30 Search Results for: ovarian rhapsody

Ovarian Rhapsody: A Little Self-Renovation

Around the same time I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, we were scheduled to renovate our apartment. My husband, an architect, had started to sketch out the designs. We’d enlisted his favorite contractor, Slavek. Our plans were to update the kitchen and the bathroom and to turn an unused half bathroom — really, our cat’s bathroom that featured an easily accessible hole in the door, left from the former owner — into a full bath with a shower. Our kitchen was Brady Bunch-era wood-and-probably-formaldehyde paneled situation: The refrigerator sat in the living room and we had a non-working washer/dryer combo machine called a Comb-o-Matic, circa 1975. Floor tiles were loose and scattered around the bathroom floor. We’d been saving up cash and waiting to do this project for a good seven years. It was time. So after processing the news of my upcoming ordeal, one of the first things I said to my husband was, “But we still have to renovate, right? We can’t stop the progress!” “Um, no,” he said. “That’s not happening now.” …

Ovarian Rhapsody: A Thank You Note

Back in January, just before I’d started chemotherapy, I’d been talking to my friend Adrianna about cold caps, the beanie of ice that sits atop your head and (hopefully) prevents your hair from falling out during treatment. Expensive and painful, I wasn’t too sure it was for me, but this was the stage when I was researching, frantically Googling and considering anything and everything. I had no idea what I was in for. Via email, Adrianna introduced me to her friend Casey, who had worn the cap and preserved most of her hair during a second bout with cancer. Only five minutes after I’d emailed Casey, I had a response. “Margit. I wanna come over asap. When works?” And two days later, there she was, sitting on my couch, counseling me — a beautiful, earthy soul with colorful bracelets and talismans about her neck and wrists, moving gingerly, still recovering from recent treatment. Her hair was thin, but there it was. She handed me a pretty cloth bag filled with sugar-free gum, savory Kind bars, …

tuenight ms independence ovarian rhapsody united states of women

Ovarian Rhapsody: Pop a Wheelie and Ask for Help

I was sweating and cursing under my breath as I wheeled my suitcase through 30th Street Station in Philadelphia. Maybe it was early in my post-chemo life to be taking a trip to D.C. I might be jumping out of my pants to be my old go-get-‘em self again, but my body is definitely not so sure. You ain’t ready yet sister, it alternately whispers and shouts to me. Patience, butterfly. Just a month out from the end of cancer treatment, I’m still weathering various side effects — leg clot, infected toe, a fuzzy brain and big-time fatigue. But when a friend invites you to the first United State of Women Summit, a gathering that is essentially FLOTUS’s power-packed swan song, meant to shine the spotlight on the challenges and opportunities women and girls face around the world — violence, education, healthcare, workforce issues, family care, entrepreneurship — you go. Amirite? So I decided to do it. I just needed help getting there and getting around. Help? Help? HALP! Asking for help is hard. But …

tuenight foodie margit detweiler ovarian rhapsody

Ovarian Rhapsody: Wait, What? We’re All Done Here?

My chemotherapy is always on a Monday. This particular Monday is May 2. No balloons. No fanfare. Just me and my husband and the final infusion needle affixed into my vein. Yes, it’s my very last chemotherapy appointment. There it is! We’re at the finish line! Whee! Whee? I should be excited, but, frankly, I’m just tired. It has been 18 weeks since we started this mess, and now it’s come to a halt. It’s hard to know how to feel. Like 18 Mondays before, my journey to the hospital began at 7:45 a.m. A brisk 55-degree chill in the air; my blue-and-white-striped tote pre-packed with mints, hand sanitizer, tissues, Zofran anti-nausea medicine, my water bottle and the same granola bar I’ve had in there for the last three chemo sessions. I don’t even have to think about what’s in there. I usually wear black yoga pants, a t-shirt and a comfy sweater of some sort, but this time I figured I’d dress it up a little and wear this purple tunic dress thing I …

tuenight sleep ovarian rhapsody margit detweiler

Ovarian Rhapsody: It’s a Bird. It’s a Plane. It’s… Cancer Lady?

