I am getting really panicky about the cost of this CR Four Seasons trip. This is the first luxurious trip I have shouldered the finances for, and I think I'm beginning to see what people mean by realizing 'the value of money.' Ugh. Real life. Not awaiting--it's here, and I'm not ready.
Eight months since diagnosis to cure, and I feel like I had no transition time. It was sick to health to full health to whirlwinds of activity and, well, I'm thinking I probably should have set aside this month to completely chill, formulate a game plan and breathe. Instead I'm running around like a schizophrenic.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You can see the photos from my bday party here and here.

I'm in super-high-anxiety mode. Like I'm freaking out over here. I really hope Dr. L can talk me down from this my-life-is-a-mess-clothes-don't-fit-making-dad's-bday-gift-vegas-related ledge. I must do yoga tonight. Must must must figure out how to edit in iMovie. Help? The fucking Macbook didn't come with individ instruction manuals for programs. WTF??


Okay, I'm going to find a paper bag to breathe into.

Has It Really Been 7 Years?

I like to honor the victims of Sept. 11 as best I can. So I'm reposting my story of what I witnessed that day and lighting a candle for all the survivors and deceased.

From Sept., 2006
It sneaks up on us each year, but it's here again: September 11th. And as all these people are on TV and the radio sharing their experiences of that day, I can't help but reflect and remember. It's our generation's JFK-shooting--we will all remember where we were when we heard the news. It's the event that when I think about still makes my heart race and brings tears to my eyes, even five years later. I don't know if this is true of all Americans, or just for New Yorkers or only for people who witnessed it or knew people whose lives were lost. Anyway, here's my Sept. 11th story, which I will never forget, and I know I've written about longhand somewhere, but god knows where that notebook went. And not that my story is special, it's not, but it's a valid memory, because, if nothing else, it's history. I had been in the city for about a year, but I'd been visiting New York yearly since about the age of 10, and was always a New Yorker at heart; was living in midtown; attending NYU grad school in journalism in the Village; dating an Israeli who lived in Haifa; had returned from visiting him in Israel about a month and a half prior to the attacks. In general, life was pretty good. I was "in love," had a big apt., was with Wally, was going to NYU, which I'd always dreamed of, and was living in the place that I loved better than anywhere in the world. My mom and two of her girlfriends were staying with me for their annual "girl's shopping trip." I had my only early class that morning, and, ironically, it was a "journalism ethics" class, taught by 'renowned' ethicist Todd Gitlin. Everyone talks about the weather that day and it seems silly, but it's true that on days like that, you remember every detail, salient or not. So as I left my apt. a little before 9 a.m., I remember looking up at the sky and thinking what a nice day it was, no clouds, no awful August humidity. I hopped in a cab, just as I noticed that Second Ave. was rife with fire trucks and ambulances. No big deal, a common sight. As we proceeded downtown, the ambulances and fire trucks grew in number, and the cabbie and I began to wonder, so we turned on the radio. At that point, the world was still in shock, and was talking about the 'commuter plane' that had most likely hit the Trade Center. Details were still sketchy at that point, but we proceeded downtown, both of us, similar to the entire city and nation, in a state of shock. By the time we reached the Village, the second plane had hit, and we were just confused, I mean, terrorism just didn't happen in our country, what were any of us supposed to think until we saw? Until we saw. Because while most people saw it on TV, for me it didn't sink in until I got out of the cab near Washington Square Park and saw both towers aflame. Then, and only then, it sunk in. From that point on, I was plunged into that same surreal, dreamlike, post-traumatic haze that most New Yorkers found themselves in for several days, if not weeks or months. I walked to the corner where clusters of people just stood staring up at the towers. Some were openly crying or looked horrified; most just stood there staring, mouths agape. It really was like a scene out of an Independence Day -type movie. Everything else stood still. I think I must have tried to call my mom and the girls, but cells were probably down. I knew I would never make it back uptown, and was in shock, so I moved robotically into the school's building and went into class. And though it was an "ethics" class, and though many of the students in it lived near Wall Street and hadn't shown up yet, and though we were journalists who should be out literally witnessing history and trying to get the story, our professor kept us in class the whole two hours without TVs, radios, phones, and forced us to debate the 'ethical' elements of jumping to the conclusion that this was indeed a terrorist attack being perpetrated by Arabs/Muslims/Islamic extremists. Perhaps he was in shock to and the mantra, "just carry on normally" was propelling him. I had just returned from Israel, so I remember the shock finally wearing off and my rage beginning to kick in, and getting into a heated argument with an Egyptian student, wherein I blamed this on the Arabs and she defended them saying it could be anyone doing this. We finally got out of class and emerged from our time-warp bubble, and learned that both towers had gone down. In those two hours, the sky had fallen. No, it couldn't be, I thought. There's just no way, my brain rationalized, those towers? It had looked like two small fires when I'd gone into class, relative to the largesse of those buildings. But sure enough, I walked out to the corner where I'd watched them on fire earlier and the skyline was flat. Gone. Now, New York City was a quiet ghost town except there were hordes of people walking slowly, stoically. Just walking like zombies, standing in line for payphones, eerily calm. No traffic, just on foot. No transportation anywhere, save for emergency vehicles, but I don't remember hearing any sirens, any noise at all save for radios with news. Nobody yelling, no street noise, the most disturbing thing in New York City--a lack of noise. I walked all the way from the Village to my apartment; walked amid a crowd stunned silent for probably the first time in their lives. I tried to call mom repeatedly, but eventually gave up. I lived near the UN, and kept thinking that that would be the terrorists' next target, so I kept popping into shops and asking if anything else had been hit, because the fire trucks never stopped going downtown. I wondered where my mom and her friends had gone, but knew that they probably hadn't left the house before the news was out, so I wasn't worried. The horrifying thing is that they had been at the store Century 21, which was leveled by the attack, the morning before. I got home and they weren't there, so then I started to panic, no communication, an empty apartment, with a Wally who just knew something was up. I think I just fell on to the couch and sat there, mesmerized by the footage on TV. It was as if I were in a drug-induced haze, which you really can't describe accurately, but if you've ever witnessed a horrible accident or crime, you can most likely relate to. Mom and friends eventually returned home, having walked over to 57th street to see what it was like outside. Like I said, when in shock, you just go by rote, do what you know. Head into class, teach class, go to work, go shopping. Eventually, maybe two days later, mom and co. rented a car and drove home to Florida. Damned if they were getting on a plane. Damned if I was, not for a year or so I think. And though I didn't lose anyone that day and wasn't connected to anyone in those buildings, the event itself had such an impact if you were living in New York, whether you were able to admit it or not. For me, it meant that each time I saw a plane outside the window of my new 15th floor apartment heading past the Con Ed towers in Queens, each and every time for a couple years after, my first, instinctual thought was, that plane is going to hit that tower; it meant that I didn't take the subway for a couple of years; it meant that I looked at cab drivers appraisingly and unconsciously eavesdropped on their foreign conversations; it meant that I didn't feel safe in my own apt., my own city, for many, many years. It meant living in fear for a great while, thinking how easy it had been for them to do it once, surely they would strike again. And still, I'm kind of amazed that nothing else has happened in our country because, really, we're no safer now, are we? Soon, surely, the sky will fall again.

