Content warning: this article mentions miscarriage.
It’s been three years.
Three years since the day we eagerly and giddily prepared to hear the heartbeat of our first child for the first time. Three years since we were instead met with the loudest silence I have ever heard. Three years since my husband collapsed sobbing at my feet while I sat numb and in shock before breaking down myself.
The second trimester is supposed to be the “safe” zone. Instead of the strong heartbeat I was supposed to be hearing, I was hearing a doctor explaining the next steps that needed to be taken. I didn’t hear her; all I could do was stare at the lifeless blip on the ultrasound screen, silently begging it to spring to life and prove them wrong. I saw her head, her arms, her legs. I saw her birthdays and first day of school and wedding flash before my eyes. I saw my heart break in the eyes of my husband, who tried so hard to be strong for me.
Three years, and my heart is just as broken as it was sitting there in the cold, sterile hospital room. I miss my baby girl more and more every day. There is a hole in my heart that will never be filled.
I miss you, my Eleanor Rayne. I see you in rainbows, in flowers, in the eyes of your sister. I know you are with me, and that someday, somehow, in some universe, I will hold you once again.