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.

Did I mention that my blogger friend Mel and I met in person for the first time while I was in the city last week? We had a lovely, long, girl's lunch in the cafe in the Bergdorf Goodman men's store.

She's the first person I've corresponded with in the blogosphere who I've met in person. The media has bagged on Melissa a lot; perhaps even more than they bag on me. In actuality, Mel is a girl I would totally be friends with—funny, down to earth, cool, deep, strong and interesting.

So for those of you who look down on "socialites"—or "princesses" if it's a Jewess—bugger off. The truth is that if the lot of you didn't have to have a 9 to 5 office job, you probably wouldn't. With the exception of people like my mom who derive pleasure out of work for some reason I cannot comprehend.

Don't get me wrong, I'll always write and work. But come hell or high water, I don't EVER want to be caged in an office again. Life is WAY too short not to do what pleases you; and if that's traveling around the world so be it. If it's working behind a desk, so be it. If it's being a stay-at-home mom, a professional shopper, a gym rat, whatever, so be it. Yes, money does make things easier. It doesn't necessarily make things better.

People are either quality or they're not, regardless of their social status. That's the bottom line. Mel is quality people and I'm jazzed that we finally had a tete-a-tete.

Hope Jamaica was fab;)