The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old

by Hendrik Groen

  Wednesday, 24 July

  The heat is taking its toll in here: three deaths within two days. ‘HEATWAVE CREATES CARNAGE AMONG THE ELDERLY.’ Great headline. Thought it up myself.

  It seems that old crocks like us take advantage of the extreme heat to slip out quietly. Peacefully conking out in one’s sleep. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

  Eefje and I went to see our lawyer this morning. Victor believes the Board’s response was meant to win it some time and drive up our costs. To scare us off.

  He says he’s having more and more fun with it, and in lieu of a fee, he’s asking for one bottle of wine from a different country every week. The longer this takes, the further afield we’ll have to go in our quest for wine-producing countries. After a year we can start all over again. ‘Because,’ said Victor, ‘it shouldn’t come as a surprise if this takes two years at least.’

  Eefje and I must have looked rather bemused at that point.

  ‘However, in consideration of my clients’ advanced age, I’ll try to speed it up as much as possible. Taking the lawyer’s own age into account as well.’

  He said he’d immediately write to the Board’s lawyer and start a judicial procedure.

  And all this spoken in that cold, pompous, upper-crust voice straight out of some poorly acted stage play.

  We’re starting to like him more and more.

  Thursday, 25 July

  Great brouhaha over the rumour that Mrs Vergeer pushed Mr Vergeer down the stairs, wheelchair and all. He’s in hospital with an assortment of broken bones and Mrs Vergeer has been cross-examined several times by the director herself. Can it still be swept under the carpet, or is it too late?

  Apparently two witnesses have come forward to say they saw Mrs Vergeer do it deliberately. Mrs Vergeer herself claims the wheelchair’s handles came off. It seems she was still clutching them in her hands as the rest of the chair lay spinning on its back ten treads below. On the other hand, there was no reason to steer him towards the stairs, unless she wanted to scare him. Which is a reasonable supposition, since Mr Vergeer is always very mean to his wife. He only communicates by barking out commands. She has nevertheless taken care of him for years with love, patience and devotion. He should have been pushed down the stairs a long time ago.

  I’m curious to see if this can be kept out of the papers. One telephone call to Het Parool would do it.

  We are earnestly requested ‘in the interests of all parties concerned’ not to talk about it. We may direct any questions to the director.

  Since my sympathies are with the alleged culprit, I shall say nothing about this unorthodox legal process, but it is of course a scandal that residents can be pushed down the stairs with no repercussions because the director is afraid of negative publicity.

  I have decided for the time being to believe it was an accident. But it’s always possible Mrs Vergeer will end up behind bars.

  Friday, 26 July

  Evert came home this morning. It was a joyful occasion, with cake and streamers. To add to the fun, he showed the welcoming committee how to put on and take off his new leg. He took genuine pride in it, but still, a couple of our club members couldn’t help looking the other way.

  He was most taken with the measures the Old But Not Dead Club had come up with to simplify his life as a new amputee for the first two weeks.

  ‘And at the end of those two weeks you can all bugger off, because by then I’ll be ready to take care of my own business again.’ He opened a good bottle of wine and together we drank a toast to his new leg. With a sufficient quantity of ice cubes, white wine makes a perfectly refreshing soft drink. It wasn’t even noon yet, after all.

  Mr Vergeer’s tumble down the stairs is still the topic of discussion: did his wife, or didn’t she, give him the helpful shove that landed him in hospital? The official explanation from the director’s office is that Mrs Vergeer, a bit dazed from the heat, did steer the wheelchair in the wrong direction, but that the cause of this unfortunate accident was that the handles came loose. The witnesses who claimed Mrs Vergeer had done it on purpose now mumble they might have been mistaken.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, a hallucination caused by the heatwave, I suppose,’ Bakker couldn’t help sneering.

  I was going to go out and buy a scooter, but with all the commotion I never made it. It will have to wait until tomorrow.

