Cracklin' Rose

When you have a miscarriage at the hospital you get sent home with a grocery bag full of pads for the bleeding and a small sateen covered box. Inside the box you'll most likely find a hospital bracelet cut to the length of your baby (if they can) and a card with your baby's feet and handprints on it (if possible). There will probably also be a few pamphlets on miscarriage and grief.

I looked in that box a lot those first few weeks. I even found a bigger box for it to sit in along with the outfit my sister-in-law had given us when we'd first found out about our pregnancy, the congrats on your pregnancy cards, our pregnancy test, the condolence cards that followed, a picture Dee had drawn for our baby to take to heaven, and finally a blanket great-grandma had knitted. I remember very clearly the love in her eyes as she gave it to me and said, "all my grandbabies have blankets from me. ALL of them." I have all those things together, but the one thing I find myself drawn to over and over again, even after more than a year has passed, is the card with her footprints on it.

The birthing process wasn't kind to her head and her insides were exposed, which we believe to be the reason she died, so she didn't look like a "baby" as you'd picture one. Even my husband was disturbed by her appearance. While I saw the unpleasantness, what I focused on were the bits of her that were perfect. Her hands and feet were flawless. Beautiful. To this day that is what I see when I think of her. Tiny, delicate, beautiful, perfectly formed feet no bigger than a woman's pinkie nail.

I share this picture with you with some trepidation. I might later take it down. It is precious to me. It is proof that she existed. Proof that I had a baby and her name was April.