Wednesday, 13 March
It was touch and go, but I am going to make it. The members of the Club were wondering if the outing should be postponed, but it isn’t necessary. I am back on my feet.
The GP came to see me on Monday. He casually let on that it looked a bit like the Mexican flu to him. A few years ago the entire country was in uproar over that flu, and you couldn’t switch on the radio or telly without having to listen to some epidemiologist; yet now that I may actually have it, my GP can’t even be bothered to give me a proper diagnosis!
One of the nurses later sternly asked whether, when I told the other residents that I had the flu, I would please leave the word ‘Mexican’ out of it.
‘Who told you to say that?’
She couldn’t tell me.
It does make you wonder. Could Mrs De Gans’s death a month ago possibly have been due to bird flu?
‘They’ are probably worried about another wave of flu hysteria among us.
Yesterday Evert stopped by with a fruit basket: an empty egg carton sporting three kiwis and three clementines.
Eefje brought me a book: Five Hundred Poems Everyone Should Read. I have vowed to read one a day, in the fervent hope that I am granted another five hundred days.
On my GP’s advice I have made an appointment with a geriatrician. My ‘potpourri of ailments’ was something his ‘confrère’ would be interested in. He pronounced the word ‘confrère’ with a rather plummy accent. He wrote a note to his amice and showed it to me. It said, in essence: ‘Why don’t you see if there’s something you can do for this nice old gentleman.’
They have an opening for me as early as next week. There may be a monetary consideration: old people have to be seen in a hurry, or they might die before you’ve even made a cent. Once they’re dead the only one who stands to make a profit is the undertaker.
My ‘personal’ GP says the geriatrician is a ‘personable’ chap. I can’t wait.
Friday, 15 March
At 12:55, five minutes early (!), the Connexxion minibus drove up to the front and our group climbed in. We were a bit giddy. It wasn’t even three minutes before the peppermints were offered round. Fifteen minutes later we got out at Central Station, where a water taxi awaited us.
After a few minutes on the water, Evert made a pretence of feeling seasick, quite realistically I must say, and then told us about a man he used to know, a frequent traveller who collected the airsickness bags from all the airlines he’d flown on. Then Evert proceeded to imitate Mr Bean, who, clueless as to what those bags are for, blows up one that’s been used until it bursts in someone’s face.
Eefje tut-tutted, and suggested taking a vote on whether to expel Evert from the Club. Evert was visibly alarmed, until Eefje started guffawing at his crestfallen expression. I’m not fond of that hee-hawing laugh of hers, but it is the only negative I have found in her thus far.
After tootling along Amsterdam’s canals for an hour or so, we arrived at the Hermitage Museum on the Amstel, where we disembarked. A posh chap who was very knowledgeable about art, and seemed to assume we were equally keen to learn about it, gave us a lengthy tour of the place.
Then we stopped for beer, wine and a portion of bitterballen in a café along the Amstel. That’s where the old-people’s minibus came to pick us up just after half-past five. The driver, in the habit of driving cranky old geezers to and from hospital, seemed rather surprised at having to flush a gang of merrymakers out of a pub.
Punctually, at six o’clock on the dot, we sat down at the dining table for a repast of meatballs and endive. The six of us were in high spirits, in contrast to the prevailing mood.
Mrs Stelwagen, on her way from her office to the exit, raised an eyebrow as we pushed our way past her. I may be wrong, but I do think I detected a measure of disapproval in her eyes.
Graeme was lauded, nearly unintelligibly, by Edward, for raising the bar so high on our very first outing: ‘Ooh sheh she toh.’
‘You set the tone.’ Graeme did the simultaneous interpretation, since he’s the one who has the least trouble understanding Edward. A touching exchange.
‘Ank oo.’
‘No, thank you.’
After that, we all collapsed a bit. By eight o’clock the entire Old But Not Dead Club had gone up to bed, so the gossiping could – presumably – begin.
