I open my eyes today, place a warm hand on my belly, and smile.
"Good morning babygirl" and then I frown.
No kick, no warm fat tissue, just tiny hard hip bone I haven't felt in 5 months.
I press a little deeper, nothing. Just hollow emptiness. I look up and then I see you.
Laying beautifully on your pure white Afghan, it your tiny urn.
A keepsake, they called it. Because you were so small.
Then it rushes back in, like the waves at the beach, unforgiving and unrelenting. My heart shrinks down,
My eyes water. I realize I'm laying in the same spot I lost you. My body trying to remember you, and it feels like
It's contracting all over again but this time everywhere else but where you were. My throat closes up as I try not to cry.
I close my eyes and I can smell so clearly:
The coppery burn of metal, blood, and disenfectant. The saltiness of tears and sweat.
The sweet tartness of my and your father's heart breaking.
Then I can feel everything all over again:
I can feel the cool metal bars that I thought I could bend.
Your father's warm reassuring hand being crushed by mine as I push.
The air bubbles and my stomach contracting, fighting to keep you in and push you out at the same time.
The river flowing between my legs, you broke my water, but I didn't see the blood that followed.
My body deflating after you were born.
I can feel your blanket, the bumps in the white fabric, the stitching in the clouds and the hit air balloon designs.
You, you were so light, lighter than I imagined. Only 5 ounces.
My cheeks feel sticky from tears and sweat.
Your father is cutting the chord, and I'm so happy to see my babygirl that I don't realize until I see his heart break.
And then I hear it:
Earth shattering silence. It feels wrong. Something is wrong. What is it that I can't place?
"I'm so very sorry for your loss" the doctor says to me as he hands me you, " she was perfectly healthy, we don't know why this happened"
I look down and I realize.
No crying. You're not crying. Why isn't my little girl crying? Surely she should be crying by now.
I put my finger on your chest. No heartbeat. Of course how could I forget that phrase.
"I'm sorry ma'am, we can't find her heartbeat."
I look up at the doctor who has helped my deliver my baby.
"Why isn't she crying? Can't I do anything? Can't you do anything? You just said she was perfectly healthy."
He gave me a look that told me, he's been asked this before, and the answer breaks his heart Everytime.
"I'm sorry, but sometimes these things happen with no explanation. Everything was perfect and whole. She's very developed for her age. We could run some tests but...we may never know... She's a very beautiful little girl."
My heart shatters all over again, I can't hold back the cry that comes out as a scream. "my baby, my baby is gone"
Your father is breaking down, because you're his twin. Identically. He always wanted a daughter. So did I.
I utter my first sentence since giving birth, "what did I do? Am I broken?"
I look at the nurse first, who looks at me like her own heart is breaking, the doctor who just seems sad, and then to your father.
He looks at me like I've broken his heart more, places his hand on my cheek,
"you could never be broken, look at how beautiful our daughter is."
And so I do, and I can still see it clearly. Your have your dad's everything, but your so tiny. Your have your ankles crossed and you hand is the size of my index finger nail. I hold your hand and I smile because of how beautiful you really are. You felt so much bigger when you were "Bruce-Leeing" the inside of my stomach just the day before. I hold your head to my lips, my beautiful girl. You're smiling at us, telling us you're at peace.
My heart breaks a little more when I kiss you, you're so cold. Baby's shouldn't be cold.
They're supposed to be warm, crying, yelling for mom in their first minutes outside in the big world.
My chest tingles as I'm being told, my body will try to breast feed but it'll dry up on its own. The healing process will be hard.
They hang a white rose on our door, and then you do the cutest thing. Your father holds your hand, and when he pulls away you reach towards him, smiling. You were always so clam when it came to him. His heart is breaking, he's never heard your heart beat. Never felt the abuse to my insides, because you favored his voice and touch to mine.
The rest of the night I check on you, cradle you, cry over you, sing with you, dance with you. Watch TV and talk to you about the life you will never have. Your father does the same.

The worst part was goodbye. When I held you for the last time, laid you down in the bassinet. Tell you how proud I am, how proud and happy we are to be your parents. I tell you to find your grandparents and have fun growing up on the other side. We tell you that we'll miss you everyday, and to behave yourself. Not to be too sassy, and to mind your manners. That we love you so much, and we're sorry the world wasn't ready for you. You were just to perfect for the world we live in. We kiss your head one final time, tuck you in like your just taking a nap. Then your father has to help pull me out of the room. It's time to go.
Entering the apartment we live in was worse. Everywhere I look I feel the pain of loosing you. The kitties you loved so much smell your memory box and cry. Fall asleep next to it for a few hours. I lay down because I am tired. Your father cleans up the mess from before we left for the hospital. Steaks, we realize it was your birthday meal. I put my hand on my stomach, and I feel is emptiness. It's quiet inside my body for the first time in months. And cold. Why am I so cold?

