Review of Midori Hibino 2024

First of all, a little background: In October 2022, I stumbled on a Reddit discussion about ”the Hibino”. People were excited over having been able to get hold of one and I was struck with covetitis. It seemed to be the book for me!

After a desperate search all over the world, I had to accept the fact that I would not be able to buy one for 2023. They had all been a pre-order item in August 2022, delivered in September and no stationery shop were taking more in, despite the fact that the book could not be used until January 2023 and some people not deciding on planner until the very last minute!

I was upset and disappointed. Sadly, I studied Hibino users’ accounts on Instagram during 2023 and was longing for when I would be able to journal in one as well.

So, guess who was starting to look for pre-orders already in June 2023? To my delight, I discovered that a British shop was taking pre-orders already then, for September/October delivery. I did not hesitate at all. I ordered a pretty mint coloured Hibino and tried to not get impatient with the long wait ahead.

In August, a Swedish lady posted her new Hibino on Instagram! She had ordered hers from Amazon.jp and had received it in days. I looked on Amazon and sure enough, they were already shipping. And to my dismay, the book was MUCH cheaper there. Even with shipping and sales tax included. But mine was already pre-ordered!

Let’s say that if there is something I do not like, it is wasting money. For a week I walked around being upset about how much I had paid at the UK shop and that was not even the end of it. Before delivery, I was also going to have to pay PostNord’s punishment fee and Swedish sales tax on my book.

The lady who owns the shop let me cancel my pre-order, which was mighty nice of her. And I could buy my copy from Amazon.jp with all fees included. The only thing was that all the followers of the Swedish lady, had bought all the mint coloured copies and there was only the caramel one left. Not what I wanted at all, but I told myself that dirt would not show on it. And I was afraid that Amazon would not re-stock.

For those of you who have used or have looked at a Midori 1 day 1 page book, you know that it has a plastic cover on it. Midori Hibino has the same. But it has been made with cracks so that it will look a little bit like leather, but noone is going to be fooled. It looks like plastic, because it is plastic.

The Hibino is a pretty, little chubby A6 book. I would have loved the mint one, but due to my own foolishness, I ended up with the caramel one. 2022, the book was a novelty and shops in Europe only took in very few copies, if at all. By November 2023, I had come to the realization that not only was it stupid to pre-order this book in June, there was no need for pre-order at all. Because in November, ALL stationery shops carrying Midori products, were selling the Hibino, in both colours.

I received mine in August though. And I sat there and held it, caressed it, looked at all the pages I would fill with journaling and was super excited about the small grid, that according to my ruler is only 2,5 mm x 2,5 mm. I could hardly wait, so I decorated December’s monthly with gorgeous Christmas rub ons and likewise the spread for 1st January, Twelfth Night and 13 January. And then I waited for the magic moment when I would get to use the book for real.

Once again I was searching for Hibino users on Instagram and discovered that most of them had quit their books. Someone explained why by showing a monster of a book, where all the decorations in it, had made it three times as thick and impossible to write in. This made me worried of course. It meant that I would be limited as far as decorations go.

I started to journal on the 1st January 2024, today is the 16th February, and I am not the happy person I was back in August, when I got hold of the ”perfect” journaling book. And this is why I am writing this review. Because I think it is good to think twice before one invests in an expensive planner. Are you sure if this is really what you want?

Last year, I tried three different journals/planners. I started out the year with an A5 Hobonichi. I loved that even if I put a big sticker on the page, there was plenty of room to write on the page. Because I am a writer. I can write pages about basically anything and nothing. So, I loved the space. But… Some days, are just busier than others. Some days, I don’t have a lot of time to journal. And big glaring white A5 pages, made me feel guilty.

Secondly, I have a lot of small stickers and small rubberstamps. They looked hopelessly lost on a big A5 page. So, disappointed with myself, I started an A6 Hobinichi book instead. It was easy to fill a page in it. Too easy. If I put a big PET tape sticker on the page, and some of mine are very big, there was hardly any room left to write at all. After four months, I was unhappy with that book as well. Because I felt that I had to cut down on my writing, shorten stories, skip stories, all due to lack of space.

Over the summer months and autumn, I instead started a Midori notebook. They are nothing fancy at all. Cardboard covers and net tape for a back. A6 was great, because it fit in my pretty Hobonichi covers, and not having pre-printed dates on the pages, gave me the freedom to write as much as I wanted, on however many pages I needed.

But the desire to try the Hibino was still there. I write very small letters and I suspected that they would look nicer on Hibino’s small grid. And the Hibino is so much more of a book, than the Midori notebooks are.

1 January, I did a summary of 2023, so no problem filling up the space. But already on that first day, did I discover two major problems. The book is 3 cm high when you have it on the table. When you open the book to write on the left side, you can’t! Unless you put an equally thick book under the left side.

I sit and write on a sofa or in bed, with an IKEA lap desk on my bent knees. So you can imagine what it is like to hold on to the lapdesk, a book and the Hibino at the same time as I write.

The second problem comes when you start nearing the bottom of the pages. When you have nowhere to rest your hand anymore. Then you need a book below the Hibino. So you have a book in front of your belly and then the Hibino above it, if that makes any sense?

This is the necessary set up for writing in the Hibino. Support to the left and below the book and a bulldog clip so the page does not close.

You know what this has caused? For me to dread writing in my book! It is too much of a hassle. It feels like a nightmare every time I am supposed to journal. I have ended up decorating many pages in the book so far and then not filling them with any text. And like I said earlier, I hate waste. Wasting pretty stickers, rub ons, PET tape images, on pages without text? Wasting money on an expensive planner that was supposed to get filled with words. The feeling of guilt is overwhelming.

Two weeks ago, I also discovered that my book is starting to break. The first page is a thicker brown paper, but the second page is the first page with Tomoe River 52 gsm paper and at the bottom, there is a 1 cm crack.

THE crack!

When that crack has spread to the top, the entire glued back will be exposed. This makes me upset. Because it means that the binding is not made for the heavy use and abuse a thick book like this will have to go through.

Now, the paper? I am one of those people who does not love ghosting and bleed throughs. Since I started with a bullet journal in 2017, I have had to lower my standards. Unless one wants 160gsm paper, which feels like cardstock, one must accept ghosting as part of life. But I am surprised at how poorly the Hibino paper behaves with pens. It could be that the new Tomoe River paper, which Hobonichi has warned about for over a year, is substandard?! It certainly does not feel the way it used to feel. But I expected more for my money.

I used fine liners one day, to colour in a pattern and to my horror, I noticed the next day, that it had bled through to the previous page that I had only decorated prettily but not yet written on. It is really ruined now. Not that it matters when compared to famine and war around the world, but in my little world and bubble, it does.

Fine liner bleed through.

A few days ago, I also used rubber stamps on a page. Stamps I haven’t used for years and I was happy that I was going to get to use them again. I had bought Shachihata stamping inks since everyone says they are so great and do not bleed through papers. Well, I am not sure which papers they do not bleed through, because they do bleed through on the Hibino paper. Or ghosts badly? So bad that you can’t write on the back side.

Sure, some collaging people will grab all their papers and ephemera and do a collage. But hey, this is the Hibino. Bulk must be avoided. So you can’t do this more than once or twice in the book. It is bad enough that I have used stickers here and there and PET tape images. In one and a half month, it has already grown thicker.

So, as to summarize things so far, avoid decorations, colouring pens and rubberstamp ink in your Hibino. This leaves you to the writing part. The tiny grid is pretty with its soft brown colour. I can’t get a proper realistic photo of it. But if you, like me, need reading glasses due to bad eye sight and you like me, journal in the evening, in lamp light, you are in for big problems. The brown colour is a nightmare. Some evenings I can’t even see the lines. I had to go and buy extra strong reading glasses just for journaling on this grid. Glasses that give me a ghastly head ache.

What pens to use on a small grid like that? Fountain pen users will need to invest in a Pilot with an Extra Fine nib. It is the only pen brand who understands what an Extra Fine nib must be like and that is needle point. Fine line users need to get themselves Uni Pin or Micron pens with tip 0,05 or 0,03. If you want to write on every line that is.

See more photos on @millies_swedish_journal

I just can’t get myself to write on every other line, but maybe I should have forced myself to do that? Because at the end of a writing session, on the day spread, my hand is cramping and hurting really bad. Not something that has ever happened before. I write naturally small. But now when the lines/grid forces me to and I have to put a lot of control in to it, then my poor hand is having a tough time.

Fineliner and sticker ghosting, just so you get the full picture.

After a month and a half I feel disappointed in myself. That I have not been able to fill all the pages like I thought I would. That it feels more like a chore to journal than enjoyment, due to all of the above mentioned problems. A third major problem has also arisen, and that is that I have to use a bulldog clip when writing on the left side of the book or it will close itself. Right now, after 47 days, there is a big hill to the right side so you can not write all the way to the middle, unless you like to write over a curve.

The growing curve.

This is a nice book to hold and admire, but sadly, I find it totally impractical. There are people out there who love the book. I suspect they are the ones that use it as a planner and nothing else. In other words, they use it for what the creators intended it for. People who can jot down things on the run, with whatever pen and who don’t care about whether they stay within the grid or on the lines. For a perfectionist like myself though, it is not the book that I thought would become my favourite companion.

I don’t really want to go back to the Midori notebook, which uses their own paper, because I want something that feels more like a book, with a proper cover. Midori’s paper, otherwise, is much better than the Tomoe River in the Hibino. I might try the Hobonichi HON, but I fear the same kind of lousy TR paper in that one. If worse comes to worse, I might actually get an A5 Leuchtturm with 120 gsm paper. It might be the only solution to all my problems.

Review of Ferris Wheel Press: Carousel Fountain Pen

Before I get in to talking about the Fluttering Heart Carousel Fountain Pen, I want to tell you a little bit about my experience with FWP. I can’t remember the exact year when I discovered FWP, but I am guessing that it was around when I started using Instagram and became part of an ever growing journaling community.

The FWP Brush fountain pen seemed to be the ”hot” pen to have because it appeared in all sorts of posts in the community. It competed with Conklin and later Esterbrook, among the influencers. Silly me did not understand that influencers get their pens for free to push them on to their followers. But in the case of the FWP Brush pen, I saw an attractive, unusual looking pen. Sadly, not available at the time in Europe and most Europeans shy away from shopping outside EU since it costs more than it tastes.

After a journaling meet up in London, UK, I started to shy away from influencers, realizing that they were not honest with their reviews of among other things, pens. They say what they are told to say. And I came to talk to an IG friend about the FWP Brush pen. She told me that she would never buy one due to the fact that they are made in China and thereby overprized.

It made me stop and think. If you have it made in China, you get it made cheap. So why ask so much for it? Greed of course! And I wrestled with this for years! Where does one draw the line? Can one like products that one knows are made cheaply by basically slave labourers? We all know that Chinese workers live and work under inhumane conditions and is it right to support that? It truly is a dilemma and not one I can solve.

One day, a small one-woman company within the EU started to offer FWP products. Gone was customs and penalty fees. And at some point she had percentage off. The matte pale rose coloured brush pen was in reach. I succumbed and bought it because I suspected that it was well made. And it was love at first site. A little bit less so when I filled it with ink and could not wipe off surplus ink from the brass engravings on the grip section of the pen. And even less so, when I was forced to write with the pen reversed to get a tolerable fine line. But these things were a price I was willing to pay for a pretty pen, with a good weight to it and a nice grip. Plus a nib that let the ink come out on a regular basis without hiccups.

I was really naughty and added a lavender one, on the 10% off Fountain Pen Day from Appelboom in the Netherlands. And my two pastel coloured ladies were joined by the Cinderella blue one, when that one was released. So I have been a somewhat loyal customer, content with my brush pen models. But nothing good lasts right?

My problems started when I saw the Carousel Fluttering Heart 2023 Limited Edition fountain pen. I should have stopped at my three brush pens. But the white painted on butterfly was so pretty. And my rose gold coloured Kaweco has such a short body that it feels uncomfortable to write with in the long run.

I decided to buy the Carousel Fluttering Heart pen from the one-woman-shop in the EU and that was mistake number one. I don’t know about you, but if I get upset enough about a purchase, I have no problem turning to a big company and complaining. They have big earnings and professional staff that understand that sometimes things go wrong and they know that they have to cut their losses once in a while due to it. Usually they can turn to the manufacturer and get their money back in return for a faulty item.

My advice to you readers is to go with big companies when buying fountain pens, in case there is a problem. Do not buy pens from someone you have had friendly chats with on Instagram. Do not buy pens from someone who has a shop in their living room corner and who can’t deal with complaints or survive refund demands. Do not buy pens from someone you feel sorry for.

When my Fluttering Heart Fountain Pen nib size Fine arrived, I happily lifted it out of my shipping box and was surprized at the cheap box it arrived in. A skimpy cardstock box that I could not open unless I ripped it open. I guess the cheap box should have been a warning sign!

When I got the pen out I was underwhelmed. When you hold a rose gold Kaweco in your hand, you feel a sturdy, well-made, solid pen. The same goes for the FWP Brush pen. It is sturdy and well-made. The FH (Fluttering Heart) looks cheap and feels cheap. It feels like if you step on it, it will flatten. Skimpy metal!I really wanted to cry when I realized that I had wasted €110. But no point in crying over spilled milk, what was done was done. I doubt the little livingroom shop would have taken it back if I had said that I was disappointed and wanted to return it.

So I told myself that it was at least a little bit longer than the Kaweco and that I would learn to love it. I fetched my favourite ink and my son who is also a fountain pen lover came to see me fill the new pen. So I opened the pen and that is when I realized that something was seriously wrong with the pen. I put the converter in and it popped right off the little socket it is supposed to be attached to. So I pushed it on again and it popped off. There was no way to get that converter to sit attached to the nib section. And I thought great, now I have to hassle that shop after all.

So I wrote the lady. A nice message, telling her that I was really sad and sorry to have to complain but the pen was unusable. I explained that the converter did not fit the pen, that it was too small. And I got a ”nasty” answer saying that noone else had complained but that she would contact FWP.

Let’s say that I was not surprised. These small living room shops all have owners that are happy to take your money and are all nice and sweet till you have placed your order. But the niceness too often stops there. And it is important to remember that they are shop owners no matter how small their shops are, they are not your friends. If you complain, you are not really welcome to shop again and the friendly conversations on Instagram are over.

I felt horrible all day. Not just because of the money I had lost, but because someone was mad at me and I have HSP (Highly Sensitive Personality). Eventually I got a message that she had received a new pen for me and that she had shipped it to me. I really would just have preferred to have sent the pen back and got my money refunded but that option was never offered.