I am a superhero. Stronger than a shot of Lovenox into my body — twice a day! Powerful enough to withstand my first surgery ever! (Wait, make that two surgeries in two months.) Able to shave my entire head and utter, “Pssh that tweren’t so bad.” You see, even though cancer, chemo and the ensuing side effects are hellish, there is a bright side: Sometimes, I actually feel like a badass. I strut into Duane Reade, bald head shiny and a-blazing, all sweatpants and felt slip-ons, ready to pick up my meds. I look people right in the eyeball. Yup, that’s me — Cancer Lady. Cape on. Power up the invisible jet. Since my ovarian cancer diagnosis last November, and especially since undergoing chemotherapy, there are things I’ve dealt with things that I never thought I’d be able to withstand. Before, I could barely even give my cat Alice a shot in her little fleshy parts, let alone my own. Now? Hell, I’m a pro. My super powers don’t end there. My sense of smell …

tuenight clutter margit detweiler ovarian rhapsody

Ovarian Rhapsody: The Routine of My Dreams

Sunday morning. Tea. CNN muttering in the background. My husband has made eggs with pesto. I’m going through old mail and sorting it into “recycle it” or “shred it.” The cat is snoring on the couch. It’s a lovely boring day. Finally I have energy. My brain feels clear and crisp; I can do mundane physical tasks, even multitask. Ah, doing too many things at once. I feel like I’m back to my old semi-healthy self — yippee! The reason for my vim and vigor is in part due to a new chemotherapy routine. What was once every week is now every three. My doc decided to switch things up because I wasn’t tolerating the chemo well and the side effects were mounting. More importantly, she was acting on a report in the New England Journal of Medicine — released only two weeks prior —that had determined that my every week “dose dense” treatment wasn’t as effective for ovarian cancer patients as getting it every three weeks. Say what? This is how fast cancer research …

tuenight censored margit detweiler ovarian rhapsody

Ovarian Rhapsody: Side Effects, Unfiltered

I’m lying flat on the bed with just yoga pants on. My legs are propped up on a stack of pillows. I can’t muster enough energy to finish getting dressed this morning, so here I am, half nude. My mind wanders to that hilarious Bill Murray SNL skit about an out-of-shape Hercules and his bad back. “If I lie flat like this it will fix itself!” If only. My entire left side feels swollen and pricked with pins and needles — it’s probably neuropathy, a chemo side effect. Yet…  I can’t be sure if this is actual neuropathy or the fact that I have a recently developed a blood clot in my leg. Or that I now have a new toe infection because of the clot, because of the chemo, or because of surgery. Who knows. The icing on the cake? I have a cold so I’m coughing and hacking and sneezing out chunks of blood. The blood thinners I’m on, to combat the clot, make bleeding from any orifice a likely predicament. Today is one of …

A head shave, cancer, chemo

Ovarian Rhapsody: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Upon hearing you have cancer, the thing people will ask you about, more than anything else, more than your diagnosis, more than the treatment, more than surgery: “But will you lose your hair??” And that’s only the executive summary of queries. Will you wear a wig? Are you doing a synthetic or human hair wig? Will you shave it off? Will it fall out? Won’t it be easier not to shampoo your hair? Does it fall out down there? (Yes, if you must know. Easiest Brazilian ever.) One friend suggested a cold cap? “You can keep your hair that way!” she said. Cold cap? Huh? Like many things related to cancer which I’d never thought about before in my life, this sent me down the Google rabbit hole on a process which is about $600 a month where, during chemotherapy, you wear an iced cap on your head which has to be changed at least every hour and kept in the infusion center’s refrigerator. It’s painful, it’s expensive. No thanks. I already had enough of that. …

