Okay, so my big idea might not be an original idea per se, but I could be the first person to report back with a firsthand account.

Conventional wisdom holds that the brain of a cancer patient never fully recovers from the mental haze caused by chemo, but over the last six months or so, my mind has gotten sharper.

For months, I was losing house keys, couldn’t remember words (a cruel state of affairs for an editor), and blanking mid-conversation. It got to be pretty embarrassing.

My boyfriend wasn’t amused by my yes-I-lost-another-set-of-keys phone calls, my friends were miffed when I forgot to call them back for days, and on several occasions, I took the subway to the cancer center where I’m being treated when I really meant to go my job. Talk about a tragic comedy.

Needless to say, my chemo brain excuses were starting to wear thin with almost everyone, but luckily my trusty and all-powerful iPhone is proving to be the perfect combatant to the cognitive decay I once believed was inescapable.

We’ve all read about the importance of exercising our minds as we age. Medical reports have shown that by doing little things like brushing your teeth with the opposite hand, finishing a puzzle, and learning a new skill such as knitting (although bartending sounds way more fun), you strengthen your memory and improve cognitive response.

Well, since I bought my phone, I’ve been engaging in a host of activities that rely on detailed hand-eye coordination, which is another way to curb mental decline. For instance, I now text more often and faster, I play games all the time, and I’ve acquired some pretty impressive map-reading skills. Already, I’m off to a good start.

possibly the best purchase I've ever made

Before my iPhone, I rarely responded to text messages, and not because I don’t like my friends. Mostly, it was because I’d forget to check my inbox, and when I did, I knew it would take forever to text back with one hand and no keyboard on my raggedy Razor. And I’m just not that patient. But that has all changed. Now, I’m a master texter. I’m talking minimal back spaces and very few typos.

Finally, my iPhone allows me to instantly download games that test my speed and agility and, by default, boost my brain power. I’m a big fan of Sponge Bob’s Diner Dash, Where’s Waldo, and Slingshot Cowboy, but I’m thinking Apple should go a step further and develop a whole line of chemo brain apps. They could include a chess game with syringes as pieces, a medical word scramble (flagyl versus flagellant), and battleship against insurance companies.

Yes, sir, life is much better as a smart phone user. Thank you, new millennium. The latest cellular technology hasn’t just given me the world at my fingertips, but it may also prove to be the cure for my chemo brain on drugs.

the digital scale at MSKCC, the source of my latest torment, looks just like this.

For the last year, the scale on the sixth floor of Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York City has done nothing but torment me.

Three times a month, I have to get weighed in, and it racks my nerves each time. You’d think that being slim would be the last thing I’d be concerned about, but, alas, body image haunts cancer patients and civilians alike.

It all started when I set out on a mission to gain weight after losing 25 pounds post-surgery. I was looking sickly and thin, and decided for the first — and probably last — time in my life that I should eat whatever I wanted: bread, pasta, chocolate, or as I now refer to them, the axis of evil. Not such a smart idea looking back.

At first, it was all good. I put on a pound or two, then three or four. It didn’t take long before I was looking like my old self and fitting back into my clothes. Then before I knew it, I was 10 pounds heavier than I was pre-cancer, bursting out of my clothes but determined to squeeze into them anyway. My mom says it’s the steroids I have to take while on chemo. God bless her. I’m thinking it might be those chocolate cupcakes, but I’m more than happy to blame cancer.

Clearly, though, my quest to put on the pounds backfired. Before my diagnosis, I wasn’t far from my ideal weight, about five or so pounds. But now, it’s getting out of control. I’m the heaviest I’ve been. And while my doctors aren’t trippin because I’m in the same range as before, things done changed.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to watch it all happen. But my regular weigh-ins, and the staff who document them like a plot graph, mean I get an accurate digital measure of my portly expansion thrice monthly. It’s my version of torture.

You see, I never owned a scale, nor did I make it a habit of getting on one. Ever. My theory about scales is simple: They’re self-inflicted punishment, and I’m good on that.

It’s one thing to be in denial. It’s another to face the ever-increasing number that — even in kilograms — can’t disguise the obvious. And while I’m fully aware that I need to keep in all in perspective and stay focused on the larger goal of whipping cancer that doesn’t stop the wave of dread from rolling through every Tuesday. In fact, I’m scheduled to meet my nemesis in about 20 minutes or so, and I feel like a pugilist hoping to make weight before a fight.

What I’m really wondering, though, is how I can lose 20 pounds by the end of the week, which is the same dilemma I had last week. I’m pretty sure it involves cutting back on the cupcakes, but isn’t life too short to give up chocolate even for a moment?

Maybe I’ll use that scale as my motivation. I figure if I stay focused on beating it, I might just come out triumphant. And when I do, I’m baking cupcakes to celebrate.

I talked for 45 minutes, about nothing particularly exciting — cancer, relationships — before the therapist handed me a pamphlet about sexual health and sent me on my way. (Just FYI, there’s a difference between lubricants and moisturizers.)

my brain -- not on therapy

Maybe I’m a psychotherapy misfit or maybe I just don’t have serious enough problems, but I found myself kind of bored throughout the entire session. It could be that therapy just isn’t for me, because while I was chatting away, I couldn’t help but feel like there was some tortured soul out there who could put the doctor’s time to better use. 

And vice versa.

Homegirl feigned interest in my relatively-issue-free life probably because she was getting paid to, but then with 15 minutes left on the clock, she started wrapping me up. She took a phone call from her receptionist about the next appointment, started rifling through papers — all clues that I needed to get my things and go. I scheduled another appointment when she asked only because it felt awkward not to. But I doubt I’ll be going back.

It’s a shame, too, because I feel like I’m missing out on some serious bragging rights. I really want to be one of those people who drop phrases like “my shrink said” in random conversations. Can you say instant respect? No doubt people would come to the conclusion that I’m either really smart or at the very least interesting enough to warrant psychoanalyzing.   

Now, don’t get me wrong. I believe in the power of therapy. I was seriously open to the idea of some stranger probing my mind until I said something deeply personal that might reveal some latent self-loathing. But, as my good friend and editor Natalie Moore always says, my plan was foiled.

Add to my disappointment that the aforementioned disengaged therapist didn’t even have a dope office. Nothing in her space said “psycho” or “therapy.” No comfy couch, no relaxing artwork. I sat in a desk chair while she sat at her computer. 

I told a handful of people about my therapy outing (of course, most of them have shrinks they love and have been seeing for years), and they all said the same thing: Finding the right therapist is like finding the right relationship.

Uhm, that sounds like a lot of work on my part, and I don’t think I’m ready to make that kind of commitment right now. Plus, as you may remember from earlier posts or perhaps this entire blog, cancer is taking up a lot of my time these days.

I think I’m in need of some sort of side-piece shrink. You know, somebody I can see quickly in between working and bar-hopping. Then maybe we can talk about taking it to the next level. 

After all my excitement, though, I’m still shrink-less. And waiting for the right one.