Hendrik Groen
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ON THE BRIGHT SIDE
The New Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 85 Years Old
Translated by Hester Velmans
Contents
On the Bright Side
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By the same author
The Secret Diary of
Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old
Wednesday, 31 December 2014
According to the statistics, on this last day of the year a man of eighty-five has approximately an 80 per cent chance of reaching 31 December 2015. I am going by numbers from the National Public Health Compass.
I shall do my best, but there’s to be no whining if the diary I’m starting tomorrow does not make it all the way through to the end of the year. A one-in-five chance.
Thursday, 1 January 2015
Evert used to be partial to planting his New Year’s firecrackers in dog poo or, even more spectacularly, horse droppings, but those were, of course, less common. He’s only sorry that the bangers were much smaller back then than they are now.
‘It’s only that I’d risk blowing myself up, wheelchair and all, otherwise I’d love to set off a few crackers in the hall.’ That was his contribution to the pyrotechnics debate that’s been going on for days.
In spite of a petition from the residents, our director, Mrs Stelwagen, did nothing about getting our care home declared a firework-free zone. A short statement on the noticeboard announced she did not think it ‘opportune’ at this time. She probably had a point, some of the residents decided, especially those who didn’t know what ‘opportune’ meant. Others thought Stelwagen didn’t want to get into a spat with the local authorities.
Our Old-But-Not-Dead Club celebrated New Year’s Eve in Evert’s sheltered housing flat, where cooking is allowed, an activity that’s not permitted in the rooms of those of us living in the care home. With top ex-chefs Antoine and Ria in our ranks, we can’t afford to pass up any gastronomic occasion.
At 11:45 we all trooped up to Graeme’s room, on the top floor. We watched the fireworks from his balcony, and Evert fired off a single illicit rocket on behalf of us all, as a mutinous raspberry aimed at the management. It was very pretty.
We can’t wait to see who will snitch on us.
Edward volunteered to be the scapegoat chewed out by the director, if it should come to that. He promised to make his speech even harder to understand than usual, and to present a report – in writing – at the next Old-But-Not-Dead Club meeting.
In short: we had a blast.
I did not get to bed until 2 a.m. It’s been decades since I’ve managed to stay up that late. Bravo Hendrik.
Friday, 2 January
This past year there was a great void in my days. I had spent all of 2013 faithfully keeping a diary. That hour (or hour and a half) of daily writing had given me a sense of usefulness and value. The most salient hallmark of life in an old-age home may well be the lack of duties or responsibilities. Everything is taken care of for you. There is no need for reflection. Life goes down as easily as custard without any lumps. Open up; swallow; all gone!
There are plenty of residents who are quite satisfied with this permanent, all-inclusive holiday, but for myself and a number of my friends, the idleness of the care-home existence does nothing for our day-to-day contentment. This diary will give me a sense of purpose again. It forces me to stay alert, to put my eyes to work and my ear to the ground, and obliges me to follow the developments in our care home as well as what’s happening in the rest of the world. I shall be exercising the brain cells on a daily basis to keep my thoughts fresh and organized. Brain gymnastics to keep the mind sharp. This past year I found myself thinking all too often what a shame it was that I was no longer writing things down, when, for instance, another old geezer made a spectacle of himself, the staff made a dog’s dinner of something, or the director lorded it all too snootily over her underlings. I feel like throwing my hat in the ring again.
Saturday, 3 January
One care home director has set a good example in the papers by telling the truth: ‘The standards that we, as a society, have set for the professional care of the elderly cannot be met under the present circumstances.’
In other words: it can’t be helped if, from time to time, a nappy doesn’t get changed promptly enough, or a set of teeth goes missing, or an inmate has to be tied to the bed for a while. Unfortunate, but alas. If all the activists, all the sensation-seeking scandalmongers of the press and all thirty-two care home inspection agencies want this to change, they will have to persuade the electorate to agree to a hefty insurance rate increase. Good luck with that!
I intend to press that article personally into our director’s hands.
Yes, that’s a surprise, isn’t it? Meek Hendrik is no more. He doesn’t yet deserve to be called Brave Hendrik, but a year ago, at my dear friend Eefje’s funeral, I did resolve to drop my fainthearted caution once and for all. I am more and more inclined to speak my mind, and it usually feels great when I do so. I do still need to work up my nerve, my heart in my mouth, but after some hesitation I’ll jump in with both feet from the high diving board, coming up for air sputtering but triumphant. The support I receive from the other members of the Old-But-Not-Dead Club is invaluable. Especially from Evert, who is not only my best friend but also someone who has no trouble at all speaking his mind, and always has my back.
This year we have once again been promised a ‘horror winter’. In spite of all previous erroneous predictions of extreme cold, this prognosis is being taken very seriously. My fellow inmates have stocked up for winter like nobody’s business. The cupboards are bursting with biscuits, chocolates, soft drinks and loo paper. This last item is on account of the fact that we now have to provide it ourselves, due to economic cutbacks. Ever since these were instituted, we are being much more frugal about wiping ourselves, with all attendant consequences thereof. What is saved on paper is spent on extra laundry soap.
