Megan is a fourth-generation New Orleanian and academic advisor at an area university. If you would like to join us or donate a dress, please leave a comment below. I have recently begun collecting donated wedding gowns that will be used in assembling newborn gowns during a service project my church will be hosting this summer. If my gown could provide some comfort to a mother like that one in the hospital, why wouldn’t I use it to give some peace to any parent who is struggling during a time I can hardly begin to imagine? How You Can Help But the use of wedding gowns to sew burials gowns for those tender babies touched me deeply given the symbolism behind the wedding gown. I also knew I wouldn’t save it for any potential daughters because as opposed to the men in my home, I not a very sentimental person.
I wasn’t the bride who searched for the perfect gown, I just wanted to not look like a hot mess. Since becoming a mother, I have grown to understand and love the support and strength we as mothers can give our peers and have sought ways to reach outwards. I thought of my wedding gown that hadn’t been touched in more than 5 years. Recently I read an article about a nurse in the Seattle area who has been taking donated wedding dresses and sewing them into gowns for newborns who die.
Whenever I’ve been frustrated with my toddler’s clingy tendencies, laughed at his goofy grins, and felt like a dairy cow pumping around the clock because he never nursed, I remember that poor young mother who would not experience the same moments with her son. Here I was angry I couldn’t hold my son when she would never be able to hold him alive. But the baby that was in the bed next to him was particularly small and had been delivered at around 24 weeks he could easily fit in your hands.
Atticus was full-term and a giant compared to the mostly preemie babies around him. My postpartum hormones quickly went into overdrive and I started bawling. Being the level-headed person he is, and knowing that I would need a good explanation, he quickly explained, “the baby next to Atticus died.” Putting it into Perspective “We can’t go see him.” Saying I was sad and upset would be putting it mildly. When I had finished pumping, Justin went out to make sure it was time but was soon back in the room with a somber look on his face. During the shift change, Justin kept me company as I pumped in the nursing room, and we excitedly awaited holding out little boy. A few days into our daily routine, they told me we would be able to hold our sweet boy for the first time that evening. In the NICU, there were only a few times when parents could not visit babies: when there were shift changes, when they needed to admit/discharge babies, and if there was an emergency with a patient. I would spend my days watching my little boy, envying the parents whose babies came in after him and were discharged before him. The next day we started a routine where Justin would bring me to the hospital with my things, he would go to school and work, and in the evenings, we would sit by our son’s bed in hopes we could hold him.
I still hadn’t been able to hold him, so leaving him made the fact that I hadn’t been able to do so that much more painful. Whenever we asked how long it would take for his situation to stabilize enough for us to hold him, or if I could attempt breastfeeding, or approximates on when he would be able to come home, we heard, “I’m not sure.” Leaving him at the hospital when I was discharged was one of the hardest moments of my life. Because of the IV placement they needed to use and my recovery, I could not hold him at first. I heard that phrase a lot over the next few weeks. “When will you be able to bring him to us?”
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