Mum

I have been planning to write this blog post for many years now. 'The blog post I will write when my mum dies'. I would write about her life, how much I love her and miss her, how Alzheimer's ruined it all, how it is to live far away from your family, in a foreign country. I had many phrases already planned in my head.

And yet, now that it has happened, now that she has died, now that I've cried a million tears… I don't know what to write anymore. Everything I write feels wrong and not worthy.

Anyway, two weeks after she died (Two weeks! Where did those two weeks go?), I will give it a go:

After a rushed and incredibly stressful journey back to Sweden, during which I kept looking at the time, wondering if I'd make it – I did eventually make it to her bedside in time. In fact, I had about 24hrs of holding hands and comforting talk before she passed away. She held my hand so hard, she actually gave me a bruise. Sadly, it disappeared. I wish it hadn't.

The night before she died, we sat around her, playing Glenn Miller, Arne Lambert and other favourites of hers. We talked about the good times we'd had in her company, about the fun memories, we  talked about how much we loved her. We cried. We laughed. We cried again.

All that matters to me personally, is that I was with her the very moment her conscience went. Her last proper breath. Part of me thinks she waited until I had made it home, before she let go. She knew I was coming. She had my brother and myself next to her – and that's what she would have wanted.

Having only a limited time to sort things out, I started to sort out her belongings the day after she died. I emptied her drawers, shelves and wardrobes, packing everything into boxes and bin bags. I cried and cried, but told myself these were really only material possessions that didn't matter, at the end of the day. I kept her favourite blue cardigan, knitted for her by a lady I knew in Devon. Mary was born in March 1921, just like mum. They had never met (as mum refused to go abroad) but I'm sure they would have liked each other. That blue cardigan still smells of mum.

We gave away some of her furniture to the home where she had lived the last, almost 4 years of her life. The wonderful staff, who were sincerely sad to see her go, arranged a little corner at the end of her corridor, to her memory. The 'Warg corner'. They said they would sit there and think about her. I know I can visit whenever I want, but – I'm not sure I want to. Even though she was lovingly taken care of at that place, even though the staff genuinely enjoyed her jokes and sense of humour, I'm not sure I want to be reminded of her time there again. Those 4 years were good, but on the whole, it was a relatively short and sad period of her long life. I lost my 'real' mum during these years. Actually, I had already lost her, several years before then, not sure when her illness started exactly. It's a sneaky thing, dementia. Creeps up on you.

Anyone who loses their parent to dementia knows that you grieve for many years. You start talking about your parent in the past tense, even though they are still alive. And you feel guilty for doing it, even if logically, you know you shouldn't.

I decided mum was worth being remembered for the good times rather than for the bad times, so I put together a slide show of 158 stills from her life, showing a few snapshots of what she had been through. There were lovely old black and white photos of her as a toddler, teenager, young woman, mother, proud shop owner and so on.

There were more recent photos too, showing her arm wrestling with her grandchildren, dancing with her zimmer frame and playing drums (!) on her 90th birthday – 2 years before she died. It made guests at the funeral remember, laugh and share memories, rather than just cry. Exactly what I was hoping for.

Mum, rest in peace. You were the best mum in the world.

Things you learn at ASDA

So, we decided to shop at ASDA, for once. Maybe it was the promise of a lot of £1 deals for stuff we would have paid more for, at Tescos or Sainsbury's. Or maybe it was the thought of that excellent advert which still makes me laugh, I don't know.

Anyway, there we were, queuing up at one of the thousands of tills (ok, I'm exaggerating), together with what seemed to be 3/4 of the population of our town. It might have been cheap but we ended up buying a lot more than we had planned for. Oh well. I'll put it to good use.

The man serving at our till was an Indian looking man in his – I'm guessing – late 50s. He didn't say much, just smiled and started to scan our purchases, one after the other, in silence. We were busy packing away when he suddenly stopped and addressed me.

"Ah yes..." he said, lovingly."Pomegranate..." Holding up the sole pomegranate I had picked, to use for salads, he asked: "Have you ever opened up one of these?" I had to admit this was my first time. I was a pomegranate virgin.

He looked happy. He stopped everything and showed me, whilst pointing at the fruit with his ASDA pen, how to go about pomegranate cutting, as if it was an Art form. "You cut off this bit here and then... this bit." I thanked him and said something about it being similar to a mango.

"No, no – not at all like a mango", he said. He went on. "Then, you cut the skin from the top to the bottom. Here, here, here... and here. Mind you, JUST on the skin, not deep, ok?" I nodded as if understood.
"Then..." he said triumphantly, "you OPEN it up. And OUT they come!".

