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Fiction

The White Room

By Tiina Laitila Kälvemark
Translated from Finnish by Eric Dickens
Tiina Laitila Kälvemark's fragile woman struggles to recover her sanity.

Daylight and color are to be avoided, says Padima. No troubling pictures and patterns, no colorful details that your gaze gravitates toward. The room is to be clear and peaceful, and as bare as possible.

Because once the patient’s senses are numbed by inactivity, the body will gradually calm down. The periods of rest will lengthen on their own, because there is nothing to do. The wild rush of thoughts in the brain will slow down. Everything will become more leisurely: the metabolism, the breathing, the heartbeat. And ultimately the nerves too will tire and stop sending their Morse messages to the pain center hundreds of times a minute.

The pain will not disappear entirely, but will ease. That is what Dr. Padima has promised. The blows of the sledgehammer will turn into a slap, the icy fire will become a mere tingle. There will no longer be red hot four-inch needles boring away behind the eyes, only a thin, cool sewing needle, and you will be able to cope with that. That is something you will manage mentally, without losing your wits.

And once the nerve fibers have calmed down, the muscles too can relax. The cheek muscles will stop clenching, the teeth grinding. The belly will spread gently like dough toward the pelvic bone. The head will sink into the soft pillow.

When conditions are right, healing can commence. That is what Padima has promised. But the promise contains a proviso.  When it comes down to it, patients have to heal themselves. All I can do is provide the recovering patient with the best conditions possible.

The silence of the room was as important as its emptiness. Special nurse Satu K., the doctor’s right-hand woman, watched over the construction work diligently, and made sure that the sound insulation was not skimped on. So the dripping of a tap, or the gurgling of drains was never heard in the room.

For toilet visits, Satu K. has come up with a special solution, with Padima’s blessing: the lavatory bowl is flushed from outside the toilet. When you have done your business and cleansed your hands on soft wipes you have removed almost soundlessly from a packet, all you need do is shut the door and press the button on the doorpost. The toilet will then flush. But only if the door is shut tight.

It has not been possible to eliminate the flushing noise entirely. If you prick up your ears, you will detect a subdued sucking sound from behind the door. It sounds like anxious inhalation.

The sound insulation on the outside door to the vestibule is of recording-studio standards. The layers applied to the walls absorb any extraneous sounds and knocks, creaking and cracking.

By the outside door is a notice board where the rules for visitors to the room are spelled out. They are to remove their shoes and outer garments and wipe their hands in disinfectant. Then they must take a dressing gown from the peg and don white felt slippers. Only then can they open the door to the room and step inside.

The children do not always succeed in belting up their dressing gowns, so that a strip of denim pant leg peeps out from behind the white toweling material. Satu K. then helps them to tighten their belts and straighten the folds. The children steal across the floor, serious and concentrated, careful not to trip over the edges of their dressing gowns.

I long for those moments most of all. Long for and fear, at one and the same time.

I have been in the white room for five months and twenty days now. From the level of the darkness I can guess that it is about five or six in the morning. Five months, twenty days and a few hours. Five or six hours, I cannot be quite sure.

Dr. Padima has told me not to count. In his opinion I should not keep track of things, not even the time.

Allow yourself to let things go. No one else can do that for you. Not until you dare to drown completely will the foothold you are looking for start coming toward you.

I understand what Padima means. I understand the idea of complete rest, as deep as a bog in a nightmare. It really does tempt me. Soft and limitless darkness. And yet I do not dare. I dare not think that terra firma exists.

I have already let go of so much. My home, my family, the whole of everyday life. All that I have been used to monitoring is now out of reach.

I do not know whether the children are eating enough for breakfast, or whether they remember to brush their teeth. I can’t check whether the middle one has his gym bag with him on Wednesdays, or whether the eldest has done his math homework, or at least the ones noted in the blue exercise book.

I cannot feel their brows, see if they are running a temperature. I can’t listen if they are breathing when they sleep.

I cannot draw up menus, shopping lists, lists of e-mails that need to be answered, of friends that should be invited, details that must, just must, be remembered.

I cannot ask my husband whether he has made the travel reservations, canceled the newspapers, nor can I point out that the lightbulbs, the printer ink, the weekdays, have run out.

I cannot ring the assisted living apartment and make sure that dad has got his ergonomic neck pillow, or listen to the morning stock report, delegate, replicate, weigh myself in the morning, check the pedometer tally.

I cannot choose my words, collect my thoughts, interpret the silence.

All I can do is sleep, and wake up, and go to sleep again. Wait for Satu K. to come. Lie in my white bed under the white covers and stare at the ceiling, on which there are no marks, shadows, or blemishes whatsoever to which my mind could attribute a new meaning.

I count sheep, do yoga, and meditate.  I rest my chin on my knees, wrap my arms around my legs, and unwrap them again. I get dressed and undressed, and it is quite unnecessary even to mention what the colors of the soft garments are.

It’s best to walk clockwise, Padima says, and on a good day I do what he asks. I turn my body, lift my legs by turns, with the shadow shifting as it falls behind me.

On a bad day, I am on the floor, crawling on all fours. I bang my knees hard against the floor, but all that rises from the soft carpet is a subdued bumping sound. And although I never dare raise my voice, a shriek is bouncing around in my head, igniting blue flames at my tattered nerve endings. On a bad day, Satu K. comes to visit me, holds my hands, utters Padima’s words of wisdom: Things could be worse. You could be completely paralyzed, could even be dead. Just think—you’re alive, after all!

On a bad day, I do not hear, do not listen. I paw my way deep into the lap of my pain, do not want to emerge. I cling to Padima’s instances of what could go wrong, cling to the end of his last sentence. Just think—you’re alive, after all!

Is this after-all-life life after all? Do you want me to think it through properly?

Then I grow tired of myself and try again. I try to put faith in Padima, believe in what he knows.

That life does intrinsically have value and meaning.

That all you have to do is accept the roads it leads you along. Submit, to an extent, to the way it winds along.

Today, I’m rather better. The thumping has grown duller. The pain at the back of my eyes has become round at the edges.

