In Every Moment We Are Still Alive
Page 7
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On the way from Room 2 I talk to Stefan on the telephone. He tells me that he spoke to my father just as the doctors were attaching the ECMO cannula to Karin. Apparently Dad had been moaning and sobbing. Stefan was shaken because he’d never seen or heard my father break down before. He likes Karin, I mean he met Karin at the same time as he got his own diagnosis, I say. He’s worried about you, Tompa, he’s been trying to get hold of you. It reminds him of his own illness, I answer. Tompa, come on, he’s also worried about you. I’m down in the basement, I can hardly hear you, let’s talk later, I say. You’re cutting out, Tompa. Let’s talk later, I repeat. I can’t hear you, Tompa, I’m hanging up now, I’ll call you later.
Outside the lifts by the Thoracic Clinic, two men in overalls are standing by a tube from a sludge truck, it’s hooked up to a suction pipe in the refuse room, people pass by with their hands covering their noses. I grab my phone and dial my father’s number but hang up as soon as I hear the first signal, and instead I call Karin, I want to tell her that my dad’s had a breakdown. I sit down on the floor, then quickly stand up, I squat on a step underneath an electrical cupboard, I have to keep one eye closed, I’m having problems seeing straight, I stand up, I call her again. Karin’s voice is so close to me that I feel as if her mouth is against my ear, her voice is the pure opposite of mine, my blaring, loud bark, she has such resonance and fullness of tone, a vibrant, rising intonation, one voice to make you relax and one to get you moving; also she sometimes has trouble articulating the ‘r’ sound, it’s a hangover from the operation in 2004, Karin calls it her speech defect and feels a touch self-conscious about it, but for that very reason I call her back again: Hi, this is Karin, leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.
* * *
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The Neonatal nurses have got involved in my project of passing blankets between Livia and Karin. They write labels: Mum’s scent, Livia’s scent. I leave a fresh blanket with Karin. She looks as if her skin has been burned. Two round, reddish yellow wounds suppurating over her chest. What’s happened here? I ask. The doctor swivels round in his chair, the one Sax usually sits on. He is one of the younger specialists in the section, the day before yesterday he introduced himself as Jens Nygren, and, in the same breath, told me he was so terrified when his wife started having contractions in the bath that he called an ambulance. He explained that he’d only told me this because he couldn’t imagine what it must be like, becoming a father in my current circumstances. He stands up and looks at the wounds. It looks worse than it actually is, he says, those are burns from the electrical cardioversion, we had to try to regulate her pulse. I was here for that, I say, but I didn’t realise it would burn her. Her leg is better, he answers. I heard you won’t need to amputate, I say. That’s correct, there’s circulation in the leg now. Okay, but she looks like she’s turning blue, is that something to do with the oxygen? Her hands are completely blue, even her nails. Yes, she has irregular circulation and generally poor blood flow, she’s having problems maintaining the required blood pressure, that was why they tried putting in methylene blue, it may have affected her colouring. Okay. He fetches the stool and puts it by the office chair. Do you have time to sit for a minute? he asks. Sure, I reply, sitting down. I gather Franz has already spoken to you about the situation? Yes, he said we should wait and see after tonight, I answer. He stares down at his crossed legs. I’ve heard that you’re very scrupulous about the information you get from us, he says and looks up at me. You’re welcome to interrupt me if I express myself unclearly. Okay, thanks. The need for inotropes has increased, your wife has serious heart problems, abnormal heartbeat, atrial fibrillation, atrial flutter, tachycardia, her lactate seems to have parked itself at twenty-eight, her pH value is now at 7.1 in spite of aggressive buffering, we’ve had almost industrial flows going into her to stabilise her levels. I know what a pH value is, and that’s it, I say. Okay, so, normally the pH value is between 7.35 and 7.45, it’s a precondition for life, the human body can’t tolerate the slightest deviation from that normal value. Okay. At cellular level a body can’t live under these kinds of conditions, he explains. Okay. His pocket vibrates. He takes out his phone and looks at it, then gets up and goes over to the infusion stand. His back is towards me. Hi, no, I won’t be home in time, don’t expect me, yes, we’ll have to talk later, no, let’s talk later, he says and hangs up. He runs his hands through his hair, his gaze falls on the photograph of Livia. It’s been up and down every day, I say, don’t you think she could pick up? He turns to me and says: I think you should stay with your daughter, and then we’ll call you as soon as anything happens, but if I were you I’d call over your loved ones and prepare them for the fact that Karin may not last out the night. I understand you’ve been together a long time? He presses his hands against the sides of his jaw and again goes over to one of the infusion stands, then back to the computer, where he writes something while remaining on his feet. Last time she ended up in a rehabilitation home, I say. He stops writing, sits down, and pushes his chair closer to me. I’ve only read the medical records, he says, and I reply: She was there a month, she was stiff after the operation, she couldn’t turn her head, I had to stand in front of her when we wanted to kiss, we were actually able to laugh about it.