So pen number 2 showed up. I really had to pull hard to get that cardstock box open so the box is thrashed. And I fetched ink at once. I held my fingers crossed that this pen had the correct converter because then I could maybe sell it on to someone? By now hating the pen! But when I opened the pen, there was the too small converter. And by now I was furious. Because it meant that the company does not do any quality controls at all. What idiot do not check a pen before shipping it to a customer, if the customer has had a serious complaint about that particular model? Had it been me, I would have taken the pen out of the box, checked that the converter worked, made sure you could draw up ink in to the pen and then done a writing test. Just to make sure that the pen worked 100%.

Instead I sat there with a second pen, with exactly the same problem as the first one. A too small converter that popped out of the socket you press it on to. If you move slowly and hold the nibsection straight upwards, the converter might stay erect, sort of, but if you breathe or move slightly, it wiggles. Of course trying to draw up ink in such a converter, was and is impossible.

In my desperation, I took a syringe and syringe filled the converter, I carefully put it in the pen even though it wiggled, I put on the rest of the pen body and tried writing with it. And then came nasty surprise number two. Instead of writing Fine like my other FWP pens, this one wrote like a medium to bold. And of course the converter did not stay in place, so I got ink in the pen body. Had I put it in a handbag or in a pencase they would have been permanently ruined as would my desk since I always write with De Atramentis Document ink. Waterproof in other words.

Two useless pens. What does one do? Turn a second time to the one-woman-shop? No! What can the middle man really do? Nothing. So I turned straight to FWP and they really showed their true face. They were not foul or nasty, but avoiding.

We have corresponded for months because they are slow in answering every e-mail you send. Their first answer asked me to describe the problem even though I had already done so in my e-mail and of course, their retailer had already contacted them about my first pen, so obviously a stalling technique. Their second e-mail asked me to send a video and photos. I had already tried to send a video by then, because I felt that they were moving too slowly, but the video was too long according to gmail, so I had given up on that. But I had sent a photo in my very first e-mail, so I got vexed that I had to take more photos.

At the same time as I was going through this pen trouble, my sons had trouble at school, so I just felt more and more vexed with FWP. Had they been a nice company which cares about their customers they would have offered a refund. Or at least asked me if I would like another pen, like one of their brush pens, as a band-aid for having sold me a crap pen and then sending a second crap substitute. But no such offer has ever been made. Instead they just wanted me to sit and photograph and film like I had nothing else to do with my life.

In one e-mail I even offered to send the pens to Canada where their office is. Instead of all stupid e-mails they could have looked at the problem with their own eyes. But no, that offer was rejected. At the same time, in every mail they have sent, they have told me that they want me to be a content customer. That they wanted to find a perfect solution for me, so that I would feel happy.

Well, I am not a content customer and I will never ever buy a FWP pen again. That is how happy I am! Because a stalling customer service that takes weeks to answer every e-mail, is not a service minded business which wants happy customers. What was their solution to the problem? They shipped me a converter and Swedish customs wanted an €8 penalty fee from me for being naughty and ”shopping” outside EU and also the 25% sales tax on the converter, because FWP sent it as merchandise. And here I drew my final line. I am not paying another penny!

I let the converter sit at customs and I have no idea if they threw away the package, when I did not pay the fees or if they shipped it back to Canada. I hope they did the latter so FWP understands that I am not the happy customer they wanted. In an e-mail I let them know what had happened and they wrote that they can’t help if I am asked to pay customs! I am not an idiot, thank you! But they can help what they write on the customs label!!! If anything, they could have had one of their EU retailers send me a converter. But without a doubt, FWP only makes one kind of converter and it is the one that is not made for the Carousel pen.

I sit with two Carousel Fluttering Heart pens that I can not sell because I am not a dishonest person who is going to say that they work. All I can do is throw them away in the metal recycling bin, which means that I am throwing away the €110 I paid to the small shop, that since has been closed down for business.

I am extremely disappointed in Ferris Wheel Press. For having their pens made in China and letting something so utterly useless pass inspection and be sold for a not so cheap price, when there are better pens on the market for less. This pen should go back to the drawing board. They had no business selling it in the first place and I am surprised that noone else has asked for their money back! I mean fine, it is made of thin metal that will not withstand anything, but it is not that difficult to make a converter to fit the lousy, cheap looking pen! They could have spent at least those extra dollars on designing a proper working converter.

And more over, they said that they wanted a happy customer. Well, where is my money then? Why did they not accept my offer of sending the pens back? And do they have so many complaints that they can’t offer you a working pen as substitute for the pain and hassle they have caused? I took of my savings money to buy this pen. I have no income of my own like many other journalers or like the influencers doing free advertisements for FWP. This is bad form in my opinion.

So my final words are: Do not buy fountain pens from living room businesses, they should be bought from professionals! And do not buy from companies with a non-serviceminded customer service! Read reviews before every fountain pen purchase and do NOT listen to recommendations by paid influencers!

Thoughts on Queen Elizabeth II’s death and the aftermath

The Royal Crown of Scotland is placed over Queen Elizabeth’s head

In 1992, I studied Ethnology at Lund University and one of the books we had to read was ”The Whore in the Farmer Society”. Yes, not a nice title but the sad fact is, that a woman who had sex outside marriage and became pregnant, was called a whore. Not only was she considered a threat to honourable women’s capacity of producing butter but she was also considered the reason behind children’s rickets. Why? Because in the old days, one was afraid of anything that could not be explained and one could not explain why churned milk did not always become butter, nor why children’s bones became bent. It must have been a person who had put a curse on a woman’s ”butter luck” or the children, by her bad behaviour. So the hunt was always on, to find women who might have had pre-marital sex.

The women who were discovered, were brought to court and heavily fined. Then came the clerical punishment. For several Sundays, the woman had to stand with her hands and head in a pillory, outside the church, for all parishioners to spit at. Some parishes forced the woman to crawl on her knees down the church aisle to the altar and beg for forgiveness. Was she forgiven after all this humiliation? No! Never!

The fact was that a woman classified as a whore, was forced to remain an outsider for the rest of her life. While unmarried women were allowed to wear their hair loose and uncovered, a married woman wore a white head cloth on her head on Sundays and during work, a coloured one in blue or green or some other colour. The whore was forced to wear a red head cloth. She was not a virgin and not an honourably married woman and her head cloth signaled that to everyone, so they would stay far away from her.

In most parishes, she had to sit at the back of the church, for the rest of her life, together with the grave digger and the one who took care of dead animals. In other words, despite having paid her fines and dues to state and church, she was never forgiven. Not by the priest, not by the parishioners or society.

Why am I telling you this, in a post about Queen Elizabeth II? I will slowly get to this in my ponderings! Because a lot of thoughts have gone through my head since last Tuesday. Or since her jubilee, I should say and I hope you will be able to follow my train of thought.

I live and have grown up in Sweden, and despite Swedish TV never broadcasting any of the Queen’s Christmas messages or any other speech, nor covering any of her doings, she still have always been someone I have respected. I am not going to discuss that in detail, but somehow, through her actions, she has become famous all over the world. We have seen a smiling queen, in colourful outfits, doing her duty as sovereign, year after year, decade after decade. And the older she got, the more I and many others, hoped that she would live on forever.

Because we could not imagine a world without Queen Elizabeth. Like I said to someone on IG yesterday. I hoped that she would live to be at least 102, like her mother. It was exactly like when I watch ”Romeo and Juliet”. The ending is so terrible and I always hope that the ending will be changed somehow. But it never is, is it.

Seeing Queen Elizabeth at Prince Philip’s funeral last year, I wondered how she would cope, when her ”constant and stay” was gone. Many old follow suit, soon after a beloved spouse has died. It’s like they have lost their reason for living. Was Queen Elizabeth going to be strong and carry on alone for another five-ten years? We all saw to our horror, in June, that she looked like a totally changed person. She looked like she had aged 20 years in just one year and I for one, started to realize, that she was not going to live for very much longer. Not when she cancelled going to events that she really, really cared for, due to her health.

For once, Swedish television did the decent thing and showed a program made about the Queen for her jubilee. It was the one showing the private family films with comments by the Queen. The film changed my entire outlook on the Queen. Up till that point she had been a very correct British lady, always wearing hat, gloves and pearls. Smiling yes, because that is what royalty is supposed to do. But being boring, an old fuddy-duddy. Watching that program made me realize many new things.

The Queen came from a very loving family, who did their duty and changed their lives, when her uncle chose selfishness over duty. But the impression I got from the films shown, was that her parents did not change in essence. They loved their daughters and gave them a secure and happy childhood with lots of togetherness. And growing up, the Queen tried to do the same for her four children.

Another thing that I realized, was that the entire family had a wonderful sense of humour. But not just that, a depth that many titled, privileged people lack. Her father was a very wise man and his daughter truly walked in his footsteps entirely. Despite getting a poor formal education, she learned by watching and being curious.

But the thing that really surprised me, was her faith. As a sovereign, in many countries, you automatically become head of church when you become King or Queen. But not that many royals believe in God! They are no different than the secular population they ”rule” over. But here was a Queen who was different. Totally different. Not only did she believe in God and his son Jesus Christ, she did not keep quiet about it! She never hesitated to talk about what she believed in and through her actions, she always showed that she was a true follower of Christ. The smiles were not there out of duty, but she loved her fellow human beings. And despite being shy, she did her job because she knew that it was what she was put here on earth to do. It was her mission and she was going to do it as well as possible. All the puzzle pieces fell in to place for me when I understood that her entire life and actions, have their explanation in her faith.

Last Tuesday, when I saw a photo of the Queen greeting Liz Truss at Balmoral, I saw the Queen’s black hand at once. The hand reminded me of my mother’s, when she laid dead in the nursing home. I knew then, that not all was well with the Queen. But hope is the last thing to die, is it not. When the radio presenter read that her doctors where concerned about her health and had her under observation, I started wondering. And when I heard that her children and Prince William were on their way to Balmoral, THEN I knew that it was all over. The doctors do not ask the family to rush to a patient’s bedside, if it is not to say a final goodbye.

I have thought about it now for a week, that I think that the Queen knew she was dying. That this is why she insisted on going to Balmoral. She wanted to die far away from the crowds, in a beautiful place. Not even a new PM was going to make her go back to London, the PM had to go to her instead. I guess it is a comfort to know that she died in a place she loved. And I hope that she did not suffer. It must have been a heart attack or massive stroke, since it all went so fast and her black hand showing poor blood circulation.

All of Sunday, I watched the coffin leave Balmoral and travel down to Edinburgh. I felt emotional, watching white roses being thrown at the car, even though it had been forbidden. I almost cried when I saw ponies lined up with their faces towards the road and the farmers who had parked their tractors in a row.

I know that a lot of people don’t like the monarchy. My son and I had an argument about it yesterday. He is 28 and a historian, just like myself. To him the monarchy means oppression, colonialism and everything else bad. And yes, in one way he is right and everyone else who objects to the monarchy. In the past, kings and queens have behaved in an abominable way. Heavy taxes have paid for an outrageous lifestyle. Kings and queens have started wars, forced people to change religions, have beheaded the opposition, suppressed free speech and many other things. But a consitutional monarch is just a figurehead for a country. Queen Elizabeth was not even allowed to have any opinions, let alone any power to speak of.

Is it better to have an expensive president, who has the right to push a red button and start WWIII with nuclear weapons? A president who offends people right and left, fires anyone who tells him what to do, who sits and verbally attacks innocent people on twitter in the middle of the night and who demands that his followers break the law and does a coup d’êtat? The entire world gasped for air, as soon as D. Trump became president and we held our breaths for four years. And he is working on a come back, despite all his crimes. I must say that I prefer a royal spreading goodwill around the world, instead of a crazy president who got to where he was by having the most money.

Yesterday, was a long day. I basically had BBC news on from morning till evening. 99,9% of their broadcast is about Queen Elizabeth. While she was was not MY Queen, I so much admired her, that I feel a terrible loss. So I can well imagine how the shocked population of the UK feel. She has always been there. On magazine covers, souvenirs and on TV. People have seen her going through the ages of life, raise children, loose loved family members. In times of crisis, she has given uplifting messages. And I heard it said that 1/3 of the population of the UK, have actually personally met her. And not a single one of them, have something bad to say about her.

The people who have met her, all say the same thing. That she had a wonderful sense of humour, that she made everyone she met feel special and like the only person in the room. That she was curious, sharp minded, eager to learn up to the end. How she remembered everything. Is it strange that thousands have traveled from all over the UK to pay their respect to her? To her service? Green Park by Buckingham Palace is full of flowers, the queues take hours. The same goes for Balmoral, Windsor and yesterday, the royal lane from Holyroodhouse to St. Giles. People crowded and waited to say goodbye to a truly respected and loved old lady. A selfless woman who did her duty till the end, serving her country and her people to the very best of her ability. There will never be another person like her in this selfish world and everyone knows it.

I sat and watched how the coffin was carried out to the car yesterday and how her four children lined up behind the car to walk her down to the Cathedral. Through the crowds of thousands of people who had waited the entire day. Every clergyman and every politician try to remind people that she was not only the Queen, but she was actually the mother of four children who loved her deeply. On top of always serving her people, she raised children and was a beloved grandmother and great-grandmother. And they all mourn the loss of their loved one, like we all mourn the loss of parents and grandparents! Everyone who has lost a family member, knows what the Queen’s family is going through since Thursday! The immense sadness of never getting to talk to that person again, never getting to hear their voice again or being able to give them a hug. Never being able to vent one’s problems with them. Never spending holidays with them again.

For me, it is always painful to shop Christmas presents, Valentine’s or Easter cards and realize that I will never buy my mother another card or gift again. Or that I will never wait for her again to arrive in her little green car, to stay with us for a week or two, or wave her goodbye after a visit, knowing she will be back some time soon. Queen Elizabeth’s children are going through all those thoughts and emotions right now, in front of all cameras. Right in front of the population of the UK, that have taken to the streets. Last night, they stood guard in front of their mother’s coffin, in St. Giles, with people walking by, looking at them like they were monkeys in a zoo. I feel really sorry for them.

But to get back to my initial ramblings. As the car with the coffin slowly worked its way through the crowds, down the royal lane, people bowed their heads to show their respect to Queen Elizabeth. Some applauded a thank you to her years of service. And then suddenly I hear a boo. I was totally shocked. This man stood leaning over the fence and booed. Someone jerked him backwards, but he managed to pull himself loose and got back to booing. He was like a yo-yo till they finally managed to get him removed.

I looked at my son and said ”what was that about”. Did he boo to the coffin? How had the Queen, an old lady already when he was born, offended him so much that he stood for hours waiting to scream boo at her coffin? You can’t really offend a dead person. A corpse can not hear! Its spirit is gone, that is what death is all about. The people you offend are the people around you, who have stood for hours to honour the deceased. And you offend the family of the dead person. Was that the point? My question then is, would he like someone to do that to his grandmother’s coffin? The queen followed Jesus and he said do unto others as you would have them do unto you!

