The Isdal Woman

Oslo the summer of 2018 found me in a very different place, electric with residual post natal chemistry, bursts of light repeatedly streaking behind my eyes when ever I tried to sleep.  I had come up from Copenhagen specifically to see my friend L and to see the girls from 'My Favourite Murder.' I made sure to leave my photo of Guy Debord at the hotel..

And that night, I sat in the darkened theatre listened to the graphic recounting of what was known about that Isdal  Woman. I closed my eyes against some of the descriptions of the burns along her body and they became interlaced with the gaping wounds and raw mess that would make up so much of my mom, those days when I forced myself to stay and watch the debriding the bandages being changed. 

 It wasn't just morbid curiousity, in those moments. It was more that I needed to see that she wasn't going to come back from this particular journey, see it so that when the time came to push and shove, I could finally do right by her, preparing my dad to let her cross over.  

I woke up in Oslo the next day and I was a unravelled, necessarily. I was unravelled and rehinged and I knew there was more after what ever came next. And I became slightly obsessed with the Isdal Woman's story, which is easy to do, especially when you already spend time worrying about the dead.  I got to where I needed to be, obviously. But it was dicey there for a while. 

I think my next trip to Norway will be to Bergen, to say thank you to that unknown woman. I hope she was loved. I hope she was loved and that she knew it. I hope that when she died, it was quick. I hope, I hope.  

This trip is all about spa-ing hard, spending time, and moving forward. I know how to do that, even if if has felt like I'm just skimming the surface recently. It's okay to do that on occasion, I tell myself. You have to pace yourself, try not to always lead with your heart or your face. But just in case, I packed the Med Bond.