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.

Live!

-       Write something on the wall to let people know how you are.

Sara Lidman was a much loved and highly respected Swedish author, still no doubt one of the most important. A strong storyteller, a rebel, an agitator, outspoken about everything she was on fire about. She was born in this northern region, Västerbotten, and most of her novels take place here, around the turn of the last century when Sweden changed into modernity. “Jernbanesviten” is the epos about the trials when building the railroad connecting Norrland (Northern Sweden) - rich of natural resources but far away from the power of governance, with southern Sweden - in need of waterpower, timber and minerals, but not of the poverty and distress from the people here.

About a hundred years later a different railroad is built, now following the coast. This week the new Central Station in Umeå was inaugurated. The choice of artwork connected to the terminal was a natural, intelligent, warm, humorous, respectful and beautiful one: A selection of quotes from Sara Lidman, covering  light birch green glass walls, making a tunnel under the railroad something very rarely seen: an inviting, safe and attractive place, worthy of the title European Capital of Culture 2014!

Two years of planning and fruitful discussions between politicians, artists, officials and The Sara Lidman Society preceded an unanimous decision about the artwork, and the name for it was as natural as rain: Live!, one of Sara’s call to everyone who wanted to listen. There were no signs that this suddenly would turn to one of the most upset situations in Umeå for decades.

This is what happened: a couple of days before the opening two of Umeå’s top politicians decided on covering one of Sara Lidman’s quotes with asphalt. Pretty radical. The reason: her appeal for people to speak up and tell the world about their situation might be an invitation for doodling, ruining the new artwork!

-       Write something on the wall to let people know how you are!

The asphalt didn’t happen, but a hefty tape did. A shame for the European Capital of Culture to be. Sara Lidman was an artist. As the group FA+ who created the artwork Live! For a week now the two politicians who interfered with the freedom of expression have defended themselves, changed their versions, lied, and in one case said I’m sorry, I did wrong.

The tape was removed before the inaguration. 5000 people came together in the dark November evening to behold the light from the glass walls. Sara Lidman’s quotes and the official opening of the terminal, a link in the new millennium connection to the southern parts of the country.

Yesterday the City of Umeå decided on that Live! won’t be changed in any way. And no surveillance cameras. A decision to trust the citizens, and the public eye being the best surveillance. And of course, there is no way to silence the rebel, firecracker and comforter Sara Lidman. Not in her lifetime, and not after.

I haven’t seen the artwork and the tunnel yet. Me and my back are still flat on my couch. But my friend Agneta reported from her first walk through this new landmark in Umeå: It was a wonderful treat, Live! will put Umeå on the map for sure!

As for myself I am listening to Sara’s words picturing the light green glass wall here in my corner. Live Maria, Live!

With a little help from my friends

My friend Maria B is downstairs making dinner for me. She just assisted me to the bathroom. She came all the way from Umeå this dark November evening to be an angel. The knife in my back that I am always fighting and fearing cut right in to my right hip this morning. I’ve been having scares the last few weeks and now it’s for real. And this time it’s bad.

When it’s this serious I can’t get in and out of bed myself. I can’t go to the bathroom. I can’t make myself anything to eat. It’s a very scary place to be in. Rolling back in bed this morning I did what I hate doing: started calling around for help. Hoping to find anyone available. And I was lucky, cause I did. Agneta S came here, fixed me breakfast, filled the dishwasher and put me under a blanket on my couch. And now Maria B is here feeding me a wonderful soup and omelet, emptying the dishwasher and the washing machine, and taking me to the bathroom again. She is now about to leave and Trouble 1 is taking the night shift.

Tomorrow and the following days will be trickier as the workweek is starting. My neighbor Isa, who is a young senior, has promised that I can call her when in need. I am so grateful. But I hate to be in this place. I have had back problems for close to 27 years and they have escalated over time. Neither traditional Western medicine nor any alternative can tell me what’s wrong with me. Uncountable highly skilled practitioners from different fields have tried to help me over the years without lasting results, leaving them and me equally frustrated. And I don’t even want to think about how much money I have put into this. As there are no treatments available within the Swedish healthcare system.

Calling my sister today she comments there has to be some assisting help to get when you are a single person suffering from something acute that makes you immovable. I am thinking she should be right. This is after all Sweden. And there are of course people who don’t even have friends or relatives to call. Checking into it, the answer is no. Unless your condition hasn’t been investigated and approved for home care services and safety alarm from the City, there is no assisting help to get. You just need to take care of things yourself.

Last time my back was this acute was in Seattle, during the Democratic Party’s convent. I remember listening to the speeches about a more human and friendly society finding myself thinking “I want that for Sweden too!”

Tonight I am thinking that I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to turn to get some answers and help for my long time suffering which is only getting worse and making me more limited and restricted for every year. And I don’t know how to solve my day-to-day situation. I will keep calling my friends, neighbors and family. It makes me uncomfortable and vulnerable, but that’s the only thing I can do. And I am lucky to have that opportunity. There are people who aren’t. And they will not make it. In Sweden.

