Tuesday, 29 January
At 6:45 p.m. yesterday evening, almost all of the inmates were gathered round the flat-screen television in the Conversation Lounge. What was Beatrix going to say in her annual Queen’s Speech? And there it was: she is abdicating. Apart from that announcement her short speech was rather a let-down, to tell the truth. Mrs Groenteman, who’s a bit daft, wondered if the queen would now be put in a care home.
The room of the recently deceased Mrs De Gans has been hurriedly cleared so that it can be rented out as of the first of the month, this Friday. Business is business, money is money. Poor Gansie’s only daughter was given three days to remove her mother’s things and store them somewhere or donate the lot to the Salvation Army. Otherwise she’d have had to come up with another month’s rent. She had called someone who advertised in the Yellow Pages that he paid good money for household contents. Upon casting a glance at the deceased’s effects, he promptly turned and left. ‘That’s not worth my while even loading into the van.’ Tactful bloke.
Granted: Mrs De Gans had neither money nor taste.
In the end the daughter selected a few keepsakes and donated the rest to the charity shop.
She’d begged Mrs Stelwagen for three more days, to no avail. ‘I’m so sorry, such a shame, I wish that I could tell you something different, but I simply must follow management’s rules,’ Stelwagen must have sanctimoniously told her. Will have to ask Anja if I am right. If the home itself has to take care of clearing out the room, they send the bereaved next of kin a bill for €580 or more, even if the job took less than an hour.
If she knew of this, Mrs De Gans would be turning in her grave. The grave she hasn’t even been buried in yet. Yesterday afternoon there was an opportunity to say goodbye to her – the last viewing day, so to speak. It’s the harsh law of the dotage jungle: either view or be viewed. She’s being laid to rest this afternoon.
Wednesday, 30 January
I had better not air my republican sympathies right now. This is not the time to shout Down with the King! I don’t really mind Beatrix, but I do think it’s time for her to take a step back. She ought to devote more time to her painting and less time to her hairdresser. That stiff hairdo has irked me for years. I shouldn’t let it aggravate me, but I can’t help it. There are at least thirty pictures of Bea on the front page of de Volkskrant. Not a single hair out of place in any one of them.
The queen is greatly revered in here. The magazine Royalty has pride of place on the coffee table, with Hello! and Women’s Own. Evert once tried to slip in a copy of Playboy as an experiment. Within an hour it was gone! All the magazines have a big black stamp with the name of the institution on them, so that nobody will have the nerve to remove them from the common rooms. That Playboy wasn’t stamped.
A few residents have already put their names down for the minibus to Dam Square on 30 April for the inauguration. They don’t want to miss out on the royal festivities.
I’m going to look in on Evert in a few minutes. He’s had another attack of gout, and so I have to let out his dog, Mo. According to Evert, you can tell Mo’s intelligent from the way he growls whenever Stelwagen is in the neighbourhood. She ignored the growling once and went to pet him; he bit her hand, or rather, he just missed and nipped her dress instead. An expensive dress, it was. Ever since then the relationship between the director and Evert is rather icy, to put it mildly.
There’s a sign on the door: Respect the growl.
Last night when I went to fetch the dog I found Evert nodding off in his chair. When he has gout he doesn’t drink, but takes loads of pills instead. As soon as the attack is over it’s back to the other way round.
Meanwhile I’m looking after both dog and master. Mo is grateful and Evert mumbles that it isn’t necessary. He hates being pitied, so everyone had better stay out of his way. He’d like to see them put up a No Whingeing sign in big neon letters over the front door. He tolerates me. I do a little shopping, pop a ready meal into the microwave for him and then leave. When he’s recovered he always has a gift for me: a big bunch of tulips, half a kilo of smoked eel, a pin-up calendar.
Thursday, 31 January
The royal-family experts have been sleeping on the job: nobody had given us advance warning that there was to be an abdication. After two days of a Queen Beatrix deluge in the newspapers, on the radio, on the telly and at the table, I’m beginning to wish for some kind of honest-to-goodness disaster for a bit of balance.
