My mini-breakdown was naturally fueled by the unfortunate convergence of PMS and menopause-like symptoms that are the most annoying side-effects of last Monday's chemo. Many thanks to all you supporters and fans for your thoughts and prayers. I truly appreciate each and every one of you to no end.

I woke up soaked through with sweat two days post chemo; the sheets were soaked; the duvet was soaked, the pillows and all. Beau was there to take care of me. It got better but lasted about 5 days. Jeez I empathize with you menopausers out there. My god.

Not much time—debuting the wig tonight for a long-overdue girl's night out. Sans the alcohol for this CP. NYC was fine, I will dissect it later. For now, the photos will suffice. The wig man Ralf is a fascinating man whose experience of 40 years in the wig/hair business has garnered him relationships with our times' most interesting characters—Doris Duke, Loretta Lynn and Helen Gurley Brown among countless others. Got myself a quality digicam and have about 3 hours of footage of my experience with him. Absolutely priceless. He recently did Robin Roberts and they filmed a segment for GMA or some other show.

So here go the photos. Friends and family might want to brace yourselves for the shaved head, but not to worry. I am totally cool with it and Beau loves it as well. Who knew I had a perfectly round head under all my Jew-fro hair. (I've been Jap straightening it for 5 years.)

First Ralph cut me with scissors. He eases into it, as most women are emotional, but you know me—I told him to bring it on.


He left my bangs, some hair around my face and in the back, so that while he sewed and fit the wig, I could go out for lunch (Saks), don a hat (shearling) and get used to the feel of a shaved head. Cool.

Brother, the photog, had just caught A Chorus Line, and told me to do the dance pose a la the show. Hence the retarded stance.

Mom and me

A mullet-haired me next to my wig, while it was still uncut.

Brother thought I looked so funny and ZZ Top-ish from the back, that he conceived this photo and I went along.


Me with the new 'do, after a delicious dinner at Fresco where the wig made it's East Side debut. This dummy is the wig's BFF. And no I didn't draw on it, it came like that.


And me as a baldie.

Would I ever have thought that I would dread going to the city? Would I ever have imagined that I would be sitting at my computer with a mutilated, butchered, grotesque chest, hormonal and crying, feeling two alien life forms stretching my skin while Beau pops out to take a meeting? Could I have envisioned myself getting on a plane and showing the TSA people my fucking hospital card (resting in my fucking Prada wallet, natch) that reads: "BardPort Implanted Port with open-ended catheter?"
It has a product code and a lot number. I have a fucking product implanted in my chest. (It's a registered trademark of C.R. Bard, Inc., or an affiliate!) Would I ever have thought that my life would be this strange, surreal, real, full, empty, meaningful and meaningless at the same time? I don't fucking know. I don't fucking know anything anymore. I just want to lie down and relinquish control of my life to someone else. Someone who cares about it more than me perhaps.

All I know right now is that I don't know what I'm fighting for anymore. My dog? My family? My friends? Myself? It's certainly not the latter and it must be the former, but is that enough?

"Where do you see yourself in six months when this is all over?" Beau asked me last night.

I don't fucking know. Okay? I don't fucking know. I told him I saw myself going on a much-needed vacation, California or back to the Amalfi Coast. (Hey, if I do die this year, at least I got that vacation, right?)

But the truth is, right now all I see is a fade to black.

I felt ill earlier. Beau and I went for a walk along the water. Cleared my head but I still felt physically ill. I have no appetite yet I am supposed to feed myself six times a day. With like healthy shit and shit. So we went to Wild Oats, bought some fake chicken and Beau made some dinner for me. It's like I'm watching this utterly psychotic person's life go on from a distance. I mean, this can't possibly be me can it? But it is. This is my life. Whatever this is.

Beau just walked to Lincoln Road and called to check in when he got there.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes," I said, snuffling into a wad of paper towels.

"What are you blowing your nose?"

"No," I said, laughing, "I'm crying."

"You're crying?"

"Yes. I'm writing and I'm crying."

"You're writing and crying, like what's her—"

"Ha. Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give."

"Yeah!"

Yeah. Maybe, if the book ever does come out, you'll get the reference then.

