Maybe I'm just in a pissy mood cause I'm PMSing or maybe I'm hypersensitive to the whole BC issue thing, but I find the following solicitation email I rec'd from another writer to be in extremely poor taste. Agreed? Or am I really a woman on the verge? I would tear this e-mail apart word by word, but frankly I'm too tired even to waste the energy. Case in point that not all Conde Nast mags are, well, decent. Grammatical errors are included for your enjoyment.

"I am working on an an upcoming health story about breast cancer for the October issue of Annoying Women's magazine. I am looking for ethnically diverse women who live in the New York CIty area between the ages of 20 and 40 who can come into the Annoying Women's offices to see if they can find lumps in a prosthetic boob. SNACKS AND REFRESHMENTS WILL BE PROVIDED! Plus this is a great opportunity to SCHMOOZE and meet EDITORS!

We're booking appointments on two dates: April 28th or April 30th and each
appointment will run for about sixty minutes (but we'll try to keep it under
an hour). Candidates may be photographed and quoted during the sessions!

This is a great opportunity to contribute to an interesting story, meet editors and explore the Annoying Women's office!

If you are interested, please email me at XXX by Monday, April 14th 9 a.m. with the following information:

1. first and last name
2. age
3. city and state
4. your email and number
5. Which date you prefer to come in: April 28th or April 30th.

*You will be contacted by a Annoying Women's editor in the next week to schedule your time to come in to the office.

PLEASE FORWARD TO YOUR FRIENDS!"

Oy, oy, oy, oy. Exclamation points!!! Breast Cancer!!!!!!!!!!!!! Refreshments!!!!! Meet the editors and feel some tits!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So here's the latest. I'm feeling pretty well. We had a minor 4 a.m. interruption Weds morning wherein Brother called mom and me at my apartment to tell me that he received an extremely odd txt from Beau. It read: "Love you like a brother, see you on the other side."

Well. Beau had gone out with a mutual friend for a meeting around 11, and when I spoke to him last he was at the Delano. Next thing I know, he's sending my brother crazy-ass messages, not answering his phone and it's 4:30 a.m. And he has my house keys. So mom and I walk downstairs with Wally, and who is driving up into my valet? Beau, thank God for him. Long story, don't ask.

After Monday's chemo, Mom, Beau and I had a three-hour outing at Neiman's Last Call by the airport. I got a hot little MK bathing suit that actually covers my tennis ball tits, a pair of Piazza Siempone denimn shorts and a nightie. Beau scored three pairs of $200+ jeans for about $40 each. Humph. We went under the guise of seeing if they had the Oscar dress I got in a size smaller so that I wouldn't have to alter it. They didn't.

Tuesday we went back to hospital to get my immuno-booster shot and bid farewell to my nurse Audrey. My blood counts are fine, meaning my immune system is healthy. Afterwards mom and I brought Epicure lunch over to Dana and Jim's—she's going in for birth this Monday. She won't tell anyone the name of the damn girl, so we are going with Cunty or Kozy Shack or Coconut. (Godson is Kobi, Cat is Kutzy, dog is Cubby.) The 4 a.m. events had me up till 6 a.m., mom left at 8, I had therapy at 2 p.m. and then I made it to the gym for the first time ever on a chemo week. So I guess my body is getting used to the poison.

I am gearing up for a couple of photo shoots that will require me to don a bathing suit. In a week. That's about all the Equinox motivation I need. Keep your fingers crossed that these shoots accomplish what I hope they will.

And all you sexy BC survivors in the greater Miami area, please get in touch and I'll fill you in on the details of this photo shoot.

Chemo Live Blogging

Well, I'm live-blogging from my lovely chemo suite right now. Waiting on bloodwork to make sure my blood count is on par. Today I am dressed down in loungewear (Bleu Clair) and our crew is diminished--just mom and me. Dana is a week away from giving birth.

Yesterday Dana, Myrna and I met mom, Lynn and Gail at Sawgrass Mills for a little retail therapy. And I discovered what I've been searching and longing for my whole life--the perfect, fabulous Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress. At long last, my soul mate has arrived. It's haning on my closet door so I can behold it's beauty. It's not strapless as I'd hoped to wear for the Ciklin wedding in Sept., but it's still fantastic. Typical Oscar frock--fitted bodice full ballerina style skirt. Black silk with red swirly motifs gracing the botoom of the gown. I'm so in love.