Beatrix’s actual birthday, which is today, is always humbly celebrated in here with a round of cream cakes. Not the orange ones, I hasten to say; those are only available on the official Queen’s Day on 30 April. Some of the residents also like to deck the place out in flags. Small flags for the table, since a big flag hanging on the wall is, naturally, out of the question. The rules are clear on this point: no holes in the wall. Every room comes equipped with four picture hooks in pre-assigned spots, and you just have to manage with those.
Mr Ellroy tried to hang his moose head from one of those little picture hooks. It crashed onto his sideboard, smashing his tea set to smithereens. They wouldn’t give him a bigger hook, no matter how he begged and pleaded – he’s very attached to his moose. ‘If we start allowing it, Christ knows where it will end,’ the head of buildings and grounds told him. That’s the argument that ends all arguments in this place. As if the residents would suddenly rise up as one and begin nailing all kinds of stuffed trophies to the walls if they let Ellroy have a more substantial hook for his moose. The head is now balanced on a chair. Ellroy can’t really use it as a coat rack any more; he does like to toss his hat onto it. He usually misses. Bending down to pick it up from the floor costs him a great deal of effort, but time and again the challenge of the antlers beckons. Nice bloke, only he’s as deaf as a post. Which is a shame, because I’m sure he’s someone you could have had a nice chat with otherwise.
Friday, 1 February
I just had an unannounced visit from the social worker. Lucky for her I’m almost always home. It was rather a surprise.
I made her a cup of coffee and enquired to what I owed this pleasure. She began by beating about the bush. Was I still enjoying life? Was I feeling at all down?
She sat there charmingly hemming and hawing. She’s quite young and inexperienced at her job, but was endearingly trying to do her best.
I asked what had prompted this interest.
‘Oh, it doesn’t really matter.’
‘Well, miss, if it doesn’t really matter, you can tell me, surely.’
And then she came out with it. The GP had sent her over. Probably because I had casually asked about that euthanasia pill. He’d made this poor lamb come and check on me to make sure I wasn’t about to jump off the roof.
I assured her that I had no plans in the near future to commit suicide. The word startled her a bit: ‘Oh, Sir, that isn’t what I meant.’
‘I know what you meant. Everything’s A-OK. And tell the doc that I would appreciate it if he took care of his problems himself. Another cup?’
No, she had to go.
Yesterday I paid a visit to Anja, my informant in the boss’s office, and she gave me a copy of Mrs Stelwagen’s report on the fish murders. I am not fingered as a suspect. Evert isn’t either. She is convinced the culprit is one of the staff – an attempt to undermine her position, she thinks. She is going to install surveillance cameras in the corridors. I wonder if that’s legal.
Saturday, 2 February
‘STOP THE ROT, KEEP MOVING’. That was the banner headline of a newspaper article, with the subheading: ‘Scientists all over the world are seeking the root causes of the problems of ageing and their solution.’ Cor, scientists, right on time, aren’t you. For us it’s far too late. But come on over, there’s plenty of research material staggering about in here.
Biologically speaking, you become superfluous on your fortieth birthday or thereabouts, since the children are born by then, and approaching self-sufficiency. Tha
t is when slowly but surely the rot starts to set in, with hair loss and reading glasses. On a cellular level too things start going wrong. You have more and more errors of division and multiplication. A slowing metabolism leads to a weaker nervous system, which also makes the mind begin to weaken. (I’m giving a rough summary of the article.)
They don’t know very much yet, but one thing is clear: Use it or lose it. You have to keep both body and mind active, especially the prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain that controls functions such as planning, initiative and flexibility. Well, we may presume that the management of this place doesn’t care much about the prefrontal cortex. Neither money nor trouble is spared to keep the oldies docile, passive and lethargic, camouflaged by bingo, billiards and ‘Feel Good Fitness’.