Beyond the blinds, the darkness is slowly yielding. This is the darkest time of the year.

I wonder if my husband has brought the electric Advent candles down from the attic, has checked their little bulbs. And the gold star for the children’s room. If I opened the blinds, I would see them.

I must be careful about acclimatizing to the outside world, is what Padima says. You must make progress, one step at a time.

I am waiting for Satu K., she can come at any time. If the day is a cloudy one she will open the slats of the blinds for a few minutes. If I can cope, I have a quick look out the window. Usually I can’t. On two occasions I have ventured to go up to the windowpane and have pressed my face against its cool surface.

Fear keeps me in my place. My memory of a few months ago is fresh and alive. I was floundering, prevailing against the direction indicated by Padima. I stumbled out of the room, when the evening had grown quiet and the light outside had subsided.

It is here, right in front of my eyes, like a film turning at the wrong speed. Movements are slow and prolonged. The outside door opens and beyond is the familiar garden, the one I have cleared of snow, weeded, and watered. Here are my flowerbeds, the things I’ve planted, and my gardening tools, just as they were before, yet completely changed. Everything has the wrong color, the wrong smell, is askew, topsy-turvy.

The pain is surging in waves, from beyond the woods, leaps down from the branches of the trees, and dumps me on the stairs. I fill my lungs with muddy water mixed with sand. It is autumn, and everything is over. The stench of decomposition and death is in the air, the old slimy tracks of the snails run across the flagstones of the patio, the birds have pecked to pieces the apples left hanging in the trees.

Summer is past, I have forfeited it, the children’s summer holidays, the sun and joy, and will never get it back.

I am lying on the stairs, burning.

Satu K. rings for an ambulance.

Two weeks later I will be brought back to the white room, and everything will start all over again.

It’s best for us to protect you from yourself, says Padima. He removes the doorknob from the outside door, fixes an alarm button on the wall in the vestibule, puts a telephone next to my bed, behind a white curtain.

Today is visiting day. The children come to visit me every other day, one at a time, half an hour each. Padima has promised that visiting hours can be extended. By at least five minutes, or even ten. Maybe by Christmas. We shall know more once the next set of tests has been completed.

Today was the turn of the eldest. He comes in the afternoon after school, when the light filtering through the curtains is turning blue. He remembers the rules, puts on a dressing gown and felt slippers, talks quietly and carefully.

The younger ones sometimes forget. Their bright voices will then ring in my head for hours on end, even days. Like dentist’s instruments, they scrape at my skull from the inside, forming dissonances, high and low, new ways of causing distress.

Physical pain is not the worst. What hurts me more is the fear that I can see in the children’s eyes. Their silences and good behavior. As if I were a somewhat distant relative that you daren’t really let come any closer. Yes, everything’s fine. Yes, I’m doing OK at school. Yes, Dad’s making pancakes today for dessert.

They are protecting both themselves and me, when it is I that should be protecting them.

I came to the room in May. The outlines of the bright Wednesday are blurred and the colors have become as unnatural as those of landscape paintings from the 1950s.

I remember that the sun was shining and the bird cherry tree putting out blossoms with every last ounce of strength. I remember thinking that the tree was like me: a large part of its blossoms had been shed, and the sweet fragrance had turned into a sickly odor. It made me throw up.

I remember how the sunlight brought a stinging, dense red rash to my cheeks.

I kept my eyes shut. I did not need to open them to see that the world had changed. Joy had turned to fear, beauty to distress, happy prospects to the panic of fear.

Between my eyelids I could see the green of the garden, the burgeoning buds and the frail seedlings that were seeking their way upward from the fertile soil of the flower beds. I felt expectation, expectations from others and the urge to succeed, but was yearning for nothing else but pitch darkness.

When the door to the white room opened and shut, I prayed for black clouds to cover the sun.

Too much stress leads to a short circuit, said Padima and stroked my cheek, putting questions to me I was unable to answer.

Headaches? Yes, for a long time already, a number of years probably. First in the mornings, then in the afternoons, and always in the evening before going to bed.

Breathing difficulties, stiff neck, dizzy spells, fatigue and trembling?

I answered in the affirmative to all of these, but no one managed to answer my own questions.

How can you distinguish such symptoms from ordinary life? Where does the border between what is normal and what is abnormal run? How many times a week can you feel dead-tired, numb and dumb, before you classify it as an illness?

I retain thin wisps of memories from the first few weeks. Padima by my bed measuring my blood pressure, giving me various injections in my arm. Satu K. as a shadow by the wall, carrying IV bags, catheters, clean sheets.

Sometimes I could make out the odd sentence from what Padima was saying. Don’t have unreasonable expectations. . . the damage is permanent. It’s permanent.

I had been told before that I would never fully recover. That the thumping, the eternal rhythmical banging in my head, was the beating of my own heart.

There had been a short circuit, a false alarm, an electrical disturbance. Permanent brain damage. Because the auditory center of the brain was receiving the same message constantly, thousands of millions of times a minute: listen to the pulse of the cerebral vein. Listen to it. And keep it at top volume.

Today the thumping is more muffled.

It will soon be Christmas.

The Advent candelabra are in a silver-colored box in the attic, behind the dolls’ prams and the ice hockey board game, immediately to the right as you enter. In the same crate are to be found the stand for the Christmas tree and the straw goats, the big, small and medium ones. The rear leg of the middle one is held together with masking tape.

I have a shooting pain, just behind my eyes. A sharp silvery light is flashing behind my eyelids, but I don’t see it, ignore it, don’t count how long it lasts.

I fetch the armchair from the doorway. It is for visitors. The feet of the armchair trace a narrow wake through the white carpet.

My feet don’t leave any traces. The bed still has a depression where I have been lying, there is a stray hair or two on my pillow.

According to Padima, I have made progress. I walk more and I sleep less. My mood no longer crashes after a visit from the children. Nevertheless, the journey is a long one, endless maybe. You were saved at the very last minute.

The last morning I made breakfast wearing earmuffs, but they didn’t help much. Shrill noises sent a series of electric shocks through my whole body. When the children laughed, I doubled over in pain.

