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Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Port One, Gemzar 2

Makes me think of the Rain Man. To be said while rocking back and forth: Port One. Gemzar Two. Port One Gemzar Two. Charlie Babbitt made a joke. K-Mart Sucks... I survived my first treatment using the port on Monday. I didn't think it could be done given I still have on bandages but the nurse was able to access Port Authority. She put on a local anesthetic cream called Emla. Great, something else that comes with a warning label. Anyway, it helped to numb the area very quickly. I must say, although I was entirely freaked out by poking a device installed under my skin, it made the treatment go much smoother. We saved at least 15 minutes trying to find a cooperative vein. So that's the good news. 

The not great but bearable news is that I feel like shit from the treatment. I was fine on Monday though extremely tired and irritable to the point of tears. I haven't been sleeping, hence my writing this at 4:00 in the morning. Yesterday I had aches and pains, chills, nausea, and no fever. I was teetering on throwing up every couple of hours but thankfully didn't. I cannot say I'm feeling to great now. This is a typical side effect of the chemo that strangely I didn't experience the first time I had it. Took a bunch of Tylenol Extra Strength, which I'm going to stock up on. By the way, what are you thoughts on the actual name brand vs. say, Walgreens?

Meanwhile, my hair is growing in dark and somewhat thick--still some thinning spots in the back. My insane hairline is back, cowlicks, baby hairs and all. Here's an interesting fact: The word cowlick originates from the domestic bovine's habit of licking its young, which results in a swirling pattern in the hair. I did not know that until I looked up the correct spelling. 

I'm incredibly antsy lying in bed and the bright light of the computer isn't helping. Time to turn on some NPR and attempt to catch more Zzz's...

Thanks again for everyone's supPORT this week. Oh, by the way, my friend Maury came up with a new name: Port CHESTER. How did I not think of that? Good on ya, Maury!

Love to all, 


Saturday, May 10, 2014

Greetings from Port Authority

Hi ya'll... rePORTing back to you to advise that the procedure went OK. Mom and Sandy accompanied me to Lenox Hill. After filling out several forms and a lot of waiting time I was brought into the cold operating room where I was introduced to the staff. I must say one nurse was nicer than the other, the surgeon, or rather, radiology interventionist, did his best to comfort me and I always felt as if I were in good hands. My only question is why are shoes without booties permitted in the operating room? I had to wear a mask during my procedure just so I wouldn't breathe on myself to avoid risk of infection. Everything else is super sterile, but you can wear your shoes and I even did so while I was lying on the table (I only had to undress from waist up). 

The actual procedure started at 11:45AM but I wasn't brought into recovery until about 2PM. I was super groggy, eventually got to eat a sandwich and drink some apple juice and after an hour or two I got to go home. The area hurts or is rather sore but it's not bad enough that I need hard core pain killers. It's black and blue and has medical strips on it that will fall off within seven to ten days; I can only sponge bath for four days. I took off the big bandage this afternoon.

My new device was aptly named Port Authority by my friend Hillary; first because I'm a New Yorker and second because I still have authority over my life! I really couldn't attempt to read about Port Authority until I came home yesterday and checked out the brochure. Here's the most basic information about it:

I have to carry a little card with me to give to nurses any time it's utilized or if it sets off the alarms at the airport. Just think, I may be the reason you miss a flight one day because I held up security. 

Thanks for everyone's supPORT.

Have a wonderful Mother's Day!


The Boob Blogger


Thursday, May 8, 2014

You're so Vein....You Probably Think This IV is For You...

So, early last week my veins quit on me. They no longer want to be poked and prodded for an IV treatment, so much so that after four attempts I couldn't even get the treatment. Therefore tomorrow I'll be getting a port put in at Lenox Hill. I've been avoiding this because quite frankly the thought of it makes me nauseous. Supposedly it will make my treatments much easier and I'll forever be relieved of all the sticking in my arms (except for blood draws). Some answers to frequently asked questions: 1) No, I will not go off at the airport (but I think I have to carry some sort of card just in case) 2) I cannot infuse vodka in it 3) The procedure only takes about 45 minutes and I'm only under local anesthesia 4) It'll be put in somewhere between my left shoulder and left breast 5) It'll stay in as long as I need chemo which could be for life, who knows, depends on my progress. Any suggestions for names? I hear the word port and it makes me think of Pt. St. Lucie, Port-au-Prince, Port-o-Potty, etc... Suggestions welcome.

 Click below and tune in. Bet you can't get the song out of your head all day... ;)

Enjoy the Spring showers!