tuenight stream margit detweiler ovarian rhapsody

Ovarian Rhapsody: Choosing Your Cancer Hero

“This chair pattern is driving me nuts,” says my husband. We are sitting in NYU’s waiting room, about to meet the first oncologist on my list. “And isn’t it funny how they have to put those dots across the glass so people don’t run into the pane?” My husband, the architect, is always analyzing how a room could be better or why certain design choices are made. I’m looking around too, making different kinds of notes. A hushed room, friendly staff Bundled up cancer patients — some with caps, some with wigs — reading “courtesy of NYU” People magazine A bit depressing, but of course it is Red couches accented by intertwining geometric shapes made to look cheery but not too fun You never know, some of this random detail might help me select my doctor and my choice of cancer care. No, really. After scores of friend-of-a-friend suggestions, scouring RateMds ratings, New York magazine best doctor lists and insurance coverage checks, I narrowed my list of possible oncologists down to two: one at NYU Langone …

Margit’s Note: Choose Your Own Adventure

I turn 50 in June. I’m supposed to be lying to you about that, but nah. How old am I? I’m this many. Five Zero. I’ve earned my stripes. How does one celebrate half a century? I’ve been to a few fabulous 50 birthdays recently (remember, when you turn 50, many of your friends do too) — karaoke in a dive bar; 100 people sweating it out in a studio apartment, witnessing a friend (via Facebook) leap into the sky. My husband reminds me that I partied a little too hard and puked at my 40th. I’d rather not do that this year. For this milestone, I think I’d prefer a few mini trips with close friends. I’m not the sort to heave myself out of an airplane or do a soul-seeking trek to Tibet — I’m a little major-adventure averse. I’m not even keen about driving a car, thanks to a decade-plus of living car-less-ly in NYC. But taking a long weekend to a new spot with one or two really close pals? That seems like a …

tuenight judgy margit ovarian rhapsody

Silly Things People Say to Me When I Tell Them I’ve Finished Chemo

This piece was originally published on August 2, 2016.  Yes, I’m done. Finito. I finished chemotherapy almost three months ago and have moved on to what my doctor dubs “Survivorship.” Great. I mean, no, it’s awesome. It’s incredible. Yay. Ok, I am not exactly ecstatic. “But you’re DONE, OMG, you must feel amazing!” To which I find myself essentially wanting to say firmly: “Ahem. Shut. It?” You have no idea. Done ain’t done. As I’m learning, it’s a process. That last infusion on May 2 was a bitch. It took the first three weeks just to pull myself out of the brain and pain fog, to get my appetite back, to have normal poops, to be able to walk up my two flights of stairs in less than 20 minutes. And there are a few residual goodies mostly to do with my left leg (toe, neuropathy, chronic vein issues and – brand new! – plantar fasciitis). So there are (literal) hills to climb. Yet, people still want to tell you how to feel. They mean well. They …

Margit’s Note: I Came in Like a Wrecking Ball

As I stare at a huge pile of wall shards stacked in my bathtub, part of a renovation we decided to embark on months ago (read about that here), I’m reminded of the phrase “Sometimes you’ve gotta go down to go up.” And, truly, after months of banging, scraping, hammering, replacing, affixing and waiting in the IKEA return line (THE WORST), we now have a glorious new tub that’s so much better than before. Look! We have hot AND cold. The same can be said for our bodies, our careers, our relationships, and, um, maybe our president? Sometimes you have to experience the worst to unearth something great (or, at least, appreciate what you had before and say, wait, wait I liked that other one! Can we have it back?) That’s the optimistic way of looking at it. I truly believe though, even with something terrible like, say, cancer, if you’re lucky enough to make it through, there are things you discover about your body and mind that might make you better than ever before. …