Anyway, still waiting on the actual chemo to start. More TK.

WARNING: VOMIT-INDUCING PHOTO

PLEASE DON'T SCROLL DOWN IF YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE MY MUTILATED BREASTS.


I just figured full-disclosure was in order so you all can really grasp what us BC-ers deal with.

I was just inflated and the doc did about a half of what he did last time, so the pain isn't as bad and I have Percocet just in case. Or for fun. He also gave me the go-ahead to start using weights again with my arms. Bam was brave enough to both take me to the doctor and watch him inflate me and to take this photo. He rocks.

Anyway, as you will see, looking at myself in the mirror is not so pleasant these days, but I'm getting used to it. The weird nipple-like protrusions on either side are the ports into which doc injects the silicone. The 'breasts' are supposed to be uneven and really high; it's not until after the real silicone ones are swapped in that they become bodacious boobies a la Playboy. That surgery will occur a minimum of one month after chemo ends. And that's when the nips go on, which are crafted from part of my breast skin and part of my skin from the pelvic area. (At first doc joked that they'll come from the nipple bank.) Then, the color—I suppose I can choose brownish or pink nips—is tattooed on. You can bet those will be the only tattoos gracing this Jewess' bod. All this puts my final, final hurdle in mid-to-late July. I'm hoping I'll be done and done recovery and surgery wise by August.

I've got Lynn's son Michael's wedding in Vegas at the end of September and simply must look ravishing in a strapless Oscar or Valentino frock. I carry a Valentino ad with the dress I'm salivating over in my Filofax for inspiration. Whatever gets you through the day. Sadly my family thinks this is normal.

If you have a weak stomach or are a family friend and don't wish to view this, stop reading now. I'm putting the one of me in clothing first. Beware.

I don't know if this link will work, but on the top right side of this page is video of Robin Roberts at my awesome wig guru's crib getting her head shaved.

Ralf has generously agreed to try to put me in touch with some of his big-wig clients regarding my documentary/reality show I'm working on.

I'm still doing a book, but it's going to me more avant garde than your standard memoir. More TK. I'm off to Lincoln Road to do some column research and spend my Victoria's Secret gift cert (thanks Susie!).

Moi, A Menendez?

First of all, time for some bitching. I have THE worst, most aggravating mouth sores and inflammation from the chemo. This was def listed as a side-effect, so I'd been doing my preventative measures using special toothpaste, mouthwash, spray etc. Apparently, my offense had nothing on the fucking chemo. My mouth is completely inflamed. It's hard to talk. And unfortunately it feels better when I eat, so I'm shoveling ice cream and Reddi Whip in my mouth like there's no tomorrow. Pretty soon I'm going to be rolling myself into chemo treatments.

I don't think I shared this story with you, but Lay Ann thinks it's one of the funniest ones ever, so even though it makes me look like an evil sociopath, I'll share. Since the Dec. 4 diagnosis and subsequent surgeries, treatments etc., my mom had been staying with me for more than a month. Of course, after a week we were ready to murder each other. Natch, she was just trying to help, but she was an anxious mess, which just frustrated me. I pop Xanax for anxiety. She knits and makes these sighing noises that signify the onset of tears. The woman cries at everything; good news, bad news, commercials, good-byes etc. So for the first couple of weeks the waterworks were nonstop. And the anxiety, my God, she made Woody Allen look chill. So one night early on she was really frustrating me. I think we'd argued about something and I sent her out to CVS cause I needed a breather. Look, it's really difficult when you are completely in control and strong but your family is falling apart. I needed her to snap out of it and be strong, at least when she was around me. I know it's insanely hard for a mother to watch her kid go through this, but 12 years of therapy puts me ahead of the curve, whereas she's more the denial, Pollyanna type.

So, she went out to CVS, and I was just completely at wits end with her and her constant worrying. I ground up one of my Klonopin into a fine powder. There were some leftovers I knew she would nibble at when she got home. I sprinkled half of one into her spaghetti and the other half into some hummus. I think I even left the hummus on the counter, hint hint. Sure enough she came home, we made nice and she later went for the food.

In my defense, the pill was .5 mg total and given the way she eats—like a bird—she probably only ingested .25 mg max. Baby dose. Also, I'd suggested this to my shrink and he didn't have a problem with it. I love my shrink.