Saturday, 16 March
We seem to have caught the bug. Now there’s a plan to start a separate cooking club, alongside Old But Not Dead. The original members except one (Evert), bolstered by the addition of Ria and Antoine Travemundi, like the idea of serving up an elaborate and elegant meal once a month. The Travemundis ran a restaurant for many years; they are passionate about preparing food as well as consuming it, and all too often find themselves getting up from the table disappointed. I am expecting great things of them. My own culinary talents run more to elementary tasks like dicing, slicing and stirring.
Yesterday we were sitting round the table happily rehashing our first outing, when Ria and Antoine timidly came to ask if they might join us. Of course.
They told us they thought our excursion club was a lovely idea. Not that they expected us to invite them to join, naturally; but would we be interested in forming a group to cook and dine together from time to time? Once a month, for example. The object would be to come up with some very special concoctions.
Just the suggestion brought a gleam to many an eye.
Except Evert’s. He came right out and declared he wasn’t keen on fancy nosh and hated having anything more complicated to concoct than a fried egg.
The rest of the group ignored him; the remaining five of us liked the idea of ‘fine cuisine’ as proposed by Antoine.
It was decided that Antoine, Ria and I would ask for a meeting with Stelwagen, to obtain permission to use the kitchen once a month.
I’m getting to be quite busy in my old age!
Sunday, 17 March
We have a new pope. According to an unreliable source (the Slothouwer sisters), prayers were said in the meditation room this morning for him and for good weather. Some just prayed for good weather. I don’t think I should count on those prayers being heard; I’ll keep my winter coat handy a while longer.
As far as the new pope goes: he has my sympathy for now, since when he was cardinal he used to take the bus to work. Or the metro. I imagine he must have had to doff his mitre getting off or on. (Actually, some scepticism is in order where dignitaries are concerned: the British politician David Cameron used to ride his bike to his parliamentary job out of concern for the environment, but had his briefcase follow him in the ministerial limousine.)
The folk in here are especially pleased for our Queen Máxima, since this one’s an Argentinian pope. They expect that Pope Francis, being a compatriot of hers, will surely attend her husband’s coronation.
For those of us that never have any visitors, Sundays are not a particularly joyful prospect. The pleasures that once made the day something to look forward to, such as sleeping late, having a big breakfast, reading the papers or listening to music, are now the daily routine. The only thing that distinguishes Sunday from any other day for me is that it’s the day the other inmates receive visitors.
It is true that many of the visitors come with just one goal in mind: to get it over with as quickly as possible. Any interaction with other residents is a waste of time. A curt hello in the hall or common room is about the most one can expect.
Not so very long ago I used to take long walks on Sunday afternoons, but I can’t do that any more.
Monday, 18 March
Stelwagen thought it was ‘just a lovely idea’, the cookery club. She said she would take it to the various parties involved, and discuss with them our request to use the kitchen once a month. She promised to get back to us shortly. Then we were offered a cup of tea and a biscuit. After some chit-chat she glanced at her watch. ‘My, is that the time?’ Which means: your time is up.
Sometimes I do wond
er: a cookery club, isn’t that a bit sissy? But on the other hand, if you can’t be bothered to give things that don’t immediately interest you a chance, you risk being an old stick-in-the-mud. At least it’s something to do.
Three more nights’ beauty sleep, and then I’ll have made it to another spring. In the coming days I’ll do some spring-cleaning. Wipe down the fridge, clean out the kitchen cupboards. Switch my winter wardrobe over to summer. Keeping gloves and a heavy sweater out, just in case.
Popped round to Evert’s yesterday afternoon. He had invited me in for drinks, but when I got there at four o’clock he already had a healthy head start on me. Half an hour later he dozed off in his chair. I tucked a blanket round him, fed the dog and took it out for a walk, leaving a note on the dresser among the deceased relatives: ‘Had a lovely time. And thanks for the €100.’