Editor’s Note: Buddy, Buddy

This week goes out to our ride-or-die chicks (and dudes). The ones we’ve been sworn to since we were 12 (Hey, Teresa!), the ones we’ve bonded with through recent circumstances and even the ones who’ve quietly, sadly slipped away. How and why we choose our besties is a mystery of time, circumstance and sometimes similar pairs of glasses. (Hey, Stacy!) But we can always count on them, no matter what — even if we haven’t spoken with them in years. We pick up the phone, and there they are, still cracking us up. (Hey, Diane. Love you, girl.) Is it still easy to make new best friends in our 40s and beyond? As our lives become more settled, we’re pickier about what we want. We may think we have less time for spontaneous connections (unless they’re through our kids, our dog or a yoga class), but we’re still craving new, close, dynamic friendships as our lives evolve. And women are particularly good at making new friends later in life. Which, come to think of it, …

tuenight judgy margit detweiler

Margit’s Note: The Summer of Side-Eye

I see you there. You and the mini casualties you’re creating on Facebook. Judging the way she parents, the guy she’s dating, the purple pants he’s wearing, the politics she espouses. You’re judging me right now aren’t you… Or wait, is that me? Am I doing the judging? Being judgy is dirty. It’s mostly wrong, casting stones and such. (Wait, did I just judge there?) But it’s as easy as a raised brow, and we all do it. Maybe it’s, unfortunately, part of being human. Is judging ever a good thing? Sure, in life we have to assign values to things, gather data so that we can carefully to select the right path to take — it helps us create intuition. “Use good judgment!” my dad has told me since the day I could open a can of beer. But judgy is more about the lack of data and personal bias. The world works the way I see it. Period. It’s a “should” on steroids. It’s not open-minded, and it doesn’t listen. AT ALL. And …

tuenight foodie margits note

Margit’s Note: Take a Bite

The word “Foodie” is super annoying, right? You imagine a person obsessed with the cultivation of cuisine — how it looks, smells, is plated, is grown, is sourced, is, of course, chronicled for social media. A foodie doesn’t eat to live; a foodie lives to eat… that avocado toast donut mash-up. (It’s a real thing.) Credit for the term is hotly debated, but most cite Gael Greene as first to coin the term in a 1980 New York Magazine article. She writes of a character who “slips into the small Art Deco dining room of Restaurant d’Olympe … to graze cheeks with her devotees, serious foodies.” Since then, the word has spawned three million Instagram accounts and a smattering of Portlandia episodes. Is there room for a much less discerning foodie? I’ve been known to entertain that day old slice of pizza or the questionable street cart egg sandwich. I was in Philly this past weekend, and whenever in my hometown, I must acquire a hoagie. A Wawa shortie to be exact. A true foodie …

Margit’s Note: Are You Up?

I am too tired to write this editor’s note for our second SLEEP issue. So I decided to delegate. You fancy folks call it “crowdsourcing.” To that end, I posed seven very important questions on Facebook: The respondents numbered 50. Forty-seven women and three dudes. I cut it off there because it’s a nice number and time’s a-ticking. You snooze, you lose. To outsource this even further, I enlisted FancyHands.com to turn my Facebook post into a spreadsheet so I could easily sort the data. Perhaps this issue should have been called LAZY… Nonetheless, the answers were fascinating-ish. Here’s what we uncovered: Favorite Sleeping Position: Thirty-three (66%) of you are side sleepers. Six (12%) of you noted “always on the left,” and four (8%) of you noted “always on the right.” You four might want to read this article because apparently you’re doing it all wrong according to this very reputable site called OMGFacts. Seven (14%) of you are back sleepers, and one of those described her prone position thusly: “Flat on my back arms …

Margit’s Note: What a Mess

Spring cleaning! One of my favorite times of year — no joke. It’s when I go all Kondo on my apartment, roll up my socks, fold them ever so nicely into drawers, parse out items designated for donations or the annual stoop sale and generally de-clutter my world. Of course this year I haven’t exactly felt up to the task, but I’ve enlisted a friend Stormy (aptly named — to tackle a whirlwind of mess) to help me out. Stormy’s been coming twice a week to help me with some basic tasks as I go through chemo (making freezable meals, running to the post office and dry cleaners etc) but on the weeks I feel better we’ve been organizing. It’s truly her strength and something that genuinely gets me focused on the future – and excited. Watching stacks of old magazines get the boot. Witnessing a pantry filled with expired cans of beans get transformed into a thing of useable beauty. “This shelf is for cans, this section for cereal and snacks, here are your towels” …

