A baby is born. And she is beautiful.

She is a good size. She is screaming. Pink. Perfect.

9/9 Apgar.

A text is sent: She is here!

Time passes. Moments. Minutes.

Another text: Something’s not right with her ears.

Four days pass and no one knows. Can she hear now? Will she ever hear? Will she hear her mother’s words, her father’s jokes, her big brother’s music? Will she hear the world?

An appointment. A test. Results. Her inner ear is good. She can hear some. She will hear more.

There is a diagnosis. Foreign words, fancy words. Bilateral Microtia. Atresia.

Chances? Something like 1/26,000. There is no known cause.

There will be surgeries. There will be struggles. There will be snuggles.

There is a headband. Two tiny boxes. Boxes that vibrate, boxes that allow her to hear it all. Her mother’s words, her father’s jokes, her brother’s music, the world.

It’s a new road. And this little girl will walk it. Her parents and brother will walk it. We will walk it with them.

There have been tears. There have been fears. There will be more of these things.

But there has been learning. And loving. Fierce loving. More of it than you can imagine.

This is life. And she will listen to it. And they will.

And we will. I will.

And it will be a privilege, a different kind of privilege, to do so.

A baby is born. And she is beautiful.

She is a good size. She is screaming.

Pink.

Perfect.

*

I asked C if she wanted to write something. Something that I would post here. And she said yes, she would like that. But earlier this week – as we exchanged a series of absolutely wonderful and real late-night emails – C wrote the following words, words she said I could include here:

I think I will write about this, it’s just a matter of when. I’ve sat down and tried a few times, but it didn’t work, and I was jolted back to college to the moments when I would try to write a paper before I was really ready. I’ve always needed to think, reflect, process before I write – and then writing helps me sort through all of that thinking to crystallize how I feel and what I really think. So I’ll do it, I just don’t know when. And I know it doesn’t have to be just once, but something about all of this is tugging at me like there’s something really profound lurking in there – about what this means for us, for her, for who she’ll be – but it’s going to take time (and clarity and sleep – not in that order) to tease it out.

*

It goes without saying that it’s been an eye-opening seven weeks for Sister C and her family. C asked that I go ahead and write something here today, something small, something true. Baby Sister – as her big brother so proudly calls her – is doing well and thriving — and with her bi-weekly speech therapy sessions already in place — might even bypass her mommy in smarts – if that is even possible. On behalf of C, her family, and our family, thanks to all of you for your love and support.

Thank you, most of all, for listening.

*

For other 5 for 5 writing on LISTENING, please click here.

I am also honored to be linking up here for Six Word Fridays.

Do you have any personal experience with Microtia/Atresia or related conditions? Have you weathered any health issues with your children? Any recent reminders to stop and just listen to life?

{Husband & Little Girl. On the walk home from the ice cream store. April 2012.}

It is not lost on me that I am now half the age he was when he died. I am 33. He was 66. It is not lost.

I think about this. About age. Is it just a number? Or is it more than that? Is it a reflection? Of who I am, where I have been, how much time I have left? Is it a reminder? Of mortality, of morality, of Mother Nature? Or is it just a number?

Mom says Dad used to sleep on the floor next to my bassinet in his back office, in that little room where he thought his thoughts and wrote his words, in that little room where he conducted an invisible orchestra and clinked glasses with Heraclitus. And I like this image of him, a burly man, a man who played hockey and football too, curled up on soft beige, his hand reaching up and through the slats, his fingers linked in mine.

Mom says Dad used to carry me on his shoulders. That he used to carry all of us girls this way. And she told me that it would worry her, that she feared he would go over on his ankle. Because he did this sometimes; hands in his pockets, jingling his change, head in the clouds, tripping, going on.

When you lose your Dad you begin to think. You think about life and you think about death. You think about the creatures in your life, those you raise, those whose hands you hold through slats and through days, those you lift to your shoulders for strolls on street of gray.

