The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old

by Hendrik Groen

‘Because with so much female pulchritude about, I can’t concentrate on the exercises properly. I stiffen up.’ I’d blurted it out without thinking. It wasn’t until I’d said it that I felt myself getting hot. Much more so than during the fitness class.

  Hey, I’m beginning to speak my mind, or nearly! I am improving by leaps and bounds. Thanks to this diary, perhaps.

  Tina stood there nonplussed. The sarcasm was clear, but I hadn’t laid it on thick enough that she could object, not with all the dolled-up old tarts still standing there. Most of them still consider themselves ‘quite attractive’. Self-knowledge tends to decrease drastically with age. Just as in children it increases year by year.

  Sunday, 20 January

  We pensioners are definitely not bearing the brunt of the economic crisis. According to the calculations of a prominent research institute, a single OAP living off a state pension is going to be two (two!) euros better off per month this year. So the panic Henk Krol and his 50Plus party set off was for nothing. A majority of the residents voted for him in last year’s election.

  People with generous pensions and those who have taken early retirement are getting a bit less, but they have more to start with. Anyway, there are no early retirees in here.

  It’s astonishing how frugal the residents are. Even people living on the state pension are able to squirrel away quite a bit, though God only knows why they bother.

  Last year some residents of another nursing home won the jackpot in the lottery. The fuss associated with having all those millions wound up making a good number of them thoroughly miserable.

  I am seeing to it that I’ll be deep in the red when I die.

  With the help of the Virgin Mary calendar that I won at bingo in December, I have calculated that from the shortest day, 21 December, until today, a month later, the sun has risen just 11 minutes earlier and set 37 minutes later. Curious, isn’t it.

  I’ve been a bit constipated lately, you see, and the Virgin Mary calendar hangs in the loo. It has passages from the Bible, but also recipes, quotations and jokes. Tomorrow, 21 January, is the day of St Agnes, virgin and martyr. She died in 304. Just so you know.

  There was a fuss in the paper again about a mentally handicapped boy who was found chained to the wall in his care home. The reason wasn’t given; he probably gets violent. There are people in the dementia unit here who can hardly throw a punch or even stand up, but they too lie there trussed up like escape artists who’ve forgotten the trick to breaking free. You are welcome to come and have a look, paparazzi.

  Monday, 21 January

  My daughter would have been fifty-six today. I try to imagine what she would have looked like. I can’t see beyond the image of a four-year-old, dripping wet, slack in a neighbour’s arms. I watched them approach in seconds that were without end.

  Not until fifteen or twenty years later did a whole day go by when I didn’t think about it.

  No one is going out: snowstorm!

  More gloom and doom: Evert has diabetes.

  Actually, he’s had it for a while. Evert doesn’t follow the doctor’s orders all that carefully, and the doctor’s assistant took it upon herself to rub it in.

  ‘Certainly, Mr Duiker, if you insist on drinking and eating the wrong things and smoking, there’s not much I can do for you, is there.’

  ‘Those are the only pleasures left in life, love.’

  ‘I am not your love.’

  ‘Nor are you my doctor, Madam Assistant.’

  Even so, he’s a bit worried, Evert. He used to frequent his local pub, where he was friendly with a fat patron who also had diabetes. The man would down twenty-five pints on a ‘normal’ night. Afterwards he’d have a few shots of whisky at home.

  One fine day his mate’s toe turned black. The toe had to be amputated. Then other toes. Then a foot, then the leg below the knee. Everything that turned black got sawn off in the hospital. He was a regular customer there. He was a very friendly bloke who simply couldn’t stop drinking or smoking. For a while he was still propped up at the bar on an artificial leg, but then he wound up in a wheelchair and could no longer get to the pub. Two months later he was dead.

  Evert’s nightmare: to start turning black at the extremities and wind up at the mercy of doctors and nurses.

  Tomorrow I’ll write about something cheerful again.

  Tuesday, 22 January

  Yet another to-do about the price of parking. The ever-cantankerous Mr Kuiper has submitted a proposal to the Residents’ Association to introduce paid indoor parking.

