In Every Moment We Are Still Alive Read online

  First published in Sweden in 2015 by Natur & Kultur

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Sceptre

  An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Tom Malmquist 2015

  Translation copyright © Henning Koch 2017

  First Melville House Printing: February 2018

  Melville House Publishing

  46 John Street

  Brooklyn, NY 11201

  and

  8 Blackstock Mews

  Islington

  London N4 2BT

  mhpbooks.com

  facebook.com/mhpbooks

  @melvillehouse

  Ebook ISBN 9781612197128

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Malmquist, Tom, 1978- author. | Koch, Henning translator.

  Title: In every moment we are still alive / Tom Malmquist; translated from the Swedish by Henning Koch.

  Other titles: I varje èogonblick èar vi fortfarande vid liv. English

  Description: Brooklyn : Melville House, 2018. |

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017054996 (print) | LCCN 2017057055 (ebook) | ISBN 9781612197128 (Reflowable) | ISBN 9781612197111 (hardover)

  Classification: LCC PT9877.23.A46 (ebook) | LCC PT9877.23.A46 I313 2018 (print) | DDC 839.73/8–dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017054996

  eBook design adapted from printed book design by Betty Lew

  v5.2

  a

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  In Every Moment We Are Still Alive

  The consultant stamps down the wheel lock of Karin’s hospital bed. In a loud voice he addresses the intensive care nurses, who are cutting open her tank top and sports bra: pregnant woman, week thirty-three, child reportedly in good health, started feeling ill about five days ago with flu-like symptoms, fever, cough, slight shortness of breath yesterday, which was put down to her pregnancy, condition severely deteriorating today, acute respiratory difficulties, arrived at the maternity unit about an hour ago. With powerful hands, he unscrews a cartridge-like bottle and continues: Sats about seventy, ambient but responds to oxygen with higher saturation, RR about forty to fifty, BT a hundred and forty, HR a hundred and twenty. The midwife who helped with the oxygen in the ambulance stops in the doorway. She gently takes my arm. You’re in Ward B at the ICU now, would you like me to write that down for you on a bit of paper? No need, thanks, I answer. She’ll get all the help she needs now, she says. Yes, thanks. Okay, well, I’ll be off then. Okay, thanks. Karin has electrodes attached to her chest.

  The monitor is beeping shrilly. What drugs have you given her? I ask. You have to ask Per-Olof about that, answers the intensive care nurse. Who’s that? That’s me, the consultant calls out: we’re giving your wife Tazocin and Tamiflu, painkillers, sedatives, and some other things—we’ve various different drugs on the infusion rack here, but there’s no time to talk to you right now. We’ll update you properly soon, just stay calm now and let us get on with helping your wife. What about the baby? I ask, but no one answers. I sink down onto the floor and lean against the wall beside a waste bin for used needles. I hug Karin’s quilted jacket for a moment then suddenly drop it and run out of the room. I see the sign for the handicapped toilet further down the sharply lit corridor and dive in and don’t even have time to close the door behind me before I vomit and piss at the same time. I gargle with some water from the tap but my breath still stinks so I wash my tongue with liquid soap. The white double doors of Ward B are closed when I come back. I knock once, open, and peer inside. One of the intensive care nurses is sitting on a stool between Karin’s parted thighs. Tattooed sword blades coil around his muscular arms. Karin is wearing an oxygen mask with a reservoir bag, her eyes are shut, and her face suddenly seems like that of a stranger. The nurse, wearing latex gloves, is prising open Karin’s labia. He catches sight of me, drops the urinary catheter, stands, and walks right up to me. His eyes are vacant. I have to ask you to wait outside, he says. Why? Privacy, he answers. Whose privacy? I ask. The patient’s. The patient’s? Yes, the patient’s, he says, and stares at me, only not into my eyes but at one of my shoulders. I’ve lived with her for ten years, and she’s carrying my child. There’s still the matter of patient privacy, he says. If patient privacy is so important, why are you here alone with her? I ask. I try to step forward but he blocks my way and says: I have to ask you to wait outside. I’ll come and get you when I’m ready. He shoos me out without even touching me, and closes the door.

