Everything happens for a reason

This March, my grandmother died.  She was almost 92. I thought it would be easy to handle death in someone so old, who had been sick for three months.  The thing is, you can't really handle death.  It sort of handles you (not in the Russian sense, but you know what I mean). She got to see Mathilda as a baby and then as a loving great-granddaughter.  Mathilda will have photos, if not real memories, and a beautiful white blanket, crocheted by my grandmother for her.

In the ICU, Tilly playing with ECG and O2 leads, of course. My grandmom would not approve of having her photo taken with such messy hair.

kiss!

I got to actually say goodbye to my grandmom and tell her I love her.  It was one of the greatest gifts she ever gave me.  An hour after my grandmother passed, sleeping, listening to Glen Miller, my mom in the room, I got an email from the NIH notifying me that I had been awarded a grant I had applied for this past December. Struggled, slaved, killed myself, lost sleep over- better terms than "applied". Thanks, Grandmom. I raise a glass of Manischewitz to you.

4 generations of Rehak women, July 2011

blanket from Grandmom on our nursing chair

we gave this photo of Tilly playing on her blanket, taken by Melody Farrin, to my grandmother for Christmas this year

We attended her funeral.  My mom, Reggie, Mathilda, and my brother, who flew in from Russia, stayed in my grandmother's house.  I was so sad, I was sick. We saw her everywhere. In the kitchen window, watching for our car; in her recliner in the living room, watching Anderson Cooper.  And just when we couldn't get any sadder, Mathilda started to crawl.  Across the floor, to her favorite doll (friend), "Anna."  She was 11mo old and I thought she'd never crawl.  She was just waiting for the perfect moment, till we really needed it.  So we'd remember the cheers and her smile, and not our sadness.

This April, on the weekend of Mathilda's first birthday, I came down with some sort of virus, and lost my voice completely.  My voice and I have a long, complicated history.  We used to break up and get back together all the time.  Chronic hoarseness and 2 vocal fold surgeries later, I left my place in NYU's prestigious Tisch School of the Arts musical theater program and entered the speech pathology department. My voice healed. It got stronger. We got back together. I became a voice specialist (why can't I quit you?!) I haven't been hoarse in about 7 or 8 years.  Hoarse where it bothered me.  This time I was really bothered. I felt sick to my stomach.  The benefits of working for a world reknown voice center, you can get your boss to give you a shot of steroids in your bum on a Sunday 3 hours before 30 people including 7 kids come to your tiny house to celebrate the first year of your daughter's wonderful life. Perks. I started on a week long steroid taper to treat the severe vocal fold swelling causing the hoarseness. My voice came back. It apologized. I forgave it, let it pick the radio station in the car.

The problem with steroids is that, even small levels show up in breast milk. I had stopped pumping during the day at work because of low supply, and had about a month prior stopped nursing in the morning because poor Mathilda was still hungry after. Again, low supply, sadly. But we were still nursing at night before bed, when she was sick, and on airplanes. I tried pumping at night instead without success. As she had many times in the past when I wasn't home, Tilly got a bottle before bed from her Dad. Then I realized, we had weaned. I had imagined the weaning process so many times.  Would we decide- this is it? Tonight, this is the last time. I didn't think I'd ever be strong enough for that. Snuggling in the big rocking chair, singing I Will and Blackbird, her tiny fists rubbing her eyes as she settles into sleep. How could I ever stop that? The first night I gave her a bottle, I told her it was time for "nighttime milk", she signed "milk" as she always does, kicked her legs in excited anticipation as I carried her to the chair.  She leaned in to nurse.  My voice caught. I gave her the bottle. She took it, and fell asleep later on my shoulder, her warm breath hitting my collarbone in tiny puffs, her soft chubby arms wrapped around my neck.

first night together

figuring it all out

early morning nursing

mama's hair

Three weeks later, April became May.  I defended my dissertation prospectus and passed, granting me ABD status and admission to doctoral candidacy. This status allows me to really pursue post-Ph.D. employment.  The weekend of my grandmother's funeral, somewhere between the crying and the crawling, I got a call about a potential job offer in a city that isn't Pittsburgh, as well as a potential offer in Pittsburgh. Big choices. And again, perfect timing.

So I say, everything happens for a reason.
If I had never lost my voice, I never would have become a speech pathologist.  I wouldn't have moved to Pittsburgh, so Reggie would never have moved to Pittsburgh. Maybe we wouldn't have gotten married. And if we hadn't gotten married, there would be no Mathilda. If my family hadn't been gathered for my grandmother's funeral, sitting in her warm, cozy living room, we wouldn't have all been together to see Tilly crawl for the first time.  And if I hadn't lost my voice on her birthday, I wouldn't have needed medication, and I would have had to decide a day to stop nursing. To give permission for my baby to become a little girl. I don't know if I would have been able to make such a decision. Just like I don't think I would have been able to drop out of the theater program at NYU, despite how much I didn't like it. Sometimes the universe swoops in and gives us a little nudge. Makes life just a bit easier. Helps my springtime memories be of developmental milestones and family togetherness and of academic and professional success, instead of hard choices, sad goodbyes, and frustration.  Everything happens for a reason.