And so. At 33, I am thinking. Because I am a thinker. Because I am Dad’s daughter. Because that’s what I do. I am wondering impossible things. Am I halfway through? It’s a rough question, one I don’t like to consider or write, but I honor it because it arrives and it demands me. But as soon as it comes, I tuck it away. And I make vows. Silent ones. Sturdy ones. To live and to live well with them and for them. To take care of myself and them.

To take care.

Because age? It is not just a number. It is more than that. A reflection. A reminder.

A reality.

*

For more words on AGE, please pop over and visit Momalom’s wonderful Five for Five writers. Leave a comment for a chance to win Danielle LaPorte’s FIRE STARTER SESSIONS. To date, I have given away four of these because that’s how much I believe in Danielle and her work. Congrats to Kelly who was yesterday’s winner of this blazing new book!

How old are you? How do you feel about your age or age in general? Do you ever find yourself contemplating your own mortality? Have you lost anyone close to you? Do you feel compelled to live a healthy life to try to stick around for those who love, and need you?

One day. One day you will be bigger and you will want to know why. You will want to know why about many things, but one in particular. You will want to know why I still follow you around the streets of this city clutching my phone telling you to frolic, telling you to freeze, telling you to cheese. Why. Why do I do this? Why do I take so many pictures?

And I indulge. I imagine this moment as a big one, cinematic in its unfolding. I will sit you down on that white couch in that yellow room. The three of you will sit in the middle, long legs dangling, legs bruised from soccer and stumbling and life. Daddy will sit on one end of that couch and I will sit on the other. We will each face you, all three of you, and smile. Our smiles will match. They will be confident and strong parent smiles and you will maybe still believe that we know, that we know everything, or maybe just more than you. Or maybe you will be catching on. That we are wild with ignorance, and love.

Why. Why do I do it, why do we do it, why so many pictures of you? And I will hide behind that smile for a moment longer and pass them down, one by one, pieces of memory, bits of our braid, pictures of you. You will hold them in your good, smooth hands as I tell you, we tell you, stories of who you were when you were smaller, of the things you did, of the things you said. We will laugh and you will laugh.

Do you remember? I will ask. Do you remember how I always had that phone in my face, obscuring my eye? Do you remember how I told you to walk ahead and run and skip and hold hands? How I crouched down and climbed up, desperate to see, hungry for the perfect angle, frantic in my compulsion to capture? And you will squint and smile and look at each other and roll your eyes, your sweet blue eyes, and say maybe. Maybe you do remember. Together, you will notice things about the tiny people you were; that your hair was so light, that your eyes were so bright. That you once wore so much color, so much pattern, that there was always chocolate on your face. In unison, you will nod, heads bobbing slightly. You will admit it, that you were in fact cute. And I will nod. Daddy will nod. And we will say. You were, right?

For some reason, you will pause on one. One picture. In it, the youngest of you is missing and I will tell you that you were not yet in this world, our baby, that you were an idea, a dream, an almost. And I will say, That was my college reunion. Daddy took you for a safari adventure around campus and I slept in. And in that picture you peering over the Women’s Table. And then I will chuckle and remember. Once upon a time, Mommy danced on that table and drank champagne with her friends in the middle of the night. You will hear this and you will look at me and your minds will whirl, and you will smile.

And suddenly the answer will come. The answer to why. And I will wait for your giggles to fade and for you to listen. And I will say it.

I take pictures of you because I don’t know what else to do.

And this will strike you as cryptic and Mom-like maybe but you are sweet girls and you humor me and nod. You know I’m not finished. Not yet. I find myself in these moments, these moments with you, when I am so stuffed with something, so bursting, that I must do something. And so I reach for it. And I hold it up to my face, look through that little lens, and press. I do it to fill that space, that spinning space. I do it to see. I do it to remember.

And I have lost you now; your minds are elsewhere, on to the next thing. I know this, but I also know that one day, one day when you have creatures of your own, you will look back understand. And so. I let it go. And you let me go. You let me go to the little shelf where I have left it. And, in shaking hands, I grab it and hold it up. Snap. Crackle. Pop.

More pictures of you.