Love from, 

The Boob Blogger.........

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Sometimes Things Don't Go As Planned

I went to the oncologist on Monday to discuss the med(s) that’s been killing my bones and joints. I was all prepared to get my third and last Lupron injection. I understood this to be a necessary evil (evil because of the pain, not evil because it's a means to an end) because if my ovaries aren't entirely shut down from the Lupron, my taking the aromatase inhibitor Letrazol would be a waste of time and have zero effect on treating the cancer; if anything it can get worse. Well, apparently Sandy and I both misunderstood the doctor. What we thought would only be three injections (one a month) was more likely to be for THREE YEARS, at least til I’m 50. I'd take get an injection once a month for three months and THEN start the pills BUT CONTINUE THE INJECTIONS. 

Seeing as I cannot tolerate the pain from the two injections I had (I still ache from an injection given to me three weeks ago), I opted out for a third and thereby opted out for the Letrazol. What does this mean? I have to go back on IV chemo (there are no more oral alternatives). It's likely I will be getting Gemzar. Gemzar is administered once a week for three weeks and then I'm off for one week. Rinse. Repeat. So it's back to the weekly blood draws one day and IV the next day. Typical side effects are flu-like symptoms the day of the treatment (achy, nauseas, fever), flush face day of or even three days later, and swollen feet and ankles. Chances of hair loss are minimal on this drug although it may thin. 

Next step? I'm waiting for the authorization for another cat scan (chest only) next week. If the results are the same as last time (or better) I will immediately start the Gemzar. 

I cannot say I was happy about this. I've accepted a lot thus far and I think I've been dealing with it well, but somehow this felt like a step back. I cried. A little. I wasn't angry, but I was really disappointed. Deflated. I thought I'd have the easy task of taking a pill once a day. But if I don't have the strength to open a bottle of water, which is now the case, that's an issue. My treatment is all about maintaining a good quality of life and in order to do this, I have to weigh my options.  This definitely reinforced that my fighting this cancer will be a lifelong endeavor until someone comes up with a cure.  But just the fact that I can tips the scale in my favor and I must remember that. 

In the immortal words of Mick Jagger....
             You can't always get what you want....


                                         Th-th-that's all folks....

                                                 The Boob Blogger

Saturday, March 29, 2014

It Hurts to Laugh

Hello one and all!!

I have been MIA but not for lack of stuff to write about. I sometimes get paralyzed by the thought of all the things I want to share and then this turns into avoidance, which turns into self-criticism, which turns into my own little pity party, then a pep rally and then some force takes over me and I finally sit down to write. There's been a force. But before I delve into that, I'll catch you up on the status of my health. For if not for that, there'd be no Boob Blog!

On January 29th, yes nearly two months ago (trust me, there was a lot of self-criticism!), I had my last Paclitaxel IV treatment.

It was a great day, what I remember of it anyway, because quite frankly, I'D HAD IT. My veins were no longer cooperating, I'd blown one a couple weeks prior (I still have no sensation in the injection site), and I was tired of being constipated, bleary eyed and nauseas. Plus I knew, I JUST KNEW, the following week's scan was going to be good, at the very least status quo. For those tuning into the Boob Blog for the first time, the two prior scans showed the metastatic breast cancer tumors in my lungs were shrinking so I was hopeful. 

On Monday, Feb 3, just one day after Punxsutawney Phil warned us there'd be another 2000 feet of snow, AND, I'd won my first ever Super Bowl pool (Cha-ching, $250 big ones!), I'd dragged my sorry butt outta bed at 6:30AM, imbibed two bottles of banana chalk flavored barium sulfate (aka Fartbag Cocktail) and got a CT scan of my lungs and abdominal area. One day later the results came in and sure enough they were good. The tumors did not shrink, but they didn't get larger (with the exception of one that possibly could've been misinterpreted on the scan). The tumors didn't decrease in number, but there were no additional tumors. Everything was status quo. BAM!!

The following Monday, February 10th, my loving beau escorted me to Dr. Brunckhorst for the first of three painless injections of Lupron in my butt.  Although it appears by my symptoms that the past year of chemo has put me into menopause, to be certain, since my cancer is estrogen receptor positive, this drug is administered to shut down the production of estrogen in my ovaries. In addition to these shenanigans I began taking an aromatase inhibitor (AI) called letrozole, brand name, Femara. In addition to the ovaries, estrogen is produced in the adrenal glands. The letrozole inhibits the enzyme in the adrenals (aromatase) from producing more estrogen (or, the sex hormone androgen).  Less sex hormones = menopause. The most common side effects of these drugs are hot flashes (check), hair loss (too late!), (excruciating) pain of the joints, muscles and bones (check, check, check!), tiredness, excessive sweating, nausea, dizziness, and trouble sleeping. Waiter, CHECK PLEASE!

