Tuesday, November 06, 2007

I've been debating on whether to divulge this information to the public. And I've decided to only because I think it's important for women to know about. This is not a ploy for sympathy by any means. And I haven't even gotten any retail therapy out of it-ahem, Mother.

A few months ago, I found a lump in my boob while in the shower. I had just had my annual exam the previous month and the biatch didn't find anything suspect. I kept putting off going to the doctor, but with the constant bombardment of BCA month stuff, I finally bit the bullet. It's a nasty old thing-mushy, moves around and is right where the underwire of my bra hits. Instinctively I didn't think it was a big deal-it's not hard or round or stagnant. Whatever. Long story short, two Klonopins and a best friend and godson in tow, I saw the doc. He did an ultrasound, found the "mass"-isn't that a comforting term?-and thought it looked okay. You know the doctors and malpractice, they really won't tell you anything definitive.

Yesterday I had to go for a diagnostic mammogram in the Mt. Sinai Cancer Center; I was by far the youngest person in the entire building. I had a series of mammograms done; like six total, I think. This time it was Xanax-I have major white coat syndrome and find it impossible to go to a doc sober without having a panic attack. So the radiologists read the thingys, and they said the same thing as the first doctor.

"Well, you definitely have a mass on your breast." No kidding. I can feel the damn thing. However, apparently ultrasounds and mammos must be done; the mammography was to rule out any other suspicious spots. There were no others.

Now the next step is a biopsy, wherein I will have the doc remove the cyst or whatever it is. They won't truly know whether it's CANCER until after the biopsy. But, here's the thing ladies, I have NO history of BC in my family. I am 32 years old. That BS you always hear about starting mammos at 40? Not true. You should have your first one at 35 and then yearly ones at 40. I don't think everyone knows that. [I found out after the fact that my paternal grandmother did in fact have breast cancer, though she died of ovarian cancer more than 25 years ago.]

The main result of all of this is that I am not sleeping well and popping benzos like Tylenol. Oh, and I've also made my "Things to Do Before I Die" list.

When I was in the first doctor's office with Dana, I made her do the medical Q&A while I interrupted the cute, single, Jewish doctor with vanity questions: "You're going in for a biopsy; you're taking this nasty thing out. And can you do a lift while you're at it?"

I will keep everyone posted. And seriously, don't feel sorry for me. I've done more in my 32 years than most people have in a lifetime.

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Sunday, December 02, 2007

Bedtime: 4:30 a.m.
Wake-up time: 8:30 a.m.
Snapples: 4
Items purchased at Neiman's outlet: 7
Xanax: 3
Blunts: 2
Por qué? Lumpectomy tomorrow, 9:30 a.m.
Bring on the drugs, sympathy, catering to and presents.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

The cherry on the sundae that is my life: My breasts are toxic. That's right folks, I, a 32-year-old perfectly healthy woman, have Breast Cancer.

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Yesterday, I'm sitting at Tom's kitchen counter, receiving "the call," while someone is removing equipment from his house. I frantically phone Mom, everything happening in fast-slow-motion. "Come pick me up now," I tell her, "And bring the Xanax. I cannot emphasize that enough." Cut to an hour later. "Doc," I say, while prostrate and glued to the examination chair, "I'm on three Xanax, just spit it out" .

Enter Dana-pregnant, hormonal and in shock, having received frantic phone messages, she jumped to the
conclusion that the doctor had left a sponge in me during surgery. I'm reclining on the exam table, Mom's crying and the doctor-ex-doctor, that is-is a wreck.

"Hiiiiiiiii. I have CANCER!"

I can still make her laugh and cry at the same time.

On the way home from that visit, in the car with Dana driving and Mom in the backseat on the phone to Dad: "Yeah, she's doing amazingly well! Xanax is a wonderful drug" .

Thursday, December 06, 2007

Cancer, Shmancer
We caught it early, it's encapsulated, I'm young, prognosis is good, yada, yada, yada. In the words of my doc, "This is not a death sentence." Bottom line is, I have to get radiation whether it's spread to the nodes or not. I will find out whether it's metastasized or not in the next biopsy.

