I never have visitors. I usually spend my Sunday afternoon watching videos. I am quite up to date cinematographically. My room has a fairly decent-sized flat-screen. When it isn’t on I hide it behind an imitation-Chinese screen. Sometimes I’ll go and watch something at Evert’s, but he mostly prefers thrillers and action films, not my favourite. Evert’s son very occasionally pays a visit, and the odd granddaughter will sometimes pop in. Whether Eefje has any visitors, I don’t know.
Rough sketch of a typical day: Part 2
The only people who still sit down for a hot lunch are farmers from East Groningen and residents of homes for the aged. Except us. Don’t ask me why we seem to be the exception, but I am glad that we are.
After lunch I often rest my eyes for a quarter of an hour as a prelude to the afternoon’s activities. I like to go out, but the truth is that my lack of mobility is making that increasingly difficult. I have trouble walking and my only means of transportation is the minibus operated by Connexxion. That’s no picnic, I can tell you. Of course one shouldn’t whine about the two euros it costs you for every trip, but Connexxion should really be called Misconnexxion. They must be trying very hard in order to manage to get so much to go wrong. Let’s just say that punctuality and Connexxion have a stormy relationship. Old age and impatience, on the other hand, are on intimate terms.
Monday, 18 February
Of the five senses, my nose still works best. Which is not always a blessing in here. It smells of old people. I remember thinking my grandpa and grandma’s house smelled funny. An indefinable pong mixed with the odour of cigars. Humid clothes kept too long in plastic.
Not all the rooms are that bad. But sometimes before I visit someone I’ll stuff cotton wool up my nostrils. Up nice and deep so it isn’t noticeable.
The fact that many people here have no sense of smell any more seems to give them a free pass to fart to their heart’s content, and the oral hygiene isn’t stellar either. As if offal is the only thing they get to eat here.
I myself am terrified that my dribble is leaving a pee odour wherever I go, so I change my clothes twice a day, douse myself generously with aftershave, down below as well, and suck on a ton of peppermints.
Instead of aftershave I’ll sometimes go for a ‘fragrance’. ‘The new fragrance for the older gentleman.’ I like to keep up with the times. When I asked at the chemist’s for a scent for an older gentleman they stared at me open-mouthed. Then they tried to fob me off with a bottle costing €50.
Many of my fellow residents have never moved past the eau de cologne stage – 4711 or Old Spice. The air in here reeks of fifty years ago.
Rough sketch of a typical day: Conclusion
I force myself to go for at least one stroll every day, even in the pouring rain if there’s no other option.
In the afternoon I do a lot of reading. Newspapers, magazines and books. I accept every free trial subscription that comes my way. Not out of thriftiness, more as a kind of sport.
In the late afternoon I’ll visit someone for a cup of tea, or, several times a week, I’ll go off to Evert’s for a glass of wine. Or he’ll come over to my room for a cocktail. Evert always arranges for good booze in great quantities. I, however, partake in moderation, or else I’ll fall asleep before supper.
After drinks I attend to my toilette and then take myself downstairs for dinner. And despite all the grumbling, I usually find the food quite palatable. I often ask the staff to convey my compliments to the chef.
After dinner, coffee. After coffee, telly. After telly, bed. It isn’t particularly adventurous or edifying. I can’t claim there’s any more to it than that.
Tuesday, 19 February
Yesterday afternoon, by pure luck, the rebels’ club came into being.
On the third Monday of the month there’s often some cultural activity on the schedule, to take place in the recreation room. Usually it’s a cringeworthy exhibition of old people clapping along to someone warbling ‘Tulips from Amsterdam’, but occasionally there’s classical music. Everyone shows up, because it’s free, isn’t it.