Let me not, however, place the blame squarely on the staff. The patrons are only too willing to let themselves be coddled and patronized. And let’s be honest, I do understand the temptation sometimes. There are days when I don’t mind being a bit of a laggard myself.
I am going to keeping moving for a bit. Let’s see how far I get. The head bandage from my fall has come off, so I’ll be spared the snide comments.
Sunday, 3 February
The 50Plus party stands at nine seats in some polls. In six years’ time there will be more voters over the age of fifty than under. Seemingly from nowhere all kinds of political parties are getting wise to this. They have discovered the disgruntled OAP. We have become interesting, all of a sudden. Not that in here there is much political awareness. ‘They’re robbing us blind’ is about the most complex opinion you ever hear aired over coffee.
The new resident who has moved into the late Mrs De Gans’ room – Eefje Brand – seems a pleasant sort. A breath of fresh air compared to the average matron shuffling along our corridors. Not that she doesn’t shuffle, but at least she does it with style.
I had a nice chat with her, and she told me it wasn’t really her choice to move here. But she was determined ‘not to let them nail me into my coffin’, at least ‘not yet’.
‘And anyway, maybe I’ll have myself cremated, I haven’t decided yet.’
I said I wasn’t sure yet either, and that neither choice was very appealing to me, six feet under or up the chimney, and she agreed.
‘There aren’t too many alternatives. Perhaps one could have oneself dropped into the sea from the air. We could ask that Argentinian death-flight pilot.’
‘I don’t think the man’s out of prison yet,’ I said.
I don’t believe I have exchanged this sort of banter with anyone since I’ve been in here. Even my chats with Evert are of a different order. The other inmates talk almost exclusively about the weather, the food or their ailments.
Well, the weather is fine, the food is passable, and with the help of a handful of pills the aches and pains aren’t troubling me very much today. In short: life is good.
Monday, 4 February
I read in the newspaper that someone ran over seventy moorhens when his car went into a skid. A moorhen massacre. It must have been a dreadful sight. All those feathers and beaks, all that blood. Either they were huddled together in a tight pack, or it was a monster skid. Moorhens are usually unapproachably skittish. Anyway, I do have to ask myself: did the reporter make an exact tally of the bodies? And what about the injured ones? I can’t imagine that every bird died on the spot. There must have been some that were still flapping about. Ugh … It’s starting to make my stomach turn, all these pernickety questions I’m coming up with.
Evert often drops in on a Sunday afternoon for a chat and ‘a glass of something or other’. Evert isn’t fussy: wine, gin, brandy, whisky, it really makes no difference to him. I have seen him put away an entire bottle of eggnog with a little demitasse spoon when we were at Mrs Tankink’s. That was all she had to offer. After two little glasses, he switched to a soup bowl and asked for a bigger spoon. As if it were custard. Tankink pretended it was the most normal thing in the world at the time, but dined on it for weeks afterwards whenever Evert was out of earshot.
Sunday afternoon is for many of the residents the time when they receive visitors.
‘Oh, has it been five weeks since we last went to see Mum and Dad? We had better swing by Sunday afternoon.’ And then they’ll come for a cup of tea, and grin and bear it for the next two hours.
Hendrik, be honest: there’s a touch of envy here, because you never have any visitors yourself. Except Evert, but you can’t really call that a visit.
Tuesday, 5 February
There is a great buzz about plans for a euthanasia clinic. Specially conceived for people with an uncooperative GP. The Netherlands’ Right to Die Society came up with the idea. That’s a society that must have a rather serious member turnover.
Two years ago Right to Die NL gathered 40,000 signatures in three days in order to force Parliament to take up the question of assisted suicide for people in their seventies and older.
Forty thousand signatures means that Parliament has to do something about the pensioner who considers his life largely over, and who wishes to end it with some dignity. To stop him from going out and buying a bottle of meths and setting himself ablaze in his little room because nobody will help him. That very thing has actually happened, according to Right to Die NL.