  * * *

  —

  There’s a coffee machine opposite the lifts. I insert a ten-kronor piece but forget about the plastic mug. The coffee goes everywhere, all over the machine, and down onto the floor. I get some paper towels from a cleaner’s trolley and start mopping it up. The consultant comes out of the intensive care ward just as I’m rummaging about for some more coins. He glances down at the file he’s resting against his belly. Haven’t you passed out yet? he asks, apparently expecting me to laugh. When I don’t, he says: Your wife is in very serious condition. So it isn’t pneumonia? I ask. Pneumonia can be pretty serious, he replies. It’s curable, though, isn’t it? Most of the time, but not always, he says and walks past me into the lift. He presses one of the buttons, nods at me, and adds that he’ll update me as soon as they know more. I sit in a chair outside Ward B. Every inch of the corridor is greyish blue—the plastic floor, the skirting boards, the walls, the guard rails, even the food trolleys. There are three windows behind me but I can’t see out of them, the evening darkness has turned them into mirrors. I stand up and knock on the white door, wait, and sit again. Eventually the intensive care nurse emerges. I notice his tattoos again, almost like warpaint. Can I go in now? I ask. No, he answers, then fetches something from a cupboard beside the door and disappears back into the room. I look at my telephone, answer a couple of text messages, then walk up and down the corridor until my legs feel tired. Again I knock at the door. This time the other nurse answers. Sorry, I say, but I don’t understand why I can’t come in. This is ridiculous, I know Karin wants me there with her. Oh, did no one come to get you? If they had I wouldn’t be standing here, would I? I’m sorry, do come in. Karin is already a bit better, she says, and insists on getting me a cup of coffee and a cheese sandwich. Thanks, but I don’t want anything, I tell her. Karin sees me and starts waving. An assistant nurse has loosened her oxygen mask and is dabbing her lips with a sponge stick. Karin is gasping for breath but seems happy to be free of the sweaty mask. I go over to her and take her hand. Darling? At least they’ve given you morphine. She points at her stomach—it’ll be okay, I say, I promise, everything’s going to be fine. She gives me a thumbs up. The guy with the tattoos is talking on the phone, he’s sitting in an observation room, the windows of which overlook the ward. His face is stunningly beautiful, his thick hair perfectly combed, his skin smooth. I pick up Karin’s puffer jacket. The consultant stands with his back to me waiting for a colleague who’s pulling along something that looks like a defibrillator. He seems to be from MIVA in Cardiology, taciturn and a bit odd. After a quick examination of Karin’s chest, he turns to the consultant: We need an emergency spiral CT. Is that serious? I ask. He gives me a look and turns to Karin: I’ve checked you over now, Karin, and think it sounds like you’ve got serious pneumonia, maybe even an embolism. It’s difficult for me to say with absolute certainty at this point, we have to take an X-ray first. Could you repeat that? I say. The consultant answers while keeping his eyes on Karin: Pneumonia or a blood clot, maybe both, at least that’s what we think at this s
tage. We’re treating you for all the things we suspect may have caused your breathing difficulties, but this is serious; a young woman shouldn’t be breathing like this even if she is pregnant. I try to establish eye contact with Karin but she’s staring up at the ceiling, not passively but as if she’s noticed something. I look up as well, but all I can see is a fluorescent tube and an immaculate, blindingly white ceiling, not a single crack in the paint. The consultant sees that I’m holding Karin’s puffer jacket in my arms, and grimaces. There’s a locker further down the corridor, you’re welcome to use it, he says. No need, this is Karin’s. Well, as I say, there are lockers available. No need, but thanks anyway, I answer and sit down next to her bed.

