When you're a healthy, attractive, sardonic, drama-queen fashionista, how would you react to being diagnosed with stage II, high-grade, infiltrating breast cancer at the age of 32? I chose to see the benefits from the beginning. I like kicking ass; I'm a fighter. And usually, I win. I knew from the get-go, nearly four months ago, that the Big C had nothing on me.

The Upsides of Cancer

1. Presents, Presents, Presents
The day I was diagnosed, fueled by three Xanax and a healthy helping of denial, I proclaimed to my best friend, Dana, and my mom, Nancy, that I'd be registering at Neiman's. Turns out, there was no need. The gifts piled up from the beginning. The haul? Jay Strongwater frame. Marc Jacobs clutch. Cashmere robe. PJs. Blankets. Tory Burch cosmetics case. Books. Gift certificates. Countless orchids, flowers and food. Beauty products. And so many other fabulous things too numerous to name. Wow, this seemed to make up for what I missed out on by not having a bat mitzvah.

2. Love
I am one of those people blessed from birth with an absolutely incredible, fun, generous, loving and supportive network of family, friends and family friends. Obviously, being 'sick' makes such already demonstrative people show the love even more. The phone calls and cards are staggering. I've saved as many messages as I can and every single one of the cards.

3. Legal Drugs
If I were to sell my controlled substances on the street, I'd be independently wealthy. My nurses assure me of this fact. Dilodin. Morphine. Percocet. Vicodin. Xanax. Ativan. Klonopin. Dexamethasone. I can pretty much ask one of my myriad doctors for any drug, at any time. My shrink even offered to prescribe me Marinol (THC pills), but cautioned that I'd need to take the whole bottle to feel high. I'd be better off baking he said. And butter is always better than oil, he added. Which brings me to . . .

4. Pot
I've always liked to smoke pot. I'm your typical-in these respects-overindulged, underworked, overeducated Jewish girl. Pot is as common amongst our set as diamonds. After the pre-eminent breast cancer doctor in the world, the brilliant Dr. Larry Norton-Deputy Physician-in-Chief for Breast Cancer Programs and Medical Director, Memorial Sloan-Kettering-told me to lay off smoking pot, I did. I began baking it instead. I'd never cooked a day in my life, seriously. I didn't even own a pot, a pan, a spatula, steak knives etc. despite my top-of-the-line Gaggenau appliances. In typical, city-bred, single-girl fashion, my meals revolved around Whole Foods or restaurants. Now, I'm a baking machine. I'm happy to share my THC-based recipes; they're a big hit among friends, family and family friends.

6. Chauffeurs
After living on the Upper East Side for six years and relying on my feet or taxis for transport, upon my move to Miami, I immediately hated being in the driver's seat again. I'd actually have panic attacks on I-95. Me, behind a wheel again after 8 years? Recipe for disaster. I live in South Beach, which requires a bridge to get to mainland Miami. I try to avoid the mainland, but am often compelled to leave the beach to visit friends or to go to my favorite shopping center(s). I dread driving like most people fear the dentist. Too much responsibility. And you think L.A. drivers are mad? Come down here one weekday. Now, I'm virtually always picked up and toted around, especially on chemo weeks. I now walk everywhere on the beach and every day lament the fact that I had to have a Mercedes, which now sits completely useless in my valet-only garage.

7. Hair Loss
Yeah, you heard me. Don't get me wrong, I had fabulous hair. Long, shiny, thick, naturally highlighted, the works. Though it was naturally curly, I'd been Japanese-straightening it for five years, making it wash-and-wear. Despite years of straightening, my locks were still thick and shiny. When I went to consult with Dr. Norton, I asked, "Who is the best wig-maker in the country?" Ralf Mollica he said, without hesitation. Done and done. After an hour-long convo with Ralf after I'd returned to Miami, a lock of my hair along with countless photos of me were on their way to his studio on the Upper East Side. I knew I wanted the head shaved before the loss started; couldn't stomach the thought of seeing my treasured hair coming out in clumps. Five days in New York with the fam and $4,300 later, I emerged from Ralf's magical emporium with a head of even more fabulous hair than my own. Chestnut brown, perfectly straight, coiffed with bangs and sans-frizz, even in the dreadful South Florida humidity. The wig is perfect. It requires washing only once a week, at most-during the day I sport the shaved head-and air dries. Upon seeing my wig for the first time, my girls stated something along the lines of "Oh my God! It's nicer than your real hair! You need to keep the bangs after it grows back in!"
And, after my second or third chemo treatment, imagine my delight upon finding no armpit hair (a definite Godsend, seeing as how the left armpit is sensation-less after the removal of the lymph nodes and therefore impossible to shave anyway), very little leg hair and no hair down there. Yup. An all-natural wax-free Brazilian for the next few months. My shower time has been stripped down to an easy three minutes. Of course, by June, after my last chemo session, my thick, Ashkenazi Jewish hair will no doubt sprout back and I'll once again be a 15-minute shower gal.