Well, it's almost 48 hours post chemo with very minimal side-effects of which to speak. Thankfully. The pain in my rock-hard, sacks of saline has subsided for the most part. Though I am quite fatigued, which frankly kind of sucks cause I'm normally pretty on the go.

Mom left this a.m. at 6:30, and I've collected Beau from BFE. Leave it to me to drive for the first time in a month on 1-95 in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I can now fully shower myself, except, and this is really fucking gross, I cannot use a razor on my left pit. I had an electric one that I left at the parents house. At this point I don't really give a crap. Everything else is shaved.
Hoping that by the time I leave for New York on Friday I will be nearly 100%, so that I can move at my normal pace instead of in perpetual slo-mow.

Another case in point of how easily the media is manipulated. Apparently the makeup photos I took of Beau have made quite the impact.

This little blog—the comments at least—proves how unbelievably homophobic the hip hop community is. The irony is that some of the most major hip hop people/rappers are in fact gay.

I think you all will have garnered from my posts about Beau that he is most def not gay. Or bisexual. And yes I took all the makeup photos. And did the makeup. On my bed. Perhaps it's the glittery pillows. Or the retarded names he gave the photos—babe what the hell were you thinking? I don't take responsibility for the photo names. And this all came about from a few of the photos that he posted on his myspace page.

I'm having, thankfully, little side effects from the chemo. Woke up a little queasy, but the anti-nausea drugs work well. Went to the hospital for a shot that boosts your immune system. Bought surgical masks for the plane; doc said it's a good idea to bring in case there is some disgusting person hacking up a lung, which there always is.

And apparently, my hair could start falling out as soon as Saturday. Meaning I'll be in Bergdorf's leaving a trail of human fur behind me. Eww. Good thing I'm getting my head shaved and my wig fitted on Monday.

Chemo was a freaking cakewalk! Photos to come. The room was lovely with a view of the bay and Miami beach. We had a blast--dressed to the nines natch.

On another topic, this lame web site is talking bad about Beau. And I did the makeup, so I think I should at least be mentioned.

To continue. . .
Beau and Dana hang up and Beau texts mom, asking if I'm okay. Natch, the freak-outs begin. Dana and mom, Beau and mom are all playing telephone with my life.

I find it most humorous that a non-Jew, Beau, is the one who started the worry chain. Perhaps our mishegas (sp) are rubbing off on him. By the time I awake, the whole Eastern seaboard is ready to bang on my door.

Dana tells mom that if I'm not reachable by 4:15, she's coming over to the apartment. By the time I call mom, the first thing she says is "Boy, Beau was sure worried about you."

Oh, and to backtrack, in one of her conversations with Beau, Dana came right out and asked him if we'd had a convo the previous night that would have upset me. Coming up with no diplomatic way of saying this, she came right out and asked him if we'd fought the night before. Natch, everyone was thinking OVERDOSE, SUICIDE, SLIP AND FALL, etc. etc. All the while, I'm sleeping somewhat--given the pain--peacefully.

It was a modified Bermuda incident all over again.

So now mom's here, I go to the oncologist in two hours and the pain is a little better. I still have rocks in my chest and look like shit. But I've got my outfit all planned--pink cami, pink jacket, pink purse etc. And mom is wearing a pink Hanro under her shirt.

Guess I'm off to chemo. More adventures to come.

Holy fuck, I got the tissue expanders in my breasts Friday afternoon and have been in agonizing pain all weekend. Serious, horrific PAIN. I have rocks in my chest—hard to the touch and melon-like in appearance.

The pain is as bad as it was after the mastectomy, except no morphine this time. Plus, mom left yesterday. After a losing battle with my bed for a comfortable position in which to sleep, my brain finally went into REM. I noted that my phone was ringing incessantly, but my sore, tired, drugged-up ass wasn't rushing to the phone to see "Chase USA" on the caller ID.

I woke around 2 p.m., which was really 3 p.m. due to DST. There were about 10 missed calls on my cell and several "Are you okay where are you??" texts. A third of the calls were from Beau, a third from Dana and the rest from mom.

Nobody, aside from Beau and I, really knows what's going on between us on a day-by-day basis. So, when Beau called Dana around noon and said, "How is Stephanie?" Dana, not knowing whether he and I were in communication, gave a vague answer. "Oh, she's okay, just in a lot of pain this weekend."

