The death of a spouse may not kill us, too, but it will certainly feel that way. Grappling with loss is never easy. Grieving in isolation (and through a global pandemic) may be the hardest thing you’ll ever do.

This book is a message from one survivor to another. You are not alone on this lonely path. Discover how I learned to cope– and hopefully you will, too. How I am muddling through and discovering a new me from the empty shell that was left behind– and see what I (and maybe you, too) could eventually become.

As I wrote this book, I only wanted to know that I would make it to the other side of grief. That this terrible, catastrophic event would not be the thing that took me out, too. Because of that fear of not knowing, I developed a series of rear-view mirror hindsights on what I know now, but I wish I’d known know then. 

Follow my journey as I discover the therapeutic joy of fostering shelter pets. How fostering and adopting can bring you new joy and reasons to stick around. My hope with this book is to leave a few breadcrumbs on the trail for the people starting their journey after me. From one survivor to another– you can do this! You will make it, too.  

Donation of proceeds: Half of the proceeds of this book will be donated to two of my favorite causes: Safe Harbor Shelter, to assist women who are struggling with domestic abuse and my  local Humane Society that blessed me with Ginger and Iris. 

Sometimes readers ask where a book idea comes from. In the case of Out on a Limb, the idea stems from the panic all pet owners experience when their buddy is missing. In Limb, the question is– what will you do when your cat climbs to the top of your neighbor’s tree in a howling rainstorm? 

It was a dark and stormy night… Arriving home at 10 pm, still in skirt, pumps, etc from a long workday and night school, I entered the house. Kids in bed. Husband watching a late Monday Night Football game. The Patriots were on the west coast. Time for bed . . . until the cat escaped. I immediately followed. Through our yard. Into the neighbor’s yard. Up their tree. In my pumps and skirt. Cat . . . climbs higher. I climb higher. It starts raining. Hard. Cue the wind gusts. I’m clutching the skinny limbs you see all the way at the top of trees. I realized how high I’d climbed when the neighbor’s bedroom light winked out. Ten feet below me. The branches were getting slippery. Cat continues yowling– but refuses to budge. I lose one pump. Cue hysterical female sobs. (quietly, because– ssshh . . . the neighbors are now sleeping).

By halftime of the Pats game, Husband finally realizes I’m missing. I know– so flattering, right? He appears outside with a flashlight . . . searching near the car. I whisper-yell to him (because the neighbors are sleeping) and he finally looks up. And up. He trudges over to the neighbor’s yard to the base of the tree. Our conversation goes something like this: Me: Please call the fire department. Him: They probably won’t come for the cat. Me: Uh– how about to get me down? Him: I’ll just get a ladder. (Disappears to the man-shed. Returns ten minutes later with a five foot ladder). Me: What about the other fifteen feet? Him: I’ll guide you down. (Meanwhile, he’s informed me that I’m on the clock because the 3rd quarter is about to start. Me: angry whispers Call the fire department. Him: We can do this– and can you hurry up about it?

Bingo! A story idea. The moral here is never follow a cat up a tree– especially in a rainstorm. Especially late at night– while wearing heels. Especially during a Patriots game. The cat survived. I survived. But my husband missed the third quarter of the Pats game. I still hear of it to this day. 

I am not a summer person. I love the IDEA of summer. Waking to birds chirping. Days at the beach. Ballgames. S’mores. Barbecues. Peach, strawberry and watermelon festivals. Hell, any festival at all! They’re all awesome. Dining outdoors at an umbrella table. Fruity, overpriced summer drinks.  

But the reality of summer? Not so much. Shirt clinging to your back as you race to work each day. Only four days at the beach, two of which rained. Summer nights on the deck, the soft whir of mosquitoes buzzing your head as they launch a strategic assault on your person. A sultry evening breeze– thick with honeysuckle and the string of obscenities my husband mutters as the charcoals refuse to light.

Grilling at our house is an adventure, testing not only skill, but endurance. Do you really have what it takes? The blinding, acrid smoke– once the coals finally catch. The drinking involved to get you that far. The orange glow of flames licking at the sirloin that would have been dinner– had it not fallen onto the coals. The scorched veggies that you attempted to grill after seeing it on a cooking show. Because… how hard could that be? The charred but loving offerings served up after admitting defeat once again. The loving family dialogue at the kitchen table– (because it’s too effing hot to eat outside after an hour spent lurched over a grill). “Mom, it’s overdone. Underdone. Insert complaint here.” The carcinogenic risks involved in eating the tortured results. The bloodshot eyes.   

The upside? Long after dinner is over . . . the burnt offerings digested (maybe) the grill is now an inferno. Those coals are runnin’ hot. We could grill a twenty pound turkey now. I could grill a week’s worth of dinners now. Which can only mean . . . it’s time for s’mores. One more sacrifice to the alter of the barbecue. Marshmallows on fire. To celebrate the end of another glorious summer.