You know, Tomas emailed me and asked me whether the chemo was working. Well, that's a smart question, no? Yet, I won't find out if it 'worked' until the end, when they do a blood test, CAT scan etc.

Kind of wondering if there's a way to test me now. Technically, the cancer was gone before I even started the chemo. The lumpectomy got rid of the lump and the lymph nodes were removed (but thankfully were not infected). Like I've said before, the chemo and the double mastectomy are 'prophylactic.' A chemo condom, if you will.

It would be nice to know however, whether this toxic jet fuel is doing its job and not just driving me crazy.

I'm feeling pretty good aside from the fatigue and the back pain. Sleeping a lot. And so is Wally. I'm telling you Wally has a bladder of steel. And when I sleep, he's marooned on my bed cause it's too high for him to get up on. Interesting right?

I feel like I have other cancer-related points, but chemo brain is in full-effect.

Oh, I did venture out today sans wig, just wearing a hat. I walk around my hood all the time with just hats, but today I actually went to the bank, Walgreen's, Whole Foods and Blockbuster. Oddly, I don't seem to appear to other people as some kind of circus freak, which is how I see myself in my apartment. People didn't seem to stare. Though I know that before BC, I definitely stared at CPs. Not intentionally of course, but how can you not look at people like me and think, "there but for the grace of god go I" or something like that?

Wow, I am in pain today. I feel like my tatas are about to break through my skin. I want to pop them. And crawl out of my own skin. Painkillers are garbage. Sleeping is a nightmare too. Right now it's my back and my front.

If you're a guy, imagine golf balls inside your hollowed-out, sans-tissue testicles. That's what (I suspect at least) these fucking expanders would feel like to a man.

Just talking about it makes it worse. Ugh. I'm going to read about Feng Shui so I can be more peaceful in my living environment since I'm home a lot more now.

Aaaaaaargh. Two months and change till the real implants. And a million Xanax. Two months. Two months. Two months. And six more weeks of chemo. Oscar de la Renta. Oscar de la Renta. Oscar de la Renta. I'm packing up my bras.

Wow, my back is in agony right now. As if I needed more back pain, fucking side-effects have to include that? Audrey the nurse says another side-effect of this cocktail is water retention, another bonus. So I'm looking at chronic back pain, even more weight gain, swelling, numbness in the feet and hands plus the usual sniffly nose, nausea, mouth crap etc.

On top of all this, I'm PMSing so the lower back and water-retention is doubled. Lovely eh? Oh well, could always be worse. I could have a really bad wig.

But seriously, why couldn't I have lost, like, my facial hair along with the rest of the hair? I never lost the arm hair though which is weird.

Well, I'm queasy and heartburn-y. Michael's was great as usual, but little to no appetite. We got home from the hospital about 6:30 p.m. Just under 8 hours there today. My ass literally was numb for about an hour afterwards. Hooked up to IV for 5 1/2 hours, getting up only to pee. On a side note, I was bitching that someone needed to invent a much smaller IV pole, and the nurse told me they did and apprently will be out soon. Yipee! Cancer products!!!

I have my first accupuncture session next Friday. All the docs say it may work; and the dude, "Chad", says for both nausea and back pain. Also, there is a tiny chance that it's partially covered by insurance. I'll try absolutely anything for the back pain now. And, one of the drugs in this new chemo cocktail can make the back pain worse.

The thought of looking like Hellmaster/Hellraiser/Hellrider ( ?Fucking chemo braniac here can't remember name and don't want to be scared by Googling title of film and seeing photos—freaks the shit outta me though.

So, I'm still at chemo. We brought The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and Charlie Wilson's War, but natch, the DVD player isn't working.

Thankfully brought the laptop, but that means I'm forced to get my work out of the way. Yawn. Fingers crossed that the side-effects are less; all the docs and nurses say yes, but each person is different.

Tonight we're eating at Michael's, my favorite restaurant in Miami. First they said 6:45 or 8:45, then I pulled the Chemo Card and voila, 7:15 I'm in!

What happened today was that one of the drugs leaked into the other IV bag thingy, so they had to start over. That set us back about an hour+. We've been here since 10:30 and won't be out till 6:30. UGH. Luckily dad's good friend from Ft. Laud drove in so he's been relatively entertained—I actually wrote 'awkward' instead of 'entertained' when I first posted. Oh, CB, why must you fuck with me so? We dined with said friend and his wife last night at Joe's, and I ate SO many of their decadent French and sweet potato fries that the wife asked him if I was high.

