Friday, 8 February
Unrest in our rest home. There was a note on the noticeboard announcing that the residents could apply to their GPs for a bracelet saying Do not resuscitate. The note was not signed. At elevenses many of the residents expressed outrage over this far-from-subtle pitch.
‘They would like to be rid of us.’
‘We cost too much.’
Fat Mr Bakker was amenable to being revived by a girl, but was adamant he would not want a man to give him mouth-to-mouth. ‘I’d rather die.’ Was there a special bracelet for that?
After the coffee hour the note was gone. No one had any idea who had removed it.
I hope the bracelet isn’t too conspicuous, otherwise we’ll never hear the end of it. I will ask my GP about it.
I have invited Eefje and Evert for tea tomorrow afternoon. A proper English tea, triangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and chocolates, biscuits and cake. And something with cream. I’ll have to sort out what else goes into high tea. There’s a Brit living on the fifth floor, only he’s got a foreign surname. He may know only about Pakistani tea customs, but I am still going to go and ask him.
In the corridor I bumped into the sweet young social worker my GP had sent over to stop me from committing euthanasia. ‘See, still alive!’ I told her, with a broad wink. She had to laugh. She’s all right, that one. I can’t think when I last winked at anyone. It must have been at my daughter.
Saturday, 9 February
I’m actually a little nervous about the visit this afternoon. I keep telling myself to act normally, but in the meantime I’ve tidied my room, scrubbed the floor, ironed my shirt twice, and bought four kinds of biscuits. And I’ll have to pop back to the shop shortly for something other than English Breakfast tea. I am not following the advice of the friendly Pakistani gentleman. He solemnly presented me with a heavy book about tea customs all over the world. In Urdu.
In Tibet the ninety-ninth protester has gone and immolated himself. There ought to be a special celebration marking the hundredth one. It has also been trendy for some time in the Arab world to express your displeasure that way. It must be said: you do get people to pay attention, even if just for a short while.
I seriously disapprove of the way things are run round here too, but setting myself on fire would be going a bit too far. I do know some other people I wouldn’t mind setting fire to, though, to get people’s attention.
According to de Volkskrant, the Netherlands and the Scandinavian countries have the best elderly care in the world. I mentioned this casually to some of my fellow inmates over coffee. To say that they were persuaded would be an overstatement. Either they didn’t believe it, or they decided it didn’t matter.
‘If even here we’re pinching pennies to eke out our pensions, what must it be like in other parts of the world?’ they wondered, concerned.
The fact that there are perhaps half a billion old people who have never even heard of such a thing as an old-age pension seemed highly unlikely to most of them.
Sunday, 10 February
It wasn’t a total disaster, the tea. But to claim that I was a relaxed, witty and intelligent host is not the whole truth either.
Eefje was the first to arrive. I gave her a ‘house tour’ and she kindly characterized it as ‘cosy’. That covers many bases.
Then, with a great deal of noise, Evert barged in. He has my spare key and refuses to use the bell. He walked into the room with a broad grin and an overly loud ‘Yo!’ When I asked what kind of tea he’d like, he expressed surprise, since until now I’d never offered him anything but English Breakfast. And when a bit later I casually brought out the assorted biscuits, he said he felt like a king; he had never been treated in such royal fashion before.
‘Or is all this in honour of this lovely queen?’ Accompanied by a broad wink.
I believe I blushed a little. Eefje smiled and said she felt very honoured.
We chatted about this, that and the weather. Then it was time to ask Eefje discreetly how she likes our institution. She was diplomatically noncommittal.
‘I don’t like to be too hasty in my judgement, but besides the advantages, of course, there are a few “areas for improvement”, to put it in modern-day business parlance.’
‘Such as?’ Evert wanted to know.
‘I am still in the process of reviewing it. Perhaps we could devote another tea to the subject in the near future.’
‘Or something stronger perhaps.’
