The dictionary says

mis·car·riage (n.)
The premature expulsion of a nonviable fetus from the uterus. Also called spontaneous abortion.

I've been thinking about this word a lot over the last two days, and wondering how you can explain exactly how a miscarriage feels.

Ripping.
Painful.
Empty.
Draining.
Cruel.
Heartbreaking.
Helpless.
Hopeless.

I've learned a lot since we lost Brodie in 2002, and have both lurked and actively participated on a number of loss message boards. I've always had a sense that there are degrees of loss, never publicly acknowledged, but tacitly condoned among posters on these boards. A protocol, so to speak. No one ever comes right out and says it, but there always seemed to be a stronger response to those women who had losses later in their pregnancy. Almost as if those pregnancies were more real or something.

And I must admit that, because my loss with Brodie was at 20 weeks, I could relate to that. My loss was very real to me. He was a baby. My baby. I had seen him wave to me on the ultrasound. Had heard his heartbeat at least four times. I had his picture. And I had felt him move inside of me. So yes, he was real to me. As real as if I had held him in my arms.

But today I sat beside a 7 month pregnant colleague, and I was still bleeding from this miscarriage. I suddenly truly understood that a loss at any time during a pregnancy carries with it the same feelings. I felt incredible remorse for any time I may have minimized someone else's loss in my head, even unconsciously. And I asked for forgiveness. I was able to truly be present to today and to my colleague, because I think I am finally, truly understanding what an incredible miracle a full term healthy pregnancy is, and I am grateful that she is experiencing one.

And I am reminded that the other type of miscarriage is one of justice. Someday we will experience justice - it just might not look like what we want it to look like.