Pincushion

This is a whole different kind of hot. It comes from nowhere, five minutes after I put on a hat because the wind is blowing, or worse, just as I think it's safe to put on my wig and head out the door to work in the morning. Several times each night over the past few weeks I wake up to a slightly damp pillow, covers thrown off, seeking coolness. This is not delicate, ladylike "glistening" or "glowing" - this is unadulterated rivers of sweat requiring multiple tissues and, ideally, sticking my head out the window.

Michael used to accuse me of being ectothermic - rather than one of those people who is always hot or always cold, I picked up the temperature of my surroundings. I was always the one bundled into hiking socks and extra sweaters in the winter or fanning myself on the subway platform in the summer.

At least that was predictable. Hot flashes are new and strike several times each day and night. Thanks to the drugs I am taking to minimize the effects of chemotherapy on my future fertility, I am currently in "chemopause." This temporary menopause and its accompanying side effects, of which the hot flashing is just one of a long and alarming list (osteoporosis at 33, anyone?), should abate in a few months, once the drugs have had time to work their way out of my system. With my final chemo coming up this week, I am in no hurry to pump my body full of yet more drugs that could help with the menopausal side effects, but which come with side effects of their own.

Which is how I find myself picking my way past the storefronts hawking fake Fendis and counterfeit Chanels to a nondescript building on Canal Street in Chinatown. A friend recommended this acupuncturist, who is also a certified M.D. The insurance forms are written in both English and Chinese characters. A nurse dressed in jeans walks into the reception area and says she will take my blood pressure while I wait to see the doctor. No fancy digital equipment here, just the old-school cuff, pump and stethoscope method, which she uses to take my reading while children play with the water cooler.

After 20 minutes, I am ushered into the doctor's office. He spends time learning my medical history, taking my information and comforting me with his knowledge of my chemo regimen. "Since you have one more Taxol to go, no herbs yet," he says. "Just the acupuncture and green tea extract."

I guess I had half-expected something spa-like, with robes and oils and the sounds of waves crashing on a beach piped in. Instead, I walk into a spartan room with a paper-covered examining table, a space heater on the floor, and the sound of rush hour traffic crossing from the Williamsburg Bridge to the Holland Tunnel. I look around for a gown. "Just take off your boots and tights and pull down the waist of your skirt."

I obey and lie down on the table, taking a deep breath - although I am used to being stuck with needles from all the poking and prodding I've endured the past few months, I have no idea what to expect. But I am comforted by the fact that I have heard no whimpers or screams coming from the other rooms, and given what I have observed of the office so far, soundproofing is not something they are likely to have invested in.

Working quickly, the doctor pats an alcohol-soaked pad over several points on my skin and begins. Tearing open a new packet for each tiny needle, he inserts one in each ankle, one along each shin, one in each knee, two along my stomach, and one in each wrist and hand, finishing with a single needle in the cartilage of my right ear. The entire process takes maybe 45 seconds. I feel slight pressure in some of the points, but no more than if I lightly pressed the spot with my own fingernail. "Now just relax," he says, turning off the lights and closing the door behind him.

And I do. I listen to the sound of the traffic below and think about how lucky I am to be feeling this good at this point in the process. My energy is slightly lower and I need an extra hour or two of sleep each night, but it has not been nearly as bad as I had feared it might be. I even seem to be keeping my eyebrows and the majority of my lashes until the bitter end, although I know they may disappear in a cruel, delayed farewell a week or two after my final treatment on Thursday.

My breathing slows down and I am startled out of a near-nap when, 30 minutes later, the nurse comes in to remove the needles and send me on my way. The doctor said that this treatment will require two visits per week for several weeks, but that I should start noticing at least some difference right away. And indeed I have - my daytime hot flashes are less frequent and less severe, and last night I slept all the way through the night without waking. At my next treatment tomorrow, I may even be brave enough to open my eyes.