Seizing the Christmas moment

There is Christmas music in my yellow kitchen downstairs. There is chatting and laughter and life in my house. I am resting on my couch while listening to my children baking and making the Christmas ham. My empty and painful place has turned into a cozy home. And I am seizing the moment.

Becca was the first one to arrive, on Friday. Becca isn’t really my daughter, but close to. She was three years old when we first met, at the corner of Columbia and 34^th in Madrona where we stayed our second time in Seattle, summer -95. Now a young woman at 21 she is studying in Spain for the year and is here to spend Christmas with her Swedish brothers and their family. What a treat!

And yesterday Trouble 2 and girlfriend Audrey arrived from Paris where they have their home now. I haven’t seen them since August. I always miss my children when they are gone for a long time of course, but lying here flat having to rely on people I don’t know for surviving makes the arrival of my kids a joy that’s hard to express.

I can literally feel how my body is relaxing. How my breathing is getting deeper. Calmer. Slowing down. How a feeling of safety that’s been gone for such a long time that I don’t even remember it is entering and I realize this is the way I am supposed to feel. This is the natural state of mind. This is what life should feel like.

My task now is to enjoy this. Fully. Not worry about that it will all be gone in two weeks. It’s a hard thing for me. I am not talented when it comes to this. I am no doubt about it absolutely lousy on this subject. Aware though. So I will work on it.

Becca told me that she has been having this picture of her sitting in a cabin under a blanket all snowed in, in a frozen winter wonderland. Well, the wonderland is white and frozen. It’s so beautiful it’s kind of ridiculous. It’s not a Christmas card; it’s more than your wildest dreams of a Christmas card. And it’s for real. And my place is kind of a cabin. So I provided Becca with a blanket, needles and yarn. I want her to have the Christmas she was picturing.

That’s what we all want, right? The perfect Christmas. But life has it’s own ways. And Christmas is the most horrible time of year for big changes that you didn’t chose yourself, challenges and losses.

I am sure Becca will have her share of Christmas challenges through her life. So I want to provide her a holiday that will give her strength and always be remembered with great joy. Wading in the deep snow cutting down the Christmas tree with her Swedish brothers in their forest. Baking Swedish and American Christmas cookies in my warm kitchen. Knitting under my blanket with the candles lit. Decorating the tree and having glögg (mulled wine) with my sons’ friends. Spending Christmas Eve at my sisters. And we’ll see, maybe even going to the julotta, the early morning Christmas Day service.

And experiencing my Swedish Christmas through Becca gives me a shining joy and articulates a different depth to the traditions. It helps me to enjoy it fully. To seize the Christmas moment.

An unexpected circle

- Good morning

- Breakfast?

- Lunch?

- Dinner?

- Good night

Every day as a circle. It feels familiar in an awkward way. A couple of days into my new life with home care, safety alarm and night patrol I felt like I’ve been through this before. Like there is something being recycled. People opening my door, bringing me something and off they are. Closing my door at night leaving me to myself. The whole thing with lying flat, not being able to move, people I don’t know coming and going. Myself in a bubble of holding up. Every bit of energy put into surviving. Seconds, minutes, days, weeks, months. Don’t be nice to me because if I start crying I will loose it.

And yes, I’ve been here before. 25 years ago. Although in a very different setting.

I was pregnant, expecting my second child. I was a little more than half way through my pregnancy, 25 weeks, when the contractions started. This was right after Christmas, and a Christmas present I wasn’t wishing for. At the hospital it became clear it was serious. The tiny baby was already in the birth canal - I hope that’s the accurate word; my vocabulary when it comes to this subject is limited. And I was promptly ordered to lie down. To stay at the hospital and lie down. This was 1988, and it was way too early to save a child at 25 weeks, if born. So every day I could keep the baby would be beneficial.

It was bad. And what made it even worse was the baby back at the house that was too young to understand what was going on. Why his mom was gone. Trouble 1 was 1 year and 8 months when I suddenly disappeared.

My home for the following months was the maternity ward. The world was already white when this happened, but inside me it was black. The contractions continued although I did everything right. Lied down 24-7. The labor could start any minute any time; my fear was constant and legitimate. The snow fell outside my window as frequent as the contractions, every single day. Day after day, contractions and fear, night after night, second by second. The ward front desk was right outside my room, and for three months I could hear babies arriving from the delivery room, happy parents saying good-bye and thank you as they could go home with their new family member after a few days. While I was watching the snow, holding up. To keep my baby. One more day.

Trouble 1 and his dad came to visit every other day. Moments I cherished although in sadness cause soon they would be gone again. I knew Trouble 1 was safe with his dad. But I worried about me and my firstborn son’s relationship. Yes, we did see each other often, but in an unfamiliar and strange environment, and I wasn’t at home. I wasn’t there in the morning and I wasn’t there to tuck him in. I was tied up in that bed and I couldn’t play with him. We always had to say goodbye, he stopped calling for me and pappa (dad) was his most frequent word.