Was it King Charles he heckled? Well, if it was, all I have to say is that UK has chosen to remain a monarchy all years, and upon the death of the sovereign, the oldest child of the sovereign will automatically become the new monarch. That is how it is in all countries with a monarchy. And unless you get a majority after a referendum, you have to accept that your country is a monarchy. To stand and boo at a person, who is in deep mourning, for the new job he has just sworn to dedicate the remaining of his days to, is outrageous!

Or is it old sins brought up in his heckling? The fact that the King was talked in to marrying a woman he did not love and who was not up for the job at hand? The fact that his loveless marriage broke down like all loveless marriages do and ending in divorce? The fact that he went back to his old girlfriend and now is as happy as he deserves to be? If this was who he heckled and the reasons behind it, the above, then I must remind the young man that it takes two to tango. And God has said that we must all forgive each other. He is the only one who is allowed to not do so. He is the only one who is allowed to judge a person.

This will sound ridiculous, but was it Princess Anne he heckled? The woman who bears visible signs of crying since her mother died? I look at Princess Anne and see a remarkable daughter, just like the Queen was a remarkable daughter to her mother. The love between them could easily be spotted. And yesterday, I heard of the report between them. Few mothers and few daughters ever have that kind of wonderful relationship of both mutual respect and true friendship. Princess Anne has been a devoted daughter and inherited the same sense of duty, as her mother inherited from her father. Princess Anne, has always been the hardest working in the royal house of Windsor and having the most appointments of them all, every year. Why would she be heckled?

Was it Prince Andrew who was the target for the booing? Now, Prince Andrew started his adult life as a sailor with basically a girl in every harbour. Not uncommon for sailors at all. And he also married a woman who was not up to the job of always being in the public eye, criticized about everything from how she dressed to her weight. But looking at the royal houses of Europe, we can see that marrying commoners, who are not schooled for royal life, is not always going to end successfully. Or was he heckled for showing really poor judgement?

I will return to the whore in the farmer society. Can we all agree on that punishing her for the rest of her life, was not a good Christian thing to do? Can we agree on that after paying the fine to the state and suffering the humiliation of the clerical penalty, she should have been forgiven once and for all? She had paid her dues.

At the old age of 95, the poor Queen had to sit and read the same thing as the rest of the world was reading. That her son, Prince Andrew, had showed extremely bad judgement in the friends he socialized with some decades ago. And that he like many other men, who were never put on the spot, never had their pictures plastered all over the world press, had used a prostitute supplied by his friends, her pimps.

I know that I do not sound objective! We are a divided household over what Prince Andrew did. My viewpoint have always been, that the woman in question was what Americans call ”white trash” (however bad it sounds). Noone forced her to go work for ”the pimps”. I have read that her own father actually thought it was a great opportunity to get somewhere in life and adviced her to take the job. Noone held her prisoner against her will. She was always free to leave. But she seemed to have enjoyed all the champagne, travels and meeting the rich and famous of the world. Why else stay? We can think what we want about it. About a society where not everyone has an equal chance of making something of themselves. Where luxury prostitution might be the only way out of poverty. Or a tempting option out of poverty.

What I strongly object to with this entire ugly affair, is the woman in question going after the most public person she could find in her client list, in order to finance her new luxury house and finance a luxurious lifestyle for her family. She went after a person who could not defend himself in a court of law, due to the family he belongs to. Which the woman and her lawyers knew. He had to pay her off out of court, looking like a pedophile and you name it, to spare his family. While his reputation was totally destroyed forever, his rank, titles and job taken away from him and being forced to go in to hiding to protect the rest of his family from his shame, the gold digger happily embraces her new luxury life. In my book, this is truly ugly.

Prince Andrew has lost everything. He paid for his ”crime” with hard cash. He paid by letting his mother take away his title, his military ranks, his salary and his job. The only job he has ever been trained for, apart from the military, where he no longer is allowed to work either. The Queen had no option. The scandal was too big. Some things can not just be overlooked. But… She loved her son. And her son loved her. And yesterday, was not about sins that he has paid for now, many times over. Yesterday, was about a son coming out of hiding, in order to honour his mother and show her the same respect as any other son. Showing her the respect everyone lining that street in Edinburgh was doing.

He walked out there, humbled and humiliated, not being allowed to wear the uniform he proudly used to wear, walking down that street, for HER! Most of us would have refused. To have all those eyes on us and knowing what they were all thinking, feeling the hatred. But he did it and it shows how much he loved his mother. And then I must ask, have we not got further in our society than this? To treat him like the woman in the farmer society, who had had sex and a child out of wedlock. To the 22-year-old who kept booing, I want to say the following: Christ met an adulteress once, who was going to be stoned for her crimes. Christ asked the man who was without sin, to throw the first stone. All the men put down their stones and walked home.

There is noone who has ever lived, except Jesus, who is perfect. We all make mistakes. We hurt people, we say things we ought not to say, we break laws, both secular ones and religious ones. So please, look at what you yourself are doing, mind your own business and try to stay on the straight and narrow as best as you can. Let a son mourn his mother in peace. He already knows that he can not turn the clock back and undo what he did decades ago. He has paid the price, many times over now, so do not be like the villagers and priests, who forced the unwed mothers to walk around with red headcloths, sit on the back row of the churches, and be shunned for the rest of their lives!

I did not mention Prince Edward, but I can’t imagine why anyone would boo him for anything. To me, he seems as shy as his mother and as out of place, as many of us shy people feel at big functions or in public.

This evening, the Queen’s coffin will fly from Scotland to London, where her former subjects will do their best to honour her and show her respect for the 70 year long job she has done for them. I hope that there will be no more booing, at anyone. Not at the Queen herself, nor at her children. Let them mourn their mother, because that is what she was first of all to them. And then honour that she did exactly what she promised to do on her 21st Birthday. She stuck to the job no matter what was thrown at her in her personal life and in her professional life. That is called dedication!

Election in Sweden: To Vote or Not To Vote

Four days to election and I have finally started to look at the news and programs concerning party politics etc. For two weeks now, I have been answering surveys on ”Tycka”, realizing that things are more than nutty, when focus is on irrelevant issues that has nothing to do with every day life for most Swedes.

My 28-year-old son has declared that he is not going to vote at all. His reasons for having taken this decision is that none of the parties even bring up matters that he feels are important. He is in his final year at university. Getting a degree to teach gymnasium students. But his class has been told that in a year, when they stand there with a five year degree, five years of hard work, five years of high student loans, they are not going to be able to get a job.

Being told that a year before graduation is difficult. Because what is the point in finishing then? What has been the point in building up a debt with CSN that will not be paid off before retirement?

For four years, he has worked the night shift every Friday, at PostNord, to be able to survive as a student. And now he is looking in to if he can stay on there, after graduation. But what was the point in getting a degree if you are just going to stand and load heavy boxes on to lorries every night? You don’t even need any brain cells for that!

He also brought up during our conversation, that no politician is telling us how the electricity problem is going to be solved. How the southern part of Sweden’s population is going to be able to pay our electricity bills and not freeze to death this autumn and winter. We don’t care about electric cars that noone can afford, but the very rich. Nor do we care about charging posts. We need electricity to heat our homes, to cook and be able to take showers, wash our clothes and clean our homes.

As a soon-to-be teacher, he is also upset that nothing is said about all problems in school. Students leaving school with failing grades. NPF students not receiving the help they need. Classes being too big. And noone wanting to stay on as teachers, once they have seen what the job is like. Dangerous and life-threatening in some places.

My 22-year-old daughter has told me that she is going in and voting blank paper. She is opinionated as far as politics go, but feel like everything the politicians say is crap and a bunch of lies.

Last week, all news focused on why so many will not go and vote. Well, could it be that none of us are happy with where our country is heading? And that noone does anything to put on the breaks?!

Last week, I got a pamphlet in the mail box from ”miljöpartiet” where they stated that despite experts on finances, environment, road quality etc, politicians in Lund (our closest town and council that cares nothing about the villages in the constituency) have decided to build a road around our village. The cost of this unwanted project, will be millions. Last time when they decided to go against experts, they built a tram line from the train station in Lund out to ESS, on the outskirts of Lund. Of course they crashed the budget many times over. One of those times, I paid extra attention to it and that was when they were 2 million short for the build and demanded that the schools in the council had to save 2 million SEK. In other words, when Lund council builds, the money comes from the schools.

At the same time as these 2 millions had to be taken from the schools, the local high school went bancrupt. The headmaster acted like a rat on a sinking ship. Quit. As did the special ed teacher. All assistants were fired. Practical subjects were taken away for all grades but one, so a mark at least could be given in those subjects, that are usually loved by all students. And who suffered the most? Children with NPF of course. I became more than ever determined to never ever let a child of mine attend that school. Fine if we had to live off noodles to buy the petrol and drive our children to independent schools, but no way a council school!

I can also feel that it is hopeless to vote. Because the politicians clearly live in a bubble and don’t understand what ordinary people are going through or what we are most concerned about. Depending on their own life situation, experiences and bank account, they will take the decisions that they feel are right for themselves. Last election, I sat and read through every election slip to see what the politicians that wanted to be elected, work with. Not a single one, in any party, is in MY situation or my husband’s.

But… This is a democracy. Ukraine is fighting tooth and nail, in order to remain its own country, governed by its own independent politicians and not Russian puppets. They fight for the right to vote and run their own country. Then it is a disgrace to not go and vote in Sweden. Where we have the right to do so and the possibility. You can even post vote when you go for your next grocery run, if you are too lazy to get off your buttom on Sunday! There is no excuse to not go and vote.

I have told my two older children that it is important to make your voice heard, even if it is a dissatisfied one. And even if no party completely thinks like you do, choose one which is close enough. Yes, they always promise a lot and they rarely keep a single word of what they promised. But look at the math! For one Swedish party to do everything they have promised this week, that party has to receive 51% of the Swedish votes. No party will receive 51% if they ever have. And when you do not receive 51%, you have to compromise. You can try to get other parties to look at things the way you do. They might give a little but then they want a little.

Of course all the party leaders ought to go out and clarify to all those who think that all promises are realistic and do-able, that what the parties are talking about is a dream scenario. But realistically, only if they get other parties on board the train, will things become reality. That would be the honest way.

I will go and vote on Sunday. I would not dream of not doing so. My ancestors were poor cottagers and farmers without the right to vote. I am voting for them and me! I feel proud to walk by those party representatives, standing outside the school where we vote, every election day and know that I have their fate in my hands. That my vote means something! Even if ”my” party is not very successful, at least I have shown what I believe in and what I do not like and do not accept.

Psychotic Entertainment on TLC

I don’t usually comment on TV shows, since watching a TV show is optional and if you don’t like it, you can press the off button. But there is a TV program my husband and I have followed for years, hoping to perhaps understand the human mind better. We are both very interested in the human mind and how other couples solve their issues and life riddles.

Before I delve further in to the show at hand, I would like to back track a little bit. To 1986, when I had finished a year in a post gymnasium (lycee) journalism program. I knew at this point that I wanted to pursue journalism and had applied to the University program. But so had half of Sweden, because I did not get one of the few seats available in Gothenburg nor in Stockholm. And what do you do then? When your dreams have been crushed? You desperately come up with another plan to give yourself some time to think.

I applied to a US University, not knowing anything about the US education system and if it was compatible with the Swedish one. I was awarded a scholarship and with a student visa in my hand, I took off. Only to arrive at said University and finding out that an undergraduate degree is basically the same thing as our gymnasium. But I had said goodbye to my family, friends and did not feel like I could stomach coming right back with my tail between my legs.

After my first winter term my bank account had taken a big dent, due to me not understanding that the scholarship only covered tuition. Nothing else. And only for two terms. What was I supposed to do from April to September? Not being allowed to work and no courses on offer that would fit my ambitions. I took to ballroom dancing and met a young man who became my best friend. And later that year, we married.

Did we know each other as well as we should? No, not at all. Our religion does not permit co-habitation nor sex or intimacy of any kind, before marriage. Perhaps it is that day-to-day life that really show you whether you are suited for each other or not? Or like the saying goes, time will tell?

What does time will tell mean though? It means that your relationship changes with the years that passes. It was not as bad for my husband and I, as it was for Tevje and Golde in Fiddler on the Roof. They met on their wedding day. 25 years later, Tevje asks Golde if she loves him. And she thinks the question is ridiculous. Because for 25 years they have worked side by side and faced life’s struggles. If that is not love, what is?

Last year, my husband and I watched married at first sight. One of the couple’s which did not work out in the end, was a doctor and a nurse. The deal breaker seems to have been the fact that he, the doctor, would not say I love you before he knew her better. He desperately tried to explain to her that you can’t say that you love a person, when you don’t know them well enough. Love is something deeply felt and you should not throw that word around without deep thought behind it. Then it comes to mean nothing. She could not accept that. But I am in total agreement with him. Only time will tell if a relationship is built on true love or something else.

A relationship can start from anything. Lust. Physical attraction. Desperation to have someone in your life. Friendship. But it can not stop there, if it is going to survive. A relationship has to develop for it to grow in to love and last. Some people might want to get to that point in their relationship, but will need help from professionals. Others refuse to see the truth that there is nothing to build on. And this is where TLCs 90 Day Fiancée comes in.

Yes, I have finally come to what I want to chat about today. For years, we took our three youngest sons to a habilitation swimming pool on Friday evenings. After an hour in that hot pool, we all felt exhausted. An entire week of stress finally caught up with us and coming home from the pool, my husband and I collapsed on a sofa each. The only thing on TV, was 90 Day Fiancée and because we have been in a somewhat similar situation, we started watching the series.

As I said, I went to the US Christmas 1986, on a student visa. The following year I married and two years later, I was pregnant with our first son. A pregnancy from hell. Vomiting around the clock, vitamin B6 shots in my buttocks every five days to prevent some of the vomiting, pregnancy dermatitis that had me awake, itching around the clock. I could not study full time when I itched so bad and could not keep things down. So we had to apply for a green card.

We had to prove that I was not in the US for a green card though. By telling our story to a grim faced immigration officer. We also had to prove that we had bought three items on credit together. So we came with receipts for a sofa, a sewing machine and a crib for the baby. Eight months pregnant I sat there and swore that I was not in the US for a green card. Our son was born 25 months after our wedding and when he was 25 months old, we left the US never to return. (My husband of course going back for visits to his mother.)

I am not sure which season we started watching 90 days. But over the years, the TV program definitely have changed. Perhaps it is a sign of the times we are living in? That anything goes now? Or is it that the screening is totally lacking? That TLC on purpose is looking for the most dysfunctional persons they can find? Because they think that the audience is attracted to watching psychos?

I am an HSP. Highly Sensitive Person. I have INFJ personality. What I see and hear stays with me. I think about it, try to solve problems for others and I get upset. Really, truly upset about things. And 90 Day Fiancée has me worked up in a bad way on several levels.