What Evert was asking for was gin – a red flag, or at least an orange one, because alcohol doesn’t exactly bring out the restrained subtlety in him.
But again Eefje resolved it elegantly. ‘Right, perhaps something stronger. I might ask you two to come to my place for a glass of brandy next time. But I’m not promising anything,’ she added, smiling.
‘Or gin instead?’
Evert doesn’t need drink to be unsubtle.
‘I don’t know why, Evert, but I have the feeling that when it comes to alcohol, with you it’s quantity over quality. And my guess is that with Henk it’s the exact opposite.’
‘Eefje, I shall have to invite you more often,’ I said with a grin at both guests.
Half an hour later she said goodbye. Another point in her favour: she doesn’t overstay her welcome.
Evert compensated amply for her absence. Two hours and five glasses of gin later I kicked him out.
Monday, 11 February
The minutes of the Residents’ Association are pinned to the noticeboard. ‘The Association will henceforth provide cocktail nuts and pretzel sticks on bingo night.’
The pretzel sticks will probably be set out on the tables in drinking glasses. That will provoke at least one person to say, ‘Golly, remember when you’d have glasses filled with cigarettes like that, on birthdays and other occasions?’ ‘Ah, yes. One glass of filtered cigarettes, one of unfiltered.’ If that little exchange doesn’t take place, I’ll eat my cigar. Or, at least, the cigar band. Ah yes, in the old days, when everything was so much better, we used to save those.
‘The Residents’ Association’s fee will be raised ten cents.’ I did read it right: ten whole cents.
The biannual outing has been postponed until the organizing committee can agree on where to go. Ever since they were unable to find a new evening for bingo night, the members have been deeply divided on every issue. They’ll try to choose a destination and a date again at the next meeting. If they don’t succeed, the committee will schedule a new election in order to break the impasse.
James Onedin is dead. He is fondly remembered from the seventies British TV series The Onedin Line. One or two old ladies wiped away a tear. Such whiskers! Such boldness! And then, forty years ago, they would have glanced at the bloke next to them on the couch and decided that, sadly, he would just have to do.
Tuesday, 12 February
The elderly may take pleasure in the fact that they are drawing a great deal of interest of late. Not only in the Netherlands; in Germany too. There was quite a bit of hoopla about the book Mother, When Will You Finally Die? by Martina Rosenberg. She spent years caring for her demented parents. The fact that some German offspring dump their invalid parents in much cheaper nursing homes in the Ukraine, Slovakia or even Thailand was widely reported in the papers. Our neighbours to the east have the Elternunterhalt, or compulsory parental support, to deal with. If between Pa and Ma’s pensions and the piggy bank there isn’t enough to pay for the nursing-home rent, the children have to pay up: parent alimony. With a bit of bad luck, you could find yourself having to pay both child support and parent support.
In our own old-age home, however, the alarming cutbacks in elderly care aren’t felt that painfully. Most of the residents have their state pension and a small additional one from their work. If you hoard your pennies, you’ll even have some left over. And they are ever so thrifty in here! The main expenditures are on biscuits, chocolates, the hairdresser and the private minibus. Almost no one goes on h
oliday. Nobody still has a car. I rarely see expensive furniture or clothing. Eating in a restaurant is a waste of money and taxis are the ultimate extravagance. Old people like to deprive themselves.
Meanwhile the average age of the nursing-home resident keeps going up. People are living independently longer, and are therefore older when they enter the home. At eighty-three I am one of the youngest.
Once you are here, there is no way out; nobody ever goes back to living in a flat. They don’t throw you out for being penniless, either. Sure, the children complain! They’re furious that Pa or Ma is obliged to spend their inheritance down to the last cent. The longer the parent stays alive, the less is left over. If it were up to me, I would tell them, Dear child, it’s not my problem.
Poverty among the elderly is much less severe than people think. According to the latest research, just 2.6 per cent of those over sixty-five are poor. Sixty-three per cent even say they’re managing to get by quite well.