*

For other Five for Five musings on PICTURES, please click here to visit the lovely sisters at Momalom. Leave a comment here before 11pm EST for a chance to win Danielle LaPorte’s FIRE STARTER SESSIONS. Congrats to Marianna Wright for winning yesterday’s copy!

Do you take a lot of pictures? Why or why not? Do you ever picture future moments, and conversations, with those you love?

THEN: A regular day. After five. The kids are flirting with their food, not eating much. I am riding waves from the day, mulling over threadbare chapters, editing posts in my head. Someone is crying. Someone is asking for a candy. Someone is asking for a show. There are toys everywhere. A rainbow reminder of what life is now. I trip on them. I feel something. A tightening of the chest, a flurry of questions, a surge of ideas. But I can’t write now. I shouldn’t want to write now. I should pick them up and twirl them around and tickle them to the couch. I should sing something: How was your day? You are such a good girl! Mommy loves you! I sing these things. My voice is mine, but not entirely. I walk to the fridge. I swing open the door. I pull the bottle. Uncork it. I pour a glass. A big one. I drink it down. Things are better, smoother, softer, more beautiful. The whines are melodic, the toys symbolic of something gritty and grand, the chapters I didn’t finish mere details. Specks on the canvas.

NOW: A regular day. After five. The kids are flirting with their food, not eating much. I am riding waves from the day, mulling over threadbare chapters, editing posts in my head. Someone is crying. Someone is asking for a candy. Someone is asking for a show. There are toys everywhere. A rainbow reminder of what life is now. I trip on them. I feel something. A tightening of the chest, a flurry of questions, a surge of ideas. But I can’t write now. I shouldn’t want to write now. I should pick them up and twirl them around and tickle them to the couch. I should sing something: How was your day? You are such a good girl! Mommy loves you! I sing these things. I get a glass of water. I sip it. It tastes like nothing. Nothing can be delicious. I open a book and read a few words. I open my computer and write a few words. I wrangle my girls into a tiny circle and say a few words. Remember when. Imagine this. Can you believe. I am proud of you. Life is life. The voice is mine. Entirely.

WHEN: A regular day. After five… I walk to the fridge. I pour a glass of wine. I take a sip. I put it down. I read some words. I write some. I sing some. I say some. And they say words too, many of them, rising up, floating between us. Words about today, words about tomorrow, words about homework, words about heartwork, words about whatever. We set the table. Plates. Napkins. Forks. Knives. Daddy is home. We sit together. We sip. Words. Water. Wine. We are living. We are loving. We are learning. And we are talking, listening, dealing, dreaming, words weaving in that invisible and exquisite space, over the plates we pick from.

Words.

*

Words. They are this year’s wine. I sip them and swig them. I slurp them. I spill them. They make me feel, and see, and imagine, and dream. They make me alert and aware and alive. They are my dots, scattered about me, toys on the floor, connecting themselves on the canvas, tripping me up.

Words. They arrive all day long, lining up, waiting to be plucked, placed. They whisper and whirl, they tangle and twirl.

Words. They have no calories. They are free. They are me.

They do not make my head hurt. Well, they do. But in a good way. The best way. Life is life. And I will read about it and write about it and talk about it instead of escaping it.

*

Thank you all for your wonderful words yesterday. Your support and stories mean the world. The world.

*

For other Five for Five musings on WORDS, please click here to visit the lovely sisters at Momalom. I am also thrilled to be linking up with other JUST WRITE participants over at The Extraordinary Ordinary. Leave a comment here before 11pm EST for a chance to win Danielle LaPorte’s FIRE STARTER SESSIONS. Congrats to Heidi for winning yesterday’s copy!

What role do words play in your life? Do you think it is possible to replace our vices with words – thought, written, spoken? What does the 5pm hour look like in your home? Why do you drink?

{October 2007. Sister C’s wedding weekend. Big Girl is 10 months. Dad has just been diagnosed with cancer. A lot going on behind that smile of mine.}

I have been wanting to write this post for a long time. It’s been inside me for almost a year, the words rearranging themselves in my head. I’ve waited. For what? I’m not sure. For the right time. For the perfect time. But the thing is, the thing to remember, is that there is no right time. No perfect time. There is no right or perfect time to leave that job, or have that baby, or tell that truth. And so you must just do it, that thing that matters to you, that thing you will look back upon in years to come and say: Thank goodness I did that. Thank goodness I said that. Thank goodness I had the guts to go for it.