The eldest scolded the younger ones, squeezed their throats and pulled their hair, shut up, it’ll hurt Mom. The youngest one clung to me and clutched at me with her hooked fingers. Every clasp pressed the shoulder strap of my nightdress deeper into my skin. Through the epidermis, dermis, fatty tissue, the black nylon ribbon down ever deeper into the labyrinth of nerves and beyond.

I removed the small hands by force, pushed them away, further, scolding and banging, went to the couch next to the purring fridge. Breadcrumbs like ants crawled all over me, prickling and burning, building their hill in my dirty hair. If the children were crying, I was no longer hearing them.

I hadn’t the strength to walk the couple of hundred meters unaided. Padima carried me past the new bower, past the children’s bicycles, the swallows whizzing through the air, past everything green, blue, bright, and alive, crossed the threshold, and lay me down on the white bed. Since then five months and twenty days have passed.

Can’t see Satu K. She usually comes earlier. I have tried to gauge the likelihood of her arrival and always fail. It is impossible to anticipate the exact time she will arrive. This is all part of the recovery strategy. It’s better for you not to wait. It’s better for you to take things as they come.

I focus my attention, shut my eyes, listen to the stream of breathing into the room. The shooting pains have grown stronger, are boring into my bones, but I am alive after all; that is worth it; that is important.

It is evening and no one has come. The thumping is too near now. The room is disappearing into a bright light. The floor of the vestibule cools my bare feet and there is a draft coming from near the hinges as I reach for the doorpost.

I press the alarm button. Next to the bed, behind the white curtain, the phone rings.

© Tiina Laitila Kälvemark and WSOY. “Valkoinen huone,” from Kadonnut ranta (Helsinki: Werner Söderström Corporation, 2012). Published by arrangement with Werner Söderström Ltd. (WSOY). Translation ©2014 by Eric Dickens. All rights reserved.

English Finnish (Original)

Daylight and color are to be avoided, says Padima. No troubling pictures and patterns, no colorful details that your gaze gravitates toward. The room is to be clear and peaceful, and as bare as possible.

Because once the patient’s senses are numbed by inactivity, the body will gradually calm down. The periods of rest will lengthen on their own, because there is nothing to do. The wild rush of thoughts in the brain will slow down. Everything will become more leisurely: the metabolism, the breathing, the heartbeat. And ultimately the nerves too will tire and stop sending their Morse messages to the pain center hundreds of times a minute.

The pain will not disappear entirely, but will ease. That is what Dr. Padima has promised. The blows of the sledgehammer will turn into a slap, the icy fire will become a mere tingle. There will no longer be red hot four-inch needles boring away behind the eyes, only a thin, cool sewing needle, and you will be able to cope with that. That is something you will manage mentally, without losing your wits.

And once the nerve fibers have calmed down, the muscles too can relax. The cheek muscles will stop clenching, the teeth grinding. The belly will spread gently like dough toward the pelvic bone. The head will sink into the soft pillow.

When conditions are right, healing can commence. That is what Padima has promised. But the promise contains a proviso.  When it comes down to it, patients have to heal themselves. All I can do is provide the recovering patient with the best conditions possible.

The silence of the room was as important as its emptiness. Special nurse Satu K., the doctor’s right-hand woman, watched over the construction work diligently, and made sure that the sound insulation was not skimped on. So the dripping of a tap, or the gurgling of drains was never heard in the room.

For toilet visits, Satu K. has come up with a special solution, with Padima’s blessing: the lavatory bowl is flushed from outside the toilet. When you have done your business and cleansed your hands on soft wipes you have removed almost soundlessly from a packet, all you need do is shut the door and press the button on the doorpost. The toilet will then flush. But only if the door is shut tight.

It has not been possible to eliminate the flushing noise entirely. If you prick up your ears, you will detect a subdued sucking sound from behind the door. It sounds like anxious inhalation.

The sound insulation on the outside door to the vestibule is of recording-studio standards. The layers applied to the walls absorb any extraneous sounds and knocks, creaking and cracking.

By the outside door is a notice board where the rules for visitors to the room are spelled out. They are to remove their shoes and outer garments and wipe their hands in disinfectant. Then they must take a dressing gown from the peg and don white felt slippers. Only then can they open the door to the room and step inside.

The children do not always succeed in belting up their dressing gowns, so that a strip of denim pant leg peeps out from behind the white toweling material. Satu K. then helps them to tighten their belts and straighten the folds. The children steal across the floor, serious and concentrated, careful not to trip over the edges of their dressing gowns.

I long for those moments most of all. Long for and fear, at one and the same time.

I have been in the white room for five months and twenty days now. From the level of the darkness I can guess that it is about five or six in the morning. Five months, twenty days and a few hours. Five or six hours, I cannot be quite sure.

Dr. Padima has told me not to count. In his opinion I should not keep track of things, not even the time.

Allow yourself to let things go. No one else can do that for you. Not until you dare to drown completely will the foothold you are looking for start coming toward you.

I understand what Padima means. I understand the idea of complete rest, as deep as a bog in a nightmare. It really does tempt me. Soft and limitless darkness. And yet I do not dare. I dare not think that terra firma exists.

I have already let go of so much. My home, my family, the whole of everyday life. All that I have been used to monitoring is now out of reach.

I do not know whether the children are eating enough for breakfast, or whether they remember to brush their teeth. I can’t check whether the middle one has his gym bag with him on Wednesdays, or whether the eldest has done his math homework, or at least the ones noted in the blue exercise book.

I cannot feel their brows, see if they are running a temperature. I can’t listen if they are breathing when they sleep.

I cannot draw up menus, shopping lists, lists of e-mails that need to be answered, of friends that should be invited, details that must, just must, be remembered.

I cannot ask my husband whether he has made the travel reservations, canceled the newspapers, nor can I point out that the lightbulbs, the printer ink, the weekdays, have run out.

I cannot ring the assisted living apartment and make sure that dad has got his ergonomic neck pillow, or listen to the morning stock report, delegate, replicate, weigh myself in the morning, check the pedometer tally.

I cannot choose my words, collect my thoughts, interpret the silence.