Sunday, 4 January
Mrs Stelwagen is no longer surprised when I give her a newspaper article to read or some other piece of unsolicited advice.
Stelwagen is not concerned with anything but her own self-interest: her reputation, which hinges on peace in her domain, and meek inmates. She knows I’m aware of this. She also knows that I enjoy a certain amount of support from my co-residents, which she is ill-advised to underestimate, and she does not.
The conflict between the director and the Old-But-Not-Dead Club is careful and subtle, with the occasional small victory for one, and then the other. Open warfare would do none of us any good. The stakes are too high.
‘Thank you so much, Mr Groen. You have found something again that will be of use to us, no doubt?’
‘Indeed. An interesting article about a colleague of yours. About standards of care and transparency about such things.’
‘I am all for transparency; transparency whenever at all possible. And always subject to the general good.’
‘The general good is a hat that fits many different heads, Mrs Stelwagen.’
‘You are so right, Mr Groen.’
Such, more or less, is the tone of our exchanges. Afterwards I’ll usually need a few moments to calm myself down, but it’s worth it. A shot of adrenaline once in a while can’t hurt.
Monday, 5 January
The weather was splendid yesterday afternoon, so I decided to test my ability to make it to my benches on foot. It’s 400 metres to bench number one, 600 metres to bench number two, and finally another 400 metres back home. These distances are a rough estimate.
I did manage it, although with some effort. My roaming orbit has held steady for about a year, and I conclude that, in this case, holding steady
is progress.
The fact is: for me, the fastest way to get somewhere is to take it slow. That way I won’t fall flat on my face as I proceed from one bench to the next. The trick is to walk very calmly, yet at the same time give a sprightly impression. It’s not easily done. Eschewing the Zimmer frame, I rely on a cane that once belonged to my father, which I tend to swing just a bit too high in the air. Then, catching my breath on the bench, I try to look as vivacious as possible. Vain old Hendrik. God knows what for.
The daily journal writing is already having a positive effect. I am glad I picked up the pen again, and regret having neglected it for a year.
Over the next few days I shall recap the lost year of 2014 as pertains to the happenings in our home.
Tuesday, 6 January
The most important event of 2014 took place when the year was just two days old: Eefje’s funeral. My darling lay there like a beautiful Snow White somewhat on in years, until the lid of the casket was closed for good.
The funeral service was solemn, with beautiful music and moving eulogies. But none of it was of much comfort to me.
The main reason I did not feel like writing for all those months is that I missed her. When I sat down at the computer, for instance, I would find myself writing her name. It has taken time for the wound to heal.
The second most important event was in November, when Grietje moved to ‘the other side’ – the locked ward. Mr Alzheimer arrived sooner than expected. She had begun losing her way, and then it was happening more and more frequently: both literally, attempting to find her flat on the wrong floor, and figuratively, when she suddenly had no idea what a teapot was for. She was able to laugh it off, right until the end. She was in a muddle, but cheerfully so. Never angry, never scared. The day they moved her into the dementia ward, she was seen happily trotting after the trolley carrying her belongings.
Nobody would mind having dementia if they could be like her. But when I visit Grietje I see that she is the rose amongst thorns.
In Hillegom, a town twenty-five miles from Amsterdam, a number of people with dementia from the nursing home Den Weeligenberg were selected to return to independent living. In sheltered housing, but still. I’ve had a good look round the locked ward here, but wouldn’t give anyone the keys to their own room again. Unless it’s to test an emergency scenario: what to do in case of a flood, a fire or an explosion, for instance. Could it be that some of the people in Hillegom had been locked away a bit too soon?
Mrs Quint, a professional pessimist, predicts there will be an attempt on Pope Francis’s life. With half a ginger biscuit in her mouth, she was absolutely positive. ‘He won’t make it to the end of the year, no matter how hard we pray for him,’ she declared, cheerfully spraying biscuit crumbs in every direction.
Evert wanted to bet her €100 that this amiable earthly representative of Jesus Christ would still be fit as a fiddle on the 1st of January 2016, but Quint was not quite that confident in her own predictions.
I must say that Francis has my warmest sympathy, if only because he rides in a white 1984 Renault 4.
I wonder what happened to that funny old Popemobile?
Wednesday, 7 January
Last year was a watershed for our Old-But-Not-Dead Club. With Eefje’s passing we lost our foremost pillar of strength, and in the spring Grietje too, had to stop coming along on our excursions, because she kept wanting to touch everything. That created a bit of trouble for us with the guards in the Rijksmuseum.
‘I just want to know what it feels like.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not permitted, madam.’
‘Oh, in that case I won’t do it again, promise.’ Two galleries further on her vow was already forgotten.
