Time is flying and I have lots of exciting things coming up surrounding the book! First, you will find an excerpt below. If you haven’t signed up for the newsletter yet, you should! I will be announcing giveaways and some other fun stuff. Second, the cover reveal is coming soon! I absolutely love the cover and I know you will, too. The book is currently being formatted and VERY soon, I will be announcing the release date.
I hope you enjoy this excerpt. When I first posted it on Facebook and sent it out via the newsletter, I was filled with anxiety. I kept asking myself, “What if there isn’t anyone who likes this book?” I had to remind myself that I asked the universe for a purpose, and this book is it. I am NOT an author; I had a story to tell. I was supposed to write this book and I did. The simple fact that 100% of any proceeds earned will be donated to the MidAtlantic Bulldog Rescue is a bonus. (WordPress has messed with the formatting a little, sorry!)
Where It Began
“Holy shit, I think I’m dying!”
For anyone who has ever experienced the severe allergic reaction known as anaphylaxis, you know the above exclamation is an appropriate one. As I sat at a red light on one of the busiest highways in my town with what I knew to be the beginning of anaphylaxis, “Holy shit, I think I’m dying” was not my first (or even tenth) thought. With my eyes glazed over, tears streaming down my face, rivers of snot running out of my nose, and people in cars behind me impatiently honking their horns because traffic was moving but my car wasn’t, I didn’t think about dying at all. Which is weird, especially for someone who has experienced anaphylaxis before, right? I know how scary that shit is. Hell, I didn’t even see my life pass before my eyes the way near-death experiences are typically described. Instead of calling 9-1-1 or thinking about the afterlife, I had one singular thought:
“Who is going to take care of Oliver?”
Before you award me with a Parent of the Year trophy, you need to know that Oliver was not my lovable, mischievous son (because if I had had children, I always pictured my son to be mischievous and most likely, semi-lovable). Oliver wasn’t even a ninety-eight-year-old uncle whose adult diapers I had to change and whose sole existence depended on me spooning pureed carrots into his toothless mouth. No, Oliver wasn’t either of those. Oliver wasn’t even a human being.
Oliver was my not-so-healthy, five-and-a-half-year-old English bulldog.
Go ahead and read that again. I’ll give you a second. Done? So, now you know you read that correctly. I wasn’t concerned that I was almost in the full throes of anaphylaxis. I wasn’t worried that if I called 9-1-1, an ambulance might not make it to me before I gasped my last breath. I wasn’t worried that I could die in my car in the middle of traffic in front of a fucking Wawa convenience store. I was worried that my dog might have to hold in his shit a little longer than he’s used to holding it. That would probably devastate him, and the fact that he would feel remotely slighted made me a bad “Mom.” That’s what I was thinking about. My dog’s fucking feelings.