The people making the fuss about seniors being robbed blind are the younger elements of 50Plus, which now has thirteen seats in Parliament. That’s Henk Krol and his mates, who are still in their prime and still have plenty of time ahead of them to enjoy their generous pensions. To have the cut-off at fifty makes no sense. Fifty is the wealthiest and most powerful age group in the Netherlands. Sixty-five, or soon sixty-seven, would be a better starting point. And even then there’s an enormous difference between someone who is just retiring and the extremely aged population in here. I would argue for the formation of a 67Plus, a 77Plus and an 87Plus; 97Plus probably wouldn’t have enough members to make the electoral threshold.
Wednesday, 13 February
The pope has knocked the horsemeat scandal off the top spot of coffee-table conversation topics. Everyone thought it was sensible of the holy father to decide to take his retirement. As for the possibility of a black pope, opinions were mixed. Mr Schut didn’t like the idea. He thought Berlusconi would make a better candidate.
Fortunately there were enough of us who had no objection in principle to a black pope; the only objections had to do with the need for a pope in the first place. Ours was originally a Catholic institution, but with a smattering of other denominations. Tensions between Catholics, Calvinists and Protestants are never very far away. The pope is a divisive figure from the outset.
Rough sketch of a typical day: Part 1
I get up at around half-past eight. Then I walk to the mini-market for two fresh rolls. While having my breakfast I peruse de Volkskrant, which has become quite ugly lately. Then I write here in my secret diary for a bit. This takes about an hour. Next I go downstairs for elevenses and after I’ve finished my coffee I have a cigarette. After the coughing fit, at about half-past eleven, I take my exercise by going for a stroll round the home or outside. I normally start off in Evert’s direction, but lately I often find myself trying to bump into Eefje by accident. I have the feeling she doesn’t mind coming face to face with me. Seeing that neither of us seems to mind giving chance a bit of a leg-up, we’ll often sit down together for a second cup of coffee.
I have invited her to a lunchtime concert at the town hall. She accepted the invitation with pleasure but remarked that stairs are a big problem for her.
At one o’clock I have my lunch in the restaurant downstairs, and Evert frequently stops in for a croquette roll. If you want to eat in the dining room, you have to let them know a week ahead. That’s when you receive a form to fill out. You have to tell them whether you are planning to have lunch and/or dinner for the next seven days, and what you would like to eat. At night you’re given a choice of three mains, two first courses and two puddings. You just mark the little boxes with a cross. Your name is on the form, as are all your diet restrictions.
Evert always fills in all seven ‘croquette’ boxes, whether he intends to show up for lunch or not. My spy in the office informs me the head cook has complained to the director about the waste of rolls and croquettes for all the times Evert does not show up, but Mrs Stelwagen couldn’t find anything against it in the rules and regulations.
Thursday, 14 February
Early this morning Evert slipped a Valentine’s Day card under Eefje’s door. He came to tell me about it at eight o’clock. He smelled of alcohol and clearly had not yet showered.
‘Now you know, and you can pretend it’s from you. It’s a card with two swans on the front. Very romantic. I’m going back to bed now. Night, Henkie.’
I was left speechless.
When I went to the corner shop yesterday to buy a new washing-up brush, there was a young lady of about eighteen behind the till. When I went to pay, I started fumbling around for my money; I couldn’t find my wallet at first.
The checkout girl looked annoyed and was going to help the lady behind me, but the lady said, ‘No, this gentleman was first,’ and turning to me, she continued, ‘Take your time.’
I finally managed to pull out a ten-euro note.
‘There you are.’
‘…’
She slapped the change down on the counter.
‘Ta.’
She didn’t even deign to look at me.
There are people who despise anything old, grey or slow. This bratty shop-girl was one of those. It’s hard to steel oneself against a total lack of respect.