We don't get to bring you home for a weak, the funeral home put you in a cardboard box. They told me until you were able to be cremated you'd be kept in refrigeration. My babygirl was in a fridge for a week. I would've been okay never hearing that. I convinced myself she was playing with the kids in the nursery. Everyone around us has spent more time crying for us than we have, no one really knows what to say. We're all grieving for the life you will never have with us. The day we left the hospital a butterfly flew up and touched our heads and circled us before flying away. We were convinced it was you. I never liked butterflies or pink until you came into my life. Now they're my favorites.
I talk to my daughter everyday with no response. I fall asleep with her urn, and bleed the rest of my pregnancy away.
No one ever tells you how much your body craves and grieves your baby before your heart and mind do. No one tells you what to say, when people who don't understand congratulate you on giving birth. No one can really tell you how to cope with the complete silence inside your body.
There isn't enough prayer, or reading that helps. There isn't enough of anything.
I wonder what she would have looked like. At 5, 10, 15, 20. Who she would've met and spent the rest of her own life with. Her first heartbreak. First cry. First laugh, what would those first words have been? Probably something to do with her dad. I'm not mourning the loss of my daughter, but of the life she never gets to live. The life I'll never see, the teen secrets she'd try to keep, the family trips we'd get to take. See her attitude towards life and how she would react to them. To help her when she was sick and boost her when she was happy. I miss my daughter more than myself or my life before her. I don't miss my life before her. She became my world. I remembering calling out to God "I don't care if I go, but please let my daughter stay. She's too perfect to be gone before her time was here. She shouldn't be gone already. Just take me instead."

No one told me you could miscarry in your second trimester. I was told I had a healthy, happy, take home baby. But I didn't get to take her home the way I wanted. No one knew what to tell me. I knew she was gone. But I tried to tell myself otherwise. She would be okay. She's strong like her parents. We didn't mean it when we said we wanted her sooner than her due date. We didn't mean it literally when we said we couldn't wait to hold her. Did we love her too much? No, because you could never love your child too much. Maybe my giving process isn't the typical way too grieve. But my daughter is my daughter. She has a name. Her name is Reign Blasé Emilia. She is always and forever my unimpressed pretty pink princess. My little butterfly. She broke my water because she was ready, but the world wasn't ready for her. I didn't want an angel baby, I wanted my baby. I got an angel instead. I'm still grateful. I still do everything for my daughter, even tho she's resting. The hardest is the unknown. Am I still a parent? Or am I not? When do we try again? How do we explain to people what happened? When is crying too much, or is there never enough? Why can't I cry anymore? Is she happier now than with me? When will my body be okay again? Will it ever be? Why didn't anyone tell me, what it'd be like after she was officially gone ?
Was my love not enough? Was God just jealous of how beautiful she was that he wanted her more? Why won't I ever know?

No one ever tells you about the dreams either. Of her being okay and growing up. And the heartbreaking realization when you wake up and remember it all over again and we can't help but ask...

Was she in pain? Was she at peace? Will she ever know, how much we really truly loved her? I hope so. Her father says he knows so, with a smile. Her carries her so delicately and with so much pride. "look at how beautiful my daughter is. She's so perfect. I love her so much. She looked just like me." I've never seen so much pride from my humble man. He never boasts, except when it comes to his daughter. Nothing compares to our daughter. She's perfect in everyway, and so strong. We will cherish and remember her always, and dream of the what ifs.

I am so sorry for your loss Adriane. Thinking of you and remembering your perfect Reign with you. Sending peace mama and to her daddy too.

This was beautifully written....as beautifully as such a heartwrenching experience can be anyway. I felt like I was right there with you. I'm so sorry about your sweet Reign - what a gorgeous name. I lost my daughter last December, her name was Landry Rose. I asked so many of the same questions. Something that someone on here told me once really stuck with me. They said sometimes you can do everything right and things can still go wrong. Likewise some can do everything wrong and things can still go right. I think it stuck with me because I had been looking to blame myself, or someone or something. And even though it will never make it better, hearing those words from another was something I desperately needed. You are NOT broken mama. You loved her more than enough. You did nothing wrong. I hope you are able to release that weight you are carrying for it is far too heavy a burden to carry. If there is one thing I do my best to hold faith in, it is that our babies knew our love. Wrapping you in a big hug from afar ♡