Old Young Man

It was Friday after work and some people were already dressed for the night out. I was waiting for the train, reading a book.
The wrong train stopped and let a black mass of autumn people out. A young man, about 25 years old, tall and good looking got off, stopped and then read the signs on the walls. He was trendy, a bit decadent with a long green scarf nonchalantly thrown around his neck over his tweed jacket. Actually he looked a bit like a modern day Michael Jackson in Thriller, Michael before he became white that is. The man approached me.

“Excusez moi! Parlez vous Française?
“Eh…non!
“Aha! Hablas español?
“Non!”

(He then switched to perfect Swedish but since most of you don’t understand Swedish I will do it in English, so just pretend it is Swedish)

“Oh, so which language do you speak then?

I looked at him with a sceptical look, trying to convey a message through my eyes which was something like “What do you want? Are you hitting on me? And if you are, then forget about it pal? And if you don’t stop, then GET LOST!”

He actually understood this silent message and quickly took three steps back, put up his hands as protection and started stumbling over his own words.

“Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to disturb you or bother you! I just wanted to talk to someone! I’ll back off, please forgive me!”

He was so apologetic and embarrassed that I felt bad about giving him the “GET LOST”-look so I said:

“No it’s ok. I speak Swedish and English and a bit of Polish so you can pick any of those languages.”
“Oh ok!” he sighed, then switched to a perfect London English “I am sorry but I thought you were French or maybe Spanish. Do you mind if I sit on the same bench as you?”
“You can sit anywhere you like.”
“Thank you! You seem very nice!” he mumbled shyly in flawless Swedish.
“Hey! You are switching between languages all the time, why? Where are you from really?”
“Oh my story is long and complicated. I was born in Jamaica man!”

That sentence began with a London accent and ended in a thick Jamaican accent, I was beginning to believe this guy was making fun of me.

“Why, is your story long and complicated?”

The man produced his wallet from his jacket pocket; out of it he took a photograph of himself and a small beautiful child of about three. The picture was taken in Stockholm.

“This is my son!” the man said.
"Oh nice! Cute! How old is he?”
“Oh he will be 26 this year” the man said gazing lovingly at the picture.
“What?! 26?”
“Yes?” he looked at me questionably “Ohh! You thought the little child on the photo was mine! No, no that is my grandson!” he threw me a big sincere smile.
“But?!” I was sure he was pulling my leg off and having a dance with it now.
“This is my son!” he said and pointed proudly at the man on the photo who most obviously was himself, “he is 26 years old. And this little one is my grandson!”
“BUT…? No!” I smiled carefully, “that must be you!” and pointed at the young man in the picture.
“HA HA!” the young man laughed “thank you for the compliment! But no I am 65 years old! But you are so sweet for telling me I look young!”

He was completely sincere, there wasn’t a trace of a joke in his eyes or his face, but he kept switching between Swedish, Londonian and Jamaican English. I was confused. Then he started to tell me about his 'son' again. How 'the son' worked as a market analyst at a big company in Stockholm and that he was only visiting him for a short while before returning to London where he lived.

I had let more than 3 trains go past by now, because I had to figure out what this smooth faced young guy was all about. He acted so normal, apart from switching languages and claiming to be 40 years older than he clearly was. But after about ten minutes he began to crack. Instead of using the word “he” about his ‘son’ he let out an “I” instead. But as soon as he had, he stopped in his tracks. Looked very lost, wrinkled his forehead and shook his head a little. Then he took a deep breath and went on telling me his life story of moving from Jamaica to London 50 years before and how his son had met a Swedish girl and moved to Stockholm.

“I’ve been to a company party today” he said and stopped suddenly looked confused. Then he continued slowly “I mean he, my son has been to a company party today”
“Ok” I said “How was it?”
“It was great! But I don’t usually drink and today I had 2 glasses of wine” then he looked at me with a very shocked face and said slowly “I don’t know what is happening. I mean him, my son.”
“It’s ok” I said “you will be fine”
“My head hurts. I think I should go home. I don’t usually drink but the head of the company persuaded me. I didn’t dare to say no.” the man mumbled in Swedish and put his head in his hands.
“Don’t worry! You will be fine after you’ve had some sleep. Go home and rest”
“Yes, you are right” He started to weep. A few tears ran down his cheeks “I feel strange”
“Don’t worry” I said and patted his back.

