Reflecting on Sweden: The Antidote for Loss

It’s been an extraordinarily long time since I’ve posted a blog, and I feel a bit of a void because of it. I am sitting here 8 ½ months pregnant, and you’d think that was the main reason for my dry spell. We traveled a lot this year – Quebec City over New Year’s Eve, a road trip across Sweden in June, and a little babymoon to the Cayman Islands in September (beach trips are practically foreign to me). My growing body proved to be stronger than anticipated. It took me across the ocean, to the tops of mountains, and into the sea. It showed me how powerful I really was, in a way that I couldn’t have anticipated.

My biggest challenge this year was losing my best friend. She became sick around May and held on fighting through June. We were there with her for many weeks before we left for Sweden, a trip we only took because the doctors gave us hope that she was on an upswing. Towards the middle of our trip, she went downhill suddenly, and it took us two days of train and plane travel to make our way home early. We arrived just in time for me to hold her hand while she passed away, an experience that was both a privilege and the worst moment of my life. Nobody should ever have to watch their 37-year-old friend go like that.

I sit here with my daughter still growing inside of me and imagining the loss she’s had without even knowing it. Of an “aunt” who would have loved her fiercely. Of a friend who would have been a loyal support for her mom. Of what should have been a purely joyful journey, and which instead became the biggest test of my life.

So here are some brief moments from our travels around Sweden, on those few glorious days where I had hope, and those where hope began to fade but was healed by the vast world around me. It’s a reminder that in unthinkable circumstances, we’re stronger than we believe. Our bodies, our minds, were made to carry us.

Our trip began in Copenhagen. We landed after a broken night’s sleep on a red-eye, napping like a crumbled pile of rocks and before spending 3 days exploring the city. The weather was cool and breezy, and the rain started and stopped on a dime like it was being shut by a faucet. Fresh baked churros are sold on every other corner, the smell enticing you with each step. Food became a focal point of our time in the city – the dining hall at Trivoli Gardens where I inhaled pink frosted jam-filled cookies and lemon almond tarts, fresh fish outdoors by the water, a tasting menu at Kinn Kinn where every bite was a tangy, spicy, or herby punch to my senses. In between we strolled through parks searching for Hans Christen Anderson’s grave and learned about the Nazi resistance at a local museum.

A few hours on a train brought us to Stockholm to begin our tour of Sweden. Stockholm’s Archipelago means “collection of islands” – up to 30,000 in the region alone. We walked so much around the city that it almost seared off my feet. I couldn’t believe that my 4 ½ month pregnant body was managing, despite the need for extra “fika” (a coffee and pastry break) at every turn. A dinner staple was, of course, Swedish meatballs slathered in rich cream sauce and accompanied by tart lingonberries. A stereotype that was worth every bite. At night the church bells rang through our historic neighborhood, and the sky became faint and pillowy. Our room was dotted with skylights, letting in a stream of light until the late-night hours. We received our first concerning calls from home, but the moment passed. My friend defied the odds, and we were told to press on. The road needed us more.

We picked up a car and headed north, through small towns on route to Abisko National Park. Our first was Sundsvall, where it finally felt like we were “away”, though my mind began to feel twisted by worry. Further on we hit Manniminne, an outdoor museum with a short hike to Stortorget up a steep and rocky hill. At the top we could see a large bay, one that is slowly shrinking from climate change. We were alone with only nature sounds, the reverberating wind, and blue water with a diamond-like shimmer. Moments where I’m clear and feel the earth beneath my feet are invisible gifts, sparse like hidden treasure. I feel grateful when they’re here. Driving on a little further, staying here a little longer. I’m looking for the antidote, so I can heal, and go home whole.

Along the Hoga Kusten was scenic and quiet driving. You can stop at the ski lift at Skuleberget for a patience-inducing ride to the top, creeping along grassy hills covered in lupines. In Bonnstan, 16^th Century houses meant for church-goers traveling from distant towns sat in precarious rows with wispy, overgrown brush behind them.

The most notable stop along this road was the “Tree Hotel” in the nowhere town of Harads. Rooms are built inside tall sweeping trees and seem to hang mid-air, like something from a movie. Up on the deck I can see a small wave of mountains, sitting in damp stillness. The owners feed you a warmly prepared 3-course dinner in a nearly empty dining room – the only real option for food in town. I sipped through an alcohol-free blueberry wine, and based on the delight of the staff, I think I was the only one to choose such a glass in weeks. I wasn’t worrying so much about remembering the details though, I just need a memory of a memory for when I’m back home and things become dark again. A memory of the possibility of peace in my heart, because it means that I’ll go looking for it again.

We finally arrived in Abisko, about as far north as one can travel without entering Norway. It was wildly rural and our lodge was running at only half-capacity. The news from back home was coming again, and we knew it was time to go. The last journey I chose to take was up to the top of the chairlift to see the midnight sun.

The birds chirped feverishly on our assent, like it was early morning instead of late evening. Once you exit the lift, it’s a 1-hour long hike up a steep path to reach the summit. I never thought I could finish the trek. At moments I surprised myself, pushing forward through the heaviness weighing me down inside. Every so often we’d stop to catch our breath, thinking it was time to turn around. But something pulled at me, from the bones of my chest. Keep moving. There’s beauty ahead. One or two more hills. When I finally reached the top, my emotions exploded. The 360-degree view revealed itself over a final slab of rock in a completely isolated place. A sliver of sun carved the horizon like it was drawn with a highlighter. It filled my lungs, this infinite feeling. And here it was, the antidote.

The next day we had rebooked our flight home early and began the journey to reach it. We stood along a small lake just before catching our train. The sound of feet crunching on gravel was almost the only one. I looked one last time at the misty mountains set so effortlessly in this quiet place, and we moved on. It would be 14 hours by train and car, and another 8 by air to get to where we desperately needed to be. In my pocket was that last look, that gravel sound. The strength in my heart and bones to enter the storm to come, and survive.

In loving memory of Rachel, 1987-2024