More TK, must go pop some pills and try to sleep.

Closure

Well, the pain meds are gone, the drains are out, I have more use of my arms, can finally exercise again and will be by myself this weekend in my own apt. after nearly a month of being baby-sat.

Today marks 3 weeks from the bilateral mastectomy. Yesterday, surgeon, in between my bouts of puking called me his "model patient" in terms of healing, attitude and appearance. And it really is amazing to know that your body can endure such a pummeling and in three weeks time it only feels residual effects.

I mean I'm not going out and running four miles today, but I might walk them.

Also, my finances are finally in order, I'm getting a much needed respite from the south with my trip to NYC next week.

And y'all will be happy to know I've communicated to Bam (formerly known as Beau) that we cannot be in communication until he gets his head together and I get my body healed.

In fact, this is the text I sent, for he never answered my calls anymore. No response from him, natch:

"Baby this is goodbye for now for both our sakes. I must focus on my health and your kids need you to themselves. I will always love you and be here. When you get through your troubles and figure out what you want for the future, rest assured I will be on the other end. xoxo"

I know many of you will think this too nice, but I do care for him immensely and have no desire to hurt him the way I've been hurt. The last thing I need right now is bad karma. It sucks, it fucking hurts and I won't lie, I cry about him every day. As you girls know, there is nothing more painful than love, esp love that you think will stand the tests of life.

But it gets a little better every day and thankfully we are not in the same circles where I would run into him.

And thankfully I have my tremendously supportive and fabulous support network, too large to mention. But in general shout outs to my childhood friends, the Jacksonville crew, the New York Crew, the Miami Crew, the Californians, the Atlanta peeps, the Palm Beachers, all of Florida really, the family, the friends, the family friends, coworkers and the near-strangers who have reached out. And thanks to you readers, whose comments and support I truly take to heart.

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.

The crew, the Beau and the Bye Bye Boobie Bash.

The photos speak for themselves. (Cause I'm all talked out.)

I woke up yesterday afternoon, read my rejection email and crawled back into bed. I haven't had that don't-want-to get-out-of-bed feeling in a while. I called Beau, told him what had happened. He consoled me. I promised to shake it off and get out of bed. I fell asleep again. He called and woke me up.

"Alright, you think your morning was bad? I woke up to about six SWAT guys pointing guns at my head. I didn't want to tell you cause you were already having a bad day."

That got my ass right out of bed. You all know how I love me some drama.

And no, he's not a "gangsta" rapper. It was some retarded misunderstanding, but totally Cops. They were literally pointing guns in his face, having gotten the key to his place from the bldg mgr.

One of the reasons we get along so well is that his life is as drama-filled as mine. He can match me crazy story for crazy story every day. I can't tell you who he is primarily b/c he is not divorced yet, just legally separated. Plus, I kind of like the mysterious element.

Anyway, I can't remember what I've written where—given my 3 Filofaxes, blog and book—but following is the latest.

Saturday night Dawn and I are throwing a "Bye-Bye Boobie Birthday Bash." It's her 30th and my last weekend with my own boobs. My beau is performing and we'll both be wearing this shirt, from my friend Sabrina Cohen's foundation.

Another friend, the brilliant photographic artist, Tomas Loewy, has offered to do a portrait of me while I'm still au natural. His work is fabulous, so I'm psyched about that.

My friends are the best in the world. Big shout out to all you guys. You rock.

My double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction is Friday, Feb. 15th. My family, at least six of their friends, my beau and my friends will all be in attendance. They'll be laughing it up while my tits are sliced and diced. Not that I'd expect anything less from them. Natch they'll be filming that. Assuming I don't croak, I'll pretty much be fully recovered from the operation two weeks after. In the third week I'll go to NYC to see the wig maker.

Well, I will be fully recovered aside from having no nips—I can't remember if I shared this here yet. Who wants to look at their boobs with no nips? Not me. (They don't put the nips back on until after chemo. Ick.) So I had Beau go to Hustler on Sunset Blvd. to get me some hot pasties to substitute for nipples.

"What are pasties?" he asked. He's as naive about pop culture as I am about hip hop.

I explained to him, but he still didn't get it. "Ohhhhh! You mean like Lil Kim wore?"