After two weeks of being on the letrozole, I could barely get out of bed and stand straight. Of course I did but the joint pain (arthralgia) was so awful and the last thing I wanted was to get hooked on pain killers. For the record, my limited research shows that the lives of others in my boat was compromised such that several became non-compliant and just stopped taking the drug way before the recommended five year period. I don't want to do that because my only other alternative is to go back on chemotherapy. My doc gave me permission to go off of them for a few weeks to see if the pain subsided. It has only somewhat leading me to believe that the pain was a side effect of both the pills and the injections. I go for my third and last injection next week so I'm hoping once the lupron leaves my system I will only have to deal with the pain from the pills, which I have not yet resumed taking. There are two alternative AI's however anastozole (brand name Arimidex) doesn't target the estrogen as much as letrozole and the the other, extemestane (brand name Aromasin), is a steroidal drug that can create resistance to the anti-estrogenic effect. Now, it is possible, that when I start taking the letrozole again it won't bother me as much as it initially did; the doc said this can happen. The proof'll be in the puddin. 

Another negative side effect of all of these drugs is bone loss so I must be monitored for that. I'm guessing in another month I'll have another CT scan to check on the status of the tumors and probably I'll have a bone scan. (I don't  know how else bone loss is monitored. There's a whole other education that awaits.) In the meantime I'm taking calcium, magnesium, fish oil, vitamin D, hot baths in sea salts and the occasional ibuprofen. I've been going once a week for acupuncture with Dr. Yamaguchi who I really like and respect, but I've no idea if it's helping (perhaps I'd feel worse if I didn't go to him?).  At a $110 a visit I go in thinking that I'm being healed and if anything I take a quality nap. There is research that shows acupuncture helps so I'm not pulling this out of thin air. As for weight bearing exercising to help strengthen my bones, I can barely lift a three pound weight without my wrists and fingers screaming for relief. 

Ahhhh, good times. 

Ok, for some good news... My breathing had gotten really bad for a while despite my lungs sounding clear as a bell. It wasn't until a couple of days ago that I realized I haven't been getting short of breath like I used to.  I attribute this to the chemo leaving my system. A few months ago I met a woman who told me that six weeks from her last chemo treatment her hair starting growing in. Sure enough, at six weeks, the patches of hair that would not grow at the rate the rest of my hair would, started filling in. I actually have my hairline back and I've been busting out the mascara for my lashes!  It seems like six weeks is the "magic number". If you know others going through chemo, I would share this six week marker with them just as I would the three week marker of one's hair falling out. When you have cancer you constantly want to know next steps and what to expect; it gives you some sense of control. This little bit of info might help. 

There's been a lot in the news lately, and by news I really mean by way of social media, about body image. Finally people are grasping that the images seen on the covers of the glossies are unobtainable simply because they are not real. Even the "prettiest" (in quotes because it's a subjective term) models' photos are Photoshopped because really, are you going to reach for the magazine that shows you how to encourage cellulite, split ends and skin damage rather than eradicate it? There are funds being raised for the production of an average size Barbie-like doll called Lammily. There are ad campaigns (e.g. Dove) featuring "real" women. And lest I forget to mention Lena Dunham and all she's done for re-shaping women's body images? (I love Lena's work, her perseverance, her attitude, her gumption and even her new haircut. I just dislike her stylist assuming she even has one.) I was always told looks only matter so much but in spite of my mother always telling me I'm beautiful and Gloria Steinem paving the way for women, I always found myself comparing myself to others on some superficial level. Someone was skinnier, prettier, and had nicer clothes and if I had what "she had" I'd be happy. Or so I thought. The truth is, even in a  society that rewards better looking people with higher salaries, more attention, etc, if  you have and show your confidence, that's what puts you ahead of the rest.  But it took years, and I mean YEARS for me to get it emotionally vs intellectually. In my dirty 30's it started to "click." Then it really clicked in my naughty 40's probably because at 40 I was diagnosed with cancer and my breasts were regularly poked, prodded, smashed and a topic of discussion. I couldn't hide behind my examination gown. I was OUT THERE. Where am I going with all of this? 