All I can do is sleep, and wake up, and go to sleep again. Wait for Satu K. to come. Lie in my white bed under the white covers and stare at the ceiling, on which there are no marks, shadows, or blemishes whatsoever to which my mind could attribute a new meaning.

I count sheep, do yoga, and meditate.  I rest my chin on my knees, wrap my arms around my legs, and unwrap them again. I get dressed and undressed, and it is quite unnecessary even to mention what the colors of the soft garments are.

It’s best to walk clockwise, Padima says, and on a good day I do what he asks. I turn my body, lift my legs by turns, with the shadow shifting as it falls behind me.

On a bad day, I am on the floor, crawling on all fours. I bang my knees hard against the floor, but all that rises from the soft carpet is a subdued bumping sound. And although I never dare raise my voice, a shriek is bouncing around in my head, igniting blue flames at my tattered nerve endings. On a bad day, Satu K. comes to visit me, holds my hands, utters Padima’s words of wisdom: Things could be worse. You could be completely paralyzed, could even be dead. Just think—you’re alive, after all!

On a bad day, I do not hear, do not listen. I paw my way deep into the lap of my pain, do not want to emerge. I cling to Padima’s instances of what could go wrong, cling to the end of his last sentence. Just think—you’re alive, after all!

Is this after-all-life life after all? Do you want me to think it through properly?

Then I grow tired of myself and try again. I try to put faith in Padima, believe in what he knows.

That life does intrinsically have value and meaning.

That all you have to do is accept the roads it leads you along. Submit, to an extent, to the way it winds along.

Today, I’m rather better. The thumping has grown duller. The pain at the back of my eyes has become round at the edges.

Beyond the blinds, the darkness is slowly yielding. This is the darkest time of the year.

I wonder if my husband has brought the electric Advent candles down from the attic, has checked their little bulbs. And the gold star for the children’s room. If I opened the blinds, I would see them.

I must be careful about acclimatizing to the outside world, is what Padima says. You must make progress, one step at a time.

I am waiting for Satu K., she can come at any time. If the day is a cloudy one she will open the slats of the blinds for a few minutes. If I can cope, I have a quick look out the window. Usually I can’t. On two occasions I have ventured to go up to the windowpane and have pressed my face against its cool surface.

Fear keeps me in my place. My memory of a few months ago is fresh and alive. I was floundering, prevailing against the direction indicated by Padima. I stumbled out of the room, when the evening had grown quiet and the light outside had subsided.

It is here, right in front of my eyes, like a film turning at the wrong speed. Movements are slow and prolonged. The outside door opens and beyond is the familiar garden, the one I have cleared of snow, weeded, and watered. Here are my flowerbeds, the things I’ve planted, and my gardening tools, just as they were before, yet completely changed. Everything has the wrong color, the wrong smell, is askew, topsy-turvy.

The pain is surging in waves, from beyond the woods, leaps down from the branches of the trees, and dumps me on the stairs. I fill my lungs with muddy water mixed with sand. It is autumn, and everything is over. The stench of decomposition and death is in the air, the old slimy tracks of the snails run across the flagstones of the patio, the birds have pecked to pieces the apples left hanging in the trees.

Summer is past, I have forfeited it, the children’s summer holidays, the sun and joy, and will never get it back.

I am lying on the stairs, burning.

Satu K. rings for an ambulance.

Two weeks later I will be brought back to the white room, and everything will start all over again.

It’s best for us to protect you from yourself, says Padima. He removes the doorknob from the outside door, fixes an alarm button on the wall in the vestibule, puts a telephone next to my bed, behind a white curtain.

Today is visiting day. The children come to visit me every other day, one at a time, half an hour each. Padima has promised that visiting hours can be extended. By at least five minutes, or even ten. Maybe by Christmas. We shall know more once the next set of tests has been completed.

Today was the turn of the eldest. He comes in the afternoon after school, when the light filtering through the curtains is turning blue. He remembers the rules, puts on a dressing gown and felt slippers, talks quietly and carefully.

The younger ones sometimes forget. Their bright voices will then ring in my head for hours on end, even days. Like dentist’s instruments, they scrape at my skull from the inside, forming dissonances, high and low, new ways of causing distress.

Physical pain is not the worst. What hurts me more is the fear that I can see in the children’s eyes. Their silences and good behavior. As if I were a somewhat distant relative that you daren’t really let come any closer. Yes, everything’s fine. Yes, I’m doing OK at school. Yes, Dad’s making pancakes today for dessert.

They are protecting both themselves and me, when it is I that should be protecting them.

I came to the room in May. The outlines of the bright Wednesday are blurred and the colors have become as unnatural as those of landscape paintings from the 1950s.

I remember that the sun was shining and the bird cherry tree putting out blossoms with every last ounce of strength. I remember thinking that the tree was like me: a large part of its blossoms had been shed, and the sweet fragrance had turned into a sickly odor. It made me throw up.

I remember how the sunlight brought a stinging, dense red rash to my cheeks.

I kept my eyes shut. I did not need to open them to see that the world had changed. Joy had turned to fear, beauty to distress, happy prospects to the panic of fear.

Between my eyelids I could see the green of the garden, the burgeoning buds and the frail seedlings that were seeking their way upward from the fertile soil of the flower beds. I felt expectation, expectations from others and the urge to succeed, but was yearning for nothing else but pitch darkness.

When the door to the white room opened and shut, I prayed for black clouds to cover the sun.

Too much stress leads to a short circuit, said Padima and stroked my cheek, putting questions to me I was unable to answer.

Headaches? Yes, for a long time already, a number of years probably. First in the mornings, then in the afternoons, and always in the evening before going to bed.

Breathing difficulties, stiff neck, dizzy spells, fatigue and trembling?

I answered in the affirmative to all of these, but no one managed to answer my own questions.

How can you distinguish such symptoms from ordinary life? Where does the border between what is normal and what is abnormal run? How many times a week can you feel dead-tired, numb and dumb, before you classify it as an illness?

I retain thin wisps of memories from the first few weeks. Padima by my bed measuring my blood pressure, giving me various injections in my arm. Satu K. as a shadow by the wall, carrying IV bags, catheters, clean sheets.