By this time, my fellow ASDA customers had been waiting quite some time, in the queue behind me.
I began to feel uncomfortable. That's when he started THE RECIPE.

"Pomegranate is VERY good in fruit salads." he tells me. "I know", I said. He pulls out some spare till receipt roll paper and starts writing on it.
"Look", he goes – making sure I am giving him my full attention. "You take 1 x pomegranate, 1 x mango, 1 x papaya..." and on he went. "You can use tins, too. Like... peach... fruit cocktail...Add double cream and put in the freezer."
I thought to myself... this is going to take forever. In an attempt to round it all off, I added: "Yes, and some banana, yes – I know."

"No, no, no, noooo – NEVER banana." he said. And remember, if you use banana – NEVER put banana in the freezer. Promise me. NEVER." Upon which he pulled off ANOTHER bit of paper and wrote 'Bananas - freeze' with a big X next to it. I was beginning to love this man.

After what seemed like a lifetime, he finally went on scanning the rest of the items and I paid with my card. I thanked him very much for his advice and said I was looking forward to having a go at his recipe. As he started to take on the (poor) next customer, he smiled to me and said: "If you EVER need any advice on Indian cooking, my wife is in till number 15. Just ask her."

As much as I had felt embarrassed to take up so much time for other people in the queue, I still felt privileged to have met this man. It was like he made everything stop around us. Like in a time machine, he froze the current time and the ONLY thing that mattered... was what to do with that pomegranate.
All I could offer him was similar advice on Swedish cooking – if ever he needed it. That made him smile. And me, too.  

Ragnar

The problem with writing about your friends is you might accidentally leave some of them out. After writing my latest blog post, I realised I had forgotten to mention a very important person. Here it goes:

I went to college at the age of 16. My new French teacher - Ragnar - was a very keen, modern and... different teacher. My dream destination of all times had been Paris. Well, this teacher organised a trip to Paris. So - in my books, this meant he was ace.

After a few, persuasive talks with my (single) mum - I was off to Paris. This trip literally changed my life - but I didn't know that then.

So many things in my life have been related to this trip - it meant so much to me. It gave me the taste of France. It made me want to go there again, study the language, read the literature, watch the films. Without having done this initial trip, I would not have met my now ex husband, the father of my lovely children. I even lived in Paris during a period of my life.

Some of us pupils returned to Paris for a second time, together with Ragnar. Once home again, we started to meet regularly at our teacher's place, to talk memories, watch our photos and eat French food. These "Paris evenings" were to become a recurring event in our lives. They continued long after we had left school. Later, we brought our children along, even had holidays together.

The thing is, we still keep in touch, all of us. And - Ragnar is still in the very centre of our friendship, a nave around which our social life revolves. Now retired - but ever so active, he still welcomes us with open arms whenever we are back in our home town. He lives life to the full - and as he preaches. He is kind to nature, likes jogging, a very keen cyclist who does not own a car. Every Monday and Tuesday, he shows independent films to like-minded people and he has always been working hard for Amnesty.

We owe this man so much. He has been there for us, for every turning of our lives. Choice of career, for example - I became a French teacher myself. Weddings, child births, our children's birthdays and their various graduations. He has supported us through tough times, as well - not just the good times. Illnesses, divorces and also some funerals of our parents... whatever the occasion, Ragnar has been - and still is - there for us.

This man has been more than just an average friend to me and certainly more than an average teacher!

Friends Reunited

"Now then, where were we?" Some friends are forever. You don't meet that many of this kind, but the ones you do meet are worth their weight in gold. During last week, I have been thinking about the different types of friendship there are in this world. At least in my world - I might not speak for everybody.

As a little girl, I used to play with the boy across the street. We were the same age and had great fun together. He was rather lively and full of energy - and mischief. I was the reflective and calm one. His mum used to say he always came home in a different mood when he had been playing with me. So she encouraged our friendship. We would play corner shop (using leaves and stones as currency), have secret 'clubs', make jam from non-edible berries (!), run around the block, play hide and seek, build snow huts, cut the bark of branches with our little pen knives, play indians and cowboys - even "The White and Red Rose"...

And so came the Big Day. We were seven that year and - school started. Due to some new, bureaucratic Council rules at the time, it was decided that our street formed a border. As we lived on different sides, this meant I was going to one school and my best friend to another. This was clearly not on. We protested. My friend said he would refuse to go at all unless I could be in his class.

After some telephone calls, made by our dear mums, and some swapping around - we ended up in the same school and the same class. Order was restored.

Enter peer pressure... Even though my friend came to pick me up every single morning for school, we went separate ways once we reached the school gate. He walked over to the boys and I joined the girls. We were still friends, but not "in public". We couldn't have rumours going...