Ha. I LOVE that that's his frame of reference. So he got me some really cute pasties. A pair of cherries, some butterflies, among others. He picked the butterflies because the color matches my hair color. I'm really not making this up. And you all know how cynical I am about men, so if I can find a man like him, there's hope ladies.

And my fruitless search for a Playboy has ended. Beau told me last night:

"I did it! I found you Playboy! And it's perfect because it's all about Hooters girls so they have 10 centerfolds instead of just one! So you have 10 boobs to choose from."

"I have 20! Did you pick me out some nice ones?"

"Yeah actually I saw a couple that were nice."

Oh my God. And my life's not interesting?

Rejection Report

Let's see, I awoke this afternoon to find a rejection email from my former agent.

Not commercial or marketable enough. Not unique enough to distinguish it enough from other cancer memoirs.

Now, aside from the fact that publishing is a machine as commercial as the Hollywood machine, let's discuss how ass-backwards this rejection is.

First of all, be honest. Tell me it sucks and I'd have a lot more respect for you than you following the party line.

Second, third, fourth, 100th. Not marketable or unique enough? Nigga please. (I can say that now that I'm with a black hip hop artist.)

Tell me what other "cancer memoir" includes a 32-year-old hot, funny, talented, spoiled, social, well-connected, perfectionist who glides into the hospital with a gaggle of girlfriends as if it's Bergdorf's. Who is having a true love affair with a multi-platinum award-winning black musician with three kids and a soon-to-be-ex wife. Who decided to throw a party and register at Neiman's minutes after being diagnosed with BC. Who describes her upcoming double mastectomy procedure as "lopping 'em off and putting better ones back on." Who dons her best clothes and baubles for hospital visits. Who shows off her cancer hospital cards as if they're black cards. Who manages to get in with the top breast cancer expert in the world, knowing that he doesn't even take new patients. Whose trip to the fabulous Upper East Side wigmaker to the stars will be followed by a fabulous New World Symphony party and forays to 47th St. and Fifth Avenue. Whose family is as fucking crazy as the Bluths of Arrested Development. Who is looking forward to chemo because it means no shaving for four months anywhere. That's right, a painless Brazilian for four months. (Well, treatment may hurt a little, but shit, not shaving for four months? Totally worth it, right ladies?) Who called her reconstructive plastic surgeon yesterday and asked him to throw in some Botox with the pre-op consult. Who embarks with her friends on a fruitless quest for Playboy so she can handpick her new tits. (As an aside, I've been to two sex shops and every gas station and bookstore looking for Playboy. None of these motherfuckers carry Hugh's rag. Shit, I bet I can get to Hugh with no more than a few calls.) Whose Miami shrink will attend the operation—along with about 20 family and friends—and whose Beverly Hills shrink offered to fly in. Who has secured a private, VIP suite at Mt. Sinai, when they are exclusively reserved for hospital founders. Whose already razor-sharp wit is heightened after diagnosis. Whose standard answer to the "how are you" question is, "Aside from the breast cancer, I'm fabulous!" Whose beautiful beau, whilst professing his love for her says, "Breasts, no breasts, hair no hair, that's not ever going to change my feelings for you." Whose card table is littered with gifts from Neiman's and Saks. Who is seeing the bright side of chemo—no driving, no blow-drying, no shaving, losing weight and being catered to. Who has people flying in from all over the world—on private planes, natch—to care for her. Whose life was a fiery ball of drama before the BC struck.

Oh, the list goes on. You guys, my loyal readers, haven't seen anything yet.

So for the formulaic, unadventurous agents out there: It's cool. In 6 months roll up the New York Times Magazine with my photo on the cover and smack yourself on the head with it.

One of you gave me the name of lit agent Kate Garrick a while back. I think she's someone's relative or friend; I'm thinking it was a reader in Virginia maybe?

(Aly I know you gave it to me yesterday too. . .)

Anyway, whoever it was, please get in touch again and remind me what the connection is.

Cindy P. is it you? Short term memory loss. But I need to get this fucker in the hands of someone before my tit surgery next Friday in case I like die. Which is a distinct possibility. In which case, I'd be able to go in peace knowing that my main mission in life, to publish a book, has been accomplished. Cause I know my mother ain't going to know how to find my manuscript and go to 49 different publishers like John Kennedy Toole's mama. My mom doesn't even know who Bob Marley was for Christ sakes.