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Maybe I'm still in shock, but I'm proceeding as normal. Working, hanging out with friends, going out and partying. This little thing with a big C ain't gonna take this woman down. Screw cancer. I'm ready. I've got my dukes up. I'm in the process of securing the best doctors. Bring it on you invasive, pervasive murderous destroyer of humankind.

When all my family friends call to see if I need anything, I say, "Yes, PRESENTS!" I will be registered at Neiman's and no, I'm not kidding. As if CANCER could change me.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Just the facts: Stage II, high-grade infiltrating breast cancer. Most likely I'm a carrier of that BRCA gene that many Ashkenazis have. Waiting on DNA analysis. Waiting on MRI. Will have to have lymph node biopsy. OYYYYYYYYYYY. WILL MOST LIKELY HAVE TO HAVE CHEMOTHERAPY. Can you imagine how weird jewelry will look on a baldie?

I get to milk this Big C thing until I kick its clichéd, sick little ass. Obv. I will have a second opinion at Sloan Kettering. Followed by retail therapy at Bergdorf's. Neiman Marcus, Apple, Bal Harbour and Merrick Park have already soothed me immensely.

I'm still out every night, proceeding normally, feeling good. You know, I've always lived by the philosophy of do what you want and do what you love because life is short. Of course now it's more of the same, but I'm going balls out.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Basically, finally, bottom line-everyone I've consulted with is recommending a double mastectomy. That's right-I'm going to have to lop them off, then get implants. That's what they recommend when someone is (most likely) BRCA1 or BRCA2 positive.

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BRCA1 and 2 are the genetic anomalies that make Ashkenazi Jewish women more susceptible to breast cancer. Now listen up, ladies: One in 40 Ashkenazi women are carriers of one of these genes. Compare that stat to one in 345 women in the general population. The genetic test to determine if you carry these genes is simple. If you are BRCA positive, you have up to an 85 percent chance of getting breast cancer in your lifetime.

Wednesday, January 02, 2008

Cancer, Bergdorf's Style
Thanks to an anonymous, lovely and generous family connection, yours truly scored an appointment with the Anna Wintour of cancer doctors. Larry Norton is at Sloan Kettering and is the Deputy Physician-in-Chief for Breast Cancer Programs; Medical Director, MSK 64th Street; Norma S. Sarofim Chair in Clinical Oncology. This guy is the creme de la creme.

The worst part about the beginning of this journey is the informational overload the doctors inundate you with. I've put Dana and Lynn in charge as my cancer project managers. All I do is pop a pill and show up to the appointments with them. Natch, I was resistant to chemo and mastectomies at first. But for my family and friends, if not myself, as the stats swam in my head, I knew I had to do it. Good doctors won't say to you, "You need to lop off your breasts if you want to live" .

"Doctor Norton, if I were your daughter, what would you tell me to do?"

"Having a mastectomy is your safest option." I knew that was the final word.

"Who is the absolute best oncologist in South Florida?"

"Well, I trained Michael Schwartz; he was my resident" .

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"At Sloan?"

Yes, he said. Done and done.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Cancer Couture
[In the interim, I tested BRCA1 positive.]

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 since the BC diagnosis. Crying over my appearance-big shocker. Think of these wigs as Cancer Couture, as the wig maker custom cuts and designs the wig for you and you alone. The problem? They run from upwards of $4,000. My friends and fellow cancer girls had told me that most insurance companies cover part or all of this cost. Mine? No, natch. "Hair prostheses" are an exclusion not covered by any Humana plan. The oncologist writes you a scrip for a "hair prosthesis." "Hair prostheses" are one of the few, non-negotiable exceptions of my Humana plan.

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. The other splats: BC, tits, friends, family, hospitals, hair, pink, tits tits tits and more tits, vanity, anxiety, humor, material. Damn. All of a sudden this is very real. . . and I've never been a fan of reality. But in actuality, my life is more surreality.