I turned 47 this year. It wasn't too tough a number for me --I find the 9's to be the worst...29, 39...I am a happy woman in her mid-40s. For a dig, my boyfriend would say, Liz, it's your late 40s. OK. I'm in my mid to late 40s. One expects things to change with her body at this age especially if she doesn't work out too regularly and follow a regimented diet and takes drugs that wreak havoc on just about everything. I can deal with some change. But I swear, and I think I've said this in other posts, I feel like I've stepped into the skin of another human. I recently on Facebook morned the closing of Loehmann's. Loehmann's has a special place in my heart, not just because it had great discount shopping, but because back in the day when the discounts were far greater for quality designer clothes, I'm talking Halston, Calvin Klein, YSL and the like, I was shopping with my mom at the store in Hewlett, L.I.  At about ten years old she'd point out the great designers, how to recognize good quality from bad and how having a good seamstress is essential to your clothes fitting best. We'd take piles of garments into the fitting room and sometimes she'd send me out with an article of clothing to find a match. Elizabeth, go find me a few pairs sof navy blue pants in a size 6 that will match this top. It was great fun to go on these missions (today a mom would fear her kid being abducted) and see the look of satisfaction on my mom's face if I came back with "a winner."  The Loehmann's open fitting room culture was eye opening to me.  Not only was there a variety in women's tastes in clothes, there were myriad body shapes and sizes, too. Tall, short, wide, pear shaped, apple-shaped,  there was bra-fat, pre-Spanks big underwear, girdles, cellulite, varicose veins and so on, non of which applied to my mom who always maintained a great figure and literally looked amazing in everything she wore. Now? Now I am one of those women I used to stare at in the Loehmann's fitting room with bewilderment. 

There's only one breast cancer "chat site" I look at somewhat regularly. It's called Team Inspire and I look at it only to search to see if women are experiencing similar side effects as me; the rest quite frankly is depressing. One day a woman posed the question, Am I Vain? She wrote, "I am having a bit of a struggle with the changes to my appearance from chemo. I know that my biggest concern should be the cancer itself, but I no longer recognize myself in the mirror, and it is getting to me.There were hundreds of (supportive) responses to this and it seemed everyone felt the same discouragement with their physical changes and was eager to share their beauty secrets (e.g. how to re-create eye brows). I tried my hardest to convince the group it's ok to forego a wig and wear a great pair of earrings and red lipstick, but I don't know how well this translates in Petticoat Junction, USA. What I really struggle with the most is growing (read: busting) out of almost everything in my closet. I grab one of my favorite tops and when I hold it up it looks like it would fit an infant. Did I once fit in this? Did someone accidentally boil this in hot water and dry it on high heat for an hour?  I get annoyed with myself for getting fatter and mushier (vs. voluptuous and Rubenesque) and when someone says my face looks full thinking that's a good thing to say to a cancer patient, I. Want. To. Wring. Her. Neck. And then something happens. I FINALLY find a top I'm comfortable in, I slap on some makeup and jewelry and I go outside and realize, today's going to be a good day. No one really gives a shit if I am heavier, those who care are just happy I'm doing well. And then I am happy I am doing well. 

A few weeks ago I really did get down about what I'm sharing. Sandy and I were going out for dinner and I simply could not get dressed. Everything I put on was a disaster (in my eyes), tight and ill-fitting and I was embarrassed to walk out the door. I'd reverted to being a teenager. I didn't cancel our dinner plans because that would be wrong to the others (and make me a loser), but I really wanted to. I wanted to roll up in a ball on my couch and feel sorry for myself. The next morning at about 4:00AM I couldn't sleep. I was looking for something on the internet and I came across I knew nothing about her but apparently her inspirational yoga classes and retreats sell out regularly and she was coming to NYC. Having only taken about three yoga classes in my life, I decided to sign up for this one because the requirements were to show up with a pad and pencil and a sense of humor. My friend Dana indulged me and she signed up, too. We went to Pure Yoga on Friday night at 7:00PM, both of  us tired and achy (Dana has a bad hip), teetering on canceling and tossing $30 out the window. But we went. And were we happy. 