  * * *

  —

  Karin is wheeled off into a room with a steel door, as if she’s being taken to a bomb shelter. She coughs so hard that her chest bounces up from the bed. I sit at one of the tables in the corridor and can hear a droning sound through the walls. After about half an hour a doctor appears and asks if I am Karin’s next of kin. Has something happened? I ask. He’s bald, wears oval glasses, and introduces himself as the radiologist. He stammers while telling me this could take some time, because Karin, on account of her breathing difficulties, is having problems lying in a horizontal position. Okay, I answer. So you understand it could take a while, then, yes? Okay, thanks. It’s hot and stuffy in the corridor. I take off my cardigan and get my phone out. Sven answers on their landline. He listens as I explain what’s been happening, then says: So the doctors suspect it’s pneumonia? Yes, she’s having an X-ray now. Thanks for ringing, Tom. It’s not long before he calls back. Hello, Sven, I say. Lillemor must have been frantically pacing around their terraced house in Lidingö until Sven felt compelled to phone back. Sorry for calling you again, he says. Sven, I’m the one who called you just now—sorry, I only said that because you’re apologising. Anyway, he continues, is there anything else you can tell us about her pneumonia? I’ve told you everything I know, I say. I see, he answers, and asks if it would be all right if they come in. That’s probably not necessary, Sven, it’s only pneumonia. Where are you now? he asks. Söder Hospital. Where exactly? I don’t remember, Mum dropped us by the maternity ward. I don’t know, somewhere below ground level. ‘Centre for Nuclear Medicine and Imaging’, it says here. She’s probably only being X-rayed there, do you remember the name of the ward? No, Sven, look, can I check and text it to you? That’s fine, thanks. I think I might have left a hob on in the kitchen, I burst out. Sorry, what? I made her tea, I probably forgot to turn off the hob. Oh right…Sven, I’m going to go, I have to call Mum, she has a spare set of keys.

  * * *

  —

  The consultant has been waiting for me in Ward B, and wants to talk urgently. He rubs disinfectant gel into his rough hands from the pump-action dispenser by the door. Everything about him is grey, apart from his white hospital clothes. He has brought a doctor with him, and explains she’s an obstetrician; she stands by a mobile ultrasound machine, which she plugs in by the hospital bed. The consultant shakes his hands dry and says: Karin, we just got the X-rays and have had a preliminary assessment of your blood tests, it’s not looking good. Karin is strangely calm. I rub her feet. The consultant leans forward, so that he can look into Karin’s eyes. Can you hear me, Karin? She nods. Good, I’ve discussed it with haematologists both here at Söder Hospital and also at Karolinska—they’re blood specialists. You have a massive increase in white blood cells, it’s highly likely that you have acute leukaemia. Karin looks at me and I hear her say something very faintly. Darling, I’m here, I say, reaching out to caress her cheek. We’ll sort this out, I promise, we’ll sort this out. Karin waves her hand. I try to read her lips behind the oxygen mask. She’s asking about the baby, I say. Karin gives me a thumbs up. My priority now is Karin, says the consultant. The child is well protected in the uterus, adds the obstetrician, even against leukaemia. She has long brown hair and a straight little nose. She doesn’t seem entirely comfortable that the consultant is there, and only relaxes once he’s left the ward. She works an ultrasound device over Karin’s stomach. You have a perky little baby, she’s fine, I can’t see anything to indicate otherwise, she says, wiping off the gel with tissue. At the door she turns to us, as if intending to say something else, but just stands there looking for a long time at Karin. Thanks, I say. She hesitates, then says: These days they’re very good at treating leukaemia. Thanks a lot, thanks. A loose white thread curls up the neckline of Karin’s hospital gown. I tuck it in under the fabric, and smooth over her fringe. She’s drenched in sweat and tugs at my hand. Is everything all right? she asks. Are you really asking me that? She nods. Darling, of course I’m worried, but don’t talk now, concentrate on your breathing. On a trolley I find a laminated sheet showing the emergency exits. I use it as a fan. Karin likes the air wafting against her. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there fanning her when she opens her mouth. She makes a smacking sound. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but it sounds like ‘live’. She tries to take off her mask but I stop her. She groans. Darling, what is it? I ask. Her name, she says. Okay, okay, you want to call her Liv? She shakes her head and exclaims: Livia. Livia? She nods and lifts her wrist. Livia, she says. Okay, Livia it is, I answer. An alarm on the oxygen machine goes off and one of the intensive care nurses comes rushing in. What’s going on? I ask. She calls out towards the monitoring room: She’s working too hard. The consultant strolls in, he’s chewing on something, he swallows it, clears his throat, pauses in front of one of the monitors with his hands folded behind his back. She’s doing well with the oxygen, she’s still managing, but we’ll have to intubate if things don’t improve, he says, and turns to Karin. I’m sorry to talk about you in this way, we don’t mean to, it’s just habit, but the situation is, Karin, in spite of the help we’re giving you you’re struggling to oxygenate yourself, so we may have to sedate you and use the respirator.

