the judgement. I was present at the court’s final pronouncement, and it was with a feeling of sadness that I left the courtroom that day with a cursory nod to Vibecke Skarnes.
After emergency hospitalisation in Haukeland, Jan was given treatment for what Marianne Storetvedt termed reactive attachment disorders and placed in Haukedalen. In the autumn of 1974, on the initiative of Hans Haavik, he was transferred to a foster home in Sunnfjord, where the combination of a smaller community and life on a farm working at full capacity was assumed to be a good way to lead him back onto the right path, to make him a benefit to society.
Both Cecilie and I had kept tabs on him as well as we could during the six months he was in therapy. We went for walks with him on Geitanuken or other mountains in Åsane and around Bergen. We went out on the fjord with boat-savvy social workers and taught him how to fish. One June day in 1974 we went to Vollane to swim, and I can remember – yes, I remembered Cecilie in a very small bikini, white with green dots, and nipples that went erect after a cold dive. That was another of the times when we rounded off the day with a very private party in Telthussmauet. But it was a grey, rainy summer, and there were not many swimming trips.
We were like a little family, a bit maladjusted and dysfunctional, as families with such children often are. I also remembered the afternoon in September that year when Hans called us into his office after we had taken Jan on a trip to Akvariet, the sea centre in Bergen. He told us he had found a foster home for him in Sunnfjord and that he himself would travel up with him the day after. I could hardly look at Cecilie. In a way it was as if our own little child was being taken away from us, our own difficult little sprog. And perhaps that was the real reason it never came to more than the two or three celebrations between us: the separation we both felt when Jan was sent to Sunnfjord that September.
I remembered him the way he had been in those six months. From the apathetic tiny boy we had seen in the first days he had developed into an active and vigorous boy, a bit too vigorous at times. He didn’t know where to draw the line and sometimes he seemed to be deliberately provoking us, to make trouble, to create an unpleasant atmosphere and evoke rejection. ‘Extremely characteristic of children with early emotional damage,’ Marianne informed us in a conversation we had with her. ‘So what can we do?’ I had asked, and she had looked at us with a tiny resigned smile: ‘Hope the therapy helps, hope that he gets clear signals from the adult world and that someone sets new boundaries for the life he has to teach himself to live.’ We had nodded in agreement, but after leaving her we felt as despondent as we had when we arrived.
‘What are the people he’s living with like?’ I had asked Hans that September day. ‘Decent folk. I know them personally. Klaus and Kari Libakk. Klaus is a cousin of mine. They run a farm in Angedalen, north-east of Førde,’ ‘Does he have local support?’ ‘Of course. Social services in Sunnfjord has put one of their own on the case …’ He flicked through a few papers. ‘Grethe Millingen. That name mean anything to you?’ ‘No,’ I said and Cecilie just shook her head sadly.
In the car back to town we had little to say to each other. We both sat enclosed in our own worlds, and when we parted neither of us saw any reason to celebrate anything.
It was a miserable year in general. The period of separation came to an end and the divorce from Beate was executed without mercy. We negotiated a visiting agreement for Thomas and it wasn’t long before it came to my ears that she had got herself a new friend, some teacher, Wiik, whom Thomas called Lasse. In my welfare work I regularly became frustrated and there were a number of episodes that indicated that perhaps I was not the right man to tackle all the challenges I
After emergency hospitalisation in Haukeland, Jan was given treatment for what Marianne Storetvedt termed reactive attachment disorders and placed in Haukedalen. In the autumn of 1974, on the initiative of Hans Haavik, he was transferred to a foster home in Sunnfjord, where the combination of a smaller community and life on a farm working at full capacity was assumed to be a good way to lead him back onto the right path, to make him a benefit to society.
Both Cecilie and I had kept tabs on him as well as we could during the six months he was in therapy. We went for walks with him on Geitanuken or other mountains in Åsane and around Bergen. We went out on the fjord with boat-savvy social workers and taught him how to fish. One June day in 1974 we went to Vollane to swim, and I can remember – yes, I remembered Cecilie in a very small bikini, white with green dots, and nipples that went erect after a cold dive. That was another of the times when we rounded off the day with a very private party in Telthussmauet. But it was a grey, rainy summer, and there were not many swimming trips.
We were like a little family, a bit maladjusted and dysfunctional, as families with such children often are. I also remembered the afternoon in September that year when Hans called us into his office after we had taken Jan on a trip to Akvariet, the sea centre in Bergen. He told us he had found a foster home for him in Sunnfjord and that he himself would travel up with him the day after. I could hardly look at Cecilie. In a way it was as if our own little child was being taken away from us, our own difficult little sprog. And perhaps that was the real reason it never came to more than the two or three celebrations between us: the separation we both felt when Jan was sent to Sunnfjord that September.
I remembered him the way he had been in those six months. From the apathetic tiny boy we had seen in the first days he had developed into an active and vigorous boy, a bit too vigorous at times. He didn’t know where to draw the line and sometimes he seemed to be deliberately provoking us, to make trouble, to create an unpleasant atmosphere and evoke rejection. ‘Extremely characteristic of children with early emotional damage,’ Marianne informed us in a conversation we had with her. ‘So what can we do?’ I had asked, and she had looked at us with a tiny resigned smile: ‘Hope the therapy helps, hope that he gets clear signals from the adult world and that someone sets new boundaries for the life he has to teach himself to live.’ We had nodded in agreement, but after leaving her we felt as despondent as we had when we arrived.
‘What are the people he’s living with like?’ I had asked Hans that September day. ‘Decent folk. I know them personally. Klaus and Kari Libakk. Klaus is a cousin of mine. They run a farm in Angedalen, north-east of Førde,’ ‘Does he have local support?’ ‘Of course. Social services in Sunnfjord has put one of their own on the case …’ He flicked through a few papers. ‘Grethe Millingen. That name mean anything to you?’ ‘No,’ I said and Cecilie just shook her head sadly.
In the car back to town we had little to say to each other. We both sat enclosed in our own worlds, and when we parted neither of us saw any reason to celebrate anything.
It was a miserable year in general. The period of separation came to an end and the divorce from Beate was executed without mercy. We negotiated a visiting agreement for Thomas and it wasn’t long before it came to my ears that she had got herself a new friend, some teacher, Wiik, whom Thomas called Lasse. In my welfare work I regularly became frustrated and there were a number of episodes that indicated that perhaps I was not the right man to tackle all the challenges I
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