I wrote the following words last spring:

May 20, 2011

It’s a little past 5am. I shoot up in bed. My bangs are stuck with sweat to my forehead. I look down. My breasts pop from my tank, full and ready. I will feed my baby soon. She’s two months old. Asleep in her crib upstairs. On the monitor, I hear her pre-waking grunts.

I don’t remember the end of my night.

I shake my husband awake, as I do on mornings like this – yes, there have been others.

“Babe,” I say.

He grumbles something in acknowledgment.

“Why do I do this to myself?”

It’s a question he’s heard before. One he’s never quite able to answer. Why do I drink myself into oblivion only to hate myself the next day? It’s a tough thing to explain. Even for me.

The monologue begins. A true shame spiral. I travel down. My husband reaches out and strokes my arm.

I’m crying now. Shaking from the white wine aftermath, but also from some kind of awareness. This morning’s different.

I shake my husband some more. He sits up in bed, cradling a lavender pillow.

“I think something’s wrong,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure.”

His eyes open now, and he looks at me.

It was a Friday morning. Husband was due to leave in just a few hours for his cousin’s wedding. It was the first time he would leave me with all three girls. The day before, the pediatrician confirmed that Little Girl still had blood in her diaper from a severe milk allergy; I was cutting all dairy from my diet in an effort to continue nursing (and barely eating as a result) but it was not working. The day before, Big Girl had taken her ERBs – a Kindergarten placement test. My beloved baby nurse was due to leave me in a couple of days. I had not slept much. I had too much wine the night before. My body was a mess. So was my mind. I was due to attend a building dedication to my family, a quasi memorial to Dad.

Still in bed, I considered two words for the first time: postpartum depression. I asked Husband if he thought it was possible and he said he didn’t know but that I should call my OB. I promised I would. But first I went with Mom and my sisters to Green Chimneys and sat in a folding chair as new dormitories were dedicated to the Donnelley family and as people, and Mom, talked about Dad. And I listened but in my head, my throbbing head, four words pulsed: The day everything changed.

You see. I am a writer and I title books that do not yet exist, and might never exist. I knew it, I felt it, that the day would be an important one for me, that it would mean something looking back. And so, it had a title, this story: The Day Everything Changed. It would be a story of waking up, literally and figuratively, to a truth, to a life. It would be a story of surrender and strength.

I came home. Wiped out, inspired, missing Dad. I called my OB. And she gave me two names, two numbers. I stood there in my bathroom and called them both. Left messages. Even though it was a Friday afternoon, they each called back. I arranged to meet both of them the following Monday. Monday came and I sat in two different offices and said the same things. I’m not sure what is going on, but I want to figure it out.

Tell me a bit about you, your upbringing, your history. And so I did. I grew up here. I am the middle of five sisters. We all went to the same schools – Dalton and Yale. I went on to law school at Columbia and practiced for a bit and then left to write a novel. I published it not long ago and am trying to write my next but it is hard because I have three kids under four.

They nodded, smiled, jotted notes.

Why now? they asked. Why did you call on Friday?

And so. I told them. Everything. About the buckets of wine. About the allergy. About the Kindergarten test. About my husband going out of town, the baby nurse leaving. About missing Dad. 

More nods. More notes.

You are not depressed. They both said this and it was obviously a tremendous relief.

But they were not finished. They both arrived at the same conclusion: You are anxious.

I sat there, in those comfy chairs in two different offices on the very same day, and I nodded and thought something. Duh. Of course I am anxious. I have always been anxious. I am a perfectionist, an achiever. I spend my days writing about insecurity, and anxiety. I like things a certain way. Myself. My life. My world. I did not say these things aloud, but listened.