  * * *

  —

  I suggest to Sven that he stop the car and pass the telephone to Lillemor. We’re in a taxi now, but hold on and I’ll put her on, he answers. I feel nervous when I hear Lillemor’s deep voice: Yes, hello. Hi, we’ve had a diagnosis, I say. Okay, she answers. I wanted to call right away, but it was difficult, I say. Okay. I thought I’d better call before you got here. Uh-huh, well? It’s really difficult to say this. Well? It’s not pneumonia. Lillemor goes so quiet that I have to ask: Are you still there?

  * * *

  —

  The consultant is sitting on a stool by the bed when I get back. I just told your wife the child is causing too much strain, he says, her body is working at high pressure and her levels of lactic acid are dangerously high. He turns to Karin: I’ve just been on the phone with Central Intensive Care at Karolinska and it looks like we’ll deliver the child by caesarean section as early as tomorrow morning. Karolinska has better resources in place to help you and the child, so you’ll be put on the respirator tonight. You won’t feel any pain, you’ll be asleep, like a long, deep sleep after a hard day at work. Is she being moved? I ask. It’s for the best, he answers. Tomorrow morning? Yes, as soon as they can get her a bed at CIVA. Why do you have to keep her sedated? It’s better that way, both for Karin and the child; she’d have a general anaesthesia anyway for the caesarean. Karin tries to say something but gives up and shakes her head. She puts her hands on her stomach. I know it’s difficult for you to talk, Karin, he says. I’ll take that as you saying you understand.

  Karin is in a sort of half-slumber. Her breathing gets worse, sometimes she opens her eyes and scratches under her mask, and the moment I stop fanning her she anxiously seeks my hand. Darling, my arms have gone numb, I tell her, I can’t keep waving this damn thing. I don’t have the strength to stop her when she pulls off her mask. In a single breath she exhales: Love you in every possible way. A nurse rushes over and asks if everything’s all right. Karin gives her a thumbs up. You mustn’t take off your mask, she says. She knows
, I tell her.

  * * *

  —

  Lillemor is wearing her mahjong clothes and Sven his old-fashioned suit as they march down the corridor of the ward. I feel Sven’s broad, damp chest against mine. Lillemor seems uncomfortable when I embrace her. She stands facing away from me, peering at the doors of the patient rooms. She asks if they can see Karin. I walk ahead of them and call out from the doorway: Darling, your parents are here. Karin looks worried. Sven stops in the doorway. Lillemor hovers, then decides to go forward. She pats Karin’s legs as she repeats: My darling girl. Karin starts sobbing and waves her arms. Lillemor stiffens and says: We’ll wait outside. She grabs Sven by the arm and swiftly leads him out. Karin tugs at my jumper and looks at me. Darling, I understand, you don’t have to say anything. I think they understand as well. I’ll tell them you’re happy they’re here.

  When I come out, Sven and Lillemor have just sat down on the sofa outside the ward kitchen, Lillemor has a tissue clamped against her mouth. Is everything okay? I ask. Fine, fine, says Sven. I mean it was the same thing last time, I say. Thanks, Tom, we understand, he says. Something’s making a noise here, I can’t stand it, says Lillemor. She sits down, stands up, sits down again. What’s making that noise? Maybe it’s the dishwasher, says Sven. There’s a lot of stuff making a noise in here, I say. It’s something else, it’s a very high-pitched noise, she says, and shakes her head. I sit down next to them. Sven studies the pattern of the sofa fabric and establishes that it’s supposed to be wind-tossed dandelion clocks. Lillemor shakes her head again and informs him that it’s wild chervil. Sven folds his hands together over his thigh and asks: Did they say what kind of leukaemia it is? Lillemor glares at him. No, I don’t suppose they know that yet, do they, he adds with a nod in my direction. They just said acute, I say, looking at Lillemor. I ask her if she’s all right. Sorry, I just hate hospitals, and I can’t stand that noise, she says and gets up. She rummages around in her bag for a mint, offers me one, then Sven, and then wanders off down the corridor with her hands covering her ears.