Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips (1 of 2 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips by Kris Carr. Copyright 2007 by Kris Carr
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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CRAZY SEXY CANCER TIPS
By Kris Carr

DEDICATION
To my mom, Aura Carr, she taught me how to be a survivor
long before cancer.

FOREWORD
http://www.dailylit.com/books/crazy-sexy-cancer-tips/foreword

CHAPTER ONE

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! YOU HAVE CANCER.

NEEDLE OFF THE RECORD. PARTY'S OVER. REWIND. STOP. PLAY.

February 2003. After a week of partying like a rock star at Florida's Sarasota Film Festival, where a film I was in premiered, I returned home to New York City, ready to begin a new detox and health plan. No drinking for one month--seriously. I had been burning the candle at both ends, and my body was crying out for a break. I wanted to be happier and healthier, lose a few pounds, and catch up on some much-needed sleep. Basically I was exhausted and sick and tired of complaining about it. How many times had I started a health kick only to sabotage it a few days later? It was so much easier to care for my career, business, clients, friends, family, everyone else . . . but me. This time something inside me was saying, Enough is enough.

So the very next day, I started my new regime by going to a yoga class. Not just any yoga but Jivamukti style--the trendy, metrospiritual workout that combines vigorous asana with chanting and kick-ass music. With dreams of a cleansed and blissed-out yoga bod, I optimistically signed up for a one-month series.

PROFILE: KRIS CARR
AGE: Professionally, 25; legally, 30-something
HAIR COLOR: Blond
EYES: Green
HEIGHT: 5'8"
WEIGHT: 122-ish (okay, 130-plus)
HOMETOWN: Pawling, New York
OCCUPATION: Award-winning actress, photographer, and filmmaker
FAVORITE SAYING: "You want to make God laugh? Tell Her your plans!"
BEST TIP: Read this book! Highlight it, scribble in it, doodle, write down your tips, and share them with other Cancer Babes who need to giggle, sob, dance, and reflect.

In yoga you're supposed to leave your cell phone and ego at the door. On that particular day I did neither. It had been months since I'd practiced strenuous yoga, but there was a hot guy directly in front of me . . . so I acted like a professional pretzel. Hot Guy and I kept catching each other's eye, me in forearm stand, and him sneaking a peek while curled up in the child's pose. I showed off and flirted throughout the entire class--until my phone rang, which created a wave of incredulous gasps throughout the room. For those of you who have never made the mistake of shattering the Zen with your Motorola, it's totally humiliating.

The following morning I felt like a truck had hit me. It was obvious that I'd been way, way off base about my fitness level. I shrugged off the pain and went about my business, confirming headshot appointments and booking auditions, followed by the daily slathering-on of makeup, pouring myself into tight jeans and push-up bra, and curling my blond hair into winsome locks.

I was a professional photographer and an actress. Every day I pimped the product either in front of or behind the lens. Since my recent Super Bowl victory, where I appeared in not one but two Bud Light spots, I was considered "the Julia Roberts of advertising" (according to my agent) and was temporarily in high demand. In some circles I was even considered iconic. Thousands of drunken frat boys took time out of their pepperoni pizzas and seven-layer dips to determine whether or not they'd "do" me.

The audition of the day: a commercial for a famous diet shake whose name I won't mention. It doesn't matter anyway because it turned out I was too fat for the ad and didn't get the job. How quickly my shooting star had fallen. P.S.: Think twice the next time you compare yourself to people on the boob tube or in the fashion rags. If I had a dollar for every time I've been retouched by the industrial advertising complex, I'd be living high on the hog!

Fast-forward to the evening. My muscle pain had gotten worse. Added to the mix was shortness of breath and severe abdominal cramps. Something was up. Shit! How inconvenient. My health plan had barely begun. I called my doctor the next morning.

Dr. Fabulous was like the Nobu of medicine: You couldn't get a seat unless you knew someone. Fortunately Dr. Fabulous was a big theater fan and remembered me from a buck-naked, check-out-my-birthday-suit nude scene I did in the Arthur Miller play _Mr. Peters' Connections_ with Peter Falk. I saw Dr. Fabulous once or twice a year and he never failed to tell me, in a disappointed tone, how different I looked on stage; he wouldn't recognize me if he didn't know it was me. No kidding. There is a big difference between being all sexed up to play the ghost of Marilyn Monroe and looking red-nosed, bleary-eyed, and in need of serious antibiotics.

Dr. F's assistant Danielle, a real broad--tough, feisty, and lovable--walked into the examination room and barked, "Why the hell are you here?" I told her I thought I'd fractured a rib on my first day of detox showing off for a hot guy in yoga class. She snorted and buried her hands in my abdomen. I writhed in pain. "I think it's your gallbladder," she told me. "Let's see what the doc says."

Dr. F did his usual drive-by examination and agreed that the pain was probably the result of a faulty gallbladder, which more than likely needed to be yanked, but not by him because he had vacation plans. Damn! He sent me off with a prescription for some very tasty pain drugs and ordered an ultrasound--posthaste.

Half an hour later I was lying on yet another examination table while a nameless nurse passed a scanner across my gel-covered belly. She had a mysterious half-worried, half-trying-to-look-casual expression on her face. I kept asking her what she was seeing, but she was evasive. "I am not sure. I'm having a hard time; you're very gassy." I laughed. She couldn't see my gallbladder because I was gassy? She left the room, came back with another instrument, and started scanning again. This time the seriously distressed look in her eyes made it clear that she saw something.

"What?" I asked her.

"You'll have to speak with the doctor," she said.

*Something was very wrong.*

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