So, I was fighting for my two babies, one at home and one inside me. Meanwhile people were walking in and out of my room. In and out of my existence. The weeks passed as the contractions continued. A constant scare. No sleep. In the Eighties the idea was that the child was in the same state of mind as the mother. So, not only did I have to worry about going into labor too early, but to transfer my panic and darkness to this poor baby.

28 weeks. The prognosis was looking better. 30. The doctors were amazed about me still keeping the baby inside me. 32. I myself had earlier been working in the neonatal ward, therefore I knew what it was like continuing the pregnancy in an incubator, hooked up to all kinds of life saving equipments. 34. Almost there. 36. That’s when a pregnancy is counted as full time, and I finally was allowed to move home.

I don’t have words for what it was like. I had spent the months between Christmas and Easter in jail and now I was let out. The light was back outside and inside. My house was totally snowed in and I felt absolutely safe with my husband and our son. At home finally. My home.

A week after, Trouble 2 was born. A little boy completely at peace with himself, the world and me. We used to call him Lucky Luke when he grew up, because of his contentment with most everything. And in a week he will be home for Christmas from Paris where he lives now. Still content and lucky. So much for those Eighties predictions, thanks God.

It’s snowing outside most everyday here in Sweden, just as it did 25 years ago. It will be a storybook Christmas when it comes to exterior. And life is making a circle. A young couple, close and dear relatives of mine are expecting their first child. It is supposed to be a May baby, born when life is returning to the 63^rd latitude after winter hibernation, at the time birches are turning a transparent magic green. But contractions have already started. Way way way too early. And I wish that I could tell them that everything will be all right. That the story will have a happy ending, as the one 25 years ago had. But right now it’s one minute at a time. One hour. One day. And hopefully it will turn to weeks. As many as needed.

As for myself I still hate hospitals. So even with my worst back pain the plain thought of going there makes me prefer anything else. I’ve had 27 different people in my house these last three weeks. It’s not fun, but I got to be home. And hey, it’s just me and the pain.  Reliving my Trouble 2 Lucky Luke brooding through my current condition and this young couple makes me feel the circle. And that I am actually quite lucky too.

Congrats/condolences

They look like sisters. Jane Abbott Lighty and Pete-e Petersen, the two curly blond senior citizens. No wonder, most couples tend to harmonies when being together for a long time. And Jane and Pete-e have. 35 years. On Thursday they held the very first same-sex marriage license issued by Seattle’s King County.

And they were not the only ones. More than 800 gay and lesbian couples across Washington State received their marriage license during a long and festive day, a major moment in history.

"There are individual stories of those who will get licenses tonight and in the coming days and will have an opportunity to marry after many years of waiting, and those are important stories," said King County Executive Dow Constantine, who signed the county's first licenses just after midnight and then stayed until 4 a.m. greeting couples. "But the big story is that we're taking another step forward as a county, as a state, as a society, as a nation." Washington is now one of seven states that recognize same-sex marriage, and the first to do so because of a voter directive.

For as long as I have known Seattle, the city has been identified as gay friendly and liberal in that sense. A safe place for people who aren’t shaped for the square box family that’s the norm. Me, over the years staying in the core neighborhoods of Seattle; Madrona, Montlake, Ravenna, University District, Wallingford, Capitol Hill and Queen Anne, had no reason to doubt that. I’ve even noticed Broadway Market (when it still was there) on Broadway described in publications as the only (or maybe the first) gay mall in the US!

So, it was really interesting a few years ago, reading an article I’m sure in The Weekly, on the subject. Yes, Seattle is a good place for people not so square shaped. Capitol Hill is the center for rainbow families, and Broadway populated by same-sex couples holding hands while shopping for groceries at QFC. But, heading half an hour along I5 to the southern suburbs (for my Swedish readers, that’s pretty much where IKEA is located), that’s a different story. And also, there are differences between same-sex and same-sex. There are hierarchies in every community.

And it turns out, surprise surprise, that a white male couple is the most accepted among the out-of-the-box-people. Then a descending scale following the society in general. Just look at the sitcoms and romantic comedies! The male gay friend is almost a stereotype, and when it comes to couples, there is a bunch of them.

Reading that article made med feel kind of stupid and naïve, having glorified Seattle in a way. I know though, that Seattle is a good city for most people. And for the record, my Swedish town Umeå was in the beginning of 2000 twice voted the most gay friendly city in the country.

So, if the new law on this issue feels very natural to me, the second legalization that took place in Seattle on Thursday makes me feel like an alien. And it becomes clear to me that I am very very Swedish. After all.

At 12.00 am Thursday, Washingtonians started celebrating. On sidewalks, in parks, outside bars and on comfy home couches, cheering a new marijuana law that is among the most liberal in the world.