  Saturday, 27 July

  And I wound up buying … the Elegance 4. Stable, comfortable, with a tight turning circle, in a snazzy red colour. That’s the outcome of my visit to the mobility-scooter shop. I tried out three different models, taking each for a test ride. I eliminated the cheap Capri, more like a toy car, and another one whose name I’ve forgotten, which was too expensive. I told the man in the shop that I’d been riding one of these things for years; I thought it better for his peace of mind when he let me take them out for a spin.

  Delivery time two weeks, so I won’t be terrorizing the neighbourhood with my red monster until after my little vacation with Evert. I still need to find out about insurance. Strange that the salesman never mentioned it – that can’t be a good sign.

  I’m just going to stop by Mr Hoogdalen’s room; I want him to tell me more about the different accessories his son the garage owner could provide. I am looking forward to regaining my mobility!

  As part of her plan of action to combat the dementia, Grietje has composed, with my help, two new notes she is to carry with her at all times: ‘What to do if I get lost’ and ‘What to do if I don’t remember exactly who someone is.’

  Both notes start with: ‘Please forgive me, but I’m a bit forgetful …’

  Sunday, 28 July

  I propose that during a persistent heatwave the fire brigade be deployed to spray the elderly with water. Not only has the whinging about the heat grown as unbearable as the heat itself, but another resident has died, the fourth in one week. It’s a record, as far as I know. Fortunately this one too was someone I didn’t know very well, involving no funerary obligation on my part.

  The building is about forty years old, and besides the window blinds, there are few provisions for keeping the inhabitants cool. ‘Old people are always cold anyway,’ the architect must have been thinking. The indoor temperature may soon be over the 30 degree mark. Portable air conditioners and fans are being provided in order to keep us alive, but it’s having little effect on the temperature so far.

  My friend in the lion’s den informs me that the director is afraid our death toll will make it into the papers if this keeps up. And the temperature is forecast to be over 30 degrees before the end of the week.

  Monday, 29 July

  The jazz singer Rita Reys, a contemporary of mine, is dead. I just took a survey: everyone knows of her, but nobody ever played any of her records. Daba-doobi-didoo-dah, dada-diba-doo.

  There’s a great deal of complaining about the food. Even more than usual. The new cook has taken it into his head to make everything salt-free, and he also seems to have taken pity on people who’ve lost their teeth: he cooks everything to mush. You can drink it all through a straw. People tend more and more to shun our soup kitchen for a ready-made microwave meal from the supermarket.

  The problem is that no one dares to call for a kitchen revolt, and there’s very little chance of seeing any protesters setting themselves on fire, if only because most inmates’ hands are too shaky to strike a match.

  A few friends from the Club and I have contemplated sending in a letter about the abysmal food, but we have decided first to give ‘the others’ a chance to stick their necks out for a change. We’ll point out that opportunity to the worst complainers.

  We have two residents who play the stock market, Mr Graftdijk and Mrs Delporte. It can’t be very much money, or they wouldn’t be living here, but they always act very self-important about it. They’ve taken out a joint subscription to the Financial Times and pore over it for shares that are about to go through the roof. If they lose, it’s just dumb luck, but if they win, i
t’s their superior insight. The news that an ape was once able to secure the same investment returns as an expert stockbroker, with no recourse to insider information, came as a great blow to them. ‘That ape was simply lucky,’ Graftdijk said testily.

  Tuesday, 30 July

  Two thousand A&E admissions per year are a direct result of mobility-scooter accidents. Eefje came to show me a newspaper report with those hard facts after I proudly told her I had purchased the Elegance 4, the Saab of invalid wheels. Most of the incidents are single-vehicle accidents, unless you count the kerb as an opponent. Kerbs are responsible for quite a few spills.

