about treatment means no visible healthcare waiting lists? Or perhaps, in practice, fewer treatment decisions, more acceptable visible healthcare waiting lists?
She didn’t know how much time she had spent staring at the comforting words on the screen. In her obliviousness, they had lulled her into a false security. She realized that now.
After some time, she became aware of the fact that she was chilled to the bone. She forced herself to get out of the chair and went to take a warm shower.
She got all the way to Cat Stevens’ Morning has broken on her playlist of songs to fall asleep to on her cellphone, before she finally drifted off for a couple of hours. Then the alarm went off, and Vera dragged herself out of bed in the November darkness.
This time the orthopaedic specialist was a younger man named Modin. Once again she was asked to lie down on the paper-covered bed, and he felt, pried and pulled on her leg to examine its flexibility and functioning. He was concerned that her knee was still locking and that the muscles in her left leg had lost half of their volume, even though she was trying to practise the exercises that she was able to do. Seeing the large difference between her left and right thighs, he decided that she needed to be put on the waiting list for an MRI.
Yes! Finally! Vera had time to think, before Modin went on, somewhat embarrassed.
‘But, unfortunately, there’s quite a long waiting list. You shouldn’t expect it to happen before late spring.’
Late spring?! Her heart sank again; her voice almost didn’t hold.
‘But that’s impossible! I’ve already waited since May. Do you mean that I might have to live with a smashed meniscus in my knee for a whole year before I even get an MRI?’
‘We mustn’t draw hasty conclusions. If a piece of the meniscus is out of place then we will see it on the MRI. I’m sorry, but unfortunately that’s how long the waiting list is.’ Modin asked briskly if she was still a student and whether or not she needed a sick note – and if she wanted a new prescription for Diclofenac – before he offered her a firm handshake and the appointment was over.
When Vera limped past the waiting room with a disobedient tear running down one cheek, a dark-haired nurse suddenly came up to her. She discreetly pushed a note into her jacket pocket and whispered:
‘Call this number and ask for Erland. Sometimes patients don’t show up, and if you can come on short notice, well…’
‘Thanks! Erland?’ whispered Vera back, and she felt a ray of hope returning.
Apparently there is a secret passage through the wall!
As soon as she reached home Vera locked herself in her room, called the secret number, and said the password. Her call was forwarded, but Erland was at lunch, and when she explained why she was calling, the woman’s voice on the other end expressed surprised irritation.
‘So you mean you’re not a doctor?’
Vera wondered what that had to do with anything. ‘No, I’m an anesthetic nurse.’
That fact did not mollify the woman on the other end in the least. She sounded impatient, as if she were straining to express herself properly to an irritating child.
‘Yes, but now you’re calling as a patient? It is your own presumed cruciate ligament and meniscus injury that you’re talking about?’
Now Vera understood that the secret passage through the wall was for people on the Inside, and she felt like a heavy stone was rolling in front of the entrance and blocking the little ray of light that she had seen. Vera could no longer hold back her despair and she sobbed out a little ‘yes’ in response. There was a deathly silence on the other end of the line. Then Vera heard the rustling of paper.
‘Aha…’ The gatekeeper woman on the other end seemed to be engaging in an inner struggle with herself, and she finally folded. ‘There is a cancellation here for the eighth of January. So what is your name? Your healthcare number?’
The last thing the woman who guarded access to Erland – the secret shortcut through the waiting list at Norrland’s University Hospital – said to her was, ‘I hope you know that I’m being nice to you!’
When Vera hung up the phone she felt strangely guilty. But when she wrote MRI and circled Tuesday, 8 January in her calendar, it felt like she was grasping her last available lifeline. The scans would be done, and then they would see that her knee could not heal on its own. She would finally get help.
19
The first project meeting for Future Wealth and Welfare was held in a classroom in the rectangular, functional Social Science building, with its white-painted interior. Only Vera was absent. Peter was surprised and disappointed. He also noticed that Cissi was stressed that Vera had not come, which was not a good sign. When Sturesson asked about her, Cissi tried to smile as she said, in an affected tone, that Vera ‘was at home in bed with a 100-degree fever’.
Peter drew two quick conclusions: it wasn’t true and Cissi was a terrible liar. He saw how Cissi’s fair-skinned face clouded over with worry as Sturesson went through the main components of the project. Their chapters were to be published in a book with a ‘popular science’ touch, and it was to be presented at a crowd-pleasing, public press conference. After that, Sturesson explained, more in-depth research would be conducted in stage two of the project, which would be published in international journals as it was completed. Sturesson then devoted himself to wishful name-dropping, and Peter didn’t have the energy to listen to the details. But that the speaker’s dream was to use the project to establish a ‘pre-eminent research center’ in Umeå was impossible to miss.
After the short break, Sturesson and Sparre began to assign the tasks for the project: ‘everything from globalization, tax policy and Europe’s aging population’ could be problematized. Peter recognized the approach: impeccably systematic and with long, verbose texts. And mind-numbingly dull.
When Cissi turned on her cellphone after the meeting she had a text message. It was from Vera. She had written that she was quitting the project. A small, digital ‘sorry’ ended the message.
Cissi was so angry that Peter quickly suggested that they go to her office and discuss things. On the way up in the elevator, thoughts raced around in Peter’s head. Cissi growled something inaudible though clenched teeth, and when they had closed the door to her office she raised her voice.
‘Why the hell is she doing this? Putting me in hot water with my boss just because she’s suddenly got it in her head to do something else?’
Peter’s thoughts led him to an uncomfortable suspicion. There was only one explanation that fitted with everything he knew. The more he thought about it the more sure he was. But he could not bring himself to say it. Instead, he said:
‘No, I don’t think she suddenly lost interest. Quite the opposite. I’ve seen her working really hard; my guess is that she’ll have a full draft of her chapter soon. I think it’s called “Redeeming reproduction”.’
‘Yes, I know! We’ve spent hours talking about it!’ exclaimed Cissi. ‘But then what the hell is she up to now?’
Peter