This Is How We Do It

Thanks for the kick-ass graphic, Ben!

No-Nip Slip

It's been another groundbreaking and comical day. My brother's friend Rich stayed with me last night and we hung out today. We're having 30 mph winds on the beach, so we decided to go over to the ocean to see the wave and surfer situ.

The waves were pretty lame and the sand was blowing something fierce. We stayed for a few and snapped some pics. At a certain point, Rich held out his arm and took one of both of us. Then I took two of him by himself. Then he took one of me by myself, after I'd rotated from the previous direction. Okay, after he shot the pic of me, I looked down and realized that my nippleless breasts were completely exposed to all of South Beach. It was so sandy that he couldn't really see the screen. And obviously, so windy that my bathing suit top AND my sundress fell down. I was in TWO different photos, facing two different directions showcasing the nippleless girls for everyone's viewing pleasure.

After we realized what had happened, we were hysterical.

"Well, I thought I noticed a lot of flesh, but it was hard to tell. I thought your bathing suit was down there somewhere."

Oy vey. And no, I'm not posting the photos. I had absolutely no desire or intention to go topless while nippleless, believe you me. Yet somehow I managed to make that happen. What a go-getter!

Yet, I'm in a really foul mood at the moment. I attribute my bitchiness to scrambling for Costa Rica and Vegas; trying to put together a creative, complicated gift for dad's 60th the same weekend as the wedding; getting several different stories together on deadline; copyediting a 24 page feature in Heeb; maintaining my diet and health; fulfilling social obligations; and as usual, fretting about what the fuck I'm going to do with my fucking life.