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I decide to take a stroll back to Neonatal around the hospital. I take a short cut across the parking area, the car alarms flashing away in different colours, glowing points of light in the dark by a bus shelter, I wander along a bicycle lane, black, naked trees, there’s a thumping behind my left eye, the thundering of traffic from the Essinge overpass sounds like the sea, exactly like the sea, if I close my eyes I feel as if I am walking barefoot along the beach at Vändburgsviken. I ask one of the nurses at Neonatal for a migraine tablet and I get a mixture of ibuprofen and paracetamol. It must be what they give the mothers for pain relief. I sit next to Livia in the armchair, I lower the incubator using the electric control. I’m so tired that I don’t dare pick her up. I lay my hand over her belly, she wakes up, sucks her dummy, she tries to push me away and then goes back to sleep. I push my finger into her grip and lean back. The midwife who was there during the caesarean comes up to me. How’s that headache? she asks. Okay, thanks, I just get migraines sometimes, it must be hereditary, Mum gets them and Dad has cluster headaches. Sorry to hear that, maybe you’d better go and lie down? I will, but it’s nice sitting here. Yes, well it certainly looks it—oh, I meant to ask, what’s that song you sing her? Sorry, was I too loud? No, you’re not disturbing anyone. ‘Here Comes the Sun’, I say, and then I explain: I was already singing it when she was in the womb. Oh right, well, it’s just that spring is around the corner now, and, well, you often sing it, do you like the Beatles? A bit, I say. Maybe it’s not the sort of music your generation listens to. The Beatles are timeless, I point out. You’re right there, it’s a beautiful song. George Harrison wrote it, but I prefer the Nina Simone version, have you heard it? I ask. No, she answers. You should check it out. Nina Simone? Yes. Thanks for the tip, well, you’ve probably noticed we’ve stopped using the lamp, her bilirubin level’s improved and she’s not as yellow any more, so you can finally take her home.
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Stefan is asleep in Family Room 1, the one where I spent the first night at the Karolinska, and David and Hasse are resting on the sofa in the day room. They can’t sleep. Karin’s friends have been temporarily accommodated in another room on the ward, they’re wrapped up in blankets and drinking tea: Caro, Ullis, Johanna. Also Edith and Jenny, but I don’t know if they are staying the night. They reminisce about Karen growing up, the language courses, the parties, Karin as a twenty-year-old theatre critic for the Entertainment Guide, the trip to Uruguay, Ivan the dog, the house on Skyttevägen and her first flat on Norra Stationsgatan. Alex and Andy are listening to music in Family Room 1. Of all our friends, they’re the two I’ve seen
the most of these last few years. Andy sits in the armchair with his jacket over his legs, and Alex is resting on the bed though he’s still wearing his outdoor clothes. Andy plays Sam Cooke on his mobile and tells us about Jupiter and Venus, and how their orbits are so close at the moment that they appear as a single celestial body. Me and Stefan thought it was a satellite or a meteorite, if we’re thinking about the same thing? I say. We probably are, it’s really bright, the newspapers have written about it, it’s a really unusual phenomenon, answers Andy. How old is Karin’s brother? asks Alex. We were at his fortieth birthday party about a month ago, why? I ask. I never met him before, what do Karin’s parents do? asks Alex. Do you mean work-wise? I ask. They must be going through hell, Alex says, have they taken sick leave? I don’t think so, I answer. But they’re very proud of Livia, right? he says. Yes, I answer. Stefan told me Thomas has got worse, says Andy, taking off his shiny leather shoes and resting his feet on the stool. He keeps calling me all the time, I say, I don’t have the energy to answer. Why not? asks Alex. I don’t know. You’ve been pretty close lately, haven’t you? Alex points out and unbuttons his denim jacket. Yeah, the last few years have been good, I don’t know, I guess I can’t deal with thinking about his illness, I say. I get that, Tom, this is agony…maybe it’s hard for you to talk about Karin? It’s okay, I say and lie down on the guest bed. I’ve got such a great photo of you from David and Kristina’s wedding, you still had your beard and your Wyatt Earp moustache, then you kiss her like the terrier you are, so energetically, it’s like you’ve jumped her, I think she finds it prickly, she’s both relishing it and suffering, wants to turn away from you but can’t, wonderful, you terrier, he says. I haven’t seen it, I say. I’ll email it to you, he replies.