My first issue is with the TV channel TLC. I used to watch a show where people with bad clothing taste were brought in and taught how to dress to look their best. I actually learned a lot from that show! My daughter sat and watched a baking show, which gave her ideas for baking and presentation. So in the past, we have been happy with the channel. It was happy ending programs that left one feeling good. But noone can say that anymore.

This year, media has been all about Johnny Depp and his ex. Abuse has been discussed backwards and forwards, not just in the court room but in news media and among youths, who worship Captain Jack Sparrow and Grindelwald. I did not follow any of the media coverage because I suspect that it all boils down to money. And with a war going on in Ukraine where millions are on the run and inflation making it difficult to put food on our table, this couple’s squabbles seem ridiculous.

But if there truly has been abuse, that is unacceptable. Or? Because what do we really think about abuse these days? TLC is showing us twice a week now, that abuse is completely acceptable and is even classified as entertainment! This morning, google recommended I read an article which divulged which couples will be on the new season of 90 Days Happily Ever After. And two couples have an abusive relationship. Or should I say contain abusive persons?

I read the comments, after I read the article, and the first person who had commented said that it will be a great season with lots of drama. In other words, he/she enjoys watching abuse on TV. How have we got to this point? How can TLC decide to continue putting people on their channel, who should never ever have been given media attention? People who is earning big money on being abusive!

Of all the people I have watched on any 90 Day Fiancée program, including the spin offs, Angela Deem is the most appalling person imaginable. Yes, as Christians we are supposed to love our neighbour and fellow human beings. But what comes out of that woman’s mouth, all the time, is beyond foul. Most people laugh at her because she does not realize herself, how idiotic she comes off. She not only has given Americans a bad name, but she has also become the face of the Trump administration. SHE alone is the reason why noone should even consider moving to the US. Because you could get an Angela Deem as your neighbour!

But not only have TLC given this attention seeking abusive narcissist media coverage for years, they have also created a monster of their own making. TLC is walking at the forefront with placards saying: ”Life is all about plastic surgery and staying young forever”.

If you have been following 90 Day Fiancée or any of the spinoffs, you will have noticed the following:

1. All the women who arrive to the US on a fiancée visa come with the intention of having plastic surgery. Unless they have not already had it done beforehand, all paid by their US fiancées. Gino paid for Jasmine’s breasts and everything else. Ximena wanted Mike to pay for hers. Larissa had several men pay for hers. The list just goes on and on. A majority of the women has this as their first goal and some has the second goal as selling themselves on porn sites. What a life goal to have?! But more over, what is all this plastic surgery telling young women of today? That you are not good enough the way you were born. Everyone has to look like a clone. With big bottoms, wasp waists, water melon breasts and big fish lips. Forget about women’s lib. A woman is supposed to wake lust in a man, according to TLC. Because that is the message that is broadcast!

2. There are no therapists on the set nor on the team which choose the couples to appear on the show. Because if there were therapists on the set, they would take several of the couples to the side and tell them that noone in their right mind falls in love with someone 30 years their senior. Such a relationship is doomed from the start and will bring heart ache for the old person. The young person ALWAYS has an agenda. And no plastic surgery or youthful clothing, will make you 30 years younger!

I think that what bothers me the most with TLCs choice of couples, is that they encourage pedophilia. Because even if Mahogny is 22 years old, it is pedophilia. Benjamin is 52 years old. When he was 30, she was laying newborn in her mother’s arms! When Angela was 23 years old and probably having her own kids, Michael was a newborn.

Years ago, I was talking to a lady who had married her lover. He had left his wife for her and the age difference was around the above mentioned couples. At first, she thought it was great. A man of the world, money to spoil her, already settled in career and financially. But soon he started ageing. And when he had a stroke and she was forced to wipe his bottom and change his nappies, then the romance was dead. She became bitter, asking herself how she could have been so stupid. She was not ready to sit at home with an old fart. All she wanted was for him to die as soon as possible so she could be free and start living again.

Those who say age is just a number, that age does not matter, are just fooling themselves. Of course age matters. Of course it is more than a number. Why do you think that people are made to retire at 65? Because not only are their brains not as sharp anymore, they can not keep up physically. There is a reason why women no longer can become mothers in their upper 50s. Why men loose their stamina in bed. As a science program said many years ago: Humans are just like the animals. We are here to breed. When we no longer can breed, the body will break itself down and we die. One way or the other, earth will get rid of us.

Angela Deem thinks that spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on cutting off fat, straightening wrinkles, pumping in chemicals in select places etc will make her 23 years younger. And TLC makes us watch this, telling all women above 50 that we should be ashamed of the way we look, that we must make ourselves look younger, even if it empties the family bank account. And if you can’t do this, if you don’t get thousands of followers on Instagram thanks to a TV show, which will pay for all that surgery, then you are not worth anything.

To be perfectly honest, Angela actually looks older after her surgery, not younger. She blames it on Michael. But as this woman says in Midsomer Murders when her friend has just found out that her younger husband cheeted on her their entire marriage: What do you expect when you marry someone younger? You have affairs with younger men, you don’t marry them. (I did not put it in citation marks since I might have the word order wrong.)

Because the fact is, that if you look at historical statistics, you will find that on an average women were 21 years old when they got married and 22 when they had their first child. The men were 25 years old when they married and 26 when they first became a father. The age difference almost always being no more than four years. I have seen this in all my genealogy for all countries in the western world. And to be frank. It is not a coincidence.

The 20s are the most fertile years in a woman and when a man has the most sexual appetite. Nature has made it this way, just as it has in animals. Never in my genealogy have I seen an age difference of 20-30 years. Because one is at two completely different stages in life then.

Today, I am 57 years old. And I think that I have a pretty young mind. I love to learn. Start new projects. My heart still beats faster if I see a pretty Barbie doll or Hello Kitty stationery. I am drawn to the same fashion as my daughter. I read Harry Potter, collect Funko Pop figures and find Legolas in the LOTR films most attractive. But as my mother said, in one’s mind, we do not age. What we like, we like no matter what age. We don’t feel old in that respect.

And yet. I have hypothyroid, Hashimoto’s, high blood pressure and arthritis in my right hip. Most of these things does not start when you are 21! And my body? After seven children, I might still have been able to keep somewhat slender. Had I not had to give birth three times with C-section. It leaves your belly without muscle support so that it eventually hangs like a bag. And when menopause set in, loosing weight became a loosing battle. The hips and bottom expanded as did the breasts. Like a nurse said at mammography ”When we don’t need them anymore, then we get the big breasts.” And yes, I had tiny breasts till meanopause. 70A bra size. And now I stand and look at my breasts wondering WHY? None of the clothes fitting anymore, nor my pretty bras.

I don’t want to grow old. It is not fun to look ugly and invinsible. Noone finding you attractive. And people treating you like you are less knowing. But it can not be stopped. No matter how much we want to turn the clock back. And we have to make the best of the situation. Support each other as women. Finding our new place in society.

TLC has the power to help with this. To build and support women and men alike. To show role models that can inspire. But instead they really have walked down the devil’s route. Benjamin walking in to a clothing shop with his same age friend, asking her to help him look young and not like a father of four. I loved her answer ”But you are a father of four!”. We applauded here at home when she walked out of the store because she wanted no part in him chasing after a 20-year-old. How refreshing it was to see that the entire world has not gone mad.

Because while Benjamin thinks that clothes and lifting weights will make him young, while Angela thinks plastic surgery all over will make her young and sexy, they fail to see the picture. Age really is more than looks. My husband and I fit the statistics perfectly. Four years apart. So did my parents, my grandparents and all my ancestors. It means that we have similar experiences from growing up. Our reference frames are very similar despite growing up in different countries and with different family constellations.

We are enough different to always discovering new things about each other and being able to learn from each other. But we are also enough similar that we can laugh about the same things and share similar experiences. Sometimes my husband do get surprised when he hears that I never have heard this or that song, because he is four years older than me. But we grew up in the same world with the same cars, fashion, films, hair dos, political events…

To some people on the 90 day show, sex, looking like the Kardashians, doing reels on Instagram to earn a living, seem to be what marriage is all about. And a green card. But that is so off the wall. To have a successful marriage, you need a similar background to build on. With time, you will be faced with hardships like miscarriages, loosing your job, getting sick, struggle financially. Those are the things that will test a couple’s relationship. This is when you truly can say that you love your spouse. When you go through life together and come out on the other side of hardships stronger.

Noone can therefore say that they love someone whom they have just spent a couple of days with at a holiday resort. That is and will always be a holiday fling. Noone can say that they love a person that they have only messaged with on a dating site, facebook or instagram.

I can fully understand that a couple might meet at either of these venues and would like to get to know each other better. Who knows what something can grow in to? But there must be another way of portraying all of this on TLC! If TLC really wants to show how two people who don’t know each other at all, have 90 days to figure out if they should go for it and hope for an everlasting marriage or not, then I really feel that they need to take responsibility for what they are showing.

The first thing that should be done, is hire a detective, or as many detectives as are needed, to screen the applicants. People with a criminal conviction or a police record should not be able to get the job! For heavens sake, one of the shows’ participants was awaiting trial for abuse and kidnapping! And is now in prison for years to come. Another one was trafficking drugs!

The next thing that really ought to be done to everyone applying, is making them talk to a therapist and taking psychological tests. There is no screening or we would not have had to watch one nutter after the next on these shows. And in certain cases, it really has made me ill at ease.

If Steven’s parents have never had him tested for ADHD and autism, then he needs to be tested now. Alina should have been informed that his behaviour is not strange, it is classic for someone with an NPF diagnosis. Her mother and grandmother likewise, so that they can support Alina when she can not handle things anymore. His sexual addiction adds to the problems and to be frank, where is TLCs moral duty? They could have helped when they saw that things were not quite the way they should be. They should have sent in a psychologist to help. And that would have sent a message to the audience that there is always help to get. But also the message that it is very important to find out family history BEFORE you committ yourself to someone.

The same goes with this season’s Mike. He has ADHD and I suspect he has autism as well. He should have been screened by a psychologist and told how stressful it would be to be on TV. But the psychologist should also have talked to him about the dangers of thinking that a sexual worker, from a poor country, would have any true feelings for you. That love can not be bought.

And Gino. Poor Gino who is so desperate for love, that he is giving away his money to a woman who is clearly mentally disturbed. A psychologist should have been there telling him that it is not love to let someone walk on you. It is not love when you are afraid of someone or afraid of opening your mouth. That it is not normal to behave the way Jasmine does, that she needs to be medicated and be in therapy. Not getting married to someone who is frightened of her.

What we are watching on these shows is not entertainment. It is tragedy playing out in front of our eyes and a TV company making money on psychologically ill people. Miona lives in a fantasy world where she thinks she is a Kardashian. Kimberly the groupie, thinks that her toyboy singer loves her, when all she has done is buying sex.

I have no hope for the future or the world, if this is what it has come to. Filters, plastic surgery, men going after girls that could almost be their granddaughters, menopausal women desperately trying to defy nature and having babies to keep their toyboys… And worse of all, verbal abuse of another human being, becoming prime time entertainment?

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Svenskt demensboende och palliativ vård

Följande inlägg skrevs år 2021, mitt under covid pandemin. Av någon anledning blev den inte publicerad. Men jag kommer idag, 23 augusti 2023, publicera den eftersom jag befarar att kritiken under pandemin inte förändrat något alls inom svensk åldringsvård och palliativ vård. Det här borde läsas av alla med åldrande föräldrar och politiker! Som en varning och som ett upprop att en förändring behöver ske:

I maj 2010, när vi satt och åt middag hemma, fick jag ett telefonsamtal från min mamma. Hon var arg som ett bi och hysterisk som bara hon kunde vara. Hon skrek ”Har ni bytt riktnummer i skåne?”. Detta var första gången jag insåg att något var seriöst galet med mamma. Nu hade min mor och jag alltid haft ett dåligt förhållande till varandra, som jag inte vill gå in på i detalj här eftersom det skulle bli en hel bok. Men att hon ringde och var otrevlig var inget nytt. Att hon ringde mitt i middagstid var inget nytt heller. Hela min barndom och vuxna tid, hade präglats av en sorts brist på respekt från hennes sida.

Så jag reagerade inte på något bra sätt alls, den där kvällen för över 11 år sedan. Jag sa till på skarpen.”Eftersom vi nu sitter och talar på telefonen så är det ganska uppenbart att vårt riktnummer inte ändrats, eller hur?”. Men i hennes hysteriska tillstånd gick det inte in, utan hon satt och svamlade om att hon ringt min faster och hamnat på BB i Ystad. Nu ligger ju Ystad i Skåne också, så alltså var det inte fel på riktnumret alls. Men inte förrän ett tag senare började jag undra varför hon skulle ringa en kvinna hon inte talat med sedan 1979, när min pappa dog?

Den här sommaren 2010 var väldigt speciell. Året innan hade min familj, åkt till Italien. Men på vägen ner dit, så skadade vår två-åring fötterna och i stället för att ha en rolig semester, satt min man och jag på sjukhuset med våra två yngsta söner, varje förmiddag, medan resten av barnaskaran försökte underhålla sig själva i hotellpoolen. När vi återvände till hotellet vid lunchtid, slog vädret om varje dag, till regn. Så totalt misslyckad semester. År 2010, skulle vi rätta till det. För sent fick vi reda på att min syster med familj skulle komma från Australien, på semester, precis när vi skulle vara bortresta. De väntade med att köra hit från Trollhättan, tills dess vi återvänt från soliga Italien. Glada och nöjda.

Så fort vi kom hem, började samtalen från Trollhättan hagla om hur bisarrt min mamma börjat bete sig. Hon kunde vara på väg till kylskåpet och sedan bara stå som paralyserad framför kylskåpet och stirra på det. Min syster försökte ta henne till sjukhuset, men de sa bara att det inte var något fel på mamma. De kom hit ner och jag kunde märka att mamma var irriterad, aggressiv och vid ett tillfälle kom hon ut med en djävulsk blick och sa till mig att jag skulle sluta prata skit om henne. Jag blev helt paff, eftersom min make och jag stått och diskuterat om vi skulle beställa pizza till alla, efter en lång dag på stranden. När jag sa det till henne, slog humöret om och hon kastade sig om halsen på mig och grät, med orden ”jag vet inte vad som händer med mig”.

Min syster försökte återigen ta henne till sjukhuset, efter det de hade åkt tillbaka till Trollhättan och denna gång sa läkaren att hon kanske fått små epilepsianfall. Allt var mycket konstigt och mamma kunde man inte prata med om detta. Så i augusti, långt efter det min syster återvänt till Australien, ringde jag till socialen i Trollhättan och frågade vad de föreslog. Jag bodde 38 mil från min mor, var aldrig favoritbarnet, tvärtom, och jag hade sju barn att ta hand om, därav ett med ADHD på sex år och ett barn på snart två, med en sjuk njure. Jag kunde varken bli min mors sköterska eller åka 38 mil för att kolla till henne. Med bara en arbetande i hushållet, hade vi ingen sådan ekonomi. Plus att fem av barnen gick på friskola, dit föräldern själv måste transportera sina barn. De meddelade att de kunde göra ett besök hos henne och erbjuda tjänster men inte tvinga henne till något. Och de kunde enligt sekretesslagen inte meddela mig när de besökt henne eller vad hon sagt. Hon var detta år 75 år gammal.