The festivities culminated with a big, hazy party Thursday night at Seattle Center. The new law doesn’t allow pot smoking in public places, but police won’t interfere. Locally, Seattle police announced they would not write tickets for public use of marijuana, which is now equivalent to public drinking. They will "give you a generous grace period to help you adjust to this brave, new, and maybe kinda stoned world we live in," according to a post on the department's blog.

Watching the pictures from Seattle Center it all feels very foreign to me. The pipes, the hookahs, the proudly held handful of pot. I am not making any judgments here; the American Westcoast and the northern Swedish cultures couldn’t be farther away from each other on this issue, in a historic sense. And that’s what’s shapes us. But it makes me worried. And there is one picture that makes me more than worried, really upset: On this occasion, at midnight, among haze, hookahs and cheery people, there are children. Children! What the hell are they doing there?!

OK, I guess I am judgmental on this after all. My Swedishness shines through in a big way here. And I am congratulating Washington State to the peoples vote on one subject and bringing my condolences on the other.

 

Nightmare/dreamland

First it was great relief and extreme gratitude. Then of course, I hate it. Now, trying very hard to accept my situation. Balancing a nightmare with the insights of actually living in a dreamland.

Two weeks ago my back went out in a really bad way. For a week friends and family were on call 24-7 to get me through the long days and the panicking nights. Normally that’s about the time I need before I can take care of myself again, but this time it’s a lot worse.

I reported that Sunday when checking into it, there was no help to get from society in a situation like that. In Sweden. So, I was lucky to have people around me that I could turn to.

I can’t say how grateful I am. Agneta S, Maria B, my neighbor Isa, my sister Kia, Eva, AnnSofie, Alex, Agneta P, Mats, my nephew Johannes and his wife Lisa, and Maria P. And most of all: my beloved son Trouble 1 who is the only one physically strong enough to lift and carry me when things are at it’s worst. And the only one who, of course can’t say no, and puts his life on hold when I’m in need. I don’t have words for what they all did, and are doing for me. And it’s not like these people have a lot of time on their hands. They are busy busy busy, squeezing me in into their tight schedule. The only good thing about my situation is that I’ve really got to hang out with my friends in a way our calendars normally don’t let us do. Loved that part of it!

So, I desperately needed to find a different solution. And it turned out that there actually is help to get. After all. And I am so glad I was wrong on that subject.

Since a week back now I have home care service six times a day. I have a safety alarm on my wrist, and people putting me to bed and checking in on me during the night. This is provided by the City of Umeå, I am paying a small amount of money for this service, but have of course contributed all my life, paying taxes. So have my friends, family and the Swedish people.

I am actually surprised. What some of my American friends call the dreamland Sweden has been dismantled in so many ways during the right wing government these last six years. And I know this through personal experiences; it’s not just hearsay and media reporting. So finding out that parts of Sweden still works in a way we can be proud of makes me happy and gives me some hope.

And here I am now, lying flat on my couch, hearing people stomp their feet off at my front porch every other hour, opening the door to my home. They get me out of bed, take me to the bathroom, dress me, make me breakfast and heat up food for dinner for me. Only this week I’ve met thirteen different people. Some are really really nice. Good persons, suitable for their task. Some are… I don’t know, slipped in or stayed too long, stinking cigarette smoke and not even having bedside manners.

The hardest part though is being put to bed by people who hardly take their coat off while here, but wearing thin rubber gloves. And in the middle of the night they are back to take me to the bathroom. Putting the key in my door, turning the brights on, then off they go. Cause I am just one out of everyone that needs this supervision. I feel like I am a part of some under ground invisible group managed by these rubber gloves. And of course, no one can help me with the pain. When the knife cuts right into me terrified body I’m as alone as always.

I don’t sleep. I don’t feel safe. The idea of all this care is, making me safe. But I’m not. I don’t sleep and I don’t feel safe. And I hate it. I hate not being able to take care of myself. I hate having strangers in my house helping me out with my most private matters. I am so nice. I chat, I ask them how they are, if the road here was bad. I make excuses for the un-shoveled path into my house. I smile and I’m so brave.

It’s Advent 1^st. Fall has been warm and rainy, but the first day of December came with big cold snowflakes, covering the landscape in white fluff, like it was shipped in for winter. Johannes and Lisa decorated my house with Advent stars and light wreaths earlier this week. Maria P brought me glögg (mulled wine) Friday evening. I know, that from outside my place here at the end of the road looks like a wonderful Christmas card.

But I am sad. I am working on accepting my situation, making it a normal every day life. And I am trying so hard being grateful. And I am. Knowing that if I was a citizen of Seattle and the US this kind of help and assistance is only to dream of. So I am living in a dreamland after all. Only, right now, it still feels like a nightmare.