Mondays And "How Are You?"

Most everyone has a disdain for Mondays. But few actually feel emotional, and sometimes, literal physical pain from its arrival. But that's precisely what I have now.

Sunday nights start brewing with all the thoughts and guilt of how my labor started on a Sunday, but I was unaware of it. So, true to course, I collapsed in tears while taking my shower last night. Sobbing out apologies to my children as the water poured over me.

Not until the warm water runs out do I convince myself to stand up, dry my now puffy eyes, and put on my pajamas. I then made my way to bed, where my husband had been asleep for an hour or so already. I curled up close to him.. not just because I wanted to.. but because I knew I'd fall apart again, almost instantly, if I didn't.

He woke up for a few minutes as I explained that I fell to pieces in the shower, and that for at least a few minutes, I needed to feel close to him. I stayed in that nook; with my head on his shoulder, until I felt content enough to roll away.

But as usually happens before falling asleep, at random moments, I'll feel an instant weight in my lungs and tightening of my stomach. My whole body will begin to shake as I curl into a fetal position and just cry for a few seconds.

I never have the heart to wake my husband up when this happens.. So, I didn't last night either.

I proceeded to have several dreams about giving birth; waking up each time in tears -- until finally morning arrived.

But Monday is no emotional reprieve. As the hours tick by, I recall the moment I went to the doctor's office, when I arrived to the hospital, glancing at the clock when I began to push, and the moment that each of them arrived in the world -- quickly followed by the moment each of them left. Mondays are now memory minefields.. just waiting to tear me apart without a moment's notice.

I peaked today, when a client asked, "So how are the babies?"

I'd managed to avoid this question for weeks now, but here it was. I struggled my way through an answer. "Well, we lost them 3 weeks ago today. I went into preterm labor..."

"I'm sorry. What a dumb thing to ask," she interrupted.

"It's okay, you didn't know," I replied. "They lived about an hour and then passed."

As she left I felt like I got through it fairly well, but as I made my way back to my office, that familiar sinking tightness in my chest began to appear. I quickly diverted to the employee bathroom, locked the door, and braced myself against the wall. With my arms pushed out in front of me, I looked down at the floor. Watching water droplets fall onto the tile. Drip. Drip. Drip.

I waited for the tears to slow, then dried my eyes.

This is Monday for me.

I'm not sure what is worse, Mondays in general, or when people ask me "How are you doing?" Inevitably, I've been asked this unintentionally loaded question dozens of times.

I know they're unsure and uneasy about what else to say or ask, and it comes from a good place. But the truth is, it rips the wounds wide open again.. because it demands an answer.

So I usually have to lie, saying I'm doing okay or "eh" .. because nobody is prepared for the honest answer. The answer that repeats itself over and over in my head.

"Both of my babies died in my arms. Both of my babies died in my arms. Both of my babies died in my arms..."

That says it all. It says everything I'm thinking. Everything I'm feeling. But it's everything I'm still scared to say out loud unless I'm alone in the shower on a Sunday night. It's like a mantra of pain, built only for one.

So, should you find yourself in such a position, asking someone how they are because you just want them to know you care.. simply say, "I'm thinking about you." Something that doesn't require an answer, a trip down memory lane, or a baring of the soul that they're not ready or willing to do. Something that just says, "I'm here."