Then we sat there silently and I let a few more trains pass because I was a bit worried about leaving this lost young man alone.

Suddenly the old young man jumped up, wiped away his tears and laughed

““I want to dance! Come and dance with me!”
“No, thank you but I need to go home. Maybe another time.”
“Ok” he smiled “you have been so very nice to me, thank you thank you thank you!" whilst he shook my hand between both of his. "I feel a bit strange because I never drink but now I want to dance, I think I’ll go and dance somewhere! See you later!”

Then he ran across the platform and onto a train that stood waiting there.

Drama Mama

For some weeks now, my sister and I have complained about a strange sour smell in our mother’s car. Today my mother phoned me at work sounding very distraught:

- Oy sweetie… I found out what the smell came from…
- Did you? What was it?
- Oy sweetie… it was something DEAD!
- Really! What?! A mouse?!
- No! But it was terrible! Absolutely terrible!
- Yes I suppose it was, But what was it? A rat?
- No not a rat!
- What then? A frog?
- Nooo! It was a…PEAR!!! And it was all brown and disgusting and soft and I had to touch it. Oy! It was TERRIBLE sweetie!

Re-visiting Dr Mumble

- Welcome! Come in, have a seat!
(I sit and tremble)
- So…you wanted to see me about some headaches you had a few months ago…
- NO!
- Oh? Let’s see… (doctor scrolls on his computer) Ahh…here it is. You came to see me in the winter about something…
- NOO! I was here just ten days ago!
- Were you?! Oh! Hmmm…
- You took loads of blood samples and tests and stuff…
- Ahh…yes…maybe… But I haven’t got the results back yet…
- What?! You said you’d get them on Thrusday and that you’d call me, which you didn’t!
- Oh! Hmm… (doctor franticly clicks the mouse)…AHH! Here they are! The results… Lets see... Ah yes I can see that you’ve had encephalitis (Sw. hjärnhinneinflammation) before…
- What?! No, I’ve never had encephalitis!
- Well according to this, you have antibodies against it so you must have had it before!
- No, I’ve never had encephalitis before and besides I am vaccinated against encephalitis so maybe that is why you can see the antibodies?
- No! You’ve had encephalitis.
(I shake my head and sigh)
- Ok, but other than that, there is nothing wrong with you. So I guess you must be feeling better?
- NO! Nothing has changed! I still feel faint and half my body still goes numb.
- Oh?! Well then…hmm…maybe I’ll take some more tests for Lyme disease (Sw. Borelia).
- But you already took those tests?!
- Yes but they were negative, so I’ll take them again.
- But you know, I’ve been thinking I think all of this has to do with my back, muscles that are inflamed or a nerve that has become crushed or something…
- No.
- What do you mean “No”. You haven’t examined my back! I always have problems with my back.
- No I don’t think it’s your back. I think it is Lyme disease. Have you been bitten by a tick?
- No never!
- We will still do the test. I’ll just call someone…

The doctor then proceeds to call (by speaker phone) another doctor at a big hospital for a second opinion. In this conversation my doctor tells him about my encephalitis and is told directly “Well isn’t that because she has been vaccinated” Whereupon my doctor mumbles something and turns bright red. End of conversation.

- Look Dr Mumble, I still think it has something to do with my back because if someone touches the muscles around my shoulder blade I feel even worse and something like an electrical current runs down my arm.
- Nooo…I don’t think it is your back.
- But…
- No buts. Listen, we will do this Lyme disease test again and if it is still negative we will send you for a CT scan.
- A CT Scan?!
- Yes, to look at you brain!
- I know what a CT scan is! Why do you want to do a CT scan?!
- Well, it could be that you’ve had a brain haemorrhage or stroke.
- WHAT?!
- Yes…but a very small one (doctor shows with his thumb and index finger how small).
- Fuck you!