Yesterday the Music Association offered a violin, cello and piano trio. You can normally expect a bunch of uninspired moonlighters who only ever appear before OAPs or the mentally handicapped, but this time it was two elegant ladies and one gentleman, about thirty years old, playing with abandon. They were not put off by Mrs Snijder, who almost choked on a biscuit, nor by Mr Schipper, who slid off his chair and landed sideways in a flower planter. They just paused briefly, and calmly resumed playing once the problem was taken care of. (As opposed to the pianist who once kept playing as if nothing were the matter as Mrs Haringa was being resuscitated. A staff member finally had to shout at him to stop. Even though at that point it no longer made any difference to Haringa.)
After the performance a group of us found ourselves gathered round a table: Evert Duiker (who when all’s told prefers Engelbert Humperdinck), Eefje Brand, Edward Schermer, Grietje de Boer, Graeme Gorter and I, Hendrik Groen. The talk turned to the chronic dearth of distractions. Graeme then suggested that, if there was not enough in the way of diversion within the home, we should seek it on the outside on a more regular basis.
‘We’ll just have the minibus drive up to the front twice a month to take us somewhere. If all six of us at this table participate, and each comes up with a plan for four outings, then we’ll have twenty-four school trips per year. That’s something to look forward to, don’t you think?’
He was absolutely right, and, at Grietje’s suggestion, it was decided to meet in the common room tonight for the inaugural meeting of the Old But Not Dead Club.
I can’t wait.
Wednesday, 20 February
I had high hopes, and they came true: it was an exciting inaugural session. The laughter was loud, the enthusiasm great and the alcohol, for us, abundant. Evert had supplied red wine, white wine and gin.
After a lengthy and lively meeting, the following charter was adopted by unanimous consent.
The goal of the Club is to increase the enjoyment of advanced age by arranging outings.
The outings will set off at 11 a.m. on a Monday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday.
No whining allowed.
The organizer must take into account the various infirmities.
The organizer must take into account the limits of the state pension.
The organizer will not divulge more information about the trip beforehand than strictly necessary.
Outside of points 2 to 6, anything goes.
This club is closed. No new members until further notice.
If necessary, Eefje will put her laptop at the disposal of the person charged with choosing a destination, and she will shortly give a ‘Googling for Beginners’ course so that everyone can learn how to search for information. Graeme will take on the first outing, followed by Eefje, Grietje, me, Evert and Edward. You could see everyone feverishly beginning to plot and scheme.
Opinions are divided on whether it was fate or coincidence, but be that as it may, it was an extraordinarily happy combination of circumstances that this particular group of six people just happened to be gathered round one table on Monday afternoon. They are all jolly nice, intelligent and, most important: not a whiner among them.
Thursday, 21 February
As if it were a teenagers’ party that got out of hand! We’d stayed downstairs until about 11 p.m., and we may have been laughing just a bit too boisterously – at most. Nonetheless the following notice appeared on the board yesterday afternoon:
In response to several complaints about the noise, the management has decided that from Monday to Friday the Conversation Lounge will close at 22:30, in order to guarantee an undisturbed night’s rest for all. Furthermore residents are reminded to abide by the agreed two-drinks-per-person maximum.
I was never asked by anyone to agree to a two-drink maximum. Prohibition looms, and Evert has promptly declared that he will take on the Al Capone role and organize the
bootleg operation. The Old But Not Dead Club is riled, up in arms, and extremely motivated. It wasn’t cops, tear gas or Twitter; a note on a noticeboard was enough. Ta very much, management.
Edward Schermer surprised all of us by coming out of his shell. Normally he doesn’t say much because he is hard to understand on account of the stroke. But just now, at teatime, in front of quite a gathering of residents downstairs, he stood up and in a loud, slurred voice demanded to know who had complained about the noise.
The room immediately went quiet.
Then Edward explained, vociferously and with great difficulty – which is what made it so impressive – that he was sorry the plaintiffs had not come to him first, or to one of the others who had been up late the night before.
Still nobody said a word.
‘We may assume, then, that it was not anyone who is here now,’ he deduced, sitting down again.
Eefje looked round the circle with a benevolent smile. ‘It is indeed a pity that we don’t have the guts to raise these issues amongst ourselves, like adults.’ With that she fixed a lengthy and pointed gaze at Mrs Surmann, who grew quite agitated.