  Last year the Netherlands had some 350,000 mobility scooters in circulation, so the 2,000 casualty number doesn’t sound so bad, considering the embarrassing lack of skill displayed by old people on wheels. To make mistakes is only human, but shouldn’t it be possible to learn how to accelerate and how to brake without getting the two confused? I am an advocate of a mandatory driving licence for mobility-scooterists. A portion of the exam should be held inside a crowded supermarket.

  I am quite a good driver, if I say so myself. I once spent a year driving a forklift. We even held forklift races, my mates and I. It was a long time ago, true, but the instinct’s still there. While out on my test-drives I did notice that people look down their noses at an electric wheelchair. I can totally sympathize.

  A very fat woman – she wasn’t even that old – got hers wedged fast in the checkout lane of a local pharmacy. She could neither go backwards nor forwards. Of course it wasn’t her fault that she’d seen fit to ignore the large sign saying Extra-wide Aisle a few rows further along.

  Wednesday, 31 July

  Some years ago a Belgian couple committed euthanasia together. He (eighty-three) had terminal cancer and she (seventy-eight), suffering from other serious age-related ailments, didn’t want to go on living without him. Hand in hand they stepped out of life. There’s something very romantic about that.

  The public prosecutor had opened an investigation into who might have assisted these two old lovebirds to pass away peacefully. I don’t think they ever nailed a suspect for this Good Samaritan deed.

  I was reminded of this when I read that an old couple – again in Belgium – had tumbled down the stairs together. Both died; rather a coincidence, don’t you think? And how much better for them, than for one to remain tragically behind with a broken hip and skull fracture. Having to muddle on alone for a few more years, until sweet death finally comes for him (or her).

  I have occasionally sounded the waters, to learn how one might leave this life simply, and without creating a big mess. Always with the strictest assurance that I myself have no plans in that direction, and that I’m merely interested, ‘in the unlikely event that …’ All I ever get in response are worried glances and few, if any, practical tips. Which reminds me, I must bring it up with my geriatrician.

  Thursday, 1 August

  Evert likes to flaunt his prosthesis, making a big show of attaching his artificial leg and taking it off again.

  ‘It’s pinching me a bit, I think I’ll give it a little rest,’ he’ll say, and then plonk his plastic half-leg down on the table right beside the Jaffa cakes.

  After several warnings from the staff, the director came down to tell Evert in person that in the common rooms his leg must remain attached at all times.

  ‘Really, is that compulsory? Is it written down somewhere? In the rules and regulations?’

  Stelwagen hesitated, debating whether to respond, then gave him an inscrutable look and walked away. As a tactician, she mustn’t be underestimated. She makes few mistakes and her timing is excellent. She never reveals what she’s got up her sleeve, shows little emotion and leaves the dirty work to others. I have yet to discover her weak spot.

  This morning Anja handed me a stack of papers. Our very own Wikileaks! I am going to start perusing it this afternoon. I’ll take it with me to Uden for further study.

  Tonight I was Evert’s partner at Klaverjass. He has worked up an elaborate system of signals to show which suit should be made trumps. ‘Only in a case of emergency, and only with certain opponents, mind you,’ he conceded. My virtuous disposition is opposed to it, but I will allow an exception if we have to play against Mr Bakker or Mrs Pot, and it looks like we’re losing. Sometimes one has to throw one’s principles overboard for the sake of a higher justice.

  Friday, 2 August

  The leaked documents aren’t exactly earth-shattering, at least not upon initial review. Alas. However, further study is bound to reveal a few interesting details.

  Our spy has delivered to us:

  The minutes of the last five board meetings

  The house rules

  A stack of internal memos

  The protocol for when a resident dies

  Staff instructions

  I have taken a set of photocopies over to Eefje. As I was using the photocopier in the supermarket I felt everyone was looking at me, and from pure jitters kept dropping papers on the floor. I would make a rather poor spy, I fear.

  I don’t really know what to do about our lawyer, who has been applying for these documents through the official channels, now that we have illegally obtained them from ‘a reliable source’.