But there is also good news: we have taken on two new members. On my recommendation, my friend Mr Geert Hoogdalen joined the Club in the spring. He is a man of few words and the proud owner of a mobility scooter souped up like a Ferrari. Shortly afterwards Edward nominated Mrs Van der Horst to become a member. He thought she would make up for his own aphasia, which is making his speech less and less comprehensible, as well as compensating for Geert’s taciturnity. Leonie Van der Horst loves to talk, is cheerful, a bit crazy and brimming with ideas. And she likes Evert, who hardly returns the favour, which in turn makes Leonie even more inclined to stroke his bald head.
In short: two wonderful new assets for the Club.
The Health Care Law has been the topic of conversation for months now. Even though we have yet to be deprived of even one cup of tea, some residents claim they are feeling the pinch of the cutbacks already.
When I asked Mrs Slothouwer, as usual the loudest voice in the room, to give us an example of how it’s affecting her, she couldn’t think of anything other than, ‘Oh there he goes again, Mr Groen and his examples!’
Mrs Slothouwer and her sister used to be a formidable team. Since her sister’s sudden passing last year, the surviving Slothouwer has added her sister’s portion of malice to her own.
I received some support. ‘Well, I, for one, agree with the Right Honourable gentleman Groen, Mrs Slothouwer; do give us an example,’ Graeme said. At that point she dropped the subject.
Thursday, 8 January
The news of the slaughter at the French magazine Charlie Hebdo has affected me deeply. It doesn’t often happen that I get emotional over something in the news, but yesterday I was terribly upset all day long.
And, as if by mutual agreement, my fellow residents refrained from the usual inane commentary. Only Mr Bakker couldn’t help himself, declaring that every foreigner with a beard ought to be put behind bars.
‘You mean, Sinterklaas – St Nicholas – and Father Christmas for instance?’ asked Leonie.
‘No, not them, of course not. Just the brown and black ones.’
One longs to seal his mouth with duct tape, leaving just a small hole for a straw to suck up his liquid food.
As far as I know this home has never had an Islamic resident. I suspect aged Turks and Moroccans either live out their last days in the land of their birth, or are kept prisoner in the flats of their children, unable to navigate the building’s stairs.
There are some Muslims among the staff, but it would never occur to the residents to engage a hijab-wearing cleaner or housekeeper in a conversation about Allah. We don’t know a thing about them; they don’t know a thing about us.
I may have mentioned this before, but God and I have agreed to leave each other alone. And a god who, for whatever reason, promises seventy-two virgins as a reward in the afterlife seems to me, of all the gods, one of the dumbest. If only for the fact that a virile fellow would be done deflowering his virgins within a couple of days. And besides, isn’t there a reward for women?
There’s going to be a minute’s silence shortly. I’d like to raise a clenched fist holding my pen in the air, but I fear no one will understand.
Friday, 9 January
The Taskforce for Independent Living has sent a letter to every mayor in the country to call attention to the new transition guidelines for elder care. Old people don’t like change, but ‘transition’ they don’t mind as much.
The mandate of care homes used to be the three Cs: comfort, control and companionship. Well, oddly enough, the authorities seem to have lost sight of those three Cs a bit.
The goal today is for old people to remain in their own homes for as long as they are able. That may sound like a splendid idea, but it does have its drawbacks. According to the Central Statistics Bureau, there are 300,000 extremely lonely old-age pensioners in our country. Most of them live at home, and the new directives would have them continuing to live independently and be extremely lonely for as long as possible.
That’s like throwing the baby out with the bathwater. The idea of using care homes to look after the comfort, control and companionship of the elderly is fine in principle. It just fails in the execution. What old-age homes actually stand for is infantilizing, dependence and laziness.
You often read about groups of old people looking for new forms of communal living, in search of, well … yes: comfort, control and companionship. Only, those old people aren’t in their late eighties; they are energetic sixty- or seventy-year-olds with plenty of ideas and plenty of money.
There! That hobbyhorse can be stalled again for a while.
I have made two resolutions for 2015. The first is to make it to 2016, and the second is to get rid of one thing every day. People are magpies. Not long ago, when the staff were cleaning out the room of a resident who had passed away, they found great quantities of sugar, soap, butter and long-life milk. In other words, everything that used to be rationed in the war. Her cupboards were also a riot of all kinds of other rubbish: vases, cups and saucers, statuettes, candles, bottles and tins. It made me cast a critical eye over my own room: it too is full of needless junk.
I ought to throw out one thing I have no use for every day. Whenever I buy something new, I should get rid of two old things. At the end of the year I ought to be at least 365 expendable items lighter.
Saturday, 10 January
A few more words about 2014.
The Old-But-Not-Dead Club slowly recovered from Eefje’s passing and Grietje’s withdrawal. In the spring we began planning club excursions again. A fresh string of pearls beckoning on the horizon. It turned out that we needed those pearls to plan and look forward to in order not to sink into gloomy lethargy. We agreed that we would never again let several months go by wasted. In our case, death, even the death of our most beloved friends, is to be no excuse.
On the Bright Side Page 1