I run into the corridor and on towards the stairwell, I leap down, I run on the rough concrete, along the railing struts, I run through the Thoracic Clinic, I press the entryphone, I take a left, I run another thirty metres. The door of Room 2 is open. I had been expecting a closed ring of specialists around Karin. The room feels abandoned. No one is there except for Nygren and a nurse. Tom, this is not going to work for much longer, says Nygren. Okay, for how long? I ask. I’ve elected to continue her treatment for a little bit longer, but it’s a hopeless position, hard to say, maybe an hour or so. I put my hands on Karin’s cheeks, I run my fingers over her forehead, she’s sweating. Can I be alone with her? Of course, take as long as you need. The nurse lowers the intensive care bed so I can sit on the stool and at the same time hold Karin’s hand, then she fetches a cup of coffee for me, the ventilation window is open, I can see the car headlights over the Essinge overpass, I daren’t kiss Karin, her hair moves a little in the draught of air, I want to kiss her so much, I look at her in the half-light, the embroidered foliage winding across her nightgown, I am lying on the off-white sofa, I am drinking in small sips, I have never stayed the night with Karin before, the windows facing onto Metargatan are open, there’s a slight draught running through the flat, she is making notes in a book that she hides behind the pillow, she puts in some earplugs and takes off her glasses, she says goodnight, Tom, and I answer goodnight, I can’t sleep, I flick through a play by Sarah Kane that I find in the bookshelf, on some of the pages Karin has written in the margin, not a critic’s annotations, more passing fancies, ideas for books, one or two lines of poetry, and in one place she’s written in blue ink: The bird skeletons wait patiently under the balls of tallow.
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Sven and Lillemor are waiting on the sofa in the day room, the air is filled with perfume, their faces are sunken, their eyeballs protruding, their eyelids swollen, they look old and decrepit, they don’t even say hello, they just watch me as I sit on the chair opposite, Måns is standing next to me, he already knows what’s happened, he had to come and fetch me from Room 2, he had to lead me through the corridor, I don’t know how to articulate it so I just repeat what Nygren said to me: The electrical activity in Karin’s heart has stopped. Lillemor presses her hands over her ears and closes her eyes. Sven shakes his head a little and asks: What are you saying? Dad, Karin’s pulse is zero, says Måns. If Karin’s pulse is zero that would mean she’s dead, he says. It takes a few seconds before a groan is heard rising from his throat, and his head drops. Lillemor is trembling, saying something I can’t quite catch. Måns sinks onto the floor in front of them.
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The nurse seems to type what Nygren says into the computer while he more or less ceremoniously walks up to the machines. The patient has been in a state of asystole since 05:52, continued rising potassium, lactate steady at twenty-eight, ECMO unchanged at five thousand five hundred revolutions per minute, 5.1 litres of flow, the prospects for continued life considered to be non-existent, and I now make the decision to turn off the respirator and ECMO. Nothing makes a sound any more; the room becomes silent. Nygren checks his watch and adds: Patient is pronounced dead at 06:31.