Sometimes I could make out the odd sentence from what Padima was saying. Don’t have unreasonable expectations. . . the damage is permanent. It’s permanent.

I had been told before that I would never fully recover. That the thumping, the eternal rhythmical banging in my head, was the beating of my own heart.

There had been a short circuit, a false alarm, an electrical disturbance. Permanent brain damage. Because the auditory center of the brain was receiving the same message constantly, thousands of millions of times a minute: listen to the pulse of the cerebral vein. Listen to it. And keep it at top volume.

Today the thumping is more muffled.

It will soon be Christmas.

The Advent candelabra are in a silver-colored box in the attic, behind the dolls’ prams and the ice hockey board game, immediately to the right as you enter. In the same crate are to be found the stand for the Christmas tree and the straw goats, the big, small and medium ones. The rear leg of the middle one is held together with masking tape.

I have a shooting pain, just behind my eyes. A sharp silvery light is flashing behind my eyelids, but I don’t see it, ignore it, don’t count how long it lasts.

I fetch the armchair from the doorway. It is for visitors. The feet of the armchair trace a narrow wake through the white carpet.

My feet don’t leave any traces. The bed still has a depression where I have been lying, there is a stray hair or two on my pillow.

According to Padima, I have made progress. I walk more and I sleep less. My mood no longer crashes after a visit from the children. Nevertheless, the journey is a long one, endless maybe. You were saved at the very last minute.

The last morning I made breakfast wearing earmuffs, but they didn’t help much. Shrill noises sent a series of electric shocks through my whole body. When the children laughed, I doubled over in pain.

The eldest scolded the younger ones, squeezed their throats and pulled their hair, shut up, it’ll hurt Mom. The youngest one clung to me and clutched at me with her hooked fingers. Every clasp pressed the shoulder strap of my nightdress deeper into my skin. Through the epidermis, dermis, fatty tissue, the black nylon ribbon down ever deeper into the labyrinth of nerves and beyond.

I removed the small hands by force, pushed them away, further, scolding and banging, went to the couch next to the purring fridge. Breadcrumbs like ants crawled all over me, prickling and burning, building their hill in my dirty hair. If the children were crying, I was no longer hearing them.

I hadn’t the strength to walk the couple of hundred meters unaided. Padima carried me past the new bower, past the children’s bicycles, the swallows whizzing through the air, past everything green, blue, bright, and alive, crossed the threshold, and lay me down on the white bed. Since then five months and twenty days have passed.

Can’t see Satu K. She usually comes earlier. I have tried to gauge the likelihood of her arrival and always fail. It is impossible to anticipate the exact time she will arrive. This is all part of the recovery strategy. It’s better for you not to wait. It’s better for you to take things as they come.

I focus my attention, shut my eyes, listen to the stream of breathing into the room. The shooting pains have grown stronger, are boring into my bones, but I am alive after all; that is worth it; that is important.

It is evening and no one has come. The thumping is too near now. The room is disappearing into a bright light. The floor of the vestibule cools my bare feet and there is a draft coming from near the hinges as I reach for the doorpost.

I press the alarm button. Next to the bed, behind the white curtain, the phone rings.

© Tiina Laitila Kälvemark and WSOY. “Valkoinen huone,” from Kadonnut ranta (Helsinki: Werner Söderström Corporation, 2012). Published by arrangement with Werner Söderström Ltd. (WSOY). Translation ©2014 by Eric Dickens. All rights reserved.

Valkoinen huone

Valoa ja vareja on valtettava, Padima sanoo. Ei levottomia kuvioita tai kuoseja, ei varikkaita yksityiskohtia, joihin katse hakeutuu. Huoneen on oltava selkeä ja rauhallinen, ja mahdollisimman tyhjä.

Silla kun potilaan aistit turrutetaan tylsyydella, elimistokin rauhoittuu vahitellen. Levon maara lisaantyy kuin itsestaan, koska mitaan tekemista ei ole. Ajatusten villi santaily aivoissa hidastuu. Kaikki muuttuu verkkaisemmaksi: aineenvaihdunta, hengitys, sydamen syke. Lopulta hermotkin vasahtavat ja lakkaavat morsettamasta kipukeskukselle satoja kertoja minuutissa.

Tuska ei häviä kokonaan, mutta lientyy. Niin tohtori Padima on luvannut. Moukarin iskut muuttuvat luunapeiksi, jaatava polte kevyeksi kihelmoinniksi. Silman takana ei kaiverra enaa tulikuuma neljan tuuman naula vaan ohut ja viilea ompeluneula, ja sen saattaa jo kestaa. Siita saattaa selvita hengissa menettamatta jarkeaan.

Ja kun hermoradat ovat rauhoittuneet, voivat lihaksetkin rentoutua. Posket lakkaavat kiristamasta, hampaat hoylaamasta toisiaan. Vatsa leviaa lempeana taikinana kohti lantioluita. Paa putoaa niskan pihdeista syvalle pehmeaan tyynyyn.

Kun olosuhteet ovat oikeat, saattaa paraneminen alkaa.

Niin Padima on luvannut. Mutta lupaukseen sisaltyy ehto. Viime kädessä potilaan on parannettava itse itsensä. Minä voin vain tarjota toipumiselle parhaat mahdolliset edellytykset.

Huoneen hiljaisuus on yhta tarkeaa kuin sen tyhjyys. Erikoissairaanhoitaja Satu K, tohtorin oikea kasi, valvoi rakennustoita tarkasti, ja piti huolen siita, ettei aanieristeissa saastetty. Siksi vesihanan tiputus tai putkiston paukahtelu ei koskaan kuulu huoneeseen.

Vessan kohdalla Satu K keksi erityisratkaisun ja sai Padimalta kiitosta: pontto vedetaan kylpyhuoneen ulkopuolelta. Kun on kaynyt tarpeillaan ja pyyhkinyt katensa pehmeilla, lahes aanettomasti pakkauksesta irtoavilla kosteuspyyhkeilla, pitaa sulkea ovi ja hipaista pyoreaa nappulaa ovenpielessa. Silloin pontto huuhtoutuu. Mutta vain jos ovi on suljettu kunnolla.