Vad hände? Ja, utan att jag visste något, så var hon hos läkare och läkaren förbjöd henne först att köra bil, sedan förordade han god man. Men detta var inget jag informerades om förrän ett år efter god mannen tillsatts. Då ringde hon mig och introducerade sig. Varför? Jo, för att mamma vägrade ha god man och i detta läge var det absolut nödvändigt. Jag ombads skriva ett brev till domaren i domstolen, att mamma behövde en god man, för att min mors granne satt och hjälpte mamma att skriva ihop överklagan efter överklagan, där hon vägrade godta att ha en god man. Fast hon inte klarade betala räkningar eller annat man måste ta hand om. Jag skrev brevet de ville ha och de skickade en kopia till min mamma av detta brev. Hon ringde till mig och skrek och svor. De saker hon sa till mig var som en dolk i hjärtat. Mer än 46 år av psykisk misshandel från min mors sida, kom nu till en vändpunkt i mitt liv. Jag klarade inte mer psykiskt. Sju barn. Äldste sonens beteende var så autistiskt det kunde bli, sonen med ADHD, njursjuka sonen, en mobbad son och en bebis som dött i magen på mig, i vecka 17. Ovanpå detta en diagnos av hypothyreos och Hashimoto’s. Jag beslöt att mitt ansvar var att ta hand om MIN familj. De barn jag satt till världen. Mamma hade i 46 års tid gjort allt för att knäcka mig och nu kände jag mig knäckt. Jag fick inte den medicin jag behövde för att fungera och barnen var allt jag orkade med.

Men bara för att jag beslutat mig för att ”dra mig ur”, så slutade jag inte att bli kontaktad. Som när polisen ringde mig 23 December klockan 22:00 ett år och undrade om min mamma var här i Skåne. Han skällde ut mig och sa att min mamma borde vara på ett demensboende och brydde jag mig inte? När jag svarade att god mannen vägrade att lyssna på det örat och att jag inte hade något att säga till om, så hade polisen noll förstående för detta.

I augusti 2015 ringde god mannen, men det var en helt annan person än den jag haft minimal kontakt med innan. Goda män vill inte ha kontakt alls med anhöriga. Man skall inte lägga sig i. Men den nya kvinnan presenterade sig och meddelade att hon varit min mors god man i ett år efter det att den andra dött knall fall. Och nu undrade hon varför jag motsatte mig att mamma skulle till äldreboende? Jag trodde inte mina öron. Mitt svar var att jag sagt till den tidigare god mannen om och om igen att mamma inte kunde bo hemma längre. Så nu satte saker och ting fart. Kvinnan försökte få in henne på ett boende i Trollhättan, men mamma svarade varje gång ”Jag skall flytta till Skåne”. Så god mannen ringde mig och sa att nu fick jag fixa saker och ting i Skåne helt enkelt. Det blev intervjuer att gå på, samtidigt som jag skulle hantera det faktum att min yngste son fått diagnos autism i april 2014 och hans två år äldre bror fått samma diagnos september 2014. I november 2015 fick även sonen med ADHD, en diagnos till och ja, det var autism.

Ingen som inte lever med autism dygnet runt, kan någonsin förstå vilket helvete det är. Att kämpa för barnets rättigheter dagligen i skola. Samtidigt som man skall försökta få skolgången att fungera skall man också försöka skapa den sorts hem och förutsättningar som dessa barn behöver. Och man skall hantera barnens svårigheter på bästa sätt. Min make var ingen hjälp som stack till jobbet klockan 06:00 och kom hem tidigast 18:00. På BUP och habilitering kallade de mig ensamstående. Jag fick själv gå på kurser, gå på möten, försöka få de ”normala” barnen till kurser om deras syskon osv. Och så vara mamma till de ”normala” barnen ovanpå detta. I December 2015, runt Lucia, ringde godmannen och sa till mig att mamma fått plats på demensboendet i vår egen by och att jag måste möblera rummet eller lägenheten, som de kallade rummet. Så jag fick släppa julbak och julstök. Med mina två yngsta i antåg, åkte vi bort till demensboendet och lyckades ta oss in på avdelningen. FY, vad deprimerande.

Någon personal såg man inte till direkt. Och där satt två gamlingar placerade framför en TV de inte tittade på. Vi hittade till slut någon som jobbade där som visade oss till mammas framtida lägenhet, längs ner i korridoren. När vi kom in, den där mörka December eftermiddagen, så slogs jag av hur fruktansvärt detta är. Där hade mamma bott i ett stort kedjehus hon och pappa köpt 1974. Hon hade massor av prylar i de sju rummen och köket. Och nu måste hon lämna ett normalt liv, för att komma till sista hållplatsen innan döden. Lämna sitt liv och sina saker för evigt. Det kändes som att stiga in i Lönnebergas fattigstuga. Väggarna var målade i mörkt brunt och där fanns hål och skador från tidigare hyresgäster. Mammas saker hade dumpats i mitten av rummet, av flyttgubbarna, och nu fick jag och pojkarna börja packa upp. Och jag blev såååå ledsen.

Det var ingen rim och reson till packningen alls. Jag tror hon hade 15 par skor med sig t ex. Med höga klackar. Några från 50-talet. De hade skickat ner en del av en stor bokhylla och där skulle jag nu ställa in hennes kristallglas av alla former och till alla sorters alkoholdrycker. Men varför? Jag tänkte då minsann inte släpa dit alkohol. Jag är ju nykterist och under god man åren började mamma dricka, så att hon mer eller mindre blev alkoholist! Jag fick lägga in bordssilvret och ju mer jag packade upp, ju mer bisarrt blev alltihop. Frågan är vad en person med demens skall packa med sig till demensboendet? Om den minns vad den älskat, så är det kanske bra att ha med det? Men att ha med sig silver bestick och kristallglas? Vi hade svårt att se inne i rummet utan fick ha dörren till korridoren öppen och toalettdörren, eftersom taklampan inte fungerade.

Dagen därpå anlände mamma med sin godman och dennes väninna. Mamma var glad och undrade var vi kom ifrån. Hon förstod inte att hon var i vår by, som hon besökt många gånger, hon förstod inte att hon var i sitt älskade Skåne, där hon fötts och vuxit upp och hon förstod inte att hon nu skulle bo i detta rum med toalett. Godmannen smög ut och talade med sköterskan och sedan stack hon. När vi skulle gå, pojkarna och jag, så försökte mamma komma med. Vi fick stå och försöka mota in henne på avdelningen och sedan trycka igen dörren. Fruktansvärt traumatiserande.

Dagen därpå, ringde mamma och skrek på mig att jag låst in henne på ett fängelse och hon ville ut. Hon skrek återigen fruktansvärda saker och jag fick köra bort till boendet och kräva att få tala med ansvarig i personalen. Nu var jag förbannad. Detta helvete måste få ett slut. Jag frågade kvinnan vem som gett mamma mitt telefonnummer och hur hon lyckats ringa mig. Och fick svaret att de ringt åt henne. I detta nu kände jag, som är blyg, reserverad och har noll självförtroende, att det är lika bra att jag är ärlig. Jag berättade hurdant förhållande min mor och jag haft genom hela mitt liv. Och att jag har tre funktionshindrade barn att ta hand om plus flera till som också behöver sin mamma och stöd. Att jag tänkte varken komma dit varenda dag på besök, till en mamma som aldrig haft speciellt mycket kärlek över för mig och låtit mig veta detta, men även att jag inte klarade ett krav och stressfaktor till, i mitt liv. Jag förbjöd dem att hjälpa mamma ringa mig igen.

Min 9-åring och 7-åring och jag hade gjort så fint i mammas rum innan hon kom. Min man hade kopplat in TV och telefon. När jag gick ner för att säga hej till mamma, såg rummet ut ungefär som när flyttgubbarna lämnat allt. Hon hade tagit ner alla fotografier, alla tomtar och adventsljusstaken (hon som alltid älskat allt med juldekorationer). Det var blåst på lösa föremål. Dem hade hon knakat ner i sin älskade schiffonjé. Likaså gardinerna, handdukarna, kalendern, precis allt. Det var nu fulare än fult där inne och så förblev det i två och ett halvt år. Ibland kom vi dit och dekorerade igen, men dagen därpå hade hon tagit bort allt. Likaså när min syster flög från Australien och gick dit för att göra fint. Det gick inte. Hon ville plötsligt inte ha det fint runt sig längre.

Mina besök var långt utspridda under året. För att det var otrevligt att gå till boendet. Inte bara det att personalen var fördömande. Den var aldrig där. Oftast hittade jag dem allihop på kontoret till grannavdelningen, skvallrandes eller vad vet jag. Mamma kände igen mig men visste egentligen inte vem barnen mina var. Hon var väldigt lik min son med ADHD. Hyper och lika barnslig som de yngsta, med den skillnaden att dem kunde man säga till att de skulle sluta hoppa i sängen eller hitta på dumheter. En mamma med demens är som ett barn som inte lär sig nya saker utan glömmer allt hon kunnat, där spärrarna saknas helt och utvecklingen går mot bebis stadiet i stället.

Jag är ingen människa som sysslar med kallprat. Tycker det är meningslöst. Skall jag öppna munnen bör det vara för att diskutera något viktigt. Politik, religion, nyheterna, hobbies, autism, ADHD… För mig var det jobbigt att tala med en person som inte visste var den var, vad som pågick i samhället, som inte visste något alls om mitt eller barnens liv och inte om varken deras funktionshinder som jag lever och andas eller vad barn tar sig till helt enkelt. Vi hade inget att prata om. Och när jag försökte så sa mamma samma sak 15 gånger och mina barn frågade ”varför är mormor så konstig”?

Det var även hemskt att sitta i det mörka rummet. Trots att jag påpekade den trasiga lampan om och om igen, så gjordes inget åt den. Att komma och sitta i ett mörkt rum där det inte går att tända lampan och man måste ha toalettdörren öppen, för att se något, är ingen höjdare. Speciellt eftersom det alltid var stopp i toaletten och där låg skit och stank. Hade mamma det bra där? Vad är bra?

2017 fick jag lov att gå och tala med en psykolog 24 gånger. Jag ville få liothyronin för min sköldkörtel, men det tyckte inte VC läkaren. Hon tyckte att det vore bättre att gå och prata med någon, eftersom jag bar så mycket på mina axlar. Psykologen kliade sig i huvudet och kunde inte komma med några bättre förslag än att jag skulle ta en väska och sticka från skiten. Hennes exakta ord. När jag sa att det inte var ett alternativ, sa hon till mig att jag i alla fall måste distansera mig från min mor. Att allt med henne inte fick påverka mig längre. Att hon inte var mitt ansvar, att hon fick den vård hon behövde och att jag måste sluta se på henne som min mor, för att jag annars skulle hamna i sådan djup depression att jag inte längre skulle klara ta mig ur sängen.

Dagen efter det samtalet hade vi utvecklingssamtal på demensboendet. Jag valde att köra på psykologens väg. Jag satte mig inte bredvid mamma eftersom jag behövde distans och att kunna sitta som opartisk. Jag fick höra vad hon klarade och inte klarade medan hon själv kommenterade i de fräckaste lag. Hon ifrågasatte varför hon skulle behöva hjälp och att hon minsann klarade sig själv med både det ena och det andra. Och jag fick tala över huvudet på henne, mer som en advokat än en dotter. Men för första gången gick jag därifrån och kände en lättnad. Jag kunde inte vara min mammas förälder längre, när jag redan hade sju barn att slåss för och försöka ta hand om på bästa sätt. Distanseringen underlättade. Men saker blev ju inte bättre på boendet precis.

Hon fortsatte att ha det fult i rummet. Hon fortsatte att spendera så lite tid där som möjligt, vilket jag aldrig undrade på med de färgerna och noll lampa. I stället var hon i köket och hjälpte till med matlagningen och var med på varenda aktivitet som erbjöds. Det kändes som att saker och ting var någorlunda okej, men med flera minus tecken som jag inte kunde påverka. Med autistiska barn har jag fått lära mig att man inte kan pressa blod ur en sten. Finns det inga pengar så finns det inga pengar, finns det inga pengar så kan saker och ting inte åtgärdas. Mamma fick leva i ett rum som behövde renoveras, i två och ett halvt år.

Så kom 7 juli 2018. Jag sov länge den varma lördagen och sedan satt jag på messenger och skrev till en kompis i USA. Medan jag satt på toaletten i nattlinne, klockan 11:00, så kom maken med telefonen och sa att något hänt min mamma. Jag fick talat med en man som sa att de haft dans på demensboendet. Dans i den hettan? På en lördagsmorgon? Jodå och han hade suttit och tittat på mamma som älskade dansa, när hon plötsligt segnat ner och hållit i sin arm. Han trodde det var en stroke och kunde jag köra till akuten med en gång? Jag fick hoppat in i duschen eftersom jag inte kände mig fräsch nog att visa mig utanför huset. När jag stod där ringde akuten och skällde på mig för att jag inte var där och jag fick svara att jag stod pisseblöt i duschen och att demensboendet ju precis ringt. Kläderna kom på fort och min 12-åring krävde att få följa med eftersom han alltid varit den som tagit mamma på bästa sätt. Trots demensen kom de överens toppenbra. Han var alltid favoritbarnbarnet för att han är så gränslös.

För att förkorta berättelsen något, så kan jag säga att vi kom till intensivvårdsavdelningen där mamma inte fick någon vård utan bara övervakades. Hon hade haft en hjärnblödning och då gör man inget med demenspatienter. ”Hon har ändå inget värdigt liv”, sa läkaren till mig. Tre dagar efter hjärnblödningen hamnade mamma på eget rum, för att hon vägrade dö. Detta var på en tisdag och på fredagen hade min syster anlänt från Australien, för att även hon sitta vid mammas sida. Hon skulle inte överleva helgen sa man. Mamma alltså. Vi väntade och väntade. Vi pratade då och då med mamma men hon kunde inte svara, sov för det mesta eller låg och tittade i taket med tårarna rinnandes ner för kinderna. Vad säger man i det läget? Vi sa båda till henne ”det är okej mamma, du får lov att gå, var inte rädd”. Men hon vägrade dö. När min syster suttit där en vecka sa hon att hon inte klarade mer. Resan hade kostat henne mycket och hennes chef krävde att hon skulle tillbaka så fort som möjligt till jobbet. Läkaren hade satt in dropp och hade oss ge mamma nyponsoppa och bebismat i form av frukt, eftersom hon tydligt visat att hon inte ville dö. Medan min syster begav sig till Stockholm för att besöka vänner, innan hon tvingades flyga hem igen, satt jag och fick beskedet att mamma skulle tillbaka till demensboendet.

