Goddbye, Astrid

Before we entered your home, I was warned that it was unpleasant there. That there were ants crawling across the floor. And that I shouldn’t take it personally if you were rude. We unlocked the door and went inside. Then we helped you out of bed and into your wheelchair. We rolled you into the kitchen, and Emelie prepared your breakfast. I remember you asking Emelie something, though I can’t remember exactly what. I only remember her getting irritated and saying that she was making your breakfast now. She placed your breakfast — a bowl of yogurt with cereal — on the cluttered dining table, covered with newspapers, letters, stains, and crumbs. The only empty space was where your bowl now stood.

Your surroundings revealed that you had once been a teacher, and in the hallway entrance hung a large portrait of you and your husband on your wedding day. Now you were alone. Along the passage leading to the kitchen stood a large bookshelf filled with books. Many of them were about geography, cooking, and languages such as English, French, and Swedish. The wrinkled skin beneath your eyes was almost always damp. I didn’t think about it then, but now I wonder if you had been crying.

Emelie seemed obviously irritated that you hadn’t showered in a while and that you still refused to. I wondered why. Did the stream of water hurt your skin? Or was it their stares that hurt? The way they touched you. The way they spoke to you.

“There’s not much time left now,” you said to me, tears in your eyes, just before we were about to leave. I didn’t know what to say, so I simply placed my hand on your shoulder. During those few seconds, time stood still.

When we returned a little later, it was time for lunch. There you sat in your wheelchair by the dining table. The breakfast bowl was almost untouched. In your wrinkled, trembling hand you held a piece of paper towel, tearing off tiny pieces and dropping them into the compost bag sitting on the table. Your eyes were still damp, and your face looked tense, as though your jaw had locked itself shut. Emelie peeled the plastic off your lunch and put it in the microwave. Then she picked up her phone, probably to check that all the medications had been signed off or to see what the rest of the day looked like. I asked how you were feeling. In a weak voice you said, “Not good.” I placed my hand on your shoulder. Ten minutes passed, and it was time for us to leave. You said goodbye in a light tone, and I answered goodbye. You repeated “goodbye,” and I said it back. We did this a few more times before finally closing the door. Afterwards, I asked Emelie about the paper pieces and the compost bag. She replied that it was something you liked to do.

The next evening I was with you again, this time with Viktor. We were there to help you into bed. Earlier that evening, Viktor had seemed very kind, both to me and to the other people we visited. When we entered your apartment, he put on a pair of blue shoe covers, and I did the same. We walked through the hallway, past the bookshelf, and into the kitchen where you sat. We greeted you, and you answered, “Hello,” in a hoarse voice.

“You’re going to bed now,” Viktor said, beginning to wheel you toward the bedroom.

“I don’t want to,” you said.

“You have to go to bed now, we don’t have much time.”

We sat you down on the edge of the bed, and he removed your shirt, stained with food. He brought out a sleep shirt and helped you put it on. Then he lifted your legs and pulled up the blanket.

“I’m hungry,” you said, and Viktor replied that you weren’t going to eat now because you were supposed to sleep. You talked about some yogurt you wanted.

“That’s not possible,” Viktor said.

You kept talking about wanting it, and then he became angry.

“No! You’re going to sleep, I said. Don’t you understand?” he shouted, pointing with his whole arm while his body and jaw tensed. When I looked at him, I saw an expression I hadn’t seen before. His eyes were strained, almost red with anger. Afterwards, I regretted not saying anything. Not doing anything. Why didn’t I do something?

A few days later, Anne and I visited you again, and you had a large bluish-purple bruise on your arm. After we left, I asked her what had happened and why you had a bruise there. She looked stressed and uncomfortable and said that you had fallen again. A week later, I was sitting in a morning meeting and heard that I wouldn’t need to visit you that day because you were moving to a temporary care home. But later that afternoon, I saw you anyway.

I had another visit in the same apartment building where you lived, and when I entered the building, I saw you sitting there in your wheelchair outside your front door on the ground floor. Beside you stood Anne, waving and saying hello. I waved back and then greeted you.

“Hello… Moa!” you said in your light, hoarse voice. The skin beneath your eyes was still damp. I stayed for a moment, but then I said that I had to go. You wanted me to come with you, but I explained that I couldn’t. You took my hand, and I held it for a while. Then, in a fragile voice, you said, “Goodbye, Moa,” and I replied, “Goodbye, Astrid!” Then you said goodbye a few more times, and I answered goodbye each time. That was the last time I saw you.

In the following days at the office, I heard the others talking about how you had moved to a temporary care home. I could see the relief on their faces and hear some of their joyful exclamations. A week later, I learned that you had left us. I hope that wherever you are, you feel relief. That you float lightly, no longer bound to your wheelchair. That you decide where you drift now, no longer directed by others, and that you have reunited with your husband — the man I saw in the portrait in the hallway. I hope you smile just as widely now as you did in that photograph. And I still don’t know whether what I did — or failed to do — was enough. Sometimes you appear in my thoughts, and I’m reminded again. I think about the tears beneath your eyes. Goodbye, Astrid.