tuenight censored

Margit’s Note: Nothing to See Here

Chances are when you hear the word “Censored”, you think of the PMRC, 1985, Tipper Gore, Frank Zappa, 2 Live Crew and the beginning of parental advisory labels — if you’re a Gen-Xer. If you’re under 35 you’re probably like, huh? It’s funny to think back on how little effect the PMRC ultimately had on shutting down artistic expression; you just have to watch a tv zombie get a spike through its eye or sing along with the “explicit” version of Nicki Minaj’s “Starships” to know we’re in a brave new world. We spent the night inside Sheena Easton’s coulda-been-censored  “Sugar Walls” and never looked back. Or, did we. (I mean, I didn’t. But anyway….) Censorship may have a shiny new banner. It was reported recently that Apple has developed new technology that automatically scans and removes swear words from music — and books. Of course that’s by choice, for now. Stand-up comics at colleges are being required to “keep it clean.” And as we watch social media grow in influence, we see governments try, try …

tuenight retire ed note margit detweiler

Margit’s Note: Are We Halfway to the Rainy Day?

  I don’t plan on retiring. Or maybe I’ve just never put much thought into it. Ok, let’s be honest. I actively avoid thinking about it. My mom, a septuagenarian, still works and my Dad, just a bit older than that (though he’s told me he’s 29 for as long as I can remember) only recently retired in the last few years. He still does volunteer work at such a clip that it might as well be a full-time job. They love what they do, it isn’t exactly work, it’s a livelihood. I feel the same way about my work — writing, editing and making fabulous web sites. So why retire? I know — life has a way of interrupting the best laid plans. I’m hopeful I can do what I do until I keel over and, ideally, get paid for it. It’s a terrible course of action. It’s the classic Gen-X approach to retirement: “Gen-X is sleeping through its retirement wake-up call. Starting to turn 50, they’re acting like they’re 30.” Who, me? Don’t …

Margit’s Note: How to Get Away With Bingeing

I’ve watched everything. All of the shows. Jessica Jones, Episodes, Billions, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (genius), House of Cards (finally)… you know what, I’m not even going to list them. You know what they are, and it’s all of them. As I’ve had up days and many more down days lately (due to this stuff), I’ve spent a lot of time streaming TV, movies, podcasts and anything else that is entertaining, distracting and pleasantly sedative. I’ll admit, it got kind of strange when I started DVRing The People’s Couch on Bravo, an actually hilarious show where you watch real families, best friends, sisters, etc. watch must-see or cringe-worthy TV like Scandal, Jane the Virgin, Grease Live or #HTGAWM (and if you don’t know what that is, well, maybe it’s time to close this issue.) Seriously. I’d never heard of the People’s Couch, but it’s been on for like four years, so clearly I’m not alone in being entertained. Although my fellow TV addict and our social media manager Karen Gerwin chides me, “I feel bad enough about …

Margit’s Note: Altered States

As someone who is going through a crazy mixed-up illness, drugs have become my lifeline and a new curiosity. The last time I smoked pot in earnest (am I sure I’m not running for president ever? No? Oh, it doesn’t matter anymore? Ok, continue…) was several lifetimes ago, but with New York now making medicinal marijuana legal, my interest is piqued. Also, because a friend told me her chemo treatment was saved by smoking pot, that the opiates her docs prescribed made her ill. While legal for medicinal reasons, it’s still not easy to access — there’s only one dispensary and there are convoluted protocols and an online course you have to take before your doctor can write that particular prescription. Not easy. In lieu of that, friends have offered to hook me up. One pal texted me that she’d happily drop off some “special legal chocolate… if I like that sort of thing. I was like, “sure, I looove chocolate. But um, isn’t it always legal?” not getting her gist for the first five …

tuenight cancer theme margit detweiler

Margit’s Note: The C Word

Hey you, it’s been a while. I’m back and back with a bang. You can see why here. Spoiler alert, though, this week is all about the C Word. That word we hate to hear, to utter: Cancer. It’s a big, spreading, ugly black mass of a concept, and something we know very little about — until we have to know something about it. And then we Google. A lot. As we get older, we know more and more people who have it — our friends and loved ones, our freaking musical heroes. We harangue our doctors to check out every inch of our bodies (justifiably, I might add), we have elective surgery to prevent any possible sightings. Something I’ve learned in the last month: Cancer is a big thing, but it’s also just a thing. I used to look at people who’d experienced cancer from a distance. If I’d met them at the same time that I learned they had cancer, it was the cancer that overshadowed them, walked into the room first. But …

