Right Where I Am: 2 years, 7 months and 1 week

I miss the life we should be living.

At the moment I type those words a cat squeaks and touches his paw to my face. I pretend that George is communicating through my cat. I wish for magic in the air.

I wake in a tangle of duvet and legs, the early morning light nudging me from sleep just before I'm ready. Ray is turned away from me and quite still. I check for proof of life. His chest moving, the rhythm of his breathing and the odd snore. All is well.
 
How long have I been missing George? I have to check. I no longer count but I can check how many days because there is a counter on George's page ... 949 days. Has it been that long? The grief of losing George and Little Poppet is no longer a raw gaping wound. It no longer scares me and it is no longer painful to touch. But I don't poke it too hard even now: it sometimes bleeds tears. A friend told me that grief is like a stone in your belly. At the beginning it's edges are sharp and they cut deep. The stone is always there but over time it's edges are washed in tears and worn smooth. My stone still has a few sharp edges.

I lie listening to the birdsong and seagull squawks waiting for Ray to wake. I wonder if it's too early for a cup of tea and my thoughts turn to George as they do many mornings. I remember his cold damp cheek and marvel at the memory of his beautiful face. Then the "what ifs" begin. I get up to chase them away and feed the cats. I make tea and return to bed with a book and two cuddlesome cats. I need distraction.

Where am I? I have been pregnant for almost 30 weeks in total but I have no babies. My fertility is waning with age and I fear we will never have another chance. The fear becomes panic. Once a month I am disappointed. The panic becomes depression. But I am still ovulating and my cycles are still regular so there must be a chance, right? I hope and hope and hope. It's exhausting.

Where am I? In a state of perpetual longing. I want to be a mother.

Where am I? In love. We drive up onto Dartmoor, stop and watch the wild beauty around us. We try to photograph a buzzard in the sky then make tea from a flask and drink it while the sheep keep the grass tidy around the car. We buy free range eggs from a farmhouse gate with an honesty box and drive home. I am aware of empty space in the back seat.

I am happy I have my Poppet. Laughing with him, sad with him, snuggling with him, adventuring with him, grumpy with him, gardening with him, making love with him, being with him is wonderful. I am filled with wonder. I'm so glad we found each other. I wish we had found each other sooner.

Where am I? I sit at my bench thumping a hammer onto a letter stamp held over a piece of silver. Bash. Another stamp. Bash bash bash. I am happy to be creating and I like the noise. Later I read an email from a mother thanking me for making a tiny tag for her and helping open a door for others to speak her lost baby's name. I smile and feel a just a little of the magic I wish for.

Where am I? I've been asking myself this question all day. Where am I?

I am not who I used to be. I am where I am. It is how it is.

And right now it's quite all right whilst not being all right at all.




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I am quite terrible at joining in, awards, memes and all that sort of thing but wonderful Angie's marvellous project struck a chord with me. Perhaps it is time to take stock. Please visit her beautiful blog and perhaps join in if you haven't already. Thank you Angie.