There are more than ten people on the premises, not counting ourselves and a bartender who between orders plays Sly and the Family Stone on vinyl. A colourful mix of office-attired women and men in a foggy after-work session. David chuckles to himself, standing there by the table:
Stefan, remember that time in Sundsvall when Tom started having goddamn breathing difficulties or whatever it was, and he just—stood there in the room—spluttering?
Stefan looks up at the ceiling fixtures and bursts out laughing.
Are you for real? I say.
David squeezes his thighs and Stefan hides his face in his hands. Tompa, you’re just pissed because we’re having a laugh about it, says Stefan.
No, I’m not pissed, I just don’t think it was very funny.
It was, Tom, says David.
Yeah, that was actually quite funny, Tompa, says Stefan. We’ve talked about it before, Hasse, you never remember anything. Hasse flushes, and he drinks some more of his sparkling wine.
It was insanely funny, says Stefan, then settles into the story: In the middle of the night, after a particularly epic session at the pub, we were fast asleep in the hotel room, when Tompa suddenly comes charging in stark naked with his hands over his head and he’s spluttering and groaning, it sounds totally messed up, we all wake up, it was all happening so fast, all you had time to think was, oh yeah, here comes Tompa and he’s still partying.
By this stage, David and Stefan are absolutely weeping.
When was this? asks Hasse.
Oh I don’t know, maybe we were eighteen or nineteen, I answer. The thing is, I threw up like a pig that night, I don’t know if I breathed in the vomit or something, I couldn’t get any air, I panicked, I ran out of the toilet and I needed help. David was just jeering at me, and Stefan kept giggling.
Tompa, it was completely off the wall—picture it, here’s Tompa in the nude running around the room making weird noises, says Stefan, having trouble even saying the words because he’s laughing so much.
It’s not that funny, says Hasse.
Exactly, Hasse, thank you, I say.
You weren’t there, Hasse, says David.
If he had been there he would have jumped up and given me a slap on the back, right, Hasse? I say.
Yes, I would have.
And you would have given me mouth-to-mouth.
Absolutely.
You’re a true friend, I say, putting my arm round his shoulder: Not like those two sadists. As I gesture I accidentally knock against a man at the bar. He turns around and shakes his head at me.
Sorry, I say, then I hear him say to his friend: The guy’s just come out of a coal mine. His friend gives me a disdainful look. Stefan immediately says:
Let it go, Tompa.
I take off my cap and put it on the table, then turn around. He has a navy blue, tailor-made suit. I tap him on the shoulder. They both turn around.
Excuse me, I was just wondering what you meant by ‘he’s just come out of a coal mine’? He looks at my gym shoes, my jeans, t
hen at my T-shirt, and replies:
Go back and stand over there. I keep staring at him.
Ooh, kid’s playing all angry, says his friend. You’re gonna come a cropper, mate, I’m trying not to laugh.
Just give him a krona and he’ll leave, says his friend, then pats me on the arm and adds: We’re only joking.
Both have shaved heads, grey eyes, they seem heavy with muscle and fat. I eye him steadily and then, when I sense he’s becoming less sure of himself, say:
You’re afraid of me.
David steps in between us and exclaims:
Gentlemen, there’s no damn need for this.
I go back to the table and put my cap back on.
Shit, Tompa, whispers Stefan.
At half past twelve David raises his arm and shambles up to a Portakabin on Hornsgatan and starts tugging at the door. That’s not a cab, Hasse yells at him. Only Stefan and I have the staying power to go on to Folkets Kebab shop. It’s empty upstairs. Plastic palms with glitter balls. Arabic music. Stefan grumbles about how he’ll be woken up early by his son Charlie. There’s garlic sauce dripping off the table. Chomping away at his food, he says:
And this is what you’ve got to look forward to. He notices that it makes me thoughtful. Tompa, children are fun, really they are, but not always.
I’m mostly worried about our finances.
How’s the book going, then?
I have to be done by May.
So that’s when the kid’s due.
That’s right.
You’re writing a real book, not a poetry collection?
A poetry collection is a real book, isn’t it? But yeah, it’s prose.
You think you’ll manage to get it finished?