Mrs Van Diemen hopes that the new pope, when elected, will in good time come to Amsterdam for Willem-Alexander’s coronation. She really wants it to be a Dutch pope. Mrs Van Diemen is well on her way to the locked ward.
Friday, 15 February
Evert received a note from Eefje: ‘Thanks ever so much for the lovely card. I happened to see you push it under the door. I should like us to become better acquainted.’
Evert was quite perplexed. Until I started laughing; I couldn’t help it. Hoist with his own petard. Then he hurled a banana at my head. It hit his only flower vase, leaving a big crack.
‘I suppose I’ll have to go and buy you a bunch of tulips this afternoon,’ I teased him. I couldn’t help it.
It’s driving everyone in here potty, this never-ending snow!
I stopped by Anja’s office to see if there was any more gossip about our director, who was away on important business. Her clothing allowance has been raised by €2,000 per year. Sorry, not raised but ‘inflation-indexed’.
Here in the home they have a great deal of respect for Stelwagen. For bigwigs in general, really.
I myself prefer to see bigwigs taken down a peg.
A few years ago three of the most powerful men in the world were in the news at once: Boris Yeltsin was too plastered to get off an aeroplane, Pope John Paul couldn’t even get out a ‘Thank you for the flowers’ without nodding off, and Bill Clinton had stuck his cigar into an intern’s privates. That’s no way to light a cigar, naturally, but what’s far worse is that he couldn’t stop his unorthodox smoking method from making headlines. And while I’m at it: at the UN Security Council, the Indian Foreign Minister accidentally read from a speech his Portuguese colleague had left on the podium. He never noticed it was the wrong speech. It took five minutes for a fellow countryman to get his attention.
I only mean to say that we had better give those in authority the benefit of the doubt.
Saturday, 16 February
‘I taste horse!’ fat Mr Bakker yelled across the dining room. Upon which almost everyone who had ordered the meatballs was suddenly able to detect the taste of horsemeat. The cook was summoned: ‘No, that’s impossible. The meat came from the wholesale butcher’s, as always.’
‘So? What does that prove? The wholesale butcher can grind horsemeat and mix it in with the beef, can’t he? I taste horse, that’s final. I am not mad!’ Bakker seethed.
Now, the problem is that Bakker is mad and a very unpleasant madman besides.
The head of housekeeping was brought in too, but she could sputter until she was blue in the face, nothing helped soothe the disgruntled crowd. Finally all the meatballs were traded in for fish a
nd chips. Most people thought there was little chance of there being any horsemeat in that.
The mince has been ground with pigs’ eyes and cows’ udders for years, never a word, and now all of a sudden there’s a stink over a smidgen of horsemeat!
Downstairs in the common room the radio is always on from ten til twelve. We are treated to the broadcast for hospital patients. No one knows why. Most residents don’t mind the Dutch repertoire that’s played for the invalids’ pleasure: lots of torch songs and rollicking polkas.
One Easter morning a year ago, someone had the gumption to turn the dial to a classical music station: you should have seen the inmates clapping along to the strains of the St Matthew Passion.
I am trying to train myself to ignore the background music. The trick is not to sit too close to the speakers. The hospital broadcast ends at noon. The relative peace and quiet is a delight to listen to.
Sunday, 17 February
The concept of days of the week vanishes in a place where no one goes off to work and every day is the same as every other day. The staff work, of course, but they too do the same thing day after day.
The only day that’s different is Sunday – three-quarters of the residents go to church in the morning, and the children and grandchildren come to visit in the afternoon. It’s the only contact with the outside world some of the inmates have. And even if the visitors sometimes radiate boredom, it still counts: receiving lots of visitors gives you status around here. Unpleasant Mr Pot spends the first half of the week jawing on about who came last time, and the second half of the week about who will come next time. He has eleven children. Pot is the kind of man who waits at the zebra crossing until there’s a car coming, and only then steps out into the road.
The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old Page 5