The Team

                  Margit Detweiler, founder, publisher + editor-in-chief of this jam — @Margit Rather than rattle off a list of places I’ve worked (which you can see here, or here),  this is where I’m at, right now, in this moment: I’m a writer, editor and digital publishing vet / business owner with a punk-rock heart, a Brooklyn apartment and arthritic knees (hey 45+!). I’m also a recent cancer survivor and have chronicled my experiences in the TueNight column, Ovarian Rhapsody. My best professional experiences have included a combination of creativity, writing, leadership and a work environment filled with ridiculously talented creative spirits. My secret agenda: I’m trying to build that, from scratch. My TueNight: Wander late night through street lamp-lit New York City streets with @gigajellyroll, looking at buildings and making up songs. Adrianna Dufay, founding product director — @Frieda_Clare As a girl, I made a pact with myself that I would be everything when I grew up. I’ve worked on an assembly line, in a lumber mill, as a …

June Issue: You Glow, Girl

Hey you! We’re back with a new issue and it’s a hot and spicy scorcher. Our theme this week is Glow — as in “Glow little glow worm glimmer, glimmer.” As in fiery pink and orange lights blazing across a June night. Embers in a summertime campfire. The afterglow from some afternoon delight. Al fresco dinner by candlelight, feeling flushed with some red, red wine. Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling (G.L.O.W.) power slams, then and now. The dazzling rainbow of Pride. Fireflies. The light in a child’s beaming face. Our own ambition, our own happiness, our own dynamic glow. When we hit that midlife mark we think we lose a certain glow — a rosy, just-pinched freshness. We sallow. We fade. That’s oh so much bullshit. I turned 50 last week, and have never felt a more intense inner and outer glow. Maybe it was resurfacing a year after a scary health crisis, maybe it was singing karaoke and then getting an unwanted lap dance (don’t ask), or maybe it was that final shot of Fish …

I Got You — Caring for My Wife During Chemo

As my wife sat in the treatment room during chemotherapy, she would sometimes sing to me a song that became a sort of anthem for us. Headphones on, she’d hum and sing, “We ain’t gonna give up on this now, we refuse to turn around. This won’t be easy, no way, no how, but we won’t back down…” The song was ”We Got It” by Ne-Yo from The Wiz, one of those live TV musical events we’d watched together after her surgery back in 2015. In some ways, she was Dorothy and I was some unfortunate combination of the Scarecrow, Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion. I would chime in, “And when the night is so cold, dark and lonely, All you got to do is look at me and hear what I say…” And then together we would sing, “We got it! We got it!” “I got you…” I got you. When Margit asked me to share my experience as a “caregiver” during her treatment, I felt a bit uncomfortable. I saw it as …

Margit’s Note: 50 Ain’t Nothing but a #

A few weeks ago, I attended a 50th birthday bash replete with beer, karaoke, ‘80s music, wigs (of course) and a freshly minted AARP card. As a drunken reveler wrapped me in crepe paper while singing “99 Luftballons” in German (don’t ask), I realized that my friend’s party was the first of what promised to be a slew of half-century parties over the next few years as I, myself, will turn 50 next year. I needed to pace myself. Nurse a seltzer. Fifty? Seriously? I’m in this strange mash-up of a grand denial and a “no kidding; I’m 50, kiddo” kind of headspace. Many days I wonder when I stopped being 22, and other days I feel like, oh have I been there and, oh, have I done THAT. Many lives have been lived. As I live out this final year of 40s, it has already been a scary mix of illness and renovation. (Literal and figurative – we’re renovating our kitchen! Right after cancer! I am crazy!) My body is recovering, my mind is …