The private jet thing ain't happenin before next Friday, but if I hustle and if I find a BRILLIANT, tenacious, ballsy agent who works as fast as I do, well then that's good enough for me.

I'm PMSing so hardcore right now and I just had to drive my beau up north, which should have taken 1/2 hour and instead took an hour thanks to these FUCKING IDIOTIC GODDAMN SOUTH FLORIDA DRIVERS WHO CLOG UP 95 FOR AN HOUR JUST TO RUBBERNECK. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE. JUST KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD IN FRONT OF YOU AND LET THE GODDAMN PIGS DO THEIR FUCKING JOBS.

I was so pissed I flipped off about 10 cars, including a cab driver who pulled in front of me on Alton. He made the mistake of pulling up next to me and rolling his window down. So he got the finger plus the added bonus of a "FUCK YOU!" You guys should see how these cabbies drive down here. They make NY cabbies look like freaking Einstein.

FUCKING PMS. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Being a woman fucking sucks sometimes. Am I right ladies?

Sneak Preview

An offer to my loyal (and well-connected readers): Email me at stephgreen17@gmail.com with the name of a top lit agent and you'll get a sneak preview of my new book.

This memoir is based on my insanely adventurous life of late—the blog barely scratches the surface. Think Entourage meets Sex and the City meets Jungle Fever, with the added bonuses of cancer and a love story between this Jewess and a world renowned hip-hop artist. With dashes of fashion, jewelry, nightlife, sex, love, Manhattan, South Beach and the usual craziness that characterizes my stranger than fiction existence.

Well, my fate is now resting in other people's hands at the moment. Career-wise and personal-life wise too.

The second book proposal is out. Friends and family seem to love it, not that they're unbiased.

But I actually believe in this project, so even if the publishing world doesn't dig it, I will self-publish this sucker.

Anyway, if you guys think I'm crazy, check out this dude.

Haute Hospital

potty mouth?! I'm just glad it wasn't Aunt Stephie who taught him the most impt word in the English language.
Well, Jon, I can't reveal the identity of my new love. He's actually a pretty famous entertainer. Yeah, can you believe? Dish has the dish and she's not talking. That's how you know it's real.
Big shout out to my Godson Kobi, who has uttered his first four-letter word, much to the amusement of us all. He started at the top too. He's entered the mimic stage, so next time Daddy is sure to spell out F-U-C-K instead of saying it. Oh, I can't wait till I'm in public with Kobi and he says FUCK instead of HI. One can only hope. Kobi loves to get down with the guitar players on Lincoln Road.


And, drumroll please, the long-overdue photos from my lumpectomy Dec. 3. About 24 hours before I was labeled with the big BC.
Dana and I usually give each other the finger in lieu of less creative greetings.

I don't really get why you can't wear makeup to be operated on. How does anyone meet cute doctors in the ER?

When is a high fashion designer going to tackle hospital gowns? Can't we get a cinched waist or something? Project Runway, the Cancer Chic episode?

No diamonds, no gold, no Cartier, no manicure. Again, why is jewelry an impediment to surgery? Also, my first of MANY tres tres chic hospital bracelets. Perhaps at the end of this journey I could have Landsberg dip one of them in platinum. . .

Kobi making me beautiful post op. Never mind that it's Wally's brush.

Some people laugh all the way to the bank. I laugh all the way to the ER. And then the drugs kick in and I laugh some more. Of course Dana being behind the camera saying, "Smile you fuckmunch" may have something to do with that. Hmm, wonder why Kobi already has a potty mouth.

My friend Schuman just had a brilliant breast suggestion: Angelina Jolie. What do we think? My double-mastectomy and reconstruction surgery is booked for the 15th.

Lop em off, put new ones on in the same day. Talk about customer service.

And I just spoke to the wig guru, so it looks like a mini-NYC trip is in order for the next couple weeks and again the week after I begin chemo, so he can, um, shave my head. Ick.

All you need is love. . .And new tits

I can finally, finally confess that I'm madly in love. And for once it's not one-sided. I can say, with complete confidence, that my soul mate has fallen out of the sky. So much so that I'm rethinking my atheism.