Aivan kokonaan viemarin aanta ei ole pystytty eliminoimaan. Jos pinnistaa kuulonsa aarimmilleen, saattaa aavistaa vaimean imaisun suljetun oven takana. Se on kuin hataantynyt sisaanhengitys.

Eteisen aanieristys on studiotasoa. Seinien kerrokset imevat sisaansa kaiken ylimaaraisen kaiun ja kopinan, narinan ja sarahtelyn.

Ulko-ovessa on huoneentaulu, jonka saantoja vierailijat noudattavat. He riisuvat kenkansa ja paallysvaatteensa, pyyhkivat katensa desinfiointiaineella. Sen jalkeen he vetavat naulakosta aamutakin vaatteidensa peitoksi ja sujauttavat jalat valkoisiin huopatossuihin. Vasta sitten he saavat avata huoneen oven ja astua sisaan.

Lapsilta aamutakin vyottaminen ei aina onnistu, vaan kaistale farkunlahjetta saattaa pilkistaa valkoisen froteen alta. Satu K auttaa heita silloin, kiristaa vyota ja oikoo takin laskoksia. Hitaasti lapset hiipivat lattian poikki, vakavina ja keskittyneina, varovat kompastumasta takkinsa liepeisiin.

Niita hetkia mina ikavoin eniten. Ikavoin, ja samalla pelkaan.

Olen ollut valkoisessa huoneessa viisi kuukautta ja kaksikymmenta paivaa. Hamaryyden asteesta arvelen, etta kello on viisi tai kuusi aamulla. Viisi kuukautta, kaksikymmenta paivaa ja muutaman tunnin siis. Viisi tuntia, tai kuusi, aivan varma en voi olla.

Tohtori Padima on kieltanyt minua laskemasta. Hanen mielestaan en saisi valvoa enaa mitaan, en edes aikaa.

Anna itsellesi lupa pudota. Kukaan muu ei voi tehdä sitä puolestasi. Vasta kun uskallat upota kokonaan, tulee vastaan se pohja, joka kannattelee.

Ymmarran mita Padima tarkoittaa. Ymmarran ajatuksen taydellisesta levosta, syvasta kuin painajaisunen suo. Se houkuttaa minua kylla, pehmea ja paattymaton pimea.

Silti en uskalla. En uskalla uskoa, etta pohja on oikeasti olemassa.

Olen jo paastanyt irti niin paljosta. Kodistani, perheesta,koko arjesta. Kaikki se mita olen tottunut kontrolloimaan, on katseeni ulottumattomissa.

En tieda syovatko lapset riittavasti aamiaista tai muistavatko he harjata hampaansa. En voi tarkistaa onko keskimmaisella liikuntavaatteet mukanaan keskiviikkoaamuisin, ja onko vanhin tehnyt matematiikan tehtavat, myos ne, jotka ovat sinisessa harjoitusvihossa.

En voi kokeilla heidan otsiaan, mitata kuumetta. En voi kuunnella hengittavatko he nukkuessaan.

En voi laatia ruokalistoja, ostoslistoja, listoja sahkoposteista joihin pitaa vastata, tuttavista, jotka taytyy kutsua kylaan, yksityiskohdista, jotka on pakko, aivan pakko muistaa.

En voi kysya miehelta onko tama tehnyt matkavarauksen ja peruuttanut sanomalehden tilauksen, enka voi huomauttaa, etta sahkolamput ja tulostimen muste ja viikonpaivat ovat loppuneet.

En voi soittaa palvelutaloon ja varmistaa, etta isa on saanut ergonomisen niskatyynyn, en voi kuunnella aamuuutisia seurata osakerahastojen kurssien kehittymista delegoida replikoida punnita itseani aamuisin tarkistaa askelmittarin lukemia.

En voi valita sanojani, tarkkailla ajatuksiani, en tulkita hiljaisuutta.

Voin vain nukkua, ja herata, ja nukkua taas. Odottaa Satu K:ta. Maata valkoisessa vuoteessa valkoisten peitteiden alla ja katsella kattoa, jossa ei nay minkaanlaista tahraa, varjoa tai virhetta, ei mitaan, mista mieleni voisi muotoilla uuden merkityksen.

Lasken lampaita, joogaan ja meditoin. Painan leuan polviin, kaarin kasivarret saarten ymparille ja irrotan ne taas. Pukeudun ja riisuudun, ja on turha edes sanoa, minka variset minun pehmeat vaatteeni ovat.

On parasta kävellä myötäpäivään, Padima sanoo, ja hyvana paivana mina tottelen hanta. Kierran kehaa, nostelen polvia vuorotellen ja varjo perassani vaihtaa paikkaa.

Huonona paivana laskeudun lattialle, konttaan ja ryomin. Isken polvet voimalla lattiaan, mutta pehmeasta matosta irtoaa vain vaimea toyssahdys. Ja vaikka en silloinkaan uskalla kirkua aaneen, huuto poukkoilee paani sisalla, sytyttaa repaleiset hermonpaat siniseen liekkiin.

Huonona paivana Satu K tulee viereeni, laskee kaden kadelle, kertaa Padiman viisaita sanoja. Asiat voisivat olla huonomminkin. Voisit olla kokonaan halvaantunut, voisit olla kuollut. Ajattele, että saat kuitenkin elää!

Huonona paivana en kuule, en kuuntele. Kaperryn syvalle kipuni syliin, en halua loytaa sielta pois. Tartun Padiman virheisiin, hanen viimeisen lauseensa loppuun. Ajattele, etta saat kuitenkin elaa!

Onko kuitenkinelama elamaa kuitenkaan? Haluatko, etta ajattelen sita oikein kunnolla?

Sitten vasyn itseeni ja yritan taas. Yritan luottaa Padimaan, uskoa sen, minka han tietaa.

Etta elamalla sinansa on arvo ja tarkoitus.

Etta on vain hyvaksyttava sen tiet. Alistuttava osaksi sen kulkua.

Tanaan voin paremmin. Jyskytys on vaimeampaa. Kipu silman takana on pyoristynyt reunoistaan.