There were about 25 women 90% of which, including Jennifer, were wearing tight LuLu Lemon outfits and looked like they do yoga and take spin five times a week. I was in a 25 year old MS Walk T-shirt, a tired sports bra and worn out sweatpants trying to mask my new improved muffin top. I positioned myself next to a wall because I knew I'd have to hold on to it in order to even attempt half of the exercises. When asked to kick our leg high in the air, mine was about six inches off the ground. When asked to do a plank for 30 seconds, I lasted about ten. Half the time I was in child's pose, my favorite position since all you have to do is lie there and stretch.  One of the writing exercises was to write down on a Post-It what we were manifesting that evening, then stick the Post-It anywhere in the room. A few minutes later you had to take a Post-It other than your own and for the rest of the night, you had to hold that Post-It close to your heart and manifest for some stranger in the room, what she wanted (secret: I purposely took Dana's). The idea was to share of yourself and take for your self. Give and receive. It's so simplistic and I have to say it really works. We did some Karaoke yoga (Phil Collin's In The Air Tonight), which literally brought me to tears as we were belting out the chorus and at the end of the evening we did some major sharing. We had to write down what we would do if fear didn't hold us back. No one expected that our thoughts would be read aloud. One of my shares was that I'd be doing what Jennifer does--going on tour (don't ask me where) inspiring people to stay positive despite given a diagnosis of stage four cancer. (My new slogan: You have breast cancer. There is no death in that sentence). In Jennifer's case, she recovered from years of battling anorexia and striving for perfectionism. Jen's slogan? It's OK to fall as long as you laugh. It was a Friday night in New York City and two dozen of the most beautiful, powerful women were in the same room sharing their fears. Some cried, some hugged, some laughed. It was a very touching experience and Dana and I both left exhilarated. No matter what our size, hairstyle, athletic ability, we were all rock stars. 

And for the next week I couldn't stop thinking of this class and what it means to hold your head high, give in order to receive, and constantly reach for the stars. I was in so much pain from the exercises that I had to tell Sandy, Stop making jokes. It hurts too much to laugh.

And that, my friends, was the force that finally got me to write today. 

Love and hot dogs (Hey, why not?!),


With Kelly Turner at her book launch / signing  of 
RADICAL REMISSION: Surviving Cancer Against All Odds

It just made the NY Times April 6th Best Seller List!

Monday, January 13, 2014

Pass The Chemo to The Left Hand Side...

Hello New York,

I've been surprised at the number of people I've spoken to who are unaware of the progress NY State has made in getting marijuana legalized for medical reasons. I for one am not the most learned, I'm pretty ignorant about most world news and I'm the last person with whom you'll want to discuss politics because I abhor them. But this to me is a topic of great interest to me.  Read: Cuomo and Marijuana in NYS .

I did bring up the topic with my rather conservative oncology nurse today and I was only slightly surprised by her reaction: "I don't know what's going on with our world. It's all turning to pot!" (Hrmpf.)  Before I could snicker she realized what she'd said and turned to me with wide eyes and said, "Literally!" and stomped away.  I dunno. Alcohol can kill you and it's legal. Cigarettes can kill you and they're legal. Chances are marijuana on its own will not kill you and might even help you!! One week I was so sick from my (first) chemo that I thought I'd never feel human again. I wanted to shut out the world for what I thought would be the rest of my life. Each minute that passed seemed like an eternity and no amount of anti-nausea medication, ginger tea, or crackers was going to help me. I hadn't thought about it at the time, but just maybe, if Mary Jane had made a house call, perhaps I could've have gotten that week of my life back. The nurse today said the patients she knew who "used"pot while undergoing chemo, reported that they got sick from it, only adding fuel to her argument. I asked her, Had they every smoked before? How old were they? Is it possible they just smoked too much? Did they eat it? Did they get it from a reliable source? She had no answers. I can attest that in a serious time of need, not quite the level of nausea I mentioned above, but definitely feeling extremely queasy, a little bit of "medical" chocolate or cookie is what the proverbial doctor ordered. I was mellow, the queasiness ceased and the last thing on my mind was cancer. That, dear reader, is what I call relief.

I say east, say west, say north and south (on the left hand side) 
This is gonna make us jump and shout (on the left hand side)
                                        --Musical  Youth



The Boob Blogger

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Happy New Year From The Boob Blogger!

Hello everyone,

Reporting from my couch in cozy sweats under an equally cozy pink fuzzy blanket because with the wind chill factor, it feels like it's 400 #@$$%^ degrees below zero outside! Have I told you I never, never, never exaggerate? OK, it's super freezing out but I got to and from work in a taxi and my office is as hot as hades, I came home to a hot meal (read: I warmed up left overs in a toaster oven), and I don't plan on doing much more than reading and watching TV tonight. So who am I to complain? 