‘I didn’t do it,’ she volunteered.
‘Do what?’
‘Complain.’
‘Well, that’s lucky then, isn’t it.’ Eefje accompanied this with a most beatific smile.
She must have seen or heard something. I don’t know if I should ask her about it or not.
Friday, 22 February
Asteroid strikes, spontaneously combusting solar panels, horsemeat lasagne, the return of Berlusconi: any of these disasters could happen while we’re still alive. The real terror that has gripped the home for the last two days, however, is of being put out on the street if you’re not disabled enough. The announcement that 800 of the 2,000 nursing homes in the Netherlands will have to close their doors by the year 2020 is causing great concern. People who are only ‘mildly symptomatic’ will just have to manage on their own. Several housemates have immediately begun embellishing their own infirmities, just in case, so that seven years from now they’ll be allowed to stay put. Dear people, let me reassure you: in seven years’ time everyone here will either be dead or terminally disabled! That’s what I wanted to yell at them.
Old people and their completely irrational fears …
And, if you’re unwilling to sit and wait quietly until you get kicked out of your room, why not apply to 50Plus to be trained as a politician? They are looking for candidates for local and provincial councils, and the national or European parliaments; 50Plus seems to keep going up in the polls. It should provide plenty of entertainment, watching all those doddery political novices being allowed to weigh in on this-that-and-the-other.
My GP is a strange fellow. When I asked him how he thought I was overall, he asked, ‘What would you like me to tell you?’
‘Well, I should like you to tell me that I’m fit as a fiddle, but perhaps a bit more realistically: how long do I have left, approximately?’
‘You could hang on for years if everything goes well, but it could also be over for you by the next quarter.’
Who uses the phrase ‘the next quarter’ in this context? No one except Dr Oomes. Not only that: it made him laugh heartily, too.
When I said that he hadn’t offered a very clear answer, he laughed again. And since he seemed to be in such a good mood, I plucked up the courage to ask him if he’d been the one to send the social worker round to ask about my suicide plans. He even seemed to find that funny too.
‘Indeed, I thought there’s no harm in checking it out. Lovely girl, isn’t she?’ And in the same breath: ‘Well, until next time.’ A minute later I found myself standing outside again, nonplussed and none the wiser.
It’s an old lesson, but one that I’ve had to learn all over again: before going to the doctor, always jot down all your questions, and be sure to go over the list with him item by item.
Saturday, 23 February
The old rebels’ club is meeting at Eefje’s for a Google lesson tonight. The halls are already abuzz. Mrs Baken has been fishing for an invite: ‘How nice, I’ve always wanted to learn how to google.’ But there’s a strict door policy, and Baken does not qualify. She is suspected of having told on Mrs Brinkman for keeping her old dachshund under the sink. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty, but if there’s the slightest doubt, you’re out.
I have asked Eefje if she knew who had complained about the noise on Tuesday. She said she had overheard Mrs Surmann tell her neighbour that she’d lodged a complaint with management.
‘We can’t be one hundred per cent certain, since we don’t know what her complaint was about, but there is definitely reason to suspect her.’
Yesterday, Cook received a request for horse steak to be added to the menu. ‘Preferably a milk-fed foal, and please, nothing force-fed,’ read the anonymous note. At least, that was the rumour. And that rumour led to yet another lively debate at the dinner table about which animals one should eat and which should be eschewed. Evert wondered if a monkey sandwich might be an option. That took up another quarter of an hour.
I’m going up to bed for a while. I’m feeling exhausted, don’t ask me why, and I want to be fit for tonight.
Sunday, 24 February
There was plenty of cursing as people drew open their curtains this morning: more snow. Cursing of a mild calibre, I assure you, along the lines of ‘Dash it all.’ But it’s true that we are fed up with winter. We’d really appreciate some warming sun for our old bones. Not too warm, naturally; no hotter than 22 degrees or thereabouts. It’s a narrow window.