I still find that very sad. Our first experience of sexism, albeit on a very local and personal level.

Another friend was a girl from my class. During the age of 9-12 or so, we were constantly together. Looking back now, I think we were pretty creative in the way we made up new things to do, innovative - and somewhat crazy - plays to play. Once, we told each other to have a "password" every time we met. Just IN CASE we weren't whom we seemed to be. (I guess we had been watching too many spy films.) The password procedure was a quick, yet important introduction to our daily activities. We swore to each other we would continue this in adult life, as well - just in case.

In fact, I met this girl recently - after many, many years of silence. Our first words? Well - the password, of course! She remembered.

Another boy in the class was the cause of my first, real crush. We were ever so serious and he gave me a ring he had made in the wood- and metal work class. His words: "I know it's made of copper. But when I can afford it, I intend to buy you a silver one." Now - that's love...

Later in life, I met other people who have all been very close and always there - in good times as well as bad. Some share my adolescent past, it was all about growing pains, partying, music, politics, "Inter Railing" and - love.

Another dear old friend brought his wife over and came to see me recently, here in England. Great when that happens.

One particular friend shared my passion for Paris. When we weren't actually in Paris, we would be on the phone for ages, each with a map of Paris in front of us and just go for a "pretended walk" together, along the boulevards, Montmartre and the Seine... or meet for a coffee and a "sandwich au jambon", looking at old photos. She has become my ultimate best friend who knows my feelings about just about everything. We can laugh, even without laughing.

All these old friends are still present in my mind, and will be until the end.

Then, there are new friendships. I have never been a great fan of Facebook - although I am on it. But I must admit, Twitter has given me many new friends, many of whom I wouldn't want to be without. Some people think Twitter is about checking out celebs. It couldn't be further from the truth. I follow quite a few people - or 'tweeps', as us Twitterers prefer to say. The strange thing is, you get to know each other's habits, mood swings etc. to the extent that they feel almost equivalent to your old friends.

I find myself thinking: "Oh, he's up already, even if he went to bed so late last night." "She seems as if she needs some support today, something is not quite right." "He's in love." "She needs to get a life."

I have met some of my "tweeps" in real life, too. It is a strange feeling when you meet and you already know quite a lot about each other. You can cut the 'small talk' and just go straight to what it is you want to say.

I would not want to be without any of my friends. Old or new. Friendship is hard to define and - sometimes, it can be mistaken for something else.

I only know that with real friends, you can just take up the conversation where it stopped - even if that means going back 20 years or so in time. Real friends are forever - like bricks in the wall of life.

Recording life

Travelling can, at times, be rather tedious and boring. But every time I pass my time in train stations, in checking-in queues, in airports, I get very excited about observing people. Everyone has a story to tell, a journey to make and reasons for being where they are. Some are sad, others happy. One has won the lottery, another learnt her auntie has just died.
I find myself guessing who they are, why they are there and where they are heading.

Fragments of life are passing by in front of your eyes and there is not enough time to capture all of it. I sometimes wish I could.

This afternoon in Stockholm, I saw this fair haired girl on the tube, frantically texting away on her mobile. Nothing unusual about that. But she was totally unaware of people around her, completely obsessed by the words her quick fingers were creating on her mobile display - and, what's more, she had this special smile on her face. I am convinced her lover was at the other end of the invisible telephone line. It was a revealing smile, meant for the person she could not live without, that kept her going, that meant the world to her. I think.

A man from - and I am guessing here - South America, rushed in to the crowded, somewhat steamy waggon and managed to get a seat just right opposite me. He looked at me for a split second, with warm, friendly eyes. Then he took a deep breath and I could see he was tired - even exhausted, maybe grateful for finding a place to rest his weary body after running along the platform to catch the train. He closed his eyes and just...existed on his own for a while. I was wondering where his mind went. Maybe back to his home country and folks at home? Or maybe he was pondering about what to have for tea tonight. I will never know.

Whilst strolling through a town, you hear little snipbits of reality flowing in the air. This can be just as interesting. I have been meaning - many times - to carry a small note book with me and make quick notes of things people say as they pass you. Not everything, you understand - only the good ones. Yesterday I met a couple in the street and the young man said, when passing a restaurant: "We should go here. We have never been here before." The words just kept ringing in my ears and sort of made sense, in a slightly philosophical way.

A couple of streets away, and a woman says - with some emphasis - to what seemed to be her partner, maybe brother - or friend: "You cannot promise someone you will feel things, you know."

Again - very wise words. When I start thinking of how many wise words must be uttered by similarly wise people in the world, it gets pretty mind-blowing. Someone ought to make a record of this. Write it down, for the future. I just might do that.