  Practically no one in here walks with a cane. The residents like to push one of those rollator things instead, with handbrake and a shopping basket. If you get tired you can rest your weary behind on it. Some tootle about on mobility scooters, even indoors. Those machines take up quite a bit of room. They also seem to be getting bigger. They’re a status symbol.

  Management is worried about traffic jams, and has asked that the rollators and scooters be used indoors as little as possible. That got the hobblers terribly upset. But when Kuiper proposed following the City of Amsterdam’s example to solve the parking problem by making people pay, all hell broke out. I do think that Kuiper has a few screws loose.

  This home was built in the late sixties, when children started having such busy lives that they couldn’t have their aged p’s move in with them any more. Or they simply didn’t feel like having their parents live in, and I’d be the last to be much surprised by that. Be that as it may, about forty years ago homes for the aged began to sprout from the ground like mushrooms. And so nice and spacious too! Rooms measuring 24 square metres, bath alcove and kitchenette included. A married couple was granted another 8 square metres for a bedroom. Over the past twenty years there’s been some half-arsed remodelling, but the space is still far too small. They never took into account the armada of rolling equipment. The lifts aren’t big enough for more than two scooters or four rollators at a time. And then it takes a good fifteen minutes before they’ve all manoeuvred themselves in or out. Impatiently ramming into people’s legs. Standing right in front of the door when people are still trying to get out. The solution Stelwagen came up with was to commandeer one of the lifts for the staff. Which made the queue for the other lifts even longer, of course. You now have to leave even earlier in order to reach your destination on time. They ought to start giving traffic reports. I used to take the stairs, but am no longer able to, so these days you’ll often find me standing in the queue.

  If a fire ever breaks out in here, the entire population will be cremated. Only the staff will be able to make it outside in time.

  Wednesday, 23 January

  I casually asked the doctor about the availability of the pill that cures all ailments. He pretended he didn’t understand. ‘Such a cure-all doesn’t exist, I’m afraid.’ I didn’t have the nerve to ask again.

  He did find my list of complaints impressive, however: the dribble, pains in my legs, dizziness, bumps, eczema. But he couldn’t do much about any of it. A little placating with a pill here and an ointment there. He even discovered a new one: high blood pressure. I didn’t have that before. So now I have pills for that as well.

  Our oldest resident has passed away. Mrs De Gans. For many years as senile as a goldfish, she had to be tied to her chair so she wouldn’t slide off, but still, hooray, she reached the grand old age of ninety-eight! Just old enough to have lived through World War I.

  Three months ago the local alderman brought her a cake on her birthday because she was the district’s oldest citizen. They had propped her up at a table for the photographer of the local paper, but in a moment of inattention she had plopped head-first into the whipped-cream cake. It made a great photo-op. Sadly, the director refused to allow it to be printed in the paper. The alderman, who is so fond of seeing his own face in the newspaper, ordered a fresh cake to be rushed in, but by that time Mrs De Gans had already conked out and could not be woken up.

  So now she is past ever being awakened
again. Not that it makes a great difference.

  I don’t think I’ll go to the cremation. I’m finding them hard to take these days.

  Thursday, 24 January

  The atmosphere in the home is not improving. There’s been snow on the ground for over a week, and a fierce east wind, so everybody stays indoors, sulking at being cooped up. Short daily walks and an errand or two are the activities life normally revolves around in here. Without those, there’s even more time to keep tabs on each other. The day has to get filled with something.

  Yesterday, wanting a breath of fresh air, I went and sat down on the bench by the front door. I hadn’t been there more than a few minutes when the doorkeeper told me I wasn’t supposed to sit there. A shivering old crock next to the entrance is not good for business. ‘You can look out the window, can’t you?’

  I muttered, ‘Just wanted to stick my nose out for some fresh air.’

  ‘Your nose is purple, Mr Groen, and runny.’

