My Baby You'll Be

This is my first baby, Ozzy.  Long before I had biological babies, Ozzy stole my heart with those soulful eyes and just-love-me-into-a-cuddle-coma attitude.  It didn't hurt that at the shelter, he peed on my husband to solidify the bond that he belonged to us.

At the time, we weren't looking for another dog, just a hamburger at the Wendy's next door to the shelter.  Isn't that how it always happens, though?  You can't actively look for love, it will find you when you least expect it.  Especially if you order the cheeseburger combo with a side or adoptable adorable.

Yes, my first baby weighed in at about 7 pounds and 15 inches long, with the shelter given name of Little Man, but we knew that had to change.  On the car ride home, my husband and I debated the name game, and you know how that goes.  He loves Barney, you hate it.  You love Fitz and he threatens to crash the car.  So we turned on the radio while we brainstormed.  "I'm goin' off the rails on a crazy traaaainn...."  We both started bobbing our heads.  There's nothing a little Ozzman can't fix.  Wait a minute!  Yup, loved the name.  And his name was Ozzy and he was perfect.

You know how you're not supposed to pick favorites?  Well, I did and so did Ozzy.  I couldn't go anywhere without a little Ozzy shadow and even if he was all cuddled up with my husband on the couch, as soon as I sat down, he'd bolt over and cuddle into me.  We were soul mates.  In fact, we were so attached at the hip, that he was, unfortunately, standing under me when my water broke as I was getting out of the bathtub (pregnant with my first daughter).  Oh memories.

Over Twelve years, two moves and two kiddos later, Ozzy grew old, grey and content.  We found out in December that Ozzy had kidney stones and a herniated bladder (an injury he likely incurred when he took on a raccoon several years ago.  PS, Raccoon 1 - Ozzy 0).  The corrective surgery would have been about $4K, but due to his age (guesstimated about 14 years) and his grade 4 heart murmur and collapsing trachea, he wasn't a great candidate for surgery.  Even if he survived the surgery, he would likely have had heart failure.

Naturally, I was devastated by this news.  We held out hope that with a diet change and healing thoughts, Ozzy might turnaround.  And he did, for about two weeks.  Long enough to "snuzzle" (my daughter's word) a little longer, and for my kiddos to come to terms with the inevitable loss.  Three days before Christmas, my baby died and I've been in limbo ever since.

I've researched stages of grief, and I've checked off anger (sorry Family) and guilt.  I had the

hardest time telling people that my dog died, when really, I felt like I had killed him by taking him in to the vet and letting her do it.  This was all magnified by the fact that I was holding him the entire time (Husband and girls went to get burgers.  I now see the irony).  I felt it only right that I be the one with him, given that he was mine and I was his.  I've now entered the annoyingly persistent phase of depression and honestly, have a hard time believing there's an end to it.  Like reading the Twilight books, but for real.

I didn't write this with the intent to throw a pity party or hear another "I'm so sorry for your loss," but more because I've come to realize that this level of grief is something I'm completely unfamiliar with and I hope that writing this down will somehow be therapeutic.  I've lost loves in the past (most notably my grandfather a couple of years ago) but this sense of loss is so overwhelming that it makes me feel guilty I didn't struggle like this previously.  I had no idea it could hurt this much.  I'm turning into a weeping recluse who feels pajamas are a valid wardrobe choice and, on most days, showering is too high maintenance.  Especially since staying in has the awesome appeal of avoiding other people.  To those who know, you've been here, I'm truly sorry, I get it.  To those who don't, I hope you never have to.

There are many people who would say, "He was just a dog" and to them I would say, "I'm sorry you have never experienced unconditional love in the truest sense of those words."  To which they may respond, "Yes, I have.  I have children."  And to that I would reply, "Exactly.  Then you do understand."

Are You There Readers? It's Me, Holly

Alright, I admit it, I'm a horrible blogger and I'm okay with that. The way I see it, if I wrote every single day, you'd get tired of me and I'd run out of things to say. At least this way, I have time to reflect and you don't end up reading about the red sock that found its way into the whites or that I'm having a fat day... again. No, this way definitely works out better for us all. So what could I have possibly been reflecting on for the last six freakin' months!? Must be earth shattering!!

Earth shattering, no, revealing, maybe. I don't have many deep thoughts. Mostly because my memory is so bad that I'll forget the reason I was contemplating before I even get to the good part. I miss my memory. In any event, one of the last times I blogged was on The Mama Dramalogues and I wrote about how I wanted to finally get back into acting and start doing something just for me.

Well, I applied three times to one agent and once to my old agent, and alas, no call backs. Part of me is a little bummed, but a bigger part of me is just relieved. Yes, I am absolutely terrified of success. Which is weird, because most people are afraid of failing. I'm confident I can succeed, but success... now that scares the shit out of me.

Rather than take the agent rejection in a comfy fetal position, I'm enrolling in some film acting classes, something I've never done before. Most of my experience is in community theatre with only one industrial film under my belt. But you know what? I only had 4 auditions with my previous agent; I landed the first one, was first runner up for the second and didn't make the cut for the other two. Not a terrible track record, so I should probably give it another go.

It's been years since I've even done theatre, so I thought taking this acting class would be a great way to update my resume and give me some formal training. Our first class is this Sunday, and while I keep trying to talk myself out of going (there's that fear again), I'm going to suck it up and go. I'll keep you posted! And not just six months from now.