2014 began on a really positive note, literally and figuratively. My amazing beau got us floor seats to the Billy Joel concert at the Barclays Center. For those of you who haven't been, the walk from the subway is less than a minute so it's very convenient. I didn't form any real opinion about the aesthetics; let's just say it's a bit cold. We enjoyed a very good buffet at the 40/40 Club where we waited 40 hours and 40 minutes for our complimentary drink. So our waitress brought us three. (Several of the waitstaff and bartenders thought it was a great idea to call out on the busiest night of the year.) The couple next to us were dear friends of Mr. Joel's sax player so they had a few good stories to share. Most important though, the venue was awesome, Billy still puts on an amazing show (he might consider retiring his rock n' roll microphone bit before he dislocates a hip) and Sandy and I spent our third New Year's Eve together. 

There's a new member in the Boob Blogger's household. Hold on, hold on, don't get too excited. It's a rabbit. Like I SAID, don't get too excited, it's not THAT rabbit. It's a Rabbit AIR PURIFIER. It's supposedly the best one for my needs, which are, detox my dusty-no-matter-how-much-you-clean-it-NYC-apartment. I went to an allergist hoping to get some clues as to why I was choking to death--my oncologist would just kill me if he heard me use such language--and all I learned was that I'm allergic to dust and dust mites. Like, who isn't? So I invested in this thing for my lungs and I like to believe it's helping me. For the record, I still choke when I cough but my cough subsided substantially, pre-Rabbit, whilst sea bathing in Turks and Caicos. My friend Whitney said that was very late 18th century of me.
You can purchase different artwork for your Rabbit and hang it, too.
I selected the Japanese inspired cherry blossoms.

My chemo continues and I have only three more sessions before my next scan. I've been experiencing nausea the last few times so I've been hitting the Odansetron and just trying to eat whatever my body craves. My taste for food is what I imagine it would be if I were pregnant. One minute I want herring, another minute salad, and another, my new fave, a toasted bialy with olive oil and rosemary (thank you, Lory D.!). Sometimes the thought of food is repulsive and all I want is cold seltzer and other times I'm ravenous. My doctor doesn't really know how to address this. He just sees me putting on pounds and thinks it's kind of funny when I complain about it (thank you, menopause). The truth is, he's just happy I'm otherwise tolerating the treatment ok and I'm not a vomiting bag of bones. 

The nausea with this chemo is rather strange. Until I wake up the next day after treatment, it's as if I drank a bottle of acetone. I don't really know what acetone tastes like, but I don't know what a liquified roll of aluminum foil tastes like either and I had to choose something strong and metallic. (Side note: Did you know Billy Joel once tried to kill himself by drinking furniture polish?). And if you can picture a clear soda bottle, say, an old fashioned bottle of Coke, and you fill it to the near top with water knowing that one more drop will make it overflow, that's what the chemo feels like inside me. It's as if I'm filled almost to the brim with clear toxic liquid and if I take one more sip, it'll start pouring out of my throat. Not too good on the psyche. I get very heady, my eyes blur a little, I'm queazy, a bit depressed and slightly agitated. Once home (I go to work from treatment), I look forward to the clock striking 11:00PM because it's a good time to retire without waking up too early in the middle of the night. I tell myself there's only X number of sessions left, but the reality is, I can stay on this for several months more if it's still, thankfully, helping the tumors shrink. 

You may notice from pictures that I'm sporting a bit of a 5 o' clock shadow on my head. This chemo is weird inasmuch as even in the midst of treatment, what hair you lost can come back. Just not all of it. My eye lashes started to come back--Sandy says they look like insect legs--and so did part of my eye brows. The hair on my head grows in dark, some grays, too, but there are patches that are much thinner than others. You get my drift. It's been suggested I go for a comb-over a la American Hustle (of all the characters in that movie to emulate...).

I'd like to end this blog with a lovely meditation that my cousin Jennifer shared with me for the New Year:

May I be at peace
May my heart remain open
May I realize the beauty of my own true nature
May I be healed
May I be a source of healing in this world

May you be at peace
May your heart remain open
May you realize the beauty of your own true nature
May you be healed
May you be a source of healing for this world

May you be happy as I wish to be happy
May you know peace as I wish to know peace
May you be safe from inner and outer harm as I wish to be safe
May you be free from suffering as I wish to be free

From my couch to yours, I wish every one of you a peaceful, healing, safe and happy 2014. 

Thanks for tuning in. 

With an abundance of love,

Liz B.
New York City's Boob Blogger