Nothing noticeable happened except for the fact that she calmed down and slept very well. Very late the next day. I didn't tell her. It was kind of a blip in the radar given the circumstances of that month.

So when mom and dad were in town and they kidnapped me to go to Jax with them, we stopped in WPB to have lunch with Lynn and Alan. My dad is very impatient. He was getting uber-frustrated and basically throwing a temper tantrum that we had to get off the interstate to get to City Place in WPB. He was behaving like a two-year-old. And it was Lynn's birthday so while he was bitching and moaning, mom and I were telling him to shut the hell up, what did he care what time we got home, it was Sunday. Anyway, by the time he dropped us off—after going the wrong way b/c he didn't listen to me—he was about ready to kill someone. Even after we sat down with our food, he was still bitching. "Relax already," we said. "You're acting like a child."

"Yeah, I'm the one with cancer, so calm down already, or I'll dose you with something to calm you down like I did mom."

"What? What do you mean you dosed me? With what?"

I explained the whole story, which everyone found quite funny. Even mom. Though she did compare me to the Menendez brothers.

I've also dosed em both with some pot brownies of late. They know about it all though. Luckily they're a bunch of old hippies so they don't mind my subversive shenanigans. Dad didn't know I dosed him with the herb at the time, so other lawyers reading this, don't blame him. It was ALL me. Damn straight.

I'm going to do some budget shopping today at Marshalls. Yeah, you heard right. This little princess has been sticking to a strict budget—no shopping, no daily Whole Foods runs. Publix and cooking at home. It's really much more fun and I enjoy being on a budget. I'm actually under budget. (And under-shopped.) Luckily mom's in town Sunday and we'll be at the outlets. I'm long overdue for some retail therapy. And now I can buy shit that doesn't require a bra. Yipee!

HAIR

Soo, my hair started falling out yesterday. As you know, I'm already shaved. But while Bam and I were sitting at the pool, my scalp was itching under my hat; natch, I scratched. Next thing I know, I look down at my fingers and they are COVERED in hair. Sure enough, I lifted my hat and the entire rim was lined in 1/8" hairs. Of course, it was a little disconcerting, but right on schedule. You know me, type-A till the end, always meeting my deadlines.

We immediately went upstairs, I sat in the bath and Bam shaved the head completely. It actually didn't feel so weird, but was def traumatic. Thankfully my sense of humor is intact, the Xanax scrip is filled and Bam is here to hold my hand so to speak. The nastiest part is the hair flying everywhere on me, so that my arms looked like (a?) Sasquatch. I have a thing about hair anyway and am never without my lint brush. So you can imagine the squeamishness I felt with my own little hairs all over my body and face. Eww. I mean, I carry a lint brush to Dana's house with me due to her pug and her Siamese cat who shed like motherfuckers. I even roll it over my face.

We got the whole thing on video. And yes, those are my tennis ball titties. I know how gross they are so save the comments. The good news is that they are almost a full C cup, so I am only going to let the plastic surgeon inflate them a tiny bit more. Cause let me tell you, my deltoids are still smarting from this skin-stretching nightmare. It's really, truly, disgustingly foul. But, surprisingly, the scars on the breastesses have almost completely faded, so I guess I have skin that heals pretty well. Can't wait to have normal, fake, silicone titties like all the rest of the South Beach women. And yes, ladies, (Nancy P.) my bras are all up for grabs.

The evidence:




Some lighter material. . .

Dana engaging in her fave hobby at chemo. They actually bring around sandwiches, salads etc while you're there. Yeah, my camera is totally ghetto and overexposed during daylight. I cannot for the life of me figure out what's wrong despite reading the manual. If anyone has a Casio Exilim and can help, I'd be very grateful.

Kobi loves my dad. Apparently after our pre-chemo dinner Sunday night, he kept saying "Mark." Meanwhile, I haven't heard him say my name in ages. Ahem. Though he is proficient in all food names and "boobie." The kid can put away food like nothing else. Whenever he goes to Rosa Mexicano, he polishes off nearly a whole tub of their guac. I'm not shitting you. It's hilarious.



The Silvers decided to celebrate St. Patrick's day on Easter Sunday. They were all, coincidentally, donning green.

