Mom 1946–2024
On September 17, at 11:30 AM, Wendela Dehlin passed away after being diagnosed with gallbladder cancer two months earlier. She was 77 years old and would have turned 78 on October 14. She was a former welder, prison guard, chocolate factory worker, social and political activist, and many other things, but foremost, Wendela was my mom. Last year, on May 10, her husband of many years, Torfinn, passed away, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I struggled with the thought that often, when one person in a long relationship dies, the other one soon follows.
I decided not to dwell on it. My mom was so active, so happy and outspoken, always on her way to some event, or talking with someone — or maybe most importantly, listening. Her laughter is famous, or at least loved, by all of us who knew her. Torfinn thought she laughed too loud sometimes and would ask her to tone it down a bit, but she refused. As usual. Mom rarely followed the rules. I’ve always tried to be like her, and of course, I miss her terribly.
This year, 2024, approximately sixty-two million people will die on this planet, from natural causes or something else. Of them, roughly fifty percent are women, and around twenty-four to twenty-five million are estimated to have been mothers. So, my brothers and I aren’t alone in this. But still. The pain of losing a mother, especially someone we held so dear and who loved us unconditionally, is impossible to describe. I have a void inside of me, itching and grabbing my attention constantly, and I find myself talking about Mom all the time.
She’d love that, mark my words. However, she also understood the importance of moving forward, of getting on with life. I’m doing my best, in between paperwork and funeral arrangements. The outpouring of love from family, friends, and strangers has been almost overwhelming, but I appreciate it. It feels good to post about Mom, to talk about her, and to keep her memory alive.
When going through her belongings, which I spent several days doing after her passing, alone in her apartment most of the time, I found an enormous amount of material: photos, paintings, letters, and maybe most importantly, her writings. In folders, on blogs, in envelopes, in notebooks — she had kept her diary entries, calendar notes, autobiographical texts, and poems. All brutally honest, and it’s refreshing to read and take in. Because Mom wasn’t just a mom, she was a woman, a human being.
To get a quick glimpse into her inner life is incredibly valuable to me. I think I knew her pretty well, but as we all know, humans are walking, living mysteries — and there’s always something new to discover. Yeah, I wrote “a quick glimpse”. In all honesty, I’m not ready yet to dive into this massive archive of Mom’s life. It’s too much, and I need to accept the fact that I don’t have a mom anymore.
Here’s the thing: among her papers, I found a small book, a guide on how to write one’s memoirs. I cried when I found it because I should have known, and I should have helped her with it. To help structure things, to give advice on how to write and tell her story. Because trust me, it’s a fascinating one. That didn’t happen, and now I’m okay with that. I’m sure she’s more than okay with it. What lingers in my mind now is that sooner or later, I might want to write it for her. I feel it’s important to share her life, as an inspiration to other people — mainly women — who might go through the same experiences she did. Without her, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. She told me to read books, to write, and to paint. To be me and be creative, whatever that means.
Fred Andersson is a Swedish researcher and writer with over twenty years of experience in commercial television and the author of Northern Lights: High Strangeness in Sweden, out now from Beyond the Fray Publishing. He lives in Märsta, outside Stockholm, with his partner Grzegorz and two overly active cats. Join him on Twitter and Instagram.