But after I dropped Rich off at MIA aeropuerto, I found myself extremely wound-up, driving straight to CVS to fill an Ativan scrip. You're really scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to benzos if you're relying on Ativan, FYI. But I've been giving lots of friends Zannies and Klonopins, leaving me with the lamer scrips until I see my shrink (who did not dump me, BTW). Anyway, Ativan does absolutely nothing to you unless you've never taken any drug ever. Seriously, it's lame. So I ask the pharmacist:

"What's the maximum dosage for Ativan?"

Thick accent: "What do you mean?"

"I mean how many of these fucking things can I take? What's a strong dose?"

"This is 1 mg that is good dose."

"Noo, it's not. One does nothing for me. So how many can I take without overdosing," I say through clenched teeth, as I don't have time to have to Google this shit.

Elan, the pharmacist I know, walks over. "Elan," I say dismissing the other dude, "What's the maximum dosage of this I can take?"

He smirks at me. "The question you need to be asking is what is the dosage your doctor prescribed within a 24-hour period."

"Okay."

"So one every four hours is six."

"Well it says six hours but you could do four hours. So that would be 6 yeah," he says.

"Okay, so no more than six."

What do you think I'll be doing come bedtime tonight?

Partay

Friday night I stumbled upon the recipe for a perfect gathering at my place. About 20 good friends. Lots of alchohol and munchies. A nice night and a balcony to take advantage of it. And, most notably, a batch of perfectly made party brownies. Not only were they delish, I used precisely the right amount of herb.

We had a blast. A real, Big Chill-esque night of debauchery in the best sense of the word. I got my first noise complaint.

As Laura said, "You know, people work all week for nights like this."

And ladies, especially those of you BRCA biatches and fellow mastectomy mavens, I finally have concrete proof that men will love your tatas any way you slice them.

Jeffy, thanks for providing this hard-hitting evidence.

Let it Flow, Let Yourself Go

I am strong. I am invincible. I am WOOO-MAAAAAAAN.

I got my period! Hell. Fuck. Yeah. I'm a woman again from the waist down. From the waist up, still a cyborg. Tampons and no more water weight here I come!!!

Fabulous Fundraising!

Woo-hoo! Surpassed my $1,000 goal by $2.77. For 10 days that's not bad right? This fundraising thing is kind of fun. Oy, I get more like dad every day.

Hey guys, one day left before the big Stand Up To Cancer telethon. I've nearly met my goal of $1,000, my biggest fundraising effort ever. Okay, my first fundraising effort on my own.

When you donate, don't forget to "assign" your donation to team Dishalicious.

Many of you readers have generously donated, and considering we've never met, I consider that a great testament to the character of my readers. So kudos to you!

I'm in the weeds this week with work; two 2,000+ word features due in addition to other smaller things. Not to mention the fact that I've got less than two weeks to get my fall schedule in order. Come Sept. 18th, I'll be in and out of Miami like a cruise ship. I got my new MacBook, so as soon as I gets the internets, I'm hoping to do some web cam stuff here, assuming I can figure it out.

Oh, and I suppose now would be a good time for me to actually find where my airline ticket for CR is located. I'm a total hot mess right now. And I must get my apt in order for the viewing party tomorrow night.

Nipple-less Slip

It happened without preamble, forethought, anticipation, anxiety, awkward disclaimers, drugs or alcohol: A man saw my nipple-less boobs today. I was at accupuncture, as I am weekly. My therapist is a straight, hippie-ish dude somewhere in his 30s I'm guessing. We always chat; get along well.


He's been working up to treating the abdomen and chest area, in terms of pressure points and massage. Today he really amped up treatment, as I told him I was all over the fucking place mentally this week. Near the end, he said something like, "Are you comfortable exposing your chest wall?"



"Sure," I answered without realizing what the hell he was referring to--I think of my 'chest wall' as tatas, titties, boobies, breasts or girls.



Whisk! The sheet was gone and there were my nipple-less tatas in all their glory. It happened so fast that I had no reaction at all. A testament to how relaxing these treatments are--my breasts were exposed to a hetero guy for the first time since the operation and I didn't even flinch. I'm so mature. There was no funny biz--he basically worked the rib cage in between the girls, never touching them.