It takes a village

To be driving towards my place in the dark November evening, seeing a light at the end of the road that hasn’t been there before. Driving into my new carport and the inside fixtures lights up by my car entering. Magic! Stepping out of the car under a roof, drumming from the rain.  Putting the engine heater in the outlet and the sound of the fan tells me my car is going to stay warm. Going outside watching the exterior fixtures light up the façade in the most beautiful way. And from inside my house looking out through the north windows where it’s always been pitch black, seeing a small building shining! This was the day when the power work was finally done, and there was a new functioning home for my car, at last!!! I tell you, I was almost crying out of happiness for having accomplished this project.

The need for this addition to my place has been there since I moved here to my grandparents homestead close to 32 years ago. But it wasn’t until two years ago that I started projecting for it. I knew it would be a lot of work, but I had no idea how much. And it started out in the worst possible way, an obstacle that looked like there would be no way to get around: It suddenly seemed like the location for the carport wasn’t even my property!

To make a long story as short as possible I want to say that it took a village to realize this project. And I am so fortunate to have a village. To be a part of a village. My little Swedish village.

My next door neighbor Melker knows every land document for the village hundreds of years back in time and spent hours talking to authorities, and I don’t know how he did it but eventually they agreed on them being wrong and that piece of land actually being mine. Thank you so much Melker, without you, definitely no carport!

Bertil and Clas took down the forest north of my house, letting the light in and room for my new addition. I know this is what you love doing guys, but thank you anyway!

My second cousin Roland and neighbor down the road, Erik, did all the land planning, assisted by Bernt and Jonas. Scooping up uncountable big rocks and truckloads of dirt and soil, exchanging with tons of gravel and concrete blocks for foundation. And although that was heavy work the hardest part was fighting the evening mosquitoes. Thank you guys, you are my heroes!

Bengt and Hans were the carpenters sent from heaven, as my first solution fell through late May, and it’s easier to find a needle in a haystack then a carpenter that time of year. So the day they pulled over at my place was my lucky day! They put the carport up in a little more than a week and we had so much fun I am still laughing out loud thinking about them. Thank you thank you thank you Bengt and Hans, you were my life saviors!

So, when the carport was almost there I felt safe and took off for Seattle late August. Trouble 2, his girlfriend (let’s call her Audrey, that’s the right name for her) and friend Jonatan moved in to my place, house sitters and carport painters. Only, that’s when it started to rain. And it rained. And it rained. For weeks and months. Those poor painters. So, there is still some paint job left for Trouble 1 next summer, but my beloved kids, you did such a good job! Moving to Paris (that’s where they are now) was just the right thing to do following that frustrating task.

Per was the one taking care of the telephone cable touching the roof, moving it up a bit, hopefully safe for the snow, thank you Per!

And now, this week, the final touch: power! My long time electrician Broman and colleague Jonas spent two days mounting 120-meter electric cable and all the fixtures. They did such a great job; you can’t even see those cables! The light I first saw driving towards my place the other night was the light at the front, telling me from far away that the work was done. That my carport was all done and finally there. 32 years later. Before I went to bed it started to snow. And I wasn’t panicking. Thinking: Let it Snow! Thanking my village. Being very happy.

A dancing angel

/Are you still walking here with us, my love.

Although we can’t see you anymore?

Are you still here on earth.

As you are in our hearts?/

I am having my breakfast Wednesday morning. I am crying over my morning paper. I am in despair over life and death and lifeanddeath. As All Saint’s Day is coming up.

I am reading the obituary of a woman who I didn’t know. Or, should I say, I knew a split of a second. A split of a second when we crossed each other’s paths in the cafeteria at the Oncology Center, I doing my yearly check up, she starting her final battle with a cancer spread in most of her body. This was in April. And now she is gone.

/An angel who was here with us.

Was given her wings too early.

Where are you flying, angel of ours?

Are you our Guardian Angel now?/

I liked her at an instant. I felt like we could be good friends. And knew that I probably wouldn’t see her again. We chatted about our cancers and swore over neglecting physicians, it was an experience we shared. But, although my diagnose and treatment were delayed I am still here. I was spared. This far I am spared. She isn’t. And we knew. In that cafeteria in April, at the intersection of life and death. Telling our stories half standing half sitting, I think I was drinking my tea, and did she have a coffee?

She was so beautiful. She was so much life. And she was so loved. And I am crying over the beauty and the pain giving up your life in such love. And the loss for those who are still here. The loss of such a loved life.

/Hearing your dancing bells in the sky.

We know it is you/.

We are alone. We come to this world alone and we go alone. The transitions that puzzle religions, philosophies, cultures and you and me waking up every morning going to sleep every night, we do those transitions alone. Facing a deadly decease, we are alone too. No matter how many people are there for us, at the core we are alone. Nobody can face my death for me. I have to do it myself.

But I can’t help thinking it must be a grace, at that unbearably lonely core, being surrounded by true human love. By close ones who will never ever leave your side. Who will keep you safe in that abyss of abandonment. Who will stay with you, day and night and strong and week and laugh and cry and shy away but hold your hand and touch your scarred and tortured body until it can’t take any more. Until time is up. Until it’s time. For that inevitable transition.

And it must be a comfort, letting go, knowing that your loved ones will be there, together, when your body is gone. Be there for each other. Taking care of each other. Loving each other. Always. Together. As long as they are still there.

/Fly free, my love. You are free now.

Until we all meet again, fare well, our beloved dancing angel./

(Excerpt from poem by family)