring that I was forced to be tortured with trying on thanks to mom 'visiting' the watch she's contemplating. (I only feel justified trying on such things when I'm with people who are actually buying.) And as I beheld its beauty on my chubby, chemo-dry digit, after what was apparently a very "successful" night in my career, all I thought was: I am never going to be able to buy MYSELF a present like that. Forget about a man or a husband or a boyfriend—I'm not one of those girls who inspires gift-giving from the opposite sex. I've never had the (what I think is odd) experience of having a man take me shopping and buy me what I wanted. I think of nothing lovelier when my uncle goes into a store and buys Kim a bauble, or when dad has jewelry from Landsberg shipped to Jax so mom can choose her birthday present.

But I digress. Just because I've accepted these facts doesn't mean I have to be happy about them. And I'm not. I hate my life. I hate Cancer. I hate the fact that I don't feel like a sexual being anymore. My body is just a shell now; all pretty on the outside and diseased on the inside. I don't know what's worse—being ugly on the outside and healthy on the inside like I was in college, or the way I am now.

And I digressed again naturally. I was only on here to share this link, which I didn't know about until someone texted me that I looked hot on the Heeb site. So this is my first (and likely last) real author profile/Q&A. And you guys know I don't talk about S.E.X. here—that is the one area that is not only boring in my life but also off-limits to the public—but in this interview I do. Because it was nearly 10 years ago, and I had three questions to answer one of which was sex-specific, I basically had to.

So enjoy. Sigh. Have I mentioned that I'm still in bed, slept till 4 p.m. and can't even summon the strength to go get food? Yeah, living the life as usual. And that I'm not moving back to New York for some time—probably until I have enough money to either buy that damn Van Cleef or put a downpayment on a condo. So, like, never, apparently. Another day living the dream people.

"Stephanie Green: Cancer Is the New Black"

Wow, my brain really thinks I'm a loser.

Nightmare, Monday night about Books & Books reading Friday night: I run out of time and unable to have a cocktail before the reading.

Nightmare, last night: My friends get me *super* high and I'm too stoned to be funny.

I look forward to tomorrow night's escapade in the membrane. Actually, I think I'll refill my Klonopin scrip today so I can get some peaceful sleep. I'm actually more excited than nervous, but try telling my subconscious that. Sometimes it's hard to differentiate between excitement and anxiety. Lately I'm so unaccustomed to mere excitement without the attachment of something bad that it's even harder.

Anywho, so the reading. It's going to rock, actually. I'm going down to the store tomorrow to scope it out and meet with the events director. I basically have the mic for an hour from 8 to 9 p.m. AND, so does Wally! When Cristina said super dog friendly, well, Wally is as much a part of my story as anyone.

So I've got like a 20 to 30 minute reading and then I've got the rest of the time for Q & A etc. I'm esp glad about the Q & A since Schwartz, Chad, a couple of the Sinai nurses, Shrink etc will be on hand.

You know that Everybody Wears Sunscreen Baz Luhrmann remix video that I'm. AAAAAARGH FUCKING FIREFOX! I just lost all my Pulitzer-winning text about Oribe.

Fucking A. Version Two: A line in the song is do something every day that scares me. Not much scares or intimidates me in this town. With the exception of Oribe, Diety of Hair. Just the whole situation—like will he remember me? Have they issued a restraining order against that crazy, obsessed fan who brought in a 17-year-old book to sign? It's been on my short list to bring him one of the Heeb fliers so he could see both the cut, the gold pomade, and to invite him to the reading. Maybe that's what was scaring me—like having the nerve even to invite someone as big as him to an event starring me. While I'm quite comfortable performing in front of a crowd who will be filled with familiar faces, I'm not sure I could handle it with famous faces in the audience.

Here's another one of Laura's (unretouched) brill photos.

I'm saving these keepahs (sp whatever) to auction off one day for BC research $$.

Any-fucking-way. I went in and the hottie assistant who helped Oribe do me took a little reminding.

"Oh yeah! You brought in like this folder full of stuff for him and your whole crew and photographer!"

"Uh, yeah, the Versace book."

The Guru wasn't in yest, but I left him a postcard with a note on the back. I asked Hottie what Oribe charges. You could've knocked me over with a vat of the 24 Karat Gold Pomade when they told me his price. It's still the price of a (flat) pair of Choos, however it's about half of what Fekkai, Hershberger and Blandi charge. I think he's grandfathered his prices since the '90s. Cause I remember even back then it was only $100 cheaper at the most. LOVE him even more for that.

So now I'm on "The List" for January. Gracie who I gather runs the place for him totally knew who I was, took my name down and promised to get the card to Oribe. The List is not a BS exclusivity thing—because Oribe is literally jetting all over the world at a moment's notice, they don't know his travel sched till the last minute. Asked her to give me as much lead time as poss—cause that, not my doctors, shall determine my January schedule. Natch.

