This precious beagle you see a super young me holding there is Maggie. Mags. The Beags. Un beagle. She turned 10 years old today. My parents got this spitfire of a beagle in 2003 from my uncle's friend in Louisville, Ky. When they brought her home, she was so tiny with the floppiest beagle ears and the loudest AROOOOO.
For the first almost year of her life, I was at home with the beagle during the day and worked at Blockbuster at nights when my stepmom came home from her day job. When Maggie was about 5 months old, I went on a week-long trip to New Orleans to visit my friend Amy.
Upon my return, Maggie shunned me. I was the last to come into the kitchen, and she greeted my dad and my stepmom, but when she saw me, Maggie turned around and walked away. The next day, she peed in the house three times, and she hadn't had an accident in the house in months. Revenge pees.
Maggie is a great dog, and I've missed her since my dad retired to Florida.
I hope she is enjoying her beagle retirement, too. I know her "niece" Boomer misses her something awful.
The most popular post of mine seems to be the one where I ranted about the sociopath, pathetic excuses of human beings who fake having cancer online. Seriously, it's a thing. Apparently people look up "Cara fake cancer" a lot more than I realized or had hoped for. Unless it's just Cara looking herself up online and going, "Blast, I thought I befriended and fooled all the people who outed me!" Whatever it is, that page still gets a lot of views. Hi Cara, are you reading this? Remember me?
If you want to know the whole back story of Cara's lies, please visit her former blog, which she no longer has access to. If you think, "Oh who cares, just move on. Let this girl get on with her life," then please visit this blog. Cara is back to blogging, and I have no doubt she'll suck so many people into her web of lies. That girl wouldn't know the truth even if it bit her on the ass. I'll be very amused if she sends her tumblr friends to leave nasty messages on here.
I updated the post to reflect the following information:
During the time Amelia faked being in a coma, which ultimately led to her being outed as a faker, there was a girl named Sydney Harrington, who was supposedly in a coma, fighting for her life. Cienna Madrid wrote about this moment in her feature story about my friend:
Then in May 2011, tragedy struck Valerie's support group: Kate, a 19-year-old leukemia patient who'd recently undergone a bone marrow transplant, fell into a coma.
"The rest of us rallied around her," Valerie says. "We called her friends and family. It was dire."
While they posted to her Facebook page, prayed, and round-robinned the loved ones at Kate's hospital bedside, tragedy struck again: A second woman in the group fell comatose.
Yeah, except, that's 100 percent fictitious. There is no "Kate" or Sydney Harrington, aka syd-vicious-xoxo. Pictures were found of the actual person who was in the images claiming to be Sydney Harrington. Apparently comas are like catnip to fake cancer bloggers. They can't resist them (seriously read Cienna's story, even Cara faked a coma). I do find it sadly amusing that one fake cancer blogger's fake coma turned out to be the downfall of a second fake cancer blogger.
Also, I thought it was Amelia who was jess.nicks sending my friend nasty messages on her flickr. Nope, that was just some psycho bitch Katie Blackwell who was obsessed with harassing a cancer patient for several years. Let me repeat myself: this young, 20-something girl, was obsessed with harassing a cancer patient. She left messages on her flickr, saying that everyone was hoping that my friend, a breast cancer patient, would just die. I mean, who does that? A sad, sorry bitch who needs to be locked away in a padded cell so she can't be a danger to herself and others. Katie, are you reading this, too? I think you're the scariest of them all. The amount of time you devoted to making my friend's life miserable was astounding and mind-blowing. You visited her blog dozens of times. She has an IP tracker on her blog, you sociopath.
So there you go, never a dull moment, huh? I want to reassure anyone that my friend that I've been referencing to is 100 percent real. I've met her. I've even seen her chest. Rawr.
Ever since my tissue expander exchange surgery last October, I hadn't really been active or into the whole exercise thing. The one type of exercise that has inspired me and gotten me looking forward to going to the gym, a miracle in of itself, has been running.
That's right, folks. I run now.
It's pretty amazing that I finally found something that I enjoy doing, and I especially enjoy trying to outdo myself each time. I'm not competing against anyone except myself, and I freaking love it. I created an iPod playlist for me when I run, and my top three running songs are: Fuel by Metallica, Dancing on my Own by Robyn and EYE OF THE TIGER.
Ever since I've ended treatment, I've talked a lot about how I wanted to get back into shape, but I lacked follow through. Passion. I just couldn't get into it. While I went through the motions of exercising, I just couldn't feel excited about what I was doing. When the next day rolled around, I could find a million other things I'd rather do instead of going to the gym. My switch was stuck in the "sedentary and I like it" off position.
Around a month ago, I decided to see how I'd feel if I gave running a try. Before breast cancer, I actually ran semi-frequently. I was far from being a runner, but I could run over 5 MPH and even at an incline. This was my body before five surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation. My body before cancer was one of subtle strength (I was a hell of a lot stronger than I looked!). I wasn't like Jennifer Garner in Alias fit, but I was lean and had a great set of legs.
My body after cancer is just one that I don't recognize but the one I have to accept is now mine. My legs lost their definition, and my chest is foreign to me, all numb and feels odd when I try to push, pull or pick up anything. I'm right handed, but when I pick up a weight, I'm much stronger in my left arm than my right arm. I can miss what I used to look like and what I used to be able to do. The danger, though, is dwelling on who I was before everything changed.
Setbacks. Obstacles to overcome.
After I ran for seven minutes straight, I felt amazing, and by amazing, I mean exhausted and sore in spots I wasn't aware could feel soreness. I got off the treadmill, feeling so accomplished and looking for someone to high-five. My body wasn't out to get me, like I have long been convinced of. It was actually working with me, cooperating, all for the goal of strength.
I wasn't afraid of my body anymore. For the first time in a long while, I was in awe of what my body could do besides creating tumors in inconvenient places. My body has been through so much, and there I was running. I don't have to sit on the sideline and be an observer. I could go out and run.
Goals. Feeling inspired.
The switch has been flipped. I can tell that's the case because after work on Monday, I went to the gym, and I ran a mile. Not only did I run a mile, I ran it at 5.4 MPH, which is at the same level as pre-cancer Lara. It won't be long until I start passing all the milestones that pre-cancer Lara did, and I'll stop comparing who I used to be to who I am now, like pre-cancer Lara is someone else.
Running. Running.
Cancer is always going to be chasing me. I picture it sometime as this black-hooded, ominous figure that follows me wherever I go, hiding behind corners or bushes. Watching, waiting to see if now's the time to strike. I'm running now, and every quick step might be a little more distance between me and this disease.
I run to challenge myself.
I run to change myself, my body and self-confidence.
I run to test what I can do.
I run because if I stop, everything I'm running from might catch up to me, and I can't give cancer the satisfaction, now can I?