While I wasn’t looking, Henk Krol the Saviour jumped up to twenty-four seats in the polls! 50Plus will be seeing to it that the Netherlands’ old-age pensioners aren’t ripped off any further.
‘They have it in for us because there’s nothing we can do about it. We can’t go on strike or anything. We’ve got no one to stick up for us.’ ‘Victim’ is the role meant for the sad old crock. It’s lucky not everyone joins in the chorus of wailing.
The female residents think Henk’s attractive. Certainly, he’s often seen wearing a lovely scarf. He could just squeak by, age-wise, as the ideal son-in-law, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s queer.
We had a very pleasant Google evening last night. Evert pronounces it ‘joogling’ and now several of the other inmates are under the impression that we are learning to juggle. Someone asked when we’d be putting on a show. Graeme: ‘When we have the balls.’
Excellent refreshments and pleasant company. Eefje the charming hostess; Evert, always the loudmouth but this time not too loud, drank in moderation; Edward, who doesn’t say much, but when he does it’s worth listening to; Graeme, ruminative, still rather bashful; and finally Grietje, the evening’s revelation on account of her remarkable computer know-how, brought to light in all modesty. In consultation with Eefje, Grietje graciously took command, and we spent over two hours practising, searching for information using examples suggested by the others. In coming up with examples, no one divulged his or her plans for eventual outings. Evert wanted to find out about Amsterdam’s bungee-jumping possibilities. Edward said he wasn’t coming, because bungee jumping was sooo 2012. It’s a shame no one else heard him say it.
Monday, 25 February
Mrs Stelwagen has asked Eefje to come to her office on Wednesday. Eefje seems quite unconcerned. Perhaps she’s just a cool customer, or perhaps she doesn’t want to make a big song and dance about it. I myself would be rather a wreck if I received an invitation of that sort. I can’t imagine that Stelwagen just wants to ask her how she likes it here. Our director is a crafty sort; gracious on the outside, but power-hungry to the nth degree. Always so sympathetic – ‘deeply sorry … but it’s the rules’. Usually her own rules. She finds it convenient to hide behind them. And if necessary, a new rule will suddenly pop up ‘in the residents’ best interests’. She is clever enough to see to it there is no outright abuse. Minor infractions ar
e hushed up, or the blame pinned on others. Protected by the Board of Directors, her throne is secure; a temporary throne she’ll trade for a bigger model as soon as she gets the chance, I’m telling you.
She’s always impeccably dressed, and is invariably friendly, calm and polite. She hears and controls everything. She has faithful accomplices. Some are known to us, but there must be some working undercover.
She’s running a suffocating regime on the QT. Every personal initiative, anything that falls outside the norm, is shot down with a smile.
I asked Eefje if she would like me to go with her.
‘What for?’ she said.
‘Well, she’s a tough customer. She destroys people with a sweet smile.’
‘We shall see. Thanks for the warning. I’ll keep it in mind.’
Tuesday, 26 February
Evert was wondering if it wasn’t time for another covert action along the lines of the cake in the fish tank. He wouldn’t mind having another lark. ‘This joint could use a good shake-up.’ I couldn’t really disagree, but am afraid that this sort of stunt really only goes after the superficial symptoms.
The real problem is insoluble.
The way I see it, growing old follows the same trajectory as a baby developing into an adult, only the other way round. You go from physical independence to becoming more and more dependent on others. An artificial hip, a bypass, a pill here or there; all it does is paper over the cracks. If death takes too long to come, you end up as a sputtering old toddler in a nappy, with a runny nose. The voyage out, from zero to eighteen, is wonderful, challenging, exciting: you are about to make your own way in life. Round the age of forty you’re strong, healthy and powerful. In the prime of life. Sadly, you usually don’t come to that realization until the descent has already begun, as, slowly and noiselessly, your horizons shrink and life becomes emptier. Until your daily goals and ambitions are whittled down to a cup of tea and a biscuit – the old-folks’ version of the baby’s rattle.
The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old Page 6