Jag fick inte åka med i ambulansen men fick sett till att hennes saker var med och sett henne innan hon åkte. De hade under sjukhustiden satt stora vantar på händerna eftersom hon försökte dra ut droppslangen hela tiden. Men vantarna fick hon inte ha med sig, för de tillhörde sjukhuset, så i stället hade de vid avfärden, knutit handdukar om händerna. När jag kom hem ringde demensboendet och sa att hur skulle detta gå till med handdukar på händerna, kunde jag få tag på sådana där riktiga vantar? Jag ringde till sjukhus, apotek, hjälpmedelscentral, men ingen hade till försäljning eller utlåning. Det skulle demensboendet själva lösa. Och det gjorde de inte!

När jag kom dit så sa personalen att nu skulle min mamma ha palliativ vård och enligt dem betyder det ingen vård alls. Man gör INGET ALLS! Jag sa till dem att ”hon fick ju vatten och nyponsoppa i pipmugg på sjukhuset! Och de matade henne med barnmat! Hon har ju dropp!”. Nej, svarade de. De sa till mig att de har inte tid för patientvård och det stod palliativ vård i hennes papper och enligt dem är palliativ vård att man inte gör något alls. Personen skall få dö helt enkelt utan vård. Men om de såg henne ha ont, skulle hon få smärtstillande. Nu fick jag nog. Jag gick ut och tog min familj till stranden och badade resten av dagen. Jag kände mig som en skitmamma som inte gett mina barn det sommarlov de hade längtat efter.

Jag hade suttit på sjukhuset varje dag men nu gav jag upp. Jag gick till demensboendet varannan dag. Det var hett som en bastu i hela huset men i mammas rum var det värst. Hon låg där svettig och det gick inte öppna det barnsäkra fönstret. Bara ett litet vädringsfönster gick att öppna och så varmt som det var ute gav det ingen svalka alls. Vi försökte ha dörren öppen, men en rysk patient hatar öppna dörrar, så hon stängde dörren så fort jag öppnade den. Två timmar var allt jag klarade. Då gick jag ut med pisseblött hår och våta kläder som satt fastklistrade på kroppen. Inte nog med att mamma skulle svälta ihjäl och törsta ihjäl, hon skulle också kokas ihjäl!

Dag två på demensboendet kom sköterskan tillbaka från semester och när hon såg mammas händer med handdukar fastsatta som vantar, tog hon av dem. ”Så får man inte göra mot en människa” sa hon. Och det blev slutet för mamma. Hon gav sig själv dödsdomen. Utan vantarna slet hon ut droppslangen så fort sköterskan vände sig om. Jag ville slita mitt hår, men vad skulle det tjäna till?

Hurdana var mammas sista veckor? Jag kallades på möte till demensboendet där VC läkaren var på besök och hade stora planer på att hon skulle upp och sitta i rullstol. Jag fick tjatat till mig sköterskans lilla bordsfläkt att ha till mamma, åtminstone. När vi gjorde våra två timmars besök låg mamma vänd mot väggen så att vi inte kunde få ögonkontakt ens och hon verkade inte vilja ha oss där för att vi satt och pratade med varandra, pojkarna och jag. Att komma in till sköterskan och prata var omöjligt. Inte bara var hennes dörr konstant låst, men hennes svenska var supersvår att förstå. Hon var från Kina. Att prata med personalen var inte heller möjligt eftersom de höll benhårt på att inget skulle göras för mamma. Om jag ens hittade dem alltså. Med den administrativa personalen fick jag utarbetat att mamma skulle få ”en assistent” som skulle titta till henne lite mer än vad personalen kan. Den sommarjobbande gymnasietjejen gick inte in och städade mammas rum en enda gång, när mamma låg där med sitt dödsarbete varenda dag, i veckor. Så dammtussarna växte och rummet kändes osanitärt. Praktikanten som hela tiden såg borttappad ut, kunde ha tagit svampen som var avsedd för munvård och doppat den i vätska för att ge mamma, men hon var livrädd att gå nära mamma, så hon frågade om jag inte kunde göra det i stället. Mamma var så desperat efter vätska att varje gång jag gjorde detta, bet hon tag i svampen och ville inte släppa den. Men ju fler tänder hon svalde, ju mindre hårt grepp om svampen blev det. Hon tappade alltså sina tänder under denna tid, tänder hon fått behålla genom hela livet.

Torsdagen den 8 augusti, över en månad efter hjärnblödningen, hade Lov i Lund en aktivitet på det lokala badet. Jag visste att pojkarna skulle älska det. De älskar att gå på aktiviteter och sommaren hade varit botten eftersom det alltid är jag som tar dem till allt och jag hade ju varit upptagen. Men nu skulle vi gå och äta kinesisk mat på badet, lära oss vika origami och barnen skulle få lära sig kampsport. Men den kinesiska gruppen som skulle komma, satt fast i trafik i över två timmar. Det var hett ute så vi hoppade i poolen, mina tre autistiska söner och jag. Aktiviteten var sen alltså. Jag hade meddelat den kinesiska sköterskan att vi skulle på kinesisk aktivitet på badet, hela eftermiddagen. Så två timmar i poolen, när mobilen låg på en filt. Två timmar med kinesiska gruppen, med mobilen avstängd för att inte störa. Maken dök upp och vi badade igen för att vi var så svettiga. När klockan började närma sig 18:00 tyckte vi det var dags att åka till bageriet och beställa tårta till min sons födelsedag, tre dagar senare, och sedan åka hem för middag. Då ringde telefonen, men vi hann inte svara. Hemligt nummer. Och där fanns fler hemligt nummer som ringt när vi badat. När jag gick in på bageriet, ringde den igen och jag sa till maken att svara eftersom autistiske sonen annars hade kunnat beställa vad som helst. Vänta är inte hans grej.

Maken hann inte svara men vi antog att det måste vara boendet. Så vi ringde dit, men ingen svarade. Vi kände att om det var de som ringde och det var akut, så skulle de väl ringa igen. Vi åt, gick och la oss och maken åkte till jobbet morgonen därpå medan jag vaknade med migrän. Så jag stannade i sängen. Vid 10:00 tittade jag med ett öga på mobilen och såg att maken skickat ett meddelande att demensboendet ringt. Så jag gick och tog medicin och då ringde maken och sa att demensboendet ringt och sagt att mamma ”sover”. Jag ringde dem och det var den kinesiska sköterskan som svarade. ”Du har ringt min man och sagt att mamma sover. Är allt lugnt alltså?”. ”Skall du komma hit?” frågade sköterskan. ”Så du kan klä på henne?”. Jag fattade ingenting så jag frågade ”Är mamma okej?”. Och då börjar hon säga att hon ju ringt och sagt till min man att mamma sover. Jag blev upprörd och sa till henne ”Min man är amerikan och fattar inte all svenska. Försöker du säga att mamma är död?”. Jo, det försökte hon säga. När jag pratade med grannfrun på väg till demensboendet, så tyckte hon allt lät vansinnigt. Hennes svärmor hade haft cancer och fått underbar palliativ vård. Och hon som förskolelärare ifrågasatte att någon inom vård eller annat, kallar att dö för att sova. Jag höll med 100%.

Vi kom bort till demensboendet jag och pojkarna, som insisterade på att träffa mormor. Jag gick in först för att se så att hon inte såg skrämmande ut. En från kökspersonalen gick med mig in. Det var ofattbart. Där låg mamma och såg ut mer eller mindre som en man, som min morfar ungefär. Någon annan kom från personalen och vi satte oss ner att prata. I rummet där mamma låg kall på sängen. Någon hade suttit med mamma under natten och när avlösningen kom vid tio-tiden på morgonen, så sa hon att hon trodde mamma dragit sista andetaget. Ville jag ha varit där? Nej, egentligen inte. Under en hel månad hade jag sett henne lida otroligt. Jag hade inte sett henne som min mamma, utan som en medmänniska. Och ingen människa förtjänar lida och dö på detta sätt! Det var inget värdigt slut alls! Jag har läst om hur Jesus dog. Hur varje organ i hans kropp slutade att fungera och hur det känns. Nu blev inte min mamma korsfäst. Men att dö av hunger, törst och att ett efter ett av dina organ slutar fungera pga påtvingad svält och uttorkning, det vågar jag inte ens tänka på hur det skulle kännas. Och lägg då på det faktum att hon låg i en bakugn! (Trots socialstyrelsens regler om att äldreboenden måste ha luftkonditionering om byggnaden håller en viss temperatur.) Som jag bara klarade av i två timmar och sedan fick stå och halsa en liter vatten, för att återfukta hela kroppen. Fy skam Sverige! Ni kunde lika gärna ha skjutit henne eller gett en överdos morfin. Tala om ättestupa. Allt annat hade varit humanare än denna så kallade palliativa vård som inte är bättre än tortyr och medhjälp till mord.

Jag har suttit under pandemin och hört skrik från allmänheten om varför 12 000 dött på äldreboenden. Jo det skall jag tala om. Människorna som bor där anses vara hyresgäster. Där har ni fel nummer ett. De är patienter som har en sjukdom som gör att de inte kan klara av att ta hand om sig själva längre. Men om man ser dem som bara hyresgäster, så blir det fel. För hyresvärden ger inte hyresgästen det den betalar för. För vård! Mamma var piggast av alla på äldreboendet. Hon hade inga problem motoriskt eller fysiskt mer än att hon hade demens. Personalen svor att hon var deras favorit och att hon alltid var så rolig att ha att göra med. Att hon var så full i liv i motsats till alla de som bara satt och önskade att få dö. Trots detta dog hon vid 83 års ålder.

Att de såg på henne som en hyresgäst visade sig redan dagen då hon dog. Då ville de veta när liket skulle transporteras bort och så fort alla barnen sett henne och begravningsbyrån hämtat henne, vände den empatiska stämningen som rått i ett par timmar. De undrade när jag skulle tömma lägenheten för nästa hyresgäst ville in. Ursäkta mig, men i månader hade jag lovat mina barn att få gå på 40-tals helg, på Fredriksdal i Helsingborg. Och man bryter inte löften till autistiska barn. Men de ringde och tjatade och jag blev till sist förbannad. Min make var inte hemma och kunde inte få hyrt släp förrän påföljande helg. Och saken var den att mamma faktiskt betalt hyra OCH MAT för hela augusti ut. Hon dog den 9 augusti, så vad för rätt hade de att hyra ut till någon annan innan 1 september? Men de var otrevligare än otrevliga. De hotade med att bära ner alla hennes saker i källaren som bara var öppen för oss att gå ner i mellan 10:00-15:00. Jag vägrade. En källare utan fönster, i den hetta som var och vem skulle ta hand om mina barn om jag var där? Den vecka som följde var fruktansvärd. Personalen fryste ut oss, var snäsiga och jag och mina yngsta pojkar gjorde allt för att packa, sortera osv under den vecka som följde på mammas död. Helgen efter tömde vi rummet och skrubbade lägenheten från topp till tå. En mardröm var över. Men fick vi några pengar tillbaka för att mamma lämnade en tom lägenhet efter sig halva augusti och kommunen kunde få pengar från nya hyresgästen? Nej! Inte heller fick vi tillbaka något för den mat hon inte konsumerat mellan 7 juli och 9 augusti. Så hyresgäst begreppet är totalt ihåligt. Speciellt när man tänker på att hon levde 2 1/2 år utan taklampa och en toalett som inte fungerade.

Om vi i stället ser hyresgästerna som patienter? Ja, hon fick ett larm att ha på armen första dagen och det slarvade hon bort första dagen. Efter det hade hon inget larm alls mellan 15 December 2015 och 9 augusti 2018. När personalen kom in i hennes rum var det ingen som tvättade händerna. Om hon behövde sjukvård, var det jag som ringdes upp för att ta henne dit och jag kunde minsann inte släppa barn som inte kan ta hand om sig själva. Motvilligt avsatte de någon att ta henne till sjukhuset och krävde sedan att vi satt med mamma på sjukhuset alla de timmar man får sitta på akuten. Jag vet inte att hon fick någon tandvård alls. Hon som hade alla sina egna tänder och alltid varit noga med deras skötsel.

Men det slutar inte med detta. I och med att god man inte kunde hantera en klient nere i Skåne från Trollhättan, så var kommunen tvungen att utse en ny god man. Detta tog mer än tre månader eftersom ensamkommande ”barn” prioriteras. Så mamma satt från December 2015, i flera månader utan hygienartiklar, nattlinne osv. Varför? Jo, för att jag inte fick tillåtelse att låna hennes kort och handla åt henne. La jag ut för henne, så fick jag ingen återbetalning. Personalen hade tillåtelse att ta henne till bankomat och ta ut pengar och sedan gå och handla med henne. Men hon gömde alltid kortet medan personalen satte på ytterkläder. Så där blev inget handlat. Och med en inkomsttagare och sju barn att försörja, så hade vi inga pengar att skänka. Välkommen till fattig Sverige! Efter många samtal fick jag kommunen att förstå att en god man behövde tillsättas. Att jag vägrade betala alla hennes utgifter inklusive hyra, gjorde att de till sist var tvungna att ta itu med hennes ärende.

Jag förstår mycket väl att när man får en hjärnblödning så är det klippt. Då är dagarna räknade. Hjärnan fylls av blod och nästa steg är att man får en blodpropp. Men att inte ge dropp är omänskligt. Att lita på att man kan tolka patientens signaler på smärta, är omänskligt. Vad är man rädd för? Att patienten skall bli drogberoende? Den är ju döende i alla fall, så varför inte göra sista tiden helt smärtfri om det går?

Att skicka tillbaka en patient från sjukhuset till ett demensboende som inte har personal som har tid eller kunskap att ge vård? Vad handlar det om? Att se ett demensboende som ett hem är fruktansvärt. Det är det inte. Det är en institution. Emils fattigstuga med fattighjonen som bara sitter där. Det finns säkerligen personal som brinner för sitt jobb och älskar de hyresgäster de måste ta hand om i sitt jobb, även om dessa är besvärliga och mer eller mindre borta mentalt. Men det finns även många i personalen som totalt saknar empati. Det hör man på hur de tilltalar ”hyresgästerna” t ex.