Tuesday, 19 March
The geriatrician is a candidate for geriatric care himself: aged well into his sixties and weighing on the high side, at least 120kg by my estimation. A cheerful demeanour, which I consider a plus when it comes to physicians. Bad news is far more devastating when it’s delivered in a funereal voice.
Not that he had bad news for me, this Dr Young (What’s in a name!), not to worry; but it wasn’t exactly good news either: a number of organs are either nearing their expiry date or already past it. The joints exhibit disturbing wear and tear, the prostate is beyond repair, the lungs are heavily tarred and working at half strength, and the heart is bad. One boon: the mind is sharp enough to be conscious of the decline. No sign of Alzheimer’s, at most a little forgetfulness that’s normal in old age.
Well, thank you, Doctor.
He gave this summation with a twinkle in his eye, cracking the odd joke, and concluding with the remark that he could empathize, since he suffered from almost as many ailments himself. He roared with laughter as he said it. If he hadn’t, that would have been something, wouldn’t it: a doctor complaining to a patient about his own health!
He prescribed some new pills and stopped just short of letting me decide for myself how many to take. ‘Physicians are so good at what they do these days that you hardly ever see anyone who’s healthy,’ is how he ended the consultation. I had to think that one over.
As I was leaving I plucked up the courage to ask if he didn’t have any mood-enhancing drugs to give me, some good dope to get through the difficult days. He in turn had to think that one over.
I should have made another appointment right then and there.
Wednesday, 20 March
This morning the director informed us (myself, Antoine and Ria Travemundi) that the cookery club project is not going to fly because of labour regulations. ‘Alas, alas!’ she added, sighing. Funny, but I didn’t for a moment believe she was sorry.
‘What sort of labour regulations?’ I asked.
She gave us some complicated explanation about who’s allowed to do what and who isn’t. It all came down to the fact that we were not permitted to touch the kitchen appliances. The home would not be insured against accidents. I objected that we had no intention of using the kitchen appliances. All we needed were a few pans and knives.
‘Yes, but it isn’t that simple.’
Even for us to be in the same room as those kitchen appliances entails an insurance risk, said Stelwagen.
‘Could I have a look at those labour regulations?’ I asked as neutrally as possible.
‘Don’t you believe me, Mr Groen?’
‘Of course I do. I just want to double-check something.’
‘Double-check what?’
‘As any manager today will tell you: to double-check is not to distrust. Isn’t that so?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you.’
Ria and Antoine had been sitting there listening, open-mouthed; only now did they close their mouths again.
By teatime, they had somewhat recovered. They had always trusted the director in the past, but their faith was now rather shaken. They thought it had been courageous of me to challenge her, and I thought so too.
I later reported our exchange to Eefje, I hope without sounding overly self-satisfied. All she said was, ‘Well done, Groen!’
The incident did inspire me with a great idea for an Old But Not Dead outing. I have looked up seven different cookery workshops on the Internet in our vicinity. There must be one among them that complies with the labour regulations and is willing to accept old people. Afterwards we’ll announce to anyone who’ll listen that we have never had such a safe afternoon, even if we come home with a few sliced-off fingers, noses or ears.
Thursday, 21 March
Hurray! I have made it to another spring!
Now we resolutely set our sights on the next milestone, the first strawberries emerging from the cold ground; then we’ll try to make it to the Tour de France, the new herring, the first snowfall, New Year’s Eve, and on to the next spring. It’s important to set yourself explicit goals.
It is the silly season, which here goes by the name of ‘cucumber time’. Nothing much happening in the world. The subject of the new pope has been milked to death, and, for want of anything else, Syria is back on the front page because a Dutchman was killed over there. And there’s still six weeks of coronation drivel to go. (Some 360 ermines gave their lives for Queen Beatrix’s coronation robe back in the day, but Prince ‘Pilsner’ Alexander’s considerable girth may require as many as 600 skins. Pamela Anderson, do something! Save those poor little creatures!)