Jennifer Saunders as "Edina" and Joanna Lumley as "Patsy"

Here’s to an AbFab Evening — And Bloody Good Mates

Every time I dabble in the “now” of fashion (which is usually a retread of the “then” of fashion) — gaucho pants, massive Jackie O’s, chartreuse tights, orange lipstick — I wrinkle my nose in the mirror and think, am I an Edina? That would be Edina Monsoon, the hilariously oblivious character from the British tv series Absolutely Fabulous. Edina, or Eddy, tenuously “works” as a PR rep and sports the most techni-crazy mash-ups of trendy items — and often wearing form-fitting, lycra-esque pants and avant-garde hats. Like Eddy I am at the age where I’m supposed to settle into weekend khakis and clogs, but of course wouldn’t dare dahling. Well at least not all the time. I, too, have my neurotic moments: Can I pull this off lovey? A little more botox in the brow? This past Tuesday night (natch), TueNight was invited to a screening of the brand new Absolutely Fabulous: The Movie. Creator and writer Jennifer Saunders (Edina) and Joanna Lumley (Patsy) reprise their roles as the sex, drugs and injectable-addled fashionistas of …

tuenight ms independence stocksy

Margit’s Note: Ms. Independence

Writing about independence is no easy task. I’ve written this little note to you three or four times, scrapping each edition and littering the page with words like “Liberty” “Freedom” and “Inalienable Rights.” It’s like Thomas Jefferson is all up in my grill. Come on Tom, back off. I’m trying to explain to my readers about we women of a certain age and independence, that the word means something particular to us because we’ve cultivated it over the years — and we fight for it every damn day. We can’t take it for granted. The point is, we need to light the sparklers and fist pump to Freedom — the freedom that a woman earns over the course of her life, that guides her decisions and allows her to forge and determine her own crazy, sexy path. As we see this week on TueNight, our path might be on a boat, on a motorcycle, in a van or even in a wheelchair. Yeah, I found independence in a wheelchair for a day. Go figure. I …

tuenight drugs margit detweiler ovarian cancer

The Waiting Room: Details of a Diagnosis

“Fakakta…shit.” “Fakakta…shit.” In a packed radiologist’s waiting room in midtown NYC, a 70-something woman sits next to me, scribbling in a stack of forms and muttering loudly in Yiddish-English. “Fakakta…shit.” The woman says this roughly every 10 minutes.  I want to whisper to her, “My feelings exactly.” I’m here to get a precautionary mammogram to rule out any additional cancer. Four days prior, I learned that I had — well, what looked like — ovarian cancer and, because my mother and grandmother had breast cancer, my gynecologist thought we should rule out B.C.  Hopefully, I wasn’t a cancer factory. This brown-carpeted clinic smells like sanitizer and sadness. I fumble with my keys in my jacket pocket. I’m still zipped up in my puffy orange coat, ready to get in and get out because this isn’t me. This isn’t me. Fakakta…shit. *** Allow me to back up and start from the beginning of this C craze. Back in September of 2015, I’d bled for five days. Hey, we ladies bleed; not weird, right? Well it was weird …

Nice to Meet You, I Have Cancer

It was the first time I’d been out to a restaurant since having a cyst removed, and only a few days after learning I had ovarian cancer. > Insert record scratch sound here < Yeah, I know, I know. That’s some big news right there. But hold on, let me finish my lede… I’d spent the last week and a half recovering from surgery and, up until that November night, had been pretty much down for the count. A Percocet-induced haze of Broad City binge-watching and crushing fatigue. So by the time my friend Shelly came to Brooklyn for a visit, I was ready to shake up my bed-couch-bed routine and feel somewhat normal again. What I wasn’t quite ready for was having to share my big news with the outside world. We decided to go to a red booth and burger joint right around the corner from our apartment — a place where my husband and I were semi-regulars and would often sit at the bar and order dinner. I’d gotten to know Tommy the bartender a bit, a …