Last November, Dustin and I stopped by our local Petsmart to pick up a Christmas present for Rosie. We had just come from a beautiful morning wedding ceremony for some good friends and were running some errands before heading to the evening reception. After picking out the biggest antler chew the store could offer, we made our way back to the car. As we started getting in, a man who was walking by us yelled in a nasty tone: "ARE YOU REALLY HANDICAPPED?" and shook his head muttering "Disgusting." Dustin just about ripped his head off, yelling that the guy had no idea what I had been through and he had no right to judge us. Not going to lie; it ruined our . . .
Even though I had gone through my first round of chemo, had dropped 20 pounds in a week and ended up back in the hospital for a hydration transfusion because my sodium levels had dropped drastically, it was still hard for me to believe I had cancer. Sure, I was a little skinnier and super pale, but anyone who saw me passing by wouldn't know about the war raging in my body and the six inch tumor I named Ricardo growing in my leg. I still looked like a regular 15 year old girl, granted a little bit of a rebel one, because of the bright red hair. I died my hair fire engine red the day after I was diagnosed. My "last hurrah" before it all came out, although it . . .