Kaihdinten takana hamara vaistyy hitaasti. On vuoden pimein aika.

Joko mies on hakenut adventtikynttilat ullakolta, tarkistanut niiden pikkuiset lamput. Ja lastenhuoneen keltai sen tahden. Jos raottaisin verhoa, nakisin sen.

Ulkomaailmaan totuttelussa on oltava varovainen, Padima sanoo. Täytyy edetä pienin askelin.

Odotan Satu K:ta, han tulee milloin tahansa. Jos paiva on pilvinen, han avaa salekaihtimet muutamaksi minuutiksi.

Jos jaksan, vilkaisen nopeasti ikkunaan. Usein en jaksa. Kaksi kertaa olen uskaltautunut ruudun luo ja vienyt kasvot lahelle sen viileaa pintaa.

Pelko pitaa minut paikoillani. Muisto parin kuukauden takaa on tuore ja elava. Rapikoin Padiman nayttamaa suuntaa vastaan. Kompuroin ulos huoneesta, kun ilta oli hiljentynyt ja ulkovalot sammutettu.

Se on siina, silmien edessa, kuin vaaralla nopeudella pyoriva filmi. Liikkeet ovat hitaita ja venytettyja. Ulkoovi avautuu ja sen takana on tuttu piha, se jota olen raivannut, kitkenyt ja kastellut. Siina ovat minun kukkapenkkini ja istutukseni ja puutarhakalusteeni, entisellaan ja taysin muuttuneina. Kaikki on vaaranvarista, vaaranhajuista, vinossa ja nurin niskoin.

Kipu vyoryy hyokyaaltona metsan takaa, ponnistaa puiden oksista ja kaataa minut portaille. Vedan keuhkot tayteen sameaa, hiekansekaista vetta. On syksy ja kaikki on ohi. Ilmassa loyhkaa periksiantaminen ja kuolema, etanoiden limaiset vanat halkovat pation laattoja, ja linnut ovat nokkineet rikki puihin unohtuneet omenat.

Kesa on mennyt, olen menettanyt sen, lasten kesaloman, auringon ja ilon, enka enaa koskaan voi saada sita takaisin.

Makaan portailla ja palan.

Satu K soittaa ambulanssin.

Kahden viikon paasta minut kannetaan takaisin valkoiseen huoneeseen, ja kaikki alkaa alusta uudestaan.

On parasta, että suojelemme sinua itseltäsi, Padima sanoo.

Han irrottaa rivan ulko-ovesta, asentaa halytysnapin eteisen seinaan ja puhelimen sangyn viereen, valkoisen verhon taakse.

Tanaan on vierailupaiva. Lapset kayvat luonani joka toinen paiva, yksi kerrallaan, puoli tuntia kerrallaan. Padima on luvannut, etta vierailuaikoja voidaan pian pidentaa.

Viidella minuutilla ainakin, ehka kymmenella. Kenties jo jouluksi. Tiedämme enemmän kunhan seuraavat tutkimukset on tehty.

Tanaan on esikoisen vuoro. Iltapaivalla koulun jalkeen han tulee, sitten kun verhojen lapi suodattuva valo jo sinertaa.

Han muistaa saannot, pukee aamutakin ja huopatossut, puhuu hiljaa ja varovasti.

Pienemmat unohtavat joskus. Heidan heleat aanensa jaavat silloin soimaan paahani tunneiksi, jopa paiviksi.

Kuin hammaslaakarin instrumentit ne raapivat kalloa sisaltapain, muodostavat riitasointuja, korkeita ja matalia,
aina uusia tapoja aiheuttaa kipua.

Fyysinen tuska ei ole pahinta. Enemman minua satuttaa se pelko ja hapea, jonka naen lasten silmissa. Heidan hiljaisuutensa ja hyvatapaisuutensa. Kuin olisin vahan vieras sukulainen, jota ei uskalla oikeasti paastaa lahelleen.

Joo, kaikki on hyvin. Joo, koulussa menee ihan okei. Joo, tänään isä laittaa lättyjä jälkiruuaksi.

He suojelevat seka itseaan etta minua, vaikka mina olen se, jonka pitaisi suojella heita.

Tulin huoneeseen toukokuussa. Valoisan keskiviikkopaivan aariviivat ovat sumentuneet ja varit muuttuneet luonnottomiksi, kuin 50-luvun paalle maalatuissa maisemakuvissa.

Muistan, etta aurinko paistoi ja tuomi kukki viimeisilla voimillaan. Muistan ajatelleeni, etta puu oli kuin mina: suurin osa teralehdista oli varissut maahan ja makea tuoksu muuttunut aitelaksi lemuksi. Se sai minut oksentamaan.

Muistan, etta auringonvalo nosti poskille punaisen, kirvelevan rahkan.

Pidin silmat kiinni. Minun ei tarvinnut avata niita nahdakseni, etta maailma oli muuttunut. Ilosta oli tullut pelkoa, kauneudesta tuskaa, onnen tavoittelusta pelkkaa paniikkia.

Luomien lavitse aavistin pihan vihreyden, pensaiden pinkeat nuput ja hennot taimet jotka pyrkivat ylos kukkapenkin mehevasta mullasta. Tunsin odotuksen, odotukset, vaatimukset ja onnistumisen pakon, enka kaivannut mitaan muuta kuin syvaa pimeaa.

Kun valkoisen huoneen ovi aukesi ja sulkeutui, rukoilin mustia pilvia auringon eteen.

Liika rasitus johtaa oikosulkuun, Padima sanoi ja silitti poskeani, esitti kysymyksia joihin en osannut vastata.

Paansarkya? Kylla, jo pitempaan, useita vuosia varmaan.

Ensin aamulla, usein iltapaivalla ja aina illalla, ennen nukkumaanmenoa.Hengenahdistusta, niskajaykkyytta, huimausta, uupumusta

ja vapinaa?

Vastasin myontavasti kaikkeen, mutta kukaan ei vastannut kysymyksiin, joita mina esitin.