Tomorrow I'll have an update on my husband, er, Cancer I mean. Schwartz is running a FISH path report on my biopsy. He took me off Tykerb this week because of the side effects. When BC recurs, 25 percent of the time the strain can be different. I was HER 2 NU positive—being positive was what determined that I would get Herceptin. If this Cancer is not HER 2, he can put me on "better" drugs. Kinda hoping it has changed. I simply will not be able to live with the burning feet side-effect for the rest of my life. No fucking way. Hello, Manolos? My fucking sneakers have seen more action these past couple of weeks than ever. And I only have one pair of "cool" sneaks, black Costume National that I got from an outlet mall in Italy two years ago on our Amalfi Coast trip.

Okay, I'm off to traffic court.

And PS—I'm going to read a blog excerpt or two Friday night. Not sure which ones and am open to suggestion. OR should I take a really big risk—do something that really does scare me—and read an excerpt from Cancer Is the New Black. I'm actually thinking of "This is Not A Cancer Memoir" as an alternate working title. Whaddya think?


And Happy Birthday to Mel's hubby Chappy! Soo wish I were in the city for the soiree!

My Crazy Father

Saturday night. I'm laid up with my feet on fire at home, chilling and wardrobing for this Friday night. I text mom when I settle on what I'll be borrowing from her for the night.

Me: Can I borrow the Chopard, Van Cleef earrings and multicolored bangles for Fri? I'm done with the Louboutins. [Lest I get too greedy.]

Mom: Sure! If u r not wearing Louboutins then I will. [The Greens are arriving with the McNetts Friday afternoon.]

Two hours later a picture text from their good friend Nancy P. comes in.

Nancy P.: Subject: Your Crazy Father

Photo:

Me: Oh Jesus, LMAO where r u?

Nancy: what is LMAO? bar mitzvah

Me: Lol. Can't blv Andrew hasn't taught you that one

Well, then the photos started coming fast and furious.

Subject: Blogworthy

Photos:


I believe this is Gary's Dishalicious debut. Mazel mazel!

And I just *know* what's going on on the other end of that phone, for I've witnessed their shenanigans for 34 years now. Love it. Can't even imagine having uncool parents and family friends. Party like rockstars people no matter your age; you've only got so much time.

The bottom of my feet hurt from the Tykerb while: doing anything barefoot. Sleeping. Waking—that's the worst. Wearing flip flops. There is like a burn pattern on the soles of my tootsies from the ball down the outside and into the heel.


The bottom of my feet do not hurt while: wearing Louboutins, doing yoga and in sneakers working out. Silver lining of this Chemo side effect? You guessed it; excuse to shoe shop and more incentive to go to the gym. (As if the inflated flotation devices that are now my arms weren't enough motivation.) Man, I would be in serious, serious bankruptcy-level trouble if I still lived within walking distance of Bergdorf while having Cancer.

I was so beyond touched, buoyed and amazed by the eloquence and insight of a long-time reader's comment today that I'm posting it. Obviously well-written and humorous, this commenter verbalized what I've been struggling with about my memoir and marketing it to editors. How to say that it's not just a "Cancer Memoir?" As if I'd even read a Cancer memoir. They're depressing, no? This comment is the best Cancerversary present that I could ask for, so a huge thank you, Anon.

"You know, I've read your blog for much longer than 2 years and not commented, but tonight I feel oddly compelled (gin and tonic, be damned!).

And I'm going to comment on "wasting two years of your life on cancer."

Yes, that.

Ok, here's the thing: as an admittedly blessed 29 year-old, I've never had to deal with breast cancer on a really gritty, in-your-face personal level. It's not going to sound nice, but the chances that I would opt to read a blog centered around BC are slim. It's just not something most "healthy" folks are going to seek out.

But I found your blog through Gawker (I know, I know) some time ago. I was drawn into your voice on the blog - funny, current and sometimes even hilariously scathing. I have read you loyally since that time.

And it just so happens that someone I've never met but found endlessly amusing and accessible happened to be diagnosed with BC. It even started as something in the background - this was certainly not an activist blog. I mean, I came for Prada and ended up with Tykerb. Steph, I know what Tykerb is now. I mean, that's something.

And that's my point. For two years I've been reading about your experience. And I've been learning. And if I'm really lucky I may never need that information - I mean, I pray to whomever/whatever that nipple tats never become a reality to me or loved ones. But if luck has nothing to do with it and statistics come into play, I'm going to need to know about this beast. And now I do.

And that's pretty powerful. Because there's no way I'm the only person that has been affected by your writing.

I know you want to make it as a novelist, but as far as I'm concerned, you made it as a true writer a long time ago. And these two years are probably the most painful and draining of your life, but I can't help but think they've not been wasted."