Att de gamla inte får träffa någon läkare och få diagnos på covid, förvånar mig inte alls. Vem får träffa läkare i dagens samhälle? Jag har inte fått träffa min endokrin läkare på tre år. Jag får ett max 5 minuter långt telefonsamtal om året och han har inte tid eller vill inte lyssna på att jag fortfarande har alla hypothyreos symptom, trots medicinering och perfekta blodprover. Hur är det inte då för de gamla på demensboende? Och i min mammas fall, så har jag varit på kant med den kinesiske läkare som både förestår VC och besöker demensboendet. Om en läkare sitter och säger till mig att min hypothyreos bara är järnbrist, när jag har både hypothyreos och Hashimoto’s diagnos från flera läkare, ja kan man då lita på att han verkligen lyssnar på en gammal människa? Eller bryr sig? Speciellt när det är enklare att bara låta en gammal människa ligga och dö? Läkaren på IVA sa ju att han ansåg att mamma inte hade ett värdigt liv att rädda i alla fall.

Har inte allt detta i grund och botten att göra med människosynen i samhället? Som gammal förlorar du värde och i motsats till många länder, där ålder bemöts med respekt, så börjar alla se ner på dig här i Sverige. Du behandlas plötsligt som okunnig. Du behandlas precis så som mekaniker behandlar kvinnor, när vi kommer med våra bilar som vi vill ha hjälp med. Äldre bemöts nedlåtande. Covid handlar om en ny sjukdom. Sverige agerade mer än tafatt långt in i pandemin och gör det till viss mån fortfarande med panik åtgärder i stället för genomtänkta sådana. Jag är 100% säker på att svenska politiker har hört talas om hur det går till i äldrevården. Om inte annat så måste det vara ganska många av dem som har föräldrar som sitter på demensboenden runt om i landet. Är det verkligen någon i det här landet som tror att saker och ting kan fungera utan pengar? Det känns som om politiker har stuckit huvudet i sanden i flera årtionden. Får verksamheter inte pengar att upprätthålla saker och ting på en god nivå, så blir nivån därefter. Jag ser dagligen vad bristen på pengar gör i skolan. Hur de funktionshindrade barnen inte får vad skollagen och barnkonventionen säger att de har rätt till. Men rektorer kan inte trolla med knäna. Och det kan inte de som driver äldreboenden heller.

De tar ut så kallad hyra för rum, kost och ”omvårdnad”. Men du får bara vad du betalar för. Outbildad personal som knappt kan svenska, vilket måste vara så frustrerande när man är gammal, hör dåligt och ändå förstår sämre pga demens. Konstant nya ansikten för att dessa personer bara har detta jobb som en mellanstation till något bättre. Gymnasieelever som städar för att få ihop lite extra slantar ovanpå studiebidraget. Vad rör det dem om det ligger lite dammråttor var stans? De skall ju vidare till universitet i alla fall, så detta jobb är ett nödvändigt ont. Tyvärr känns det som personalen är bottenskrapet. Jag vet att jag är orättvis. Det finns utbildad personal. Som har hjärtat på rätta stället. Men tyvärr finns det fler av det motsatta. Inte en enda kotte utom sommarpraktikanten, hade några problem med att deras favorit låg och torkade ihjäl! Och praktikanten var så rädd för dem att hon inte vågade säga något, utan viskade till mig när hon var säker på att ingen kunde höra.

Varenda dag jag hör om hur många som dött senaste dygnet av covid, tackar jag högre höjder för att mamma slapp allt detta. Jag vet att hon skulle strukit med under plågsamma former. Och utan att någon av oss skulle fått lov att säga adjö och hålla henne sällskap. Och jag måste säga att jag hoppas att jag dör en snabb död hemma när jag blir gammal, för på äldreboende vill jag aldrig sitta! Det är ett öde värre än döden!

Die Facebook Die!

I am not sure how long I have been on Facebook, but the longer I am, the more I hate it.

People are always so surprised to hear what I have encountered on Facebook, but I do not think that my experiences are unique. When I first joined, it was because everyone else was on there. I thought it would be like getting letters from friends, who no longer had the time to write snail mail. And I saw an advantage in being able to post photos, to show those friends, things one rarely did in snail mail. What a great opportunity to really get to see each other’s lives!

But that is not how things became at all. Sure, I got lots of friend requests and I accepted them all. But I failed to see the point in being friends on Facebook, with people I saw every week. I do not consider myself unempathetic, but I really do not care to read that someone is picking up their children from daycare at the moment or that they are cooking hot dogs for dinner.

Then when I lost my baby in week 17, in 2011, I realized exactly how shallow the community is. Even if you have 200 friends on Facebook, you are not truly intimate with that many. I was depressed and disappointed with life and realized that I could turn to noone. Not a single soul basically cared. So I dropped every single one of my friends on Facebook, except my long term snail mail friends. I did not want to loose that contact. And I kept off Facebook entirely.

But then my children started to receive autism diagnosises. And suddenly, I was just not any kind of ordinary mother. I needed support and help from others in my situation. Because when you have a child with NPF, you have to fight for everything. Life no longer runs smoothly at all. Sadly, these support groups are nothing of support at all. All I learned from them was that even if others are going through the exact thing you are going through, they still are not. You are on your own. Noone can take your particular pain away. And hearing about all the bad things other people are going through, did nothing but make me more depressed than before.

It was not just hearing one sob story after the next. Or hearing of how in one part of the country you can actually get help and realizing that you live in the wrong end. No, there are people in these groups who can not read properly. Who explode and will write the most offensive things, without knowing you or your situation at all. There was in particular one lady who jumped me, no matter what I wrote. She saw that I had commented on something and went in for the kill without even reading the comment. When a person at habilitation suggested I join these support groups, I told her that they have given me nothing but tears and sleepless nights. They have made me feel like a dog turd on the pavement and frankly, I can live without that.

So, I try to stay away from Facebook all together unless I want to buy something in a buy and sell group. Which is a story in itself. I also sometimes comment, when people in the planner society asks for advice on bullet journaling and books. But it is a coincidence that I actually see their questions, since I will only look about once a week and will only weed through so many posts in my feed.

Today I encountered something on Facebook which I truly, honestly hate. I was invited to join a group with fountain pen and typewriter lovers. It has only existed for about a week or two. And the administrator is a darling person I have actually met in real life. She has thousands and thousands of followers on IG. (Instagram really has a much sweeter and nicer community. But the thing I am about to mention, happens even there.)

Why is it that popularity will give you likes? Why is it that a name or a brand will get a heart or a thumbs up, no matter if they post a photo of themselves drunk, having bunny ears and nose or showing a half eaten plate of some disgusting meal? I know that life is not fair, Scar said so loudly. But if one gets oneself in to one of these groups, ought it not be fair play? Does it hurt so very bad to hit the like button for another person, just to make their day? Do we envy people so bad, that we can not even give that little?

I am not praising myself here, but every day I sit and push the heart button on Instagram and many times I think it is an ugly photo and that what the person has said or created is not pretty at all. But I also know that this person spent perhaps hours on creating that post. And the person wanted contact with the outer world. That it means a lot, to see those hearts or thumbs up for most people, who do not have tons of friends or followers. And most of all, if one has started to communicate in more than hearts and thumbs, it will feel like a betrayal to the person, when you don’t show appreciation for their latest post or creation. Yes, we are all attention seekers. But it is because a lot of us are terribly lonely.

For weeks now, in above mentioned newly created group, people have posted photos of their typewriters. People have even run out and bought old typewriters to fit in to the group, it seems. Or to have something to show off? And from what I have seen in the photos, some of them are in such a bad state, that they will never work to type on. They are not even pretty to have on display.  But they post their pictures and they expect a thumbs up.  I have not even bothered, but since I am cleaning my desk today, I decided to take a photo. Now, I am not a natural photograper. And I do not have a stylist helping me, like the administrator for the group has had at least in the past. But I took an alright picture I think. Nothing fancy, just a snap out of my reality. I posted it and guess what, 6 people viewed it but only one person liked it. ONE person! How about the other 6? (Now 34 people have seen it and only 6 likes!) Did they get acute diarrhoea? Have all their fingers been broken so it was impossible to push that thumb button? Or did they truly and honestly think the photo and MY typewriter so ugly that it did not even deserve a thumb? Or was it jealousy? Or was it that I do not have thousands of followers on IG, so no use in kissing up to me?

Shall I tell you something about my photo?

My typewriter was something I have always dreamed of owning. When I was 12 years old, my dad bought me a small traveling typewriter. It was not what I had dreamed of. The keys were hard to push. But at least it was a typewriter. I never gave up on  an adult sized typewriter though. From the late 80s and through the 90s,  I used an electrical typewriter, till the repair shop went out of business and I no longer could buy ribbons for it. At that point, I assumed that old vintage typewriters could only be used for decoration. I mean, if you can’t get them repaired and not buy ribbons, there is no point of buying one.

Two years ago, I went to a 1940s weekend in Helsingborg. There were some pop up shops and one of them sold a vintage typewriter. ”Boo” and I stood and tested it. It worked great! But… It was heavy. And my husband just shook his head when I said I wanted to buy it and could he carry it. Disappointed, I returned home and immediately started searching Swedish Ebay. Some were selling for astronomical prices but then there was this one. A Royal from the war. And noone was bidding on it so I did and won. ”Boo” was ecstatic, but I told him that I had no desk to put it on, so it would stay in its box till I did.

My mum died that summer. And from the few things she had with her in the dementia home, I brought home the secretaire. Not because I loved it, but because she loved it so much. I can not pinpoint the year it arrived in our home, but I had never seen her so happy. This was a piece of furniture I had never seen in my grandparents home, but my mother told me how they had it when they lived by the railway in Åkarp. My mother never liked to play with toys or dolls. All she ever wanted to be was a hair dresser. So that is what she played with her 10 month younger sister. First play hairdresser and then play with her sister’s dolls. Her sister hated the hairdresser game, since her hair was tender. The game really hurt. And she was forced to sit and stare in to the secretaire. When the lid was up, it was a pretend mirror.

I grew up having the secretaire right outside my door. My mother kept all Christmas ornaments in the drawers and in the tiny drawers by the writing area, she kept important papers and memorabilia. When she moved to the dementia home, she was only allowed a few pieces of furniture, and this was one piece she insisted on. Her dementia was very strange though. She remembered who we were and was very active. Hated sitting in her room and was always out helping the staff making food and doing dishes. But she would not keep her room nice, like all the other people on the ward. They had pictures on the walls, curtains in front of the windows, decorations… As soon as my sister or I fixed the room nicely with curtains, pictures, ornaments etc, she took it all down and forced them down in to the secretaire drawers. It came to a point that I no longer could open the drawers because they were so full. Full of all sorts of things. Broken glass from frames, wet towels, part of toilet rolls, shoes, food pieces… It was digusting and sad, because she always had such a nice home. She would have cried had she understood how ugly her room now looked and that she had destroyed everything dear to her.

When she died, I was in a dilemma. I was dreaming of a desk. An old English one with leather inlay. But here I had my mother’s beloved old secretaire. I felt forced to bring it home. But all the abuse had made the drawers totally impossible to handle. Having been tricky before, now they were and are impossble to open. And if one manages, then one can not close them. So I have lived with stationery in the drawers but the drawers standing open. And the lid is at a too high height, to sit comfortably and type or write. In other words, a sentimental piece of furniture that serves no purpose at all. Maria Kondo would ask ”Does it make you happy?” And I would answer ”I hate it but I see my mother’s happy face in front of me, when she found out that she was going to get the secretaire, from wherever it had been all those years”.

In August I got fed up with the secretaire, F. shoving around all my journaling things and hiding them so I can not find them, and T. being dead set against an English desk. I drove down to IKEA and bought myself a grey desk with a big surface, drawers on one side, which slide in and out like a dream, and a book case on the other side. Colour is pretty. It is working well. But lack the ”Skybambi” beauty from IG. But as with everything else, I have just had to accept that we can not have it all. Especially not on a low income budget. And after all, buying the desk meant that I could finally take the typewriter out of the box. The boys were thrilled and fought about who would get to type on it first. Sadly the ribbon is old and it typed very weak. Now the next thing will be to find a ribbon for it. Because I have discovered that such things really can be had, even in 2020! On line, but all the same.

For me, this is a dream come true. A space of my own after 31 years of unselfishness. When my things have come second to toys and clothes and everything else that a family needs or have around it. Now I have a place where I can actually sit down and write and where noone can chase me away because the dinner has to be set out or something similar. Here I can try to organize all my stationery and ephemera, so that I can sit down and create without spending hours searching for where things have been put. Letters to be answered, ought not disappear anymore, since they also have a home, till I have the time to write. And in theory, I should be able to keep up with this blog as well, since there is a blogging spot.

Sadly, when I now get to the end of this post, 49 people have looked at my post but only 9 has given it a thumb. I would like to tell the 40 who did not, that they are a disgrace. Because in a group like the one I have talked about, all should have the same value and all should be shown equal appreciation. It is called common courtesy. Something which seems to have become a foreign matter, especially on Facebook. To not show courtesy is a form of bullying and since Facebook in other words is a sponsored bullying site, it ought to die! Because is it not time that we stand up and put an end to this?

Swedish schools NOT closed during corona pandemic

A week ago, Denmark and Norway, our neighbours, closed down all day-care centers and schools. But the Swedish minister of education persisted on saying that ”Swedish children need their education”. Swedish schools would stay open, so that Swedish parents can go to work. And go to work, they have done. Whether their jobs are vital for society or not. My husband works for two international companies, with people travelling all over, but have still been forced to sit in an open office landscape and go to meetings. In the rest of the world, technical writers sit at home and work, but not in Sweden. Here they must sit in a giant office during office hours. Even when a corona virus is having a rampant spread.

I am a stay-at-home-mum, but Sweden does not allow home-schooling. ”We do not have control over what is being taught then!”, is something else stated by the above minister. And this creates a big problem of course, during a pandemic. Because school in Sweden is supposed to continue like nothing is happening in the world, but at the same time, children must stay home if ”sick”.

I am not classified as good enough to be my children’s teacher, but I am supposed to be a well trained doctor every morning, determining if my children have Covid-19 or not, because Sweden does not test for that anymore, since over a week. And I have never ever regarded a cold as a disease! Sure, if your cold effects you so that you just want to crawl in to a ball under a blanket and sleep, then you should do just that. But if you get a cold which drags out over weeks on end, you can not seriously call it being sick. Then it just becomes a handicap you have to live with. I got a cold myself on the 1 December and started coughing, right away. I still have the same cold and 8 weeks ago, it settled in my ears. So, I live in my bubble and can not hear. I doubt any employer would have appreciated me staying home from work month after month with this cold and then with a new cold after a couple of months. Because I usually have a three month cold and then get a new one.

The gigantic problem with the Swedish government’s policy, is that today, you have thousands of children sitting home doing nothing. Because the  schools are open, but the teachers have been given permission to be paranoid. So children are being sent home on a daily basis, that are not really sick. And for some children, this means that their parents have to come home with them, and not doing that vital work that the government wants to protect, by keeping the schools open!