But, hey, one more hurdle passively jumped . The first reveal is done. Easy peasy. If only all single men were as chill about looking at a mutilated 'chest wall.'

90210, Baby

Cannot contain my excitement about the new 90210. Oh how I've missed thee. You see, I was in the class of '93; the same class as the first group of 90210-ers actors. We grew up with that show. And while it makes me feel incredibly old, I'm loving it. Loving Kelly Taylor's wardrobe.
Loving Teacher McHottie (below). Loving the brilliantly cast typed bitch, Nip/Tuck's AnnaLynne McCord. Love love love. And the fabulous Jessica Walter aka Lucille Bluth? Looooooove.

The Shrink is OUT

So, this is a new one: I think I may have been dumped by my shrink. The Miami one--not the L.A. one. I've paged him twice in the last coupla weeks to get an appt. He hasn't returned either one of my calls. Highly unlikely for him; he usually won't hesitate to call at 9 p.m.

I'm half wondering if everything is okay with his family--we have mutual friends--and half wondering if I've finally reached the level of psychosis where my psychiatrist won't even touch me. I bet not even Woody Allen has accomplished that feat.

Since shrinkey is a Facebook friend, I'm thisclose to messaging him via FB. But if he didn't think I was crazy before, that would most certainly push things over the edge.

Seriously though, there's something a little off here. And I need drugs, stat. What the fuck.

I'm happy to share that Vicky, my new friend I met in Chopard, had clean MRI results! Go her. She's very grateful to all you readers who sent positive thoughts and energy her way!

I just had to post these photos of the Versace manse. Wow. Photos don't do it justice. And it IS completely over the top, but the craftsmanship, design and intricacy of every cranny in this place is just amazing. HG took A LOT of photos, so here's roll two.

Facebook Friends

Ahh, Facebook. Facebook and breast cancer are proving to be the most beneficial things for my career in ages. Through a real-life friend and a Facebook friend, I found myself auditioning for a national TV commercial this morning.

It's for a product that aids in breast self-examinations, which I always found difficult to do. I always had lumpy boobage. I found my lump by accident, in the shower. When I was approached for this spot, I figured what the hell. I'm all about raising awareness. It does pay, but I would certainly donate a portion to cancer research. I wasn't nervous. In fact, while I used to have major anxiety walking into unfamiliar situations, the cancer kind of eliminated that.

Now I'm off to tour the former Versace Mansion, the site of his murder a little more than 11 years ago--holy fuck I'm old. Now the structure is called Casa Casuarina. It's a private club, resort and event space. I don't know if I've spoken about Gianni Versace before, but he was one of my early artistic influences. His designs in the early 90s and late 80s made me see fashion for the art it is. One of my friends who grew up in the city was my Versace-obsessed partner in crime. In fact, we met at a summer program at the University of Michigan by bonding over the genius that was Versace. I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news of his crazy murder. Gainesville, Florida summer session at UF, in my apartment.

All my Versace clothes are either too big or too worn out, so I *really* can't honor him as I would like.

And have I also mentioned that I gave one of his close relatives her first bong hit years ago? One of my proudest moments.

Stand up to Cancer

I've started a Dishalicious team for Stand up to Cancer fundraising. Please follow the link and donate if you are able and inclined. Even if it's just a dollar or two.

On Friday Sept. 5
From the Stand up to Cancer web site:
MAKE HISTORY WITH US
TUNE IN SEPTEMBER 5TH 8PM ET/PT
STAND UP TO CANCERIn less than two weeks, over 50 of the most renowned personalities in TV, film, sports and music will come together to make history. In an unprecedented television event, NBC, ABC, and CBS will simultaneously devote 1 hour of commercial-free prime time to raise funds for the fight against cancer.
A spectacular line up of talent including Jennifer Aniston, Scarlett Johansson, Meryl Streep, David Cook, Christina Applegate, Lance Armstrong, Jack Black, Kirsten Dunst, Charles Barkley, America Ferrera, Halle Berry, Hilary Swank, Forrest Whitaker, Jimmy Fallon, Keanu Reeves * will make personal appearances on the show. These celebrities and more will educate you, move you and entertain you. They will also be on hand to answer your calls in the celebrity phone bank.
ONE NIGHT ONE STAGEThe premiere TV performance of “Just Stand Up” – the star studded charitable single in support of Stand Up To Cancer will be performed by legendary recording artists Mariah Carey, Beyonce, Mary J. Blige, Rihanna, Fergie, Sheryl Crow, Miley Cyrus, Melissa Etheridge, Ashanti, Natasha Bedingfield, Keyshia Cole, Ciara, Leona Lewis, LeAnn Rimes, and Carrie Underwood.
Don’t miss out!
Tune in September 5th at 8pm on ABC, NBC and CBS!