  Mr Hoogdalen has been driving a mobility scooter for a few months. Three days ago his son, who owns a garage, took it home, and he returned it this morning. All pimped up. Spoilers, extra-wide tyres, sat nav, sound system with speakers, horn, and the cherry on the top, an airbag. All quite unnecessary, but no less brilliant for that. Hoogdalen, proud as a peacock, drove his Lamborghini-scooter round and round the home. Of course there were snide remarks, but fortunately also some compliments. That’s what it’s about, isn’t it: keep living and doing what you love.

  This morning there was an obituary for Ellen Blazer, the talk-show producer, in the newspaper. I wonder how many obituaries the newspapers keep in reserve, just in case? If I rang the newspaper, would they tell me? Or, to be more specific, could Nelson Mandela, for example, request to see his own obituary ahead of time, and be allowed to make some changes?

  Friday, 25 January

  I did manage to go quite a distance today before fate intervened. A motorbike nearly ran me off the pavement, and the next instant I found myself lying flat on my back.

  ‘Just act as if nothing’s the matter’ is the knee-jerk reaction when that sort of thing happens, and that reflex still seems to be in perfect working order. I picked myself up, slapped the snow from my coat and looked round to see if anyone had seen me fall. Fortunately no one had, and I could trundle back to the home, no harm done. When I greeted the porter he stared at me in surprise. ‘What’s happened to you?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I just slipped.’

  ‘Nothing? You’re covered in blood!’

  I felt the spot on my skull he was pointing at, and indeed, it was rather sticky. A nurse was sent for, who immediately started nattering about stitches, so, long story short, I and my bloody head sat in ER for an hour and a half and now I have a white turban on my head and am keeping to my room as much as possible to avoid the finger-wagging.

  ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’ That’s how it usually begins, but sooner or later comes the follow-up: ‘You really shouldn’t go out when it’s so slippery.’ There’s your biggest headache, right there.

  ‘That white bonnet is most becoming on you.’ Evert popped round to rub a bit more salt in the wound. If there’s ever a shortage of rubbing-salt, Evert has plenty in his personal arsenal.

  To pay him back I squashed him at chess. Usually I aim for a fairly equitable endgame, with a win for one and then for the other, but this time, to his consternation, he was checkmate in fifteen minutes.

  ‘That blow to the head seems to have done you some good,’ he remarked. ‘It’s done wonders for your chess game, anyway.’

  I said that I hoped it would also do wonders for my billiards game tomorrow.

  ‘Ah, but your memory’s shot, Henk, because billiards is three days from now.’

  He was right. Strange that I’d got it wrong.

  Saturday, 26 January

  The last Saturday of the month: bingo night. Geriatric gambling addicts competing for a box of cherry-liqueur chocolates. The head of the Residents’ Association takes it upon himself to call out the numbers. Don’t even think of opening your mouth while he’s at it. Whenever the number 44 is called, Miss Slothouwer always says ‘Hunger Winter’ and the entire room looks up, perturbed.

  Not long ago a group of residents wanted bingo moved to Wednesday nights because Saturdays are for family visits – which is hogwash actually. The real motivation was probably what programme was on the telly on Saturdays. The Wednesday night choir promptly objected and proposed Monday night, which was quashed by the billiards club. The billiards club thought Friday night was a better option. That met with stiff resistance from the Feel Good Fitness people, who were too tuckered out from their afternoon exercises to face the exertion of a game of bingo in the evening.

  When three meetings of the Residents’ Association were still unable to come to an agreement, our own King Solomon, Mrs Stelwagen, decided that everything should stay as it was for now. Relations within the committee have suffered as a result. The knives are out.