Yesterday, my 11-year-old’s school phoned me at 10:30 and told me that he had coughed and walked to the loo and spit out mucous. So I had to go fetch him and bring him home. He is autistic, so he did not understand why he was being sent home. I asked if he could get some books with him home, to get something done. After all, he is in 4th grade and has not reached the goals for grade 3, so he really needs to be in school and not here at home! Yesterday, we sat down with the four pages of English they sent home with him. So I could pretend to have school here at the kitchen table. But then what?

Today, I had to go to an important meeting at his brother’s school. We were getting help with applying for a summer job with the council, which might not even be offered this summer, if the corona threat continues. But in the middle of the meeting, his 13-year-old brother’s teacher phoned me and told me that I must go and fetch him. SHE said that he had asked for herbal tea and when she asked him why, he said his throat hurt. Now, he has autism as well as his other two brothers, so who knows what really transpired in the classroom. But he was livid when I came to fetch him. There is nothing wrong with him, except he is a 13-year-old boy whose voice sometimes cracks up and he says that this is what happened. He cleared his throat and the teacher asked him why. And he said that his throat felt weird.

My husband had to stay home and work in our son’s room, since I had the meeting to go to. Because why should I send off the youngest to school? One cough and they will phone me to fetch him. I am not a taxi nor a yo-yo. Honestly, just because I am mostly home, on stand-by in case one of the three schools can not handle my three boys’ autism, does not mean that I do not have things to do here at home! So, I kept a healthy boy home, but his dad has work to do, so he did not have time to sit and practice the clock with him, which was the other papers he got home with him yesterday. He parked his boy in front of a game on the computer, while I was gone. And there he sits!

And now I have another healthy boy sitting on the sofa bored stiff, with nothing at all to do, because his teacher did not bother sending anything home with him. She just panicked and had him walk out the door. He who is in 6th grade and has not even met the goals for 3rd grade!!! He is sitting with a mobile phone and YouTube now.

IF the government had closed the schools officially, there would be school work posted on several different platforms and life would go on as normal as can be, under the circumstances. Instead, you have thousands of healthy children, or children with very slight colds, who are sitting home on YouTube all day long, every day, wasting valuable time. How is this supposed to further their education? How will this teach our children anything except that hypochondria is perfectly acceptable?!

 

To trust or not to trust the Swedish health care officials, as Corona spreads?

For years, Swedish health care, has taken the stand point that everyone calling in to primary care facilities, is a hypochondriac.  We, the population, joke about it and mimick the voice of the nurse ”take an alvedon (paracetamol) and wait”. Obviously, if you have a broken leg, are having a heart attack  or have just suffered a stroke, an alvedon is not going to make a difference. The standing joke is also, that you will die before you receive any help. Just drive in to the closest child emergency, like BUS in Lund, and you will sit for 3 hours, before you get to see a nurse and tell her what the problem is. The wait, in the adult emergency room is even longer, before you get to state why you are there. And then we are not talking about getting to see a doctor.

I have not sought ought primary care for three years! What’s the point? You start dialing their phone number as soon as they take their phone off the recorded message and if you are lucky, you get to stand in telephone queue, otherwise they tell you to try back later. In the telephone queue, a voice will come on every other minute, telling you that you are still in the queue and thank you for waiting. The voice also reads up a message that if you would rather leave your number and be phoned by them, you can. Well, heard that, tried that and it does not work, since they will call you at THEIR leasure. One time they called me three days later!

When you have waited for at least an hour, you might be lucky to hear a human voice on the other end. Human and human. You will hear the voice of a snide nurse, who clearly is always on the brink of a burn out. And she is THE obstacle you have to clear. SHE is the one who stands between you and the doctor. SHE has been put there to weed out all the hypochondriacs from the really sick. Now… We all know how the system works in Sweden, so none of us bother to call until there is a real emergency. We call when we can not handle the situation anymore or when we have tried all the self remedies we could find on google. And yet, we all get to hear ”take an alvedon and wait”, meaning ”I do not believe that you are that sick and if you only wait it out, whatever ails you will go away on its own”.

In December, I got a cold. It settled in my chest. Almost immediately, I started coughing. The coughing wore me down quickly since loosing sleep, make you tired all day long. Every time I layed down, to nap, the coughing would wreck my body till I could not take it anymore and got out of bed again. Around new year’s, I started to google if it really is normal to cough for weeks and google said that coughing for 6-8 weeks is perfectly normal. So I coughed myself through January as well. At the end of January, I ”lost” my hearing, in my right ear. I say lost, but that is not entirely true. I can hear myself talk, inside my head. I can hear my pulse. I can hear my lungs wheeze. In other words, it is like I have been on a flight where the pilot has descended to the ground too quickly. But grabbing my nose and blowing out, makes no difference. The congestion is there. Or lids on my ears.

After two weeks, this strange phenomena, moved over to my left ear instead. But as long as I had one ear open, I felt that I just had to suffer through lowered hearing. Then Friday morning, 28 February, I woke up and both ears had ”lids” on them. I basically can not communicate with anyone anymore, unless they talk pretty loud. I drive my family bananas with having the radio and TV on loud, but most of all, because I keep saying ”what did you say?”. I am starting to experience what elderly people must be going through on a daily basis, for years, before they die. People stopping to talk to them, because it is too much of a hassle repeating everything. And the isolation growing.

I tried to self medicate with a cortisone nose spray, which the chemist recommended, but it made no difference. And I had to stand in Sunday school class and say ”I will teach you, but I can not hear your questions nor comments”. Not that great! Monday 2 March, I had my husband phone the primary care, or VC as we call it, short for Vård Central. I of course could not phone myself, since I can’t hear anything! When he finally got through to them, they told him that I should go and sit at the open clinic, the next morning. Something this one VC is trying out.

Said and done, a week ago, I drove to the neighbour village’s VC, where I had signed myself up two days before, hoping it would be easier to get appointments there, than at my old VC in Lund. I was ten minutes early for the open clinic. Never having been to this VC before, I walked in and tried to see a sign for the open clinic. There was a number machine and I stood right in front of it, ready to push the button for a paper slip with a number on it, when this man just push himself in front of me, push the button and grab the paper. I was so shocked, I said nothing. Took a number myself, instead.

His number soon came up, but I of course could not hear what he asked, nor what the receptionist told him. But she pointed down the corridor. It was my turn next . I leaned half way in through her window, to hear the answer, and she pointed me down the corridor, where I found the rude man. There was a new number holder. This time, the old-fashioned kind, where you pull out the number yourself. But there was no roll of number stubs in it! I noticed an entire waiting room full of people and realized I was not so early after all. Then a nurse came out a door, and I told her that there were no numbers to take for the open clinic. ”Thank you for letting me know!”. She went and fetched the roll of stubs and all 15 people in the waing room flew out of their chairs and rushed up to the machine. In my mind, I thought ”15 people and noone could ask for this? I asked, should I not be rewarded and get the first number?”. The rude man pushed me to the side and told me that all the others were before me and I must wait!

Now I was in a bad mood! I sat down with my number in my hand and got my book out. My 13-14 week cough set in as soon as I sat down. And the dirty looks I now received from EVERYONE! No, I do not have corona thank you. Stop staring! Stop giving me evil looks. And you know how it is, when you try to suppress a cough, it bursts out of your chest like thunder. I coughed and coughed and coughed. There was no stopping me. And the people squirmed and one by one, they were called in to the nurse. But not fast enough.

I finally felt that I really needed to go pee. So, I gave up my seat and walked in to the loo, happy to not have to look at the others anymore. When finished, I stood in front of the sink and looked at the two containers attached to the wall, that all health care facilities always have. One with soap and one with hand sanatizer. I washed my hands and looked at the latter. This winter has been very trying for my hands. They are dry and I have peeled off a lot of skin around my cuticles. And then I thought ”I don’t know what those people have out there? They stare at me, but they are here because they are ill as well!”, so I reached out for the alcohol and it burned my sores so bad, that I wanted to scream.

I grabbed my bag, my coat and then stared at the door. The person before me, had been an elderly man, and they usually do not wash their hands after their toilet business! They leave the seat up and pee on the floor. Corona! I did not want to touch the handle after going through that painful experience with alcohol getting in to all the sores on my fingers. So, I grabbed some toilet paper and tried to open the lock. Only, when I went in to the loo, I had a difficult time locking the door. I had to hold the door tight with one hand and lock with the other hand. And here I stood with paper and tried to turn the lock, without success. I tried and tried. I dropped the coat and bag on the floor and tried again. But to no avail. Finally, I gave up. I  dropped the paper in the garbage and opened with my bare hands, no longer sterile, and picked up the coat and bag from the germ filled floor. And stepped out. Only to be greeted by what? 15 pair of eyes, because new people had arrived as well as most of the old ones sitting there. Them all staring at me, like I was a giraffe, coming out of the loo! No doubt they had heard me trying to get out.

I had had enough. Bloody judgemental Swedes! How can I be part of this nation and this people? This was a day I hated my nationality. People here never minding their own business! Boiling, I grabbed a chair from the waiting room, which now only had one free chair, and put it out in the corridor. Now I sat right in front of the nurse’s door. I did not want to see the other patients irritated looks or damning faces! Here I could cough to my heart’s content and I did. And my number came up finally.

I told the nurse how I have hypothyroid, can not shake colds, how I have coughed since the first week in December, how tired I am, that I might be low on iron and how I have ”lids” on my ears. She did not want to hear anything related to hypothyroid since that concerns the endocrinologist, not the VC. Thanks for nothing!  She listened to my lungs, looked in my ears and sent me down for a quick blood test in the finger. And then I was asked to wait in the waiting room, but I sat down in the corridor on my chair, in order to remind her that I was still there, waiting, waiting, waiting, and to avoid the others’ eyes.

All in all, I sat at that VC, from 09:20 to 11:50, only to find out that I have wax in my right ear and that I could come back for removal of that wax, Monday 9 March. In other words, a hole week’s wait, to see a doctor and walk around without hearing. And 3 days before the appointment, I also had to put ear wax removal medicine in my ear. Again! Like we had not already tried that several times, the past month!

”Gubby” was really excited about coming with me to the doctor, Monday. He had told EVERYONE at school that I was going to have ear wax removed and so had ”Boo”. Autistic children do not understand how shameful this feels. How disgusting it feels to be a woman with ear wax problems. So, Monday, I fetched my youngest, ”Gubby”, at 13:40, grateful that I had at least received a doctor’s appointment and was going to get to enter Pentagon after all. Not just take an Alvedon. But I shouted hooray too soon. At 14:00, my boy and I sat down to look at the fish, swimming in the aquarium, and this is when this lab girl comes out and I guess calls my name. I of course did not hear it, but ”Gubby” did and shook me. We walked off with the girl and I sat down in a chair, where she took a hose and flushed water in to my right ear. I paid £16/€19 /$21 for some snotty young girl to flush water in my ear. And I was not even given paper to dry it off with.

When she found out that I still could not hear, she walked off to ask the doctor why I can not hear. And I had my son fetch paper for me. He thought the entire thing hilarious, how I had to sit with a container to catch the wax mixed water with and how it was over in 5 seconds. I was not quite that amused myself, since I do not have an income, and I thought that I was going to get to see a doctor for heaven sakes!

The girl came back with a snide doctor in tow, who believe it our not stretched out her hand! Yes, in Sweden the doctors stretch out their hands and shake your hand, whether you have corona or not! I really had no interest in shaking her hand, not knowing whose hand she shook before mine and if she had washed it in alcohol afterwards. But I was forced to, like a good Swedish girl! She looked in my ears, hastily, had me hold my nose and blow at the same time. And then she started argueing with the girl to find out if I had paid for getting to talk to her.

So, I went home again, without hearing, but the doctor told me to keep the cortisone nose spray up, because it will take 2-3 months before that one takes effect. She was out of there in no time, as soon as she heard that I had paid. I suspect I will get a bill in the mail though, since it was ear wax removal I paid for and not seeing a doctor.

Now, why do I tell you this story? I tell it, because Italy has put all its citizens in quarantine, to prevent the spread of corona. I tell it, because Saturday, Denmark and Sweden, both held the finals in the National Eurovision Song Contest, in their respective capitals. But with the big difference that Copenhagen held their final behind locked doors. 1000 people are not allowed to gather in the same spot, anywhere in Denmark. But Sweden? Crammed in thousands in to Globen and acted like there is no care in the world. Corona will stop at the Swedish borders right? Even though over 300 people had the virus yesterday morning.

Is Sweden prepared for what is to come? When you have to sit an hour or more in telephone queue, in order to tell a nurse that you feel very sick? And when she has been instructed to tell you to take an Alvedon and wait? When you have to walk in to a VC and sit down with a queue number in your hand, among other people, waiting for your turn at an open clinic? And it would be easier to break in to Pentagon, than get to see a doctor?

Did the nurse have them test me for corona, when they pricked my finger for the blood test? If she did, she did not tell me about it! And coughing is one of the symptoms! I just move around all over my children’s schools and in town, coughing to my heart’s content, and more and more people are staring and moving away. But Sweden does nothing. Health officials said on the news, weeks ago, that Sweden can handle 100 corona patients. That is all. A corona patient demands too much care and a hospital has other patients as well, that might be equally sick, with other illnesses.

The truth is, that if you can’t handle this on your own, in your own home, there is no hope for care from the state! Sweden has cut back too much money. The entire health care system was collapsing already before Corona started in China. And I know, from reading newspaper articles from other countries, that Sweden is not doing what it ought to be doing. Particularly, when it comes to being haughty and thinking it can not happen here and we have it all under control. That is what Italy thought. And it quickly went from under control to utter chaos.

You might say that it is too much hype, about a virus not worse than the influenza. For some, it might appear like a common cold. For some, it might not even show symptoms. But for some, it will mean death. And you never know in what category you will end up. Especially when a nurse has told you that you have a re-occuring airway inflection! I can only say this. About 15 years ago or so, I was not old but in my prime years so to speak. I had babies, toddlers, school children and I had a teenager. He got the flu. We thought. And I got the flu from him, we thought. My fever kept at 42 degrees Celsius and would not budge, even after a visit to the VC and receiving penicillin. It turned out that I had cought a rare form of pneumonia, that was spreading all over Sweden. I was taken to the infection clinic by my husband and put in quarantine for two weeks. Everyone entering my hospital room, wore so much protective gear, that they looked like astronauts. When I finally was allowed to leave the hospital, my lungs were destroyed. For 6 months I could barely walk out to our car and take my children to school. Because a stay-at-home-mum can not lay in bed for 6 months, she has to do her job no matter what. For 6 months, I could not walk up stairs, not even one step, without almost passing out.

So to everyone who says that corona is nothing, I say, till you have layed in quarantine, say nothing. Till you have recovered from a serious disease that almost killed you, say nothing. Noone knows how their bodies will react to a virus, nor how long recovery time they will have, if ever. And to trust that Sweden has everything under control? Sweden has nothing under control! It has been decades since things were under control here.