So Afrika Baby Bam from the Jungle Brothers, aka Beau as you all know him, and I are getting crazier by the day. I think I'm rubbing off on him. Poor thing. And what's with this lame ass site? They publish my ghetto photos and keep talking about Bam's 'homosexuality;' are there not any other rumors for them to harp on? The comments are the cherry on the cake—every single one is an advertisement! Enough said.

I'm not very coherent at the moment. The cancer drugs not only make me fatigued and queasy, but they totally fuck with my short-term memory, for real. Lots of weird stuff happening as usual. Last night Bam and I were sitting on the couch flipping through the channels after The Apprentice—can someone please tell me what the winner actually won??—and I saw Oxygen's Snapped pop up on the guide. Dad had a case many years ago that got a lot of press. His client allegedly hired some thugs to kill her hubby cause he was stepping out on her with a teenager. Ick. The trial was live on Court TV and was the focus of an episode of Snapped and A&E's American Justice. Anyway, last night I paused on Snapped and hit info. Sure enough, dad's episode. Just random.

You guys should see Bam and me—plus Wally—padding around my apartment day by day. I'm having hot and cold flashes like a motherfucker, so my AC goes from about 65 to 80 in any given hour. Bam's always cold, so he walks around with my cancer blanket. He slept in my pink Natori bathrobe last night cause he was cold, and I stripped off my nightgown in the middle of the night cause I was boiling. And he's pretty much allergic to everything, including dogs, so natch Wally loves him and insists on crawling all over him and trying to lick him. Wally usually hates men I bring around. Today I'm sitting here doing this and cleaning, while Bam's out practicing for his 5 a.m. performance. It's the Winter Music Conference this wkd, so all the industry people are in town. My ass will be passed out obv, but if I were healthy I'd love to go see him do his thing.

If my deceased relatives are watching my life from up 'there' right now, I wonder what the hell they are thinking. . . .

Today we logged footage from the first tape of my ongoing documentation of this whole cancer thing. The first tape takes us through me waking up from my lumpectomy—when we all thought the lump was benign—to the visits to the oncologists etc. I have to say, I have a very entertaining posse. And sadly, my mom and Lynn look better on camera than me. Time for some more Restylane. And my hair looks so good on camera. I always took my hair for granted; now I want it back. I just want this whole thing to be over with already. As usual, the waiting is the most unbearable part.

The Bald and the Beautiful

My fabulously talented friend Tomas Loewy found the perfect backdrop—a long admired canvas of his—for my proper baldie portrait.

Does this say book cover or what?

Chemo Cometh

Monday was my second of eight chemo sessions. Dad, Dana and Dana's mom Nancy were in tow for some comic relief. My nurse Audrey hooked us up with the private corner unit again with water views. Dad left yesterday afternoon and Beau drove in last night to take the lead.

The medicine in this syringe turns your pee pink. Audrey calls it 'big red.'




The side effects have been minimal this week. No night sweats or increased urination. This product you can buy at Wild Oats/Whole Foods called Black Cohash, works miracles on the night sweats and other menopause-like symptoms. A little bit of nausea, but no biggie. Hair not falling out yet, and after watching our video footage I'm missing my own hair and hating BANGS. Ugh.

They have to take my blood pressure via my leg . . .



Anyway, only six more to go! And I tried on one of my bras today—almost there, so one more inflation session and I'll be the full-C I once was.

3 more months and counting.

Below are from the 1st chemo, I can't remember if I posted these or not. The drugs fuck with my memory for damn sure. The boobage has "settled" since then.

Group Hug

My South Beach debut of the wig went well. Beau and I joined my gay boyfriend and his real boyfriend for a night of long-overdue culture. The New World Symphony had a performance featuring John Adams and electric violinist Tracy Silverman. It was lovely to have a night out that didn't involve a bar. The fab four of us grabbed a bite on Lincoln afterwards, and the wig seems to be a hit.

Dad arrived today with my beloved four-legged guy Wally and the chemo crew rocking Sinai tomorrow will include Dana, her mom Nancy and Dad. Wally, Beau and I are now sporting similar haircuts—we are all shaved. Wally is the most hirsute of the trio.


Durrett, Afrika Baby Bam, yours truly and Steve. Notice how the new boobage doesn't exactly fill out the Vera bodice. That's cause my titties are nearly up to my chin stretching the skin until the silicone goes in post-chemo.



On Lincoln Road—and no, we did not color coordinate on purpose. We just Got it Like That.


Dad and I at dinner at Perricone's for Easter

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.