  Bullying, at school or on the Web, is a popular topic in the press nowadays, but you seldom hear about intimidation in homes for the aged. Respectable OAPs can’t possibly be bullies! How wrong they are. Just hang round here for a day and you’ll know. We have real experts at it here. The Misses Slothouwer, spinster sisters, are a greatly feared duo. This morning the first Miss Slothouwer twisted the top of the salt shaker loose before her sister passed it to their favourite victim, Mrs De Leeuw, who promptly dumped the entire contents, top and all, onto her fried egg. Mrs De Leeuw gazed in bewilderment from her egg to the empty shaker and then at her neighbour. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me. It’s your own fault. You’re so clumsy of late,’ Slothouwer snapped at her, her sister nodding in agreement. I’ve no idea why they do it. Mrs De Leeuw, unlike the lion that is her namesake, is a timid little thing. She’s always apologizing for whatever’s gone wrong around her, just to be on the safe side. It would take someone committing suicide, and leaving a note clearly laying out the reason, to make people take notice of the bullying that goes on in here.

  Sunday, 27 January

  I tried, but did not make it to the end of bingo night. When a fight broke out over who was the winner of the fifth prize, a liver sausage from Aldi, I pleaded a migraine and went back to my room. A migraine is a handy ailment, because it’s always accepted as a fair excuse. When I first arrived, when no one knew me yet, I happened to mention my fictional migraines, and have had frequent occasion to make use of them since. Squinting a bit and rubbing my forehead will do it. Some concerned soul will always ask if I have a migraine coming on. Then I have to ‘have a little lie-down’. No questions asked, and Bob’s your uncle.

  I’ve just come from the meditation room. I sometimes pop in there on a Sunday for the ecumenical service. One Sunday it’s a vicar leading the service; the next it’s a priest. They fit in well, since they’re both almost as old as the congregation. The vicar is a jokester. He takes God with a grain of salt. The priest is old-school, preaching Hellfire and Damnation. It doesn’t make a hell of a difference, actually, since they are both devilishly hard to understand.

  With death on the horizon, I’d say that a healthy proportion of the inmates here cling tightly to their faith.

  After the service there’s always raisin bread and coffee.

  Yesterday there was a great ballyhoo over the rise in the individual contribution to the cost of residential care. It had been in the newspaper: pensioners are to be charged an ‘income adjustment supplement’ of 8 per cent on top of the means-tested 4 per cent. There was great outrage over this news. But when Graeme asked who among us was in fact rich enough to be required to pay it, only Mrs Bregman put up her hand. She thought we were talking about the Residents’ Association fee.

  The occupants here are mostly piss-poor, with at most a modest pension here or there.

  It was funny that even the 50Plus party in Parliament had agreed to the rise in the individual levy. Henk Krol’s explanation: ‘We had on
ly just taken our seats in the House and saw that everyone else was voting for it, even the Socialists. We were bamboozled, basically.’ I read the quote aloud to the group. Some were of the opinion that the other parties really ought to have warned Henk beforehand.

  Monday, 28 January

  At elevenses this morning I congratulated Mr Hoogdalen on his extraordinarily fine scooter. He showed me all the upgrades. The only thing he wasn’t able to demonstrate was the airbag.

  He wants to start a scooter club: The Antelopes. He admitted he’d stolen the name from somewhere. I told him that I might be in the market for a Canta Cabrio, but that I was still thinking about it. He for his part was willing to consider allowing Cantas into the club.

  At first I was inclined to find a polite way to wriggle out of it, but his club has suddenly begun to sound rather appealing. It might be fun to be a tour organizer. I can just picture a long line of mobility scooters slowly put-putting across an unending flat landscape. With an OAP landing in a ditch every now and then.

  Two years ago, there was an accident in Genemuiden involving a Canta. (I like to save interesting items that I cut out of the newspaper.) Both people on board were killed. But note this: they were aged ninety-six and ninety-seven respectively! Ploughed head-on into another car. Perhaps their doctor had refused to give them the euthanasia pill; who can say. You survive two world wars and you meet your Waterloo in a flimsy biscuit tin that lands on its head on a verge near Genemuiden. One hundred and ninety-three years between the two of them. Not bad, really. It didn’t say if they were married. Maybe she was his mistress, like Ted Kennedy at Chappaquiddick. That would just be too perfect.

  Speaking of newspaper cuttings: Friday’s item: the escape of 15,000 crocodiles. (Can one have two colons in a single sentence?)