Someday I’ll be Saturday Night

“Oh, Tuesday just might go my way
It can’t get worse than yesterday
Thursdays, Fridays ain’t been kind
But somehow I’ll survive

Hey, man I’m alive I’m takin’ each day and night at a time
Yeah I’m down, but I know I’ll get by
Hey hey hey hey, man gotta live my life
I’m gonna pick up all the pieces and what’s left of my pride
I’m feelin’ like a Monday, but someday I’ll be Saturday night

Saturday night Here we go
Some day I’ll be Saturday night
I’ll be back on my feet, I’ll be doin’ alright
It may not be tomorrow baby, that’s OK
I ain’t goin’ down, gonna find a way, hey hey hey”

(lyrics from Bon Jovi’s “Someday I’ll be Saturday Night.”)

These lyrics have been speaking to me lately. Sometimes music just seems to translate what I’m feeling into words. And I have been feeling like a Monday. But I have hope.

I guess that old saying that Time heals all wounds isn’t a complete line of bull. I’m feeling more like myself lately and less like a ball of combustible emotion that is just barely held in check. I found that to be pretty difficult. When my husband had moved beyond his sense of loss, and when I was living out my life’s daily routine to keep my kids feeling normal, I had to compartmentalize. I shoved all that grief down as hard as I could and tried to keep it under control when I was with other people. But like tamping gunpowder down into a shotgun, keeping all that emotion inside of me was explosive. I found that I was able to talk to my friends about what happened and how I was feeling, but I found it unbearable to actually think about it. Car rides were the worst, when the radio was playing and my kids were quietly looking out the windows and unable to see my face, I would just weep, and think and weep some more. When Mike was home, I would just go in my room and lay on the bed, stare at a wall and think. And cry, blubber, weep, sob and sometimes fall asleep from it.

Apparently, I am dramatic even in my dreams with my constant nightmares about blood and crying babies and hospital corridors. So I started taking something to help me sleep. I also started taking a natural supplement to help balance my hormone levels. I wrote a poem to my lost baby and I chose a name: Haven Lee Noyer. I chose this name because I was thinking that even when my sense of loss has dulled, my heart will always be a safe haven for my love for my lost child. I decided that our family can plant a tree in memorial to Haven once the spring has fully graced Maine with some constant warmth and sunshine. Suddenly, I started to feel just a little bit better.

And then I got a visit from a friend who gave birth the day before I did. When she asked if she could come visit, I was afraid that seeing that baby would ruin me – would rip whatever control I had over my fragile emotions and lay me bare and vulnerable to the world. Instead, as I snuggled that little newborn and felt that sense of rightness in the slight weight my arms held, I felt a beautiful sense of peace. Because instead of reminding me of my loss, that new baby reminded me of what I have. I remembered holding my own two babies the same way. I remembered that sweet smell of soft warm baby skin and breastmilk and spitup. I remembered the milky smiles and the way those baby eyes would gaze at your face like you were the most beautiful and amazing thing on the face of the earth. I felt peaceful holding that baby. I felt hopeful that this might someday be mine again. But I also felt that, if that hope didn’t pan out, I still had the memories of that amazing experience of new motherhood, of new babies and wonder and joy.

I am sleeping through the night without nightmares. I am feeling things other than sadness and regret and a will to survive crushing grief. I can finally be in the car, listening to music, without weeping. I am able to smile and laugh and enjoy the things around me again. Most of the month of March, I was feeling like a Monday. But I have hope that someday I’ll be feeling like a Saturday night.