Yes, it's fucked-up timing. But in a way, it's divine. I have a true partner—in addition to my uber-supportive network of friends and family—to fight the BC battle with me.

He doesn't care that I'll be bald. Or nipple-less for four months. (It's really disgusting, but they have to wait to put the nipples on the implants until chemo is done. Lovely, huh?) Actually, I don't think I've told him about the nipples, but he won't care. He loves me for me, craziness and all. He actually seems to find my neuroses endearing.

He is hands down, one of the most spectacular people I've ever met. He's not Jewish, he's not a businessman, he doesn't come from my world, and I could give two shits. This control freak is completely out of control and loving it.

I always thought I'd get breast cancer. I'm oddly intuitive about weird things. But I never, ever thought I would find a love like this.

The book is now on autopilot. If only there were an invisible hand to actually sit and type for me.

And another thing, since I'm on my high horse today. Something like this really shows you who your true friends are. Many have come out of the woodwork, including many of you and other 'strangers.' And then there are the 'friends' you've had your whole life, or for a very long time, who you know know about the BC, but who haven't even bothered to call or email.

For shame on you so-called friends; you know who you are. You showed me your true colors and I've taken notice. And there are, unfortunately, a lot of you who fall into this category. Former college friends, NYC friends, former coworkers and former mentors. Karma's a bitch people. I hope when YOU get cancer you are surrounded by people of better stock than yourselves.

I am pleased to report however, that every single one of my lifelong MOT friends have been outstanding. Just goes to show you that what I've said about my core crew is true—they are a great bunch and I'm lucky to have been raised amongst such love. Even if it was in Jacksonville.

Cancer Couture

I've just snipped a lock of my hair to send to the wig maker to the stars on the Upper East Side. Pathetically, this was the most emotional experience I've had yet since the BC diagnosis. Crying over my appearance—big shocker.

Think of these wigs as Cancer Couture, as the wig maker will custom cut and design the wig for you according to photos.

The problem? They run about $5,000. My friends and fellow cancer girls had told me that most insurance cos cover part or all of this cost. Mine? No, natch. "Hair prostheses" are an exclusion not covered by any Humana plan. The oncologist actually writes you a scrip for a "hair prosthesis." How FUCKED is that? Jesus H.

FUCK all you insurance companies, you're as bad or worse than Big Tobacco. Fuck this ass-backwards rich country that can't even guarantee insurance coverage for the really serious shit like CANCER. Another reason to be European. Or Cuban, according to Michael Moore. Nonetheless, I will still get the wig. But this fucking cancer thing is going to bleed my poor parents dry if this insurance thing continues. I need to get in touch with Michael Moore for my documentary, if anyone has connections to him.

I'm on hold with these rat bastard insurance fuckwads right now, they have a team of cancer specialists. Fat lot of good that does you.

Anyway, the upside is that I can choose both my hair and my new tits. I'm taking suggestions of tits to copy—celebs etc. I'm not well-versed in that aspect of celebrity, but I'm sure my male readers have some ideas.

I will not go above my current size, 34C, as I want them to look as real as possible. I don't want to morph into one of those LA or South Beach bimbos I make fun of for their grapefruit tits.

UGH! My book proposal is coming along and will be ready to ship to agent next week.

My life now resembles a Jackson Pollock canvas. I'm one of the central splotches; the one that on close examination may be a Native American symbol or something else unrecognizable to the average person. It's been a long time since my art history major. The other splats: BC, tits, friends, family, hospitals, hair, pink, tits tits tits and more tits, vanity, anxiety, humor, material, books, documentaries, music. Fucking A. All of the sudden this is very real. . .I've never been a fan of reality. But in actuality, my life is more surreality.

God damnit. I'm going to the gym to blow off steam. I'm fucking pissed. Now these horrific insurance cos are going to be a whole chapter in the book. I think I'll call it FUCK HUMANA.

This is why I will not vote for a president. It doesn't fucking matter who is in the white house when they are controlled by the lobbies. The figurehead in the Oval Office is just a symbol. The bureaucracy is too powerful; this country will ALWAYS be a mess. Period. Hillary, Obama, Giuliani—all the same. Democrats, Republicans they both feast on our blood.