The Society’s opponents suggest making old people’s lives much jollier instead, to see if we can be persuaded to stick around. An interesting challenge, I’d say. Let’s offer our care home as the test case. Bring on the fun!
And in case that doesn’t work, why not build a nice clinic for people who would like to step out of life discreetly, with expert guidance? Not too far from here, please, if possible.
Now for something more cheerful, Groen. Think springtime.
I’ve spotted some snowdrops and even a smattering of premature daffodils. The flowers are a bit confused: first a warm December, then almost three weeks of snow and ice, next back up to ten degrees, and now hail and snow. Come on, flowers, don’t be flustered! I’m in the mood for a glorious spring.
Wednesday, 6 February
Financial news is also on the agenda at the coffee table. The SNS bank is in trouble, and the residents who once entrusted their hard-earned nest eggs to it have emptied their accounts. Or rather, had their son or daughter do it for them, because modern banking gives people like us the willies. The cash machine alone is quite an adventure. Having to look over your shoulder to make sure you’re not about to be robbed, at the same time peering at the screen in order to punch in the four numbers of the pin code correctly with your trembling fingers, while also pressing your body against the machine to shield the code from prying eyes … It’s a complicated manoeuvre that often comes a cropper. That’s when one thinks with nostalgia of the good old pay packet.
There are quite a number of widows in here who before the death of their husbands had never so much as signed a cheque. All they had was their weekly housekeeping money. When someone dies it’s not unusual for an old sock stuffed with cash to come to light.
Next we had a discussion about Dancing on Ice. Is there anything more deadly? I was pleased to see that I have an ally in my newest friend: Eefje Brand. It makes for a bond. In an attempt to involve her in the conversation, someone asked her what she thought of it.
‘My doctor says I’m not allowed to watch it,’ she said. Eyebrows were raised all round. I got up the nerve to remark that she had a remarkably sensible doctor. Then Eefje brought up the subject of the weather. The others were left gaping.
When I got up to fetch my newspaper from the little shop, I offered to pick up a TV guide for her, since she has trouble walking. When I asked her which one she’d like, she said I could choose, which I took as a vote of confidence.
‘Don’t you always read the same one, then?’ asked Mr Gorter in surprise.
No, she tended to buy this magazine one week, and the next week another.
‘But surely that makes it hard to find what you’re looking
for?’ said Gorter with eyes popping out of his skull. He simply could not get his head around such chaos.
‘Oh no, all I have to do is look it up. Monday usually comes after Sunday, you see, and then Tuesday is next, then Wednesday, and so on.’
Eefje Brand, you are not going to make very many friends in here; however, as far as friends go, I highly recommend myself.
Thursday, 7 February
Evert wouldn’t mind making Mrs Brand’s acquaintance and suggested that I invite her along with himself for tea. He promised he would even drink the bloody tea this once. I don’t know … They might not hit it off. Evert is rough and rude, and Eefje strikes me as delicate and refined. I’m not keen on being caught in the middle, I’ll end up with whiplash. But it does have a nice ring to it: Evert and Eefje. Perhaps we’ll be the Three Musketeers of this nursing home.
‘Our’ chairman of the board has been in the news again. He is being forced to do some restructuring: he’s giving 1,500 home-care workers the chop. A few years ago he received a bonus of €60,000 on top of his €220,000 salary because he had managed not to let the company go belly-up. It would seem to me that that’s just part of his job. I don’t know of many directors who are hired to make the business go bankrupt.
One of the economies this chap came up with was to slash the apprentice care-givers’ salaries. They’re now being paid just €5,000 a year for emptying bedpans and washing shrivelled genitals; that is a fifty-sixth of what the boss, sitting in an office that recently had a €40,000 facelift, has deposited into his own bank account. Woe to the man who thinks he is worth fifty-six times more than the woman who lovingly performs the dirty work.
The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old Page 4