  Evert and I wound up losing at Klaverjass, which is for the best, really. We are already not all that popular, and you don’t win friends by winning Klaverjass tournaments. In some old people, childish jealousy about trivial things can take on almost pathological proportions. People don’t like to give you the time of day, let alone grant you the first prize at cards, even if it’s only the eternal liver sausage.

  The motto of this little group of resentful old codgers must be: ‘How do I make things as hard on myself as possible?’ As if being old doesn’t bring misery enough.

  Saturday, 3 August

  I always get anxious about spending time away from home. I haven’t been away on holiday for twelve years.

  My weekend bag, from the ’70s, had a blackish mould growing inside which probably also dates from the ’70s. It’s high time I modernized: a brand-new suitcase on wheels now stands packed and ready by the front door.

  Jan, Evert’s son, is coming to pick us up in an hour and take us to Brabant. According to Evert, Jan has been looking forward to it, and daughter-in-law Ester has been in a tizzy for three days in anticipation of her two elderly guests’ arrival. ‘I reckon it’ll take her almost a week to get used to our presence, in other words just about in time for our departure.’

  I felt some qualms about that, but Evert told me not to worry. ‘She’s always worked up about something; if it isn’t us it’s the neighbours’ cat.’

  In this case it may be both, us and the neighbours’ cat, since Mo is coming too, and he hates cats.

  For the last time I’ll try to think of what I’m forgetting to bring.

  You’ll hear from me again on Friday, 9 August, subject to unforeseen circumstances.

  Friday, 9 August

  Uden – a place to visit! It was fun. A pleasant break from the tedious routine. But I’m also glad to be home again. One’s attachment to the peaceful little world of the care home is stronger than I’d have expected, although it pains me to admit it. As the years multiply, the ability to go with the flow decreases. I thought I was more flexible. After only five days I started longing for a little room in a house full of old people. I console myself with the thought that I may be a bit less ossified than my average fellow resident.

  Jan, Evert’s son, is a chip off the old block. He’s a riot. But after five days or so there comes a time when you start to think: one Evert is exhausting enough. Fortunately that was the time to say goodbye.

  We had plenty of laughs, went places every day, played cards, mini-golf and monopoly; and the teenage grandchildren taught us the video-game basics and how to work the Wii. It opened a new world for me. Unfortunately as of today it’s closed to me again.

  Ester, Jan’s wife, had been anticip
ating a difficult week. Having her uncouth husband and her equally uncouth father-in-law under the same roof in her respectable, proper and immaculate house was a daunting prospect. My role, as worked out beforehand with Evert, was to thaw her out a bit. It worked. Next to those two unapologetic boors, it wasn’t hard for me to play the charming, flattering, well-bred old gentleman.

  ‘Oh, stop it, you old slimeball,’ Evert hissed at me a couple of times, ‘you’re making me vomit!’

  Saturday, 10 August

  I have thought of a good idea for a club outing: a golf clinic. Apparently golf is a sport well suited to the senior citizen, although I do wonder if that applies to extremely old crocks like us. Actually, I don’t think it does, but I think mini-golf’s a bit beneath our dignity.

  This morning I rang the local golf course. I explained who we were and what we wanted: an afternoon’s activity with just a bit of a challenge. The lady on the other end of the line heard me out sympathetically and said she could arrange something. I did get a bit of a shock when I heard what it would cost: €55 per person, coffee and cake included, but wine or appetizers would be extra. ‘Not a problem,’ I heard myself say nevertheless. I am not very good at negotiating. I never have the nerve to start bargaining.

  For that sum we’re good for three hours, including a Q&A, a practice session and one round on the beginners’ course. It sounds interesting enough to put in some of my own money, in order to keep it affordable for the other members. It’s not a bad time to start dipping into my rainy-day fund, amounting to about €5,000.

  I am at a bit of a loss over what to do about Evert, but the lady on the phone said that they do sometimes have disabled people playing there. She would reserve two golf carts for us. For thirty euros.