Friday, February 22, 2008

[I had the mastectomy and reconstruction Feb. 14th, 2008. I blogged from the hospital, where I spent 3 nights in a suite on the Founders Floor. The Dilodin drip made the pain bearable. I was awake and mobile most of the time.]

Yesterday, 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 knew, the scaffolding lift was lowered down past my window with five construction workers staring in. Picture this: The Nigerian nurse emptying my alien drains while Mom stands beside me holding the drainage cords. Priceless. We went and bought a bunch of baggy tops at Zara to wear until the alien drains are out. We managed to get this black chiffon top on. (I have to step through the tops cause I can't lift my arms.) But 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.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

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. Another surgery this Friday and possible radiation in addition to chemo depending on how many nodes are contaminated. Today is the first time I broke down, bawling, in a doctors' office. NYC trip to see wig guru Ralf and chemo will have to be postponed. They even presented my case at a conference yesterday.

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Frankly, this bites. Period.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

An unfortunate convergence of PMS and menopause-like symptoms make for horrific side-effects. I woke up soaked through with sweat two days post chemo; the sheets were soaked; the duvet was soaked, the pillows and all. Jeez, I empathize with you menopausers out there. My God.

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. I had him shave my head in order to save myself the horror of watching my hair fall out.

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

I have THE worst, most aggravating mouth sores and inflammation from the chemo. I'd been doing my preventative measures using special toothpaste, mouthwash, spray etc. Apparently, my offense had nothing on the chemo. 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.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

The Breast Cancer Bachelorette
I find it utterly fascinating, and shocking really, that I'm getting hit on by street people left and right when I have no wig on. Those dudes on the street who pass you and talk to you, whistle etc. You know, those people. Maybe there are dudes who are into sick chicks just like there are chubby chasers. Cancer chasers? Hmm. Hypothetically, I could meet a man somewhere when I'm dressed up and in the wig, he could dig me, ask for my number and never be the wiser. I'll bet I could pitch this as a really sick, twisted reality show.

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I can just hear Chris Harrison doing the voice-over now. "Stephanie is your typical 32-year-old single woman looking for love. But she has a dramatic secret that won't be revealed until she chooses the man of her dreams. Stephanie has cancer. Will the man she picks be sincere enough to stay the course? Or will he run for the hills? Stay tuned" .

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Just returned from engagement party at Palm Beach estate. Each time I'm at happy occasions such as this, I'm left with one thought: How nice it must be for parents to have children who follow the traditional blessed course; college, grad school, marriage and children. That's what every parent wants, let's face it. They certainly don't dream of a single, 32-year-old daughter with cancer who's lying in her Palm Beach hotel room blogging on her Sidekick, waiting for the Klonopin to kick in and kill the demons. "My next mission is to find you the perfect guy," Donna said. Wouldn't that be nice? If single, perfect men were just lined up for an aging, single, unsuccessful breast cancer bitch? Get in line, guys. I feel like some people think it's that easy, finding a life partner. Like picking out a pair of Choos. As if. Tomorrow I can go get a pair of Choos on Worth Ave. A man? Not bloody likely. Nights like tonight, I don't see the point. Fighting for things I will never have?

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

The chemo brain has gotten so bad that when I walked into acupuncture today, I forgot my therapist's name when I signed in.

Friday, June 06, 2008

So the real reason I've been in such a funk this week is not the cancer, the chemo, the future-although that is bleak, for sure-but the fact that my BFF Dana recently announced that she is moving to Chicago. In about three weeks. Hubby got a better job offer, his family is there, the school system is better, and they have to go.