Sick

Sunday, the day after the Circus wedding it hit me. I woke up completely blocked and my face was swollen like a big round moon. My throat was soar and I felt weak.

Monday I was worse, had a high temperature and when I phoned my boss to say I was sick he could hardly hear what I said, that’s how hoarse I was.

Tuesday – ALL symptoms were gone! No blocked nose, not a trace of fever and my throat was perfect. It was strange, I still felt weak so I allowed myself an extra day to sleep instead of going to work.

Then came Wednesday and Thursday, funnily I was weaker and felt very odd, something was wrong, I felt dizzy and faint. But still no other symptoms, I was by now beginning to have a bad conscious about not going to work cause outwardly I looked perfect.

So on Friday I went to work, got there a bit late of course (only 3 hours), sat at my desk, switched on the computer and felt weird. Then I fainted. Sort of semi fainted anyway, caught myself before I hit the floor.

Fainting is a very fascinating experience, the hard floor under ones feet suddenly turns into wobbly jelly and colours and shapes shift back and fro, swaying or are warped out of proportion.

Anyway a nurse took my blood pressure and it turned out to be pretty low (90/60), I was recommended to lay down or go home. Now an interesting thing happened, my mother called and when she found out she freaked! This may be a normal thing for a mother to do, when they find out their child is sick. But my mother has never actually enjoyed that part of motherhood. Only rarely did she believe us if we were sick and to pamper a sick child was not her thing. My father on the other hand was the one who bought us ice cream if we had a cold and sat on the balcony with my sister wrapped up in blankets all night when she couldn’t breath from asthma attacks.

But this Friday my mother freaked out for a little low blood pressure and rushed over to take me home by car.

Saturday and Sunday were pretty much spent in bed and by now I was getting annoyed cause my head was completely clear, I was not tired, on the contrary I was full of energy. But my mother was worried and this as I’ve already mentioned was odd.

Monday – I had promised to call my very kind but mumbling doctor and ask him about it. Our conversation went something like this:

- Hi Doc! I don’t feel very well. I feel strange.
- Hmm.. ok..mmm…so what are your symptoms?
- Well that’s the thing I don’t really have any, I just feel really really weak.
- No symptoms? Fever?
- No fever, only one day. No I just feel strange, weak, as if I have a temperature but without the actual fever. Do you know what I mean?
- Ehh..no…
- Oh… Well it feels a bit like walking on candyfloss and rotating at the same time. Do you understand?
- Well, actually I don’t.
- Oh…How about if I’m walking on a spinning cloud or like on a gigantic pannacotta?
- No, I am sorry, I don’t know what you mean. Do you have any pain anywhere?
- No, no pain. But my arms - especially the left one – and legs fall asleep all the time. You know “pins and needles”, but it will occur for no reason. Oh and my blood pressure is low 90/60 and has been for some days now.
- Oh, hmm… I don’t know…mumble mumble…heart…mumble…mumble… test…
- Eh? Sorry? Did you say heart?
- Hmm…yes, I think you better come and have some tests on your heart. I don’t have any times left but I will let you come in after practice, I think I should see you soon. How does Thursday sound to you?

So Thursday it is. Great. Finally I will find out exactly what is wrong with me.

No. No. That is not my heart you can hear thump at night when I can’t sleep for worrying.
No, I am fine really, what?
Why I am rubbing my left arm?
Oh its just a bit cold and I lost the feeling in it strangely enough.
But it will be back soon.

No worries.

Leaves

The Culture Festival of Stockholm

Two weeks ago I worked for a big festival in town. I had got the job from an acquaintance of mine who lives in the same neighbourhood.

At the festival I was in charge of organising the dressing room areas for the artists who numbered to between 50 and 300 artists per day. We had 2 very large auditoriums to our disposal and I arranged them like little rooms, only without walls. Instead of walls I taped the outline of walls and doors on the floor, so it would look like a blueprint of a house. I thought it was quite fun.

