I do not like the name miscarriage for several reasons. I guess I don’t understand the label. I think it puts the tragic death of a baby into a neat little word. It’s a word in our society that, frankly, if you’ve never experienced it, is often “just” a miscarriage. A medical term that downplays the existence of a BABY in the womb. Women often return to work shortly after. Too often, no one even knows the baby’s life existed. The grief is thought to be not as real or as intense. Many expect you to move on and get over it quickly or as if nothing happened.
“There is no foot so small that it cannot leave an imprint on this world.”
I held my baby in my hands. I kissed his face. He existed! I saw his beautifully made form. His perfectly made tiny hands and feet. His mouth and nose. He wasn’t neatly and carefully washed away as if his life never made a ripple. He was a baby. From the moment of conception.
For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.