Dana and I have been best friends literally since birth, when we were put into the same playgroup, and have never looked back. We've been together through every pitfall and triumph of each other's lives. We lived no more than a mile apart for 17 years; we were college roommates and post-college roommates. I was there for the birth of her two children and she was there for my cancer diagnosis and pretty much every doctor's appointment and chemo thereafter. Not to mention the countless times we got into trouble together, partied like rock stars, laughed, cried, the whole nine. A friendship like ours is truly rare. If there was big news to share in either one of our lives, I was the first to know about it and vice versa.

I have had a more emotional reaction to the fact that she is leaving than I did to finding out I had cancer. But as I've learned in the past year, nothing is ever really set in stone. People move, die, get cancer, have babies and live their lives according to what happens to them. I haven't cried this much since I can't remember when. I know the move won't affect our unique bond, but I can't help but feel gutted.

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She's always been a phone call or car ride away. When I was in so much pain I could barely move, she came over and massaged my back. She's my emergency contact on all my hospital forms. Our fathers grew up together. We are, and have always been, sisters.

My shrink is in the South of France for the summer. I have cancer. And Dana's moving. Why the hell does everything always happen at once?

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

What a long, strange drip it's been
I am done. I am done. I am so done (hopefully) with chemo. It's definitely been a long four months that at the same time went very fast. I am so grateful for my wonderful, amazing, supportive friends and family who have been so helpful. I never needed any of those "support groups" because my people were that for me. I am truly blessed by these people. You'd be amazed how many patients I saw in the chemo ward completely alone. It's heartbreaking.

I'm off to start my life again.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

What up Doc?
He changed my surgery date [to remove the expanders and insert the permanent silicone implants]. Less than two weeks before it was scheduled. They messed up on the calendar, not realizing that his schmancy surgery with a bunch of European doctors was the same week. Okay, fine. If they were American doctors I would've put my foot down. But, Europeans are another story. He apologized profusely. I said, "It's okay. Just throw in some Botox and we'll call it even" .

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

I've become more paranoid and anxious about the BC since chemo has ended. And Dr. Schwartz validated what I've been fearing. Despite my having had a mastectomy, lumpectomy, lymph node removal and chemo, the chances of recurrence are not as low as I'd thought or hoped. The majority of women who have a recurrence do so within two years after treatment. With everything I've had done, the chance is only cut down to between 10 and 15 percent. I was under the impression it was more like fewer than 5 percent. Ten to 15 percent is enough to make this neurotic Jew extremely paranoid for the next two years. And, here's the really awful part: There's always a chance that the chemo didn't knock everything out.

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According to Dr. Schwartz, microscopic cells, which were found in one of my nodes, translates to 1 million cells. Not so "microscopic." What this means is: Cells below that 1 million mark are barely discernible. "What can I do aside from the three-month checkups?" "If you start to feel symptoms, then we nip it in the bud." "But I had no symptoms to begin with aside from the lump. What the hell do I look for?" "Shortness of breath, lumps in other places." Fabulous, right??

What all this translates to for you members of the Tribe who have a family history of the big C is the importance of being proactive. Jessica Queller, who wrote Pretty is What Changes, took the BRCA test after watching her mother, Stephanie, fight BC and die of ovarian cancer. Jessica was BRCA+ and had a preventive, bilateral mastectomy. I
cannot tell you at-risk ladies how lucky we are to have BRCA tests readily available. I implore you to research your family history-grandmothers, mothers, aunts, sisters. If one of your parents had cancer before the age of, like, 60, chances are they have the gene, which would give you a 50 percent chance of inheriting it. Go get the test, people. It can be covered by ins., but even without insurance, it's not prohibitively costly. And, hello, it could save your life!

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Toodles, Tennis Ball Tatas
A few thoughts on men. As far as I can tell, this whole BC BS has become something of a screening process better than any other one I can imagine. I know a few of my readers are BRCA+ and face some tough decisions regarding whether to have prophylactic mastectomies. They have reservations about what it will do to their love life. But what I've found with guys and this process is this: The good ones don't care. Period. In fact, the good ones seem to be impressed by my "strength." Ladies, if they can't handle what you must do for your health, screw ?em. One out of eight women get BC. That means that one out of eight guys has had a woman in their family who's had BC. And more often than not, these men have an immense respect for women such as me who don't let their lack of real boobage affect their personal life.