Everything went splendidly or so I thought, my acquaintance who was now my boss wasn’t very thrilled by anything I did or said. She constantly checked up on me “Have you missed this?” “Have you forgotten that?” “Maybe it is better if you do it this way” “Maybe you can do that instead” But the worst was her tone of voice, she spoke to me (and to everybody else) as if she was talking to a five year old, with her head leaning a bit to the side and a patronising smile on her lips.

But since we are still on speaking terms and she wants me to work at the festival next year I must have done something right or maybe I just didn’t do too much wrong…

The best part of the festival was working with the unpaid volunteers. We had about 20 of them, all different sizes, colours, shapes and ages.

There was the greying 50-ish German man who loved everything to do with electricity, if you asked him to move a table from one end of the room to the other he would find some electrical extension cords and start taping them to the floor instead.

Another elderly French speaking man from Burundi was very sweet and he said “Yes of course” to everything one asked of him, only then to disappear for an hour. On his return and questioned why he hadn’t done what he had been asked, he would just smile sweetly again and shrug. (At the end of the week we realised he could talk but didn’t understand any Swedish).

Then there was the little plump old lady who smiled so much her face shrivelled up in a thousand wrinkles. I asked her to fill ONE (1) thermos with coffee. This she did, the only problem was that when I came back from some other chores she had continued to brew coffee and filled every single thermos, jug and cup in the whole room with coffee (about 20 litres of coffee) and she just stood there completely lost and begged me for some more vessels to fill.

There were some young stars as well.

The funniest character must have been a young girl who tripped in on stilettos, tiny shorts and a minute bikini top late one afternoon. She clicked her way over to me and flashed a great big Miss Universe smile at me from behind her huge Chanel sunglasses.

Our job was to make coffee, fix catering and tidy up, her attire was more suited for sipping cool drinks by a pool. I didn’t say anything because I figured that she would come dressed more appropriately the next day – but alas the stilettos, the bikini top and tiny shorts were with us the rest of the week. This Little Miss Universe was more of a talker than a doer, a wide eyed naïve thing. Everything was amazing and fabulous and wonderful and brilliant and WOW! She questioned everything to pieces: why this and why not this and who are you? And why are you? And what are you? She actually prepared 100 questions for me to answer about my life...

But I also met a very nice girl from London, a writer who just moved to Sweden to be with her love. She was (thank you god!) one of those people who when given a task she would do it 150% and then do some more, intelligently as well, without complaining and always smiling.

Parents

A difficult species, parents are the two beings one is born from and then grow up with.

Two people, who love you unconditionally. Or so they think?

Two personalities, with their own lives that they have lived to the fullest. Or rather not?

Two grown ups. who say when you are little “As long as you are happy, we don’t mind what choices you make in life” and then when you get a little bit older they say “Maybe it would be better if you take flute lessons instead of guitar, it’s a much nicer instrument”.

A father, who dotes on the child and loves her to bits by singing and telling her stories and answering all those impossible questions of an innocent. But when she gets old enough to see his unhappiness and she asks about it, he breaks her heart into bits, by ostracizing her. Taking away her right to his words, by silencing her world.

A mother who dresses her daughter lovingly up in flower patterned dresses and rosettes in her hair, praising her prettiness. But when that same daughter grows up, the mother’s focus turns to the ugliness of the legs or the scruffiness of the hairstyle.

A dad who says “I refuse to send our daughter to the University of Arts Saint Martin’s in London, she will suffer terribly from homesickness” just because he dropped out of the same school and also because he would suffer from longing, even though our relationship was silent.

A mother who wishes for me to find a nice proper man with a good education preferably a doctor or lawyer and it would be nice if he was Polish as well. But when I find a proper Polish man with a good education she still tries to hook me up with other guys.

A man who still says “As long as you are happy I am happy” but when I, his daughter tell him I am moving to another country to be with my love, to be happy, he suddenly breaks his silence and tells me in icy cold hard words about the stupidity of my choice.

Why is it so hard to walk away from that? Why is it impossible to let the words slide off my back without touching me? Why is the bond so strong to these people so hard to break? Why do I still feel so guilty?