I told him to tell her no, that I was just starving because I'd eaten very little that day in anticipation of their marvelous side dishes. We'll see about the side-effects after tomorrow.

HUGE rat droppings on my balcony again. I'm getting real sick of this shit lemme tell you. I'm seriously the Dr. Doolittle of the rodent kingdom. Three out of four apartment buildings I've been in over the past seven years have been infested! I mean who else has that?

I blame the re-appearance of these unwanted critters on brother making me watch Rattatouille. Everything was fine before that, Michael.

So now I have on my plate: rodents, foreclosure, cancer, man drama, career BS, blah blah blah. What's next? Seeing a ghost? Aliens landing in my bedroom? Or perhaps the really out there scenario—a decent man? As if.

Chemo Brain seems to be a common denominator among CPs. Even if you don't get nauseated, fatigued, whatevs, you'll get chemo brain. Meaning, you'll be in competition with your parents in the categories of:
• repeating yourself ad nauseam
• forgetting where you put things, consequently you may find boxes of tissues in your fridge
• forgetting what day it is and what you did the day before
• forgetting what you said to which person, hence, you'll begin to preface your sentences with, "Stop me if I've told you this already."
• confusing your calendar even when you things down

Case in point. Yesterday, 3:08 p.m., text message from my masseuse. "Are you coming?"

Fuck. I looked at my Filofax, which said Friday at 3 p.m. I called her, apologized profusely, blamed it on chemo brain and rescheduled for Friday. I went back and checked my texts, thinking the appt mishap was her mistake. Nope. Chemo braniac here transposed the days. I've forgotten about lunches, doctors' appointments, you name it. I forget complete phone conversations. Pothead + Alzheimer's patient=yours truly.

Speaking of which, I made some killer pot brownies yesterday. I doubled the amount of weed, and my dealer gave me high-grade as opposed to highest-grade.

And, this is the kicker, my dealer is now looking out for me regarding my baking.

"You know, Steph, I was thinking, since you're baking this instead of smoking it, we should really get you some mid-grade Jamaican stuff instead of my top-of-the-line-stuff."

"Really? Hmm. I haven't dealt with regs in so long that I didn't even think about that."

"Yeah, I almost feel guilty selling you this kind of stuff when you're just baking it. I can get you Jamaican for around $100 an ounce."

"Seriously? Bring it on!"

I had that MUGASCAN (sp) today. It measures the way your blood flows through your heart or something like that. It was nothing, not even worth writing about. I'm off to sanitize my apartment for the 3rd time this week.

The Story in Photos

Some of my favorite post-diagnosis photos. You can check out the rest of my life in photos on Flickr. They're in chronological order, from post-diagnosis in December to present. With my real hair and then my fabulous, $4,300 wig from genius wig guru Ralf Mollica, who's outfitted everyone from Doris Duke to Helen Gurley Brown to Robin Roberts.


Tom and I reverted to childhood one night early on.

The girls on New Year's Eve.

Dawn fondling my real tatas.

I had a Bye-Bye Boobie Bash (combined with Dawn's birthday celebration) the weekend before my mastectomy. I encouraged everyone present to feel my real boobs before they went missing. Photo by Tomas Loewy and shirt by Sabrina Cohen. Proceeds from the shirt benefit charity, so buy some. They are super soft and comfy, and trust me, they are head-turners.

My shrink snapped the surgical board. He also snapped the operation—he's affiliated with the hospital—but the powers that be made him erase the film!


Me just after my double mastectomy.

Me and my surgical drains after the mastectomy.

After my first inflation and mastectomy.

The shrink and mom during my lymph node removal. My shrink ROCKS.

Dana and I post lymph node surgery.

Dana and me a couple hours after lymph surgery with the infamous Epicure cake that I later slept ate. There was chocolate icing all over my apartment. I hadn't eaten in a day or so b/c of surgery, so I found myself at 2 a.m. devouring the remaining half of the cake. Best. Cake. Ever. If you live here, run to Epicure and buy this cake. I swear it's better than Magnolia Bakery.


Me being rolled into one surgery or another.

My first chemo. Check out the turkey baster syringe. That's what turned my pee pink. Electric Kool Aid, aka Cytoxin.

This sign usually reads "Designer Salon."


Mom and the dummy hit it off instantly.


Me and my drains.

Barbara aligning my chakras with a sage stick. This particular chakra? My vjayjay, "May as well do the source of everything!" she said.


Chemo may as well be fun.


Me and the NYC girls the night before my experience with Ralf.
Stace and me at Jazid.

Me and the dummy.

Dad's first chemo experience; my second.