8. Justifiable Laziness
I work from home anyway as a freelance writer. But now I get to skip the PR meetings, the lunches, the events and all the other BS that comes along with any career. And editors? Much more sympathetic about deadline enforcement. 'I'm feeling a little beat today, how's tomorrow?'
"No problem, Stephanie! Hang in there!!!!!!!!"
Most people seem to think you're a hero just for getting out of bed. Well, okay, what they don't know...So, instead of feeling compelled to go out 5 nights a week in typical single-girl fashion, I now appreciate laying low, easy dinners and one or two nights out a week that don't involve drinking. Don't get me wrong; I'd love a stiff one. But with all the toxins in my system, it just isn't that enjoyable. And now I'm totally guilt-free about my lowbrow TV-American Idol, The Biggest Loser, Bravo, bring it on. Reality TV still makes me feel good about my life, even with cancer. (Though, thank God the writers' strike is finally over. My brain was eroding rapidly.) Also, gone are my gym-rat days. I now feel compelled to hit the gym maybe three or four times a week as opposed to five or six. Sure, I'm a little softer, but trying not to sweat it.

9. "Excuse Me? I have Cancer."
An across-the-board satiating response to many situations. Someone in your family asks you to do some menial labor. 'Excuse me? I have Cancer!' Luckily my fam has a fantastic sense of humor.
Restaurants are also particularly sensitive. Just after my double mastectomy-yeah, didn't realize how tough I was yet, did you?-with four, hideous alien drains still concealed under baggy, newly purchased shirts, I went to one of my favorite restaurants. We didn't have reservations. I knew it wouldn't be a problem. The hostess said an hour. I scoffed and asked for the manager. I politely explained, 'Sir, I've just had a double mastectomy and it's very painful to sit or stand for extended periods of time.'
We were seated immediately.
It's also a handy conversation tactic. When someone is annoying you with petty complaints or trying to vent their mundane baggage on you, if it's a person other than a good friend or family member, it gets trying. You know, when you have cancer.
"You know what I mean? I mean, he didn't call, I couldn't get into the salon that day, I broke a nail and I missed my yoga class."
'Excuse me? I have cancer.'

10. New Boobs
The tatas of a teenager! No more bras! Strapless dresses! Oscar de la Renta, Carolina Herrera, Versace and Dolce, oh my! My boobs, were fine-34C, good cleavage, filled out clothes well. But they were saggy. I always had to wear an underwire bra. Forget about strapless. Closed off a whole world of wardrobe possibilities for this fashionista. Now, I get to choose my own tits-nipple/aureola size, shape and color, cup size, perkiness, the whole nine. I often carry Playboy to the plastic surgeon with me. The weekend before my mastectomy, I had a Bye-Bye Boobie Bash, where all guests were encouraged to feel my real breasts for the last time.

11. Loss of Inhibitions
I've always been demure about my own nudity and sexuality. Probably, in part, because I never liked my breasts. Apparently, my partners liked them enough, but I found them cumbersome. Now, I strut around topless, post photos of my temporary, tissue expander-filled 'breasts' on my blog and go to the pool exposing scars. I also encourage people I encounter-friends, mostly, I'm not that nuts-to touch 'em. Actually, I make people knock on them. Currently, my temporaries are as hard as tennis balls. Watching people actually tap on my tennis balls makes me giggle. Because my boobs are not 'mine' anymore, they're kind of fair game. I've been felt up more in the past few months than in my lifetime. Now, I haven't grown the balls to rip open my shirt and expose my mutilated chest to rowdy, cat-calling construction workers yet, but I'm sure I'll get there.

12. Knowing The Worst Is Here and Will Soon Be Gone
All my life, I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. I've led a privileged, great, cushioned life; I've never wanted for anything. On the other hand, I've been clinically depressed since the age of 17, so it hasn't been 100 percent smooth sailing. I've hit rock bottom mentally more than once and suicidal ideations have continuously dotted the pathways of my brain. Meaning, I've been low. I've been without hope. I've wished for death, in order to end the pain in my brain. Suddenly, death was here, literally. And for the first time in my life, I didn't want to take that road. When the other shoe finally dropped on Dec. 4, 2007, I knew 'the worst' had arrived.
My immediate thought was, 'Shit, this doesn't seem so bad.' Physical pain, to me, would be a hell of a lot easier than mental anguish. And 12 years of therapy had pretty much prepared me for just about anything. I already had the 'coping mechanisms' that most people must learn from scratch at the onset of trouble. I know it sounds absolutely certifiable, to be so cavalier about such a serious diagnosis, but if it had been my best friend or my mom, that would have been unbearable. Me? I knew I'd be fine. There are so many other things that are worse and incurable. My worst is palatable. I caught it early. It's a simple case. I've got the resources to fight. I've got the best doctors. Good insurance. An unparalleled support network. A mighty fine sense of humor. Purpose. I feel good. I look good. I've stumbled upon the "Eureka" moment that most writers wait their whole lives for. I'm lucky, truly.

Stephanie Green is a freelance writer who was diagnosed with breast cancer Dec. 4, 2007. She is a carrier of the BRCA 1 genetic mutation that one in 300 Ashkenazi Jewish women have. After finding a small lump in her breast and electing to have a lumpectomy, the pathology came back not so good. Since then, she has had a double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction and a sentinel lymph node removal. She's completed four of eight chemotherapy sessions. She hasn't thrown up once. Stephanie is working on a funny-yet-serious documentary about her life since diagnosis. With two more surgeries to go post-chemo, she is looking forward to shimmying into her new Oscar de la Renta frock.

You can read all about her misadventures on her blog
http://dishalicious.blogspot.com/