Miten oireen voi erottaa tavallisesta elamasta? Missa kulkee normaalin ja epanormaalin raja? Montako kertaa viikossa voi tuntea itsensa kuolemanvasyneeksi, tyhmaksi ja tyhjaksi, ennen kuin sen saa luokitella sairaudeksi?

Ensimmaisista viikoista muistan ohuita saikeita. Padima sangyn laidalla mittaamassa verenpainetta, painamassa uusia ruiskeita kasivarteen. Satu K varjona seinanvierilla, kuljettamassa ravintoliuospussia, katetria, puhdasta lakanaa.

Joskus erotin muutaman lauseen Padiman puheesta. Ei turhia odotuksia… vaurio on pysyvä. Se on pysyvä.

Jo aikaisemmin minulle oli kerrottu, etta en koskaan paranisi kokonaan. Etta jyskytys, paani sisalla jatkuvasti soiva rytmikas pauke, oli oman sydameni syke.

Oli tapahtunut oikosulku, vaara halytys ja sahkoinen hairio. Pysyvä aivovaurio. Siksi kuulokeskus sai jatkuvasti, tuhatmiljoonaa kertaa minuutissa, saman viestin: kuule aivolaskimon syke. Kuule se. Ja pida volyymi mahdollisimman korkealla.

Tanaan jyske on vaimeampaa.

Kohta on joulu.

Adventtikynttelikot ovat hopeanvarisessa laatikossa ullakolla, nukenvaunujen ja jaakiekkopelin takana, heti oikealla.

Samassa laatikossa on joulukuusenjalka ja olkipukit, iso, pieni ja keskikokoinen. Keskikokoisen vasen takajalka

on korjattu maalarinteipilla.

Silman takana vihlaisee. Terava hopeinen valo valahtaa luomen alla, mutta en nae sita en valita siita en laske sen kestoa.

Haen nojatuolin ovensuusta. Se on vierailijoita varten. 

Tuolinjalat jattavat kapeat vanat valkoiseen mattoon.

Omista jaloistani ei tule jalkia ollenkaan. Sangylla nakyy sentaan painauma kyljen jaljilta, tyynylla muutama irronnut hius.

Padiman mukaan olen edistynyt. Kavelen enemman, nukun vahemman. Arvoni eivat enaa romahda lasten vierailujen jalkeen. Silti matka on pitka, ehka loputon. Pelastuit viime hetkellä.

Viimeisena aamuna laitoin aamiaista kuulosuojat korvillani. Ne auttoivat vain vahan. Kimeat aanet lahettivat sarjan sahkoiskuja kaikkialle kasvoihin. Kun lapset nauroivat, taituin kivusta kaksinkerroin.

Esikoinen ojensi pienempiaan, puristi kurkusta ja repi tukasta, olkaa hiljaa, aitiin sattuu. Kuopus tarttui helmaani ja kiskoi sita koukkusormillaan. Jokainen kiskaisu painoi yopaidan olkainta syvemmalle ihoon. Lapi orvaskeden, verinahan ja rasvakudoksen se tyontyi, musta nailonnauha, aina hermojen sokkeloisiin kaytaviin ja vielakin syvemmalle.

Irrotin pienet kadet vakisin, tonaisin pois, kauemmas, tukistin ja laimaytin, kavin makuulle jaakaapin kehraavaa kylkea vasten. Leivanmurut kuin muurahaiset kulkivat ylitseni, pistivat ja polttivat, rakensivat pesan likaisiin hiuksiini. Jos lapset itkivatkin, en enaa kuullut sita.

En jaksanut kavella itse parinsadan metrin matkaa. Padima kantoi minut, pihan halki, uuden huvimajan ohi, lasten polkupyorien, ilmassa suihkivien paaskysten, kaiken vihrean, sinisen, kirkkaan ja elavan lapi han minut kantoi, nosti kynnyksen yli ja laski valkoiselle vuoteelle.

Siita on viisi kuukautta ja kaksikymmenta paivaa.

Satu K:ta ei nay. Yleensa han tulee aikaisemmin. Olen yrittanyt laskea hanen tulonsa todennakoisyytta, mutta epaonnistun aina. Hanen saapumisensa ajankohtaa on mahdoton ennustaa.

Se on osa hoitosuunnitelmaa. On parempi, ettet odota. On parempi, että otat vastaan sen, mitä tuleman pitää.

Keskityn, suljen silmat, kuuntelen hengityksen virtaa huoneessa. Vihlaisut voimistuvat, kairaavat luuta, mutta kuitenkin mina elan se on arvokasta se on tarkeaa.

On ilta eika kukaan tullut. Jyskytys on liian lahella nyt.

Huone haviaa kirkkaaseen valoon. Eteisen lattia kylmaa paljaita jalkoja ja saranapuolelta tuulee, kun ojennan kaden ovenpielta kohti.

Painan halytysnappia. Sangyn vieressa, valkoisen verhon takana, puhelin soi.

Paivin ylioppilasjuhlissa Telle-tadin poskea halkoi pitka ja punainen naarmu. Kaikki sen huomasivat, mutta kukaan ei sanonut mitaan. Paivi itse istui kahvipoydassa hattu toisella ohimolla ja hymyili sisaanpain. Ajatuksissaan se oli jo lentokoneessa matkalla Pariisiin.

≫Vahanko oon odottanut etta paasen taalta pois.≫

Se oli lahdossa heti seuraavalla viikolla, o pääriksi ranskalaiseen perheeseen.

≫Mita se paar tarkoittaa≫, Minna kysyi, mutta Paivi vain kieritti pitkia helmiaan etusormen ympari eika aloittanut taytekakkua, vaikka tati oli jo kahdesti pyytanyt.

Paivin pitkissa kynsissa oli vihreaa kynsilakkaa. Kakussa lakat olivat painuneet syvalle kermavaahdon sisaan.

Telle-tati kiersi kaatamassa kahvia. Se oli laittanut kaikille poydille, myos sohvapoydalle, valkoisen liinan. Silla

oli uudet kiilakantaiset sandaalit, joiden nilkkaremmit olivat liian kirealla.

Vieraat kaatoivat kermaa kahviin, huokailivat ja vilkuilivat.

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