Monday, July 28, 2008

Ta-Ta, Tatas-The Boobage Recap
Twenty-one hours and counting until the tennis balls to silicone swap. I will look whole soon in fabulous clothes. I will fill out my Narciso and Oscar dresses for the wedding. I will look good in my bikinis in Costa Rica. My jeans will showcase my tush, my hair will be glossy, my body back in shape. But underneath, things will never be the same. Ever.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Cancer and Chopard
i am writing with the lymphedema garments on again, so no caps or ap style today. sitting at lga after a fantastic five days. it was so fulfilling to see both new friends and old. and once again this week was a staggering reminder of just how fortunate i am in every sense of the word, most especially when it comes to my amazing network of friends and family. i feel supremely blessed to be a "connector," who seems to attract like-minded and unique people. screw it. pardon grammatical errors as well; i want to bang this out before my flight boards. ostensibly, my nyc trip was to see the wig guru, which went well. he dyed it back to my natural, darker shade and i likey sooo much better. aside from wig guru though, this was a beneficial, satisfying week on many levels, personal and career wise. i think i shall proclaim myself a hindu, given the good karma that is finally coming my way. cancer and good karma, hand in hand? for me-absofrigginglutely. here's what happened. on tuesday i dropped the wig off at ralf's. he only needed a few hours to do the jobs. since he's on the upper east side on 75th, mom and i decided to eat at the viand on madison and then proceeded to travel the shopping stretch from barneys north. we always look in the windows of chopard, which makes my favorite watches, but we don't often go in to browse. this time we did, and i can say without a doubt that fate guided that decision. mom got some help looking at watches while i browsed. oh, i was sporting the shaved head and the lymphedema sleeve and glove. mom finished and went outside to take a call. i noticed a display case with baubles and watches with a placard that said a portion of proceeds benefit the aspca. i asked mom's saleswoman, vicky to show me some of the watches so that i could choose one for my luxury goods column. "if you don't mind me asking, do you wear the compression garments on planes?" she asked. "do you have breast cancer?" she finished treatment april 07. who is her doctor? larry norton, naturally, who you may remember is harder to get in to than, well, anyone in the country perhaps. she too was lucky to have a connection. mom returns. vicky tells me her story and vice versa. at a certain point, she looks at my mom and says "you must be so happy she is okay. this must have been
so hard on you." mom bursts into tears. vicky bursts into tears. there are group hugs all around. we exchange info and advice. now, remember, we are only at chopard at that moment in time because my wig is with ralf. her three month mri checkup is scheduled for the next day. i'm sorry, but that is no mere coincidence. not one bit, folks. she is seeing norton the next day. we bond over what an angel doctor norton is, and we both like him for the exact same reasons. this man is a true gem. we bid farewell, promising to keep in touch. as mom and i head to meet brother for lunch, we are truly reeling. i don't really know where the path i am on right now will take me, but i can say with absolute certainty that it's the one i'm supposed to be on. i am looking at the road ahead of me with curiosity, happiness, and great faith.


Sunday, September 7, 2008

Ten days until I am 33 years old. I was diagnosed at 32 and, astoundingly, I completed treatment months before my 33rd birthday. September 18th I leave for a post-cancer, birthday trip with my girlfriends. Four days and four nights at the Four Seasons Costa Rica.

A beach, a spa and cold drinks by the pool is the quintessential vacay for me. Two days after my return, I'm off to Vegas for Lynn's son's wedding and my dad's 60th birthday. It's at this wedding that I will debut my first Oscar de la Renta dress, which I bought months ago as the most fabulous frock I could look forward to fitting into normally when all was said and done.

The Four Seasons, The Bellagio, friends and families and weddings and birthdays. Life is good again. It always was; cancer was just a bigger speed bump than normal. But let me tell you, I am a fast f***ng driver.

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