Here in the care home it’s all too often cucumber time. At night you realize that nothing important has happened all day. On the other hand: what’s important? For some people, simply being offered an extra biscuit with their cup of tea makes their day. Of course it’s the way the nurse doles out another biscuit that does it, as if you’ve just won the national lottery: ‘Oh, what the hell, it’s such a lovely day, let’s just go for it, have another one!’
At the other end of the spectrum we have fat Mr Bakker. His record: one entire Limburg apple crumb cake and half of a second cake, washed down with a single cup of coffee. He didn’t offer anyone a bite. When he was done he took the leftover cake back up to his room. Everyone hates him.
I have meanwhile come up with a nice little list of excursion possibilities: a cookery class, a paranormal exhibition, bowling, the windmills of Zaandam, a course in fine chocolate making, a football game at Ajax stadium, or the Keukenhof tulip gardens. I must ask at the next meeting whether we can switch the dates if necessary.
In honour of cucumber time, I give you this from the old cuttings box in the ‘How Can That Be Possible’ category: some years ago Berlusconi was presented with an award for his human rights’ record by none other than … Mu’ammer Gaddafi.
Friday, 22 March
Yesterday Mrs Langeveld told me something interesting. She’s usually well below my radar, but occasionally she’ll startle me by popping up into view. We happened to be sitting next to each other over a cup of coffee. Sparked by the mention that the coffee was lukewarm, she said she suspected that our home isn’t high on the list of top care institutions, ‘or they’d surely have been keen to let everyone know’.
I asked what list she was talking about, and she lisped (toothlessly) that there is an annual review of the quality of nursing and care homes. ‘And judging from this dishwater coffee, you can be sure that we’re somewhere very near the bottom.’
She didn’t know exactly what kind of review it was. I’m going to look it up on the Internet.
The oldest man in the Netherlands is now Tjeerd Epema, 106. If I were to reach his age, I’d be looking at another 23 years in this dump. Not a happy thought. The oldest woman in the world is 122. To match that I’d have to spend another 39 years in here.
It could be worse: in America, Carrie C. White turned 116 before she died, 75 of those years in a mental institution. They let her transfer to a normal old-age home when she was 110. Giving her some time to enjoy her freedo
m.
Saturday, 23 March
You type ‘care home review’, click on a few links and, voilà, there is the list of 350 nursing homes and 1,260 care homes. The ranking depends on the rating given to the home by its residents, plus an objective grade for the quality of care. We’re in almost thousandth place on both counts! In the overall standings that lands us just above 1,100.
These are the numbers for 2009, so our home may score an even higher number today. Or an even lower one, it depends how you look at it.
Why have I never known of the existence of such a list? Of course I do understand why our director hasn’t put it up on the noticeboard. At Hofkamp, in Almelo, it’s probably pinned up on every door: that one’s in first place.
I am going to ask my friends if they remember how this investigation was conducted at the time. It may be something for us to start disseminating now.
Leaving that aside, the list reveals some arresting facts. The care home God’s Providence in Herten is in 1,230th place. Apparently they’re leaving a bit too much up to Providence.
Also noteworthy: the residents of Angeli Custodes proudly voted their home into second place, but according to the objective assessment it stands at number 702. I wonder if management might have given the residents a little assistance here and there filling in the questionnaires. You can never be too suspicious.
And what is going on with Spathodea Court? The residents there put their home in 1,058th place, while the inspectors have it at a respectable number 4. Ought one to infer that that’s where the Netherlands’ grumpiest ingrates live out their sunset years?
Henk-50Plus-Krol has bollixed it up for himself a bit here. Mr Bakker: ‘If he can’t even stop his own queer-sex shops from going under, how can the bloke run Netherlands Ltd?’ I’m fascinated by that ‘Netherlands Ltd’.
The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old Page 8