My Chemical Cancer

Say hello to my little friends. I don't even know what a lot of them are. C'est la Cancer.

The Tao of Touch

For me, a good massage can hold its own against a good trip to Bergdorf’s any day. There’s something profound to be said for the power of touch. I’ll take a massage when and where I can get one (within reason; you won’t see me in Whole Foods or at the airport). In fact, I may as well admit that one of the reasons I kept an ex of mine around for about four months longer than I should’ve was that he gave amazing massages. Years in the IDF will give you strong hands, apparently. (The other reason was that he also cooked quite well.)

Some people, such as my mom, are not massage-friendly. “I don’t like strangers touching me!” She protests. As a germaphobe, you’d think I would be on board with that excuse. I’m not. The closest my mom has gotten to an actual massage is those five-minute, ghetto, sports rubdowns they give you after you’ve run the New York Marathon. Seriously. Our vacations have taken us to some of the most spectacular spas in the world. Mom never bothers. There’s nothing I can do to convince her, so, more hands for me.

Sometimes my body is more heightened to the sensations of human touch. I began going to acupuncture to seek relief from the constant, dire, expander-caused pain. Once Chad relieved a good portion of that, I was able to relax into the needles and the handwork. As the chemo left my body, my senses became heightened even more. I was feeling things normally again. There was no baseline of pain, so my body was finally just another human body again. As the side-effects diminish, the acupuncture and massage becomes more pleasurable.

And though Chad is a man, it’s not a sexual thing. I feel just as good when a friend rubs my head or squeezes my shoulder or what have you. And my heightened sensory perceptions are not because I’m horny/lonely/damaged goods. Sista actually has a romantic life nowadays, the difference being that I’m not sharing it here.

Today I went in and told Chad that my neck was stiff from yoga. That was my main issue. I’ve also been feeling pretty relaxed, so I’m sure that helped. For the next hour, Chad proceeded to place and remove needles, while at the same time massaging all my pressure points. My neck and shoulders are what always get me, and he was especially adept in that area.

Near the end, (remember, I’ve now been seeing Chad for more than 4 months, weekly) he did something he’d never done.

“Would you mind if I took a look at how they are healing?”

“Oh, the girls? Sure.”
He gently removed the sheet and looked at the ladies, feeling the skin a little. He was quite pleased. I’m not sure why this left me feeling all warm and fuzzy (and not in the hands covering your pants kind of way). I think it’s because Chad’s seen me at every step of the way and is incredibly in-tune with his patients. Early on, he told me that he visualized each of his patients while he meditated. When I came to him, he said, he could tell that I was feeling very unsure with my body and looks. “I just want to assure you that you are still a very attractive woman, Stephanie.” It reassured me in a non-pervy way.
Now, here the same man was today admiring the “after” version of me. And I appreciated his opinion. As both a man and a caregiver.

A few minutes later, I realized that he only wanted to see how they were healing to tell whether he could begin to massage them and let me lay face down for treatment. Ahh. That makes sense.

Now I think I’ll go book some treatments for the Four Seasons Papagayo.

I'm loving the new season of Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency. And thanks for linking to me Miss Janice. The queen of fierceness.

Uhhhhhhhh, I feel compelled to write because I am sitting here in the hospital waiting for the staff to bring over my meds, even though I haven't got a whole hell of a lot to say today. When I say I'm "done" with everything BC-related, I always forget about the Herceptin, which requires my presence at least once a month and is the reason I am still with port.

See, they give me the Herceptin exactly like they did the chemo--hook the IV up to the cords that go to the port catheter which goes directly to my heart. YUM. I have stories to be writing, but I'm feeling uninspired and discombobulated, not to mention completely unfocused. I think I should've stayed in my own bed today. I've been waiting in this damned sick bed for almost an hour already. Where the fuck is my Herceptin? Bueller? Anyone?

Screw Cancer.

Afternoon at the beach.

Afternoon at the beach.