You have probably always had anxiety. And your anxiety has always served you well – it has helped you achieve and accomplish all the things you have achieved and accomplished. But. But now you are in a different place. You have a husband and kids and a life that is at its core chaotic, a life you cannot completely control. And this is making you anxious, it is. Three babies? A child testing for kindergarten? A child with a health issue? A dead father? A desire to be an author and a hands-on mother? This is the perfect storm. This is too much. And this is not really about drinking. You are drinking – as many people do – because you are anxious, because you do not know how to relax, and because you need a release. But drinking makes anxiety worse. Know that.

Subconsciously, I knew these things. That I was anxious, that I drank wine to quell my anxiety, to cope. But hearing someone, two someones, say these things aloud struck me. And I decided something: I wanted to change. My life would not change; there would always be stresses, the chaos would not magically abate, but I did not want to feel the way I was feeling. So. For several months, I traveled to the East Side and talked to one of these women about my how I was doing. For several months, I took a very low dose of anti-anxiety medicine. I think it helped.

The sad thing? I barely told a soul about any of this. Even though I knew I was surrounded by people who loved me and would want to support me. I didn’t tell anyone because I felt weak and ashamed. I didn’t tell anyone because I felt like a failure, like I couldn’t hack it. I didn’t tell anyone because I felt like I would, for some reason, be judged. Instead of opening up, something I wish I did in retrospect, I slogged through very much on my own – thinking, writing, mothering.

In time, I felt much better. I told my therapist this. I told her I wanted to stop the meds, and with her thoughtful supervision, I did so right before Christmas. In January, I went to see her one final time to check in and talk about things. It was a wonderful, real hour. I told her that I was feeling good, that my girls were thriving, that I got anxious of course but in a way that seemed appropriate and manageable. I did say that I was still drinking a bit more than I’d like.

I have been thinking of giving up alcohol for one year. Just as an experiment, a reboot. To see what life feels like, and looks like, without it. I don’t know but I just think it would be really interesting. The writer in me is curious and wants to do this, and write this, and just see.

My therapist smiled. I don’t remember her exact words, but they went something like this: Do you know how many people would want to read what you write? Do you know that every single one of my patients, most people I know, would relate to your story? Do you know how common it is to feel anxious or depressed or disillusioned and drink or do something else to feel better, to escape? This would be a more subtle story. Not about alcoholism or anything severe. About real life, about stumbling, about coping, about trying to do it all.

I smiled. Nodded.

She smiled. Nodded. This is big. This is good, she said. And then we said goodbye.

And I left her office that day and walked back out in the world. It was a sunny, but cold day and I was buzzing. Buzzing with the idea of change. The book, that imaginary book in my head, would have a slightly different name now, a name that Thoreau would approve of:

The Day Everything I Changed.

The Day I Changed. Because Thoreau is right. Things do not change; we do.

I look back to a year ago. To a time that was tough. To a time when I woke up, yes literally, yes figuratively, to a murky and meaningful morning, to a series of truths. I am struggling. It is okay to struggle. To struggle is to be human.

I am writing this because I have wanted to for a long time. I am writing this because one of you reading this might be in the thicket now, struggling with something similar or different, afraid and alone. I am writing this because this is my story and I am ready, finally ready, to tell it.

I am writing this because this is me.

There is no right time. No perfect time.

So I chose today.

Thank you to the lovely sisters over at Momalom for inspiring me to finally write this and post it. I am linking up with several other bloggers for the wonderful Five for Five community blogging effort. Click here to read many more musings on today’s topic of Change. Come back each day this week for more truth. I am also linking up with Imperfect Prose.

And leave a comment today before 11pm EST for a chance to win a copy of Danielle LaPorte’s FIRE STARTER SESSIONS. Per my vow, I purchased one copy for every five of your wonderful comments Friday and now I have a slew of books to give away! And big congrats to Susan for being Friday’s winner.

Have you or anyone you know dealt with any type of anxiety or depression, postpartum or other? Why do you think I was so scared to talk about this publicly? Do you agree that there is no right time, or perfect time to do and talk about important things? Please feel free to comment anonymously as I know this can be a sensitive topic for many. Thank you for listening