The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old

by Hendrik Groen

  We took the minibus out and a taxi home. Grietje insisted on paying for all of it. ‘I have seven thousand euros left to spend before I no longer know what money is for.’

  In just a few months, Grietje has grown far more open and direct. As if Alzheimer’s were having a liberating effect on her. She hopes to be able to come along on the wine trip in the spring without being too much of a nuisance for the rest of us. At first glance she seems to have everything under control, but if you pay close attention you notice the regression. She had trouble finding her way back to our table from the loo, for example. And when the taxi came she tried to get into the driver’s seat – the driver was having a cigarette on the kerb. The man thought she was taking the mickey out of him.

  Wednesday, 11 December

  Eefje is slowly fading away. She is losing more and more weight and sleeps practically the entire day. Every so often she’ll wake up for a bit. I still read to her and let her listen to music, but her nods of approval are getting fainter and fainter. She seems to be sinking slowly into death.

  I sit next to her and hold her hand. Sometimes I’ll caress her old cheeks. Very occasionally she’ll look at me as if recognizing something.

  The doctor says it could still take a week or a month, two months even.

  In a fit of rebellion I have put up a Christmas tree in my room, which is against the rules. Even though my Christmas tree is only fifty centimetres tall, angel at the top included, it isn’t allowed – a fire hazard. I smuggled it inside on my scooter, in a rubbish bag.

  I am curious to see if anyone will give me away, and if so, who.

  Thursday, 12 December

  This morning Mrs Tan accosted me in the Conversation Lounge. ‘Are these the right pills?’ she asked, waving a little bottle in my face. I said I was sorry but that I couldn’t tell one pill from another.

  ‘I can’t either,’ she said, ‘but my other pills are finished and these are the same colour.’

  I called for a nurse, which sent Mrs Tan into a huff.

  In order to forestall squabbles, a weekly TV schedule is sent down from on high telling the residents which channel is to be watched on what day. Football receives precedence over all other programmes. When the national team or Ajax are playing, you can count on finding a big group assembled in front of the telly. They’re not necessarily all football fans; there are people who watch the TV downstairs no matter what’s on, so there are some who are completely ignorant about the game.

  Mrs Sluys, for example, only comments whenever a player spits on the ground. ‘Why do they have to spit so much?’ she says every time, baffled.

  ‘Yes, now, with billiards there’s far less of that,’ said Evert.

  Friday, 13 December

  Friday the 13th, a good day to buy a lottery ticket. One always has to have something to hope for. If I win the jackpot, I’m buying a small, private, old-age home for myself and my friends. It won’t have a director, a porter, or Board of Directors. No human-resource manager, accountant or head of housekeeping. No rules, regulations or interdictions. That will save buckets of money and a lot of palaver. What there will be room for is: common sense, friendly staff and a good cook who’s always on call, in case we don’t feel like preparing our own meals in our well-equipped kitchen. A home with spacious, light-filled rooms where you can keep your cat, dog, or Christmas tree if you are so inclined.

  How simple is that?

  Keep dreaming, Hendrik.

  Today I received by express mail a letter of ‘non-transferable original documents’, plus a secure envelope for cashing in my €7,450 cheque and placing my papaya capsule order.

  Saturday, 14 December

  The fish in the fourth-floor aquarium are all dead. This time there was no sign of tell-tale crumbs. I stopped in at Evert’s just to double-check, and asked if perhaps he had poured some Drano in this time, but he swore he knew nothing about it.

  It may just have been some kind of fatal fish epidemic, although nobody will believe that, given the previous two aquarium genocides.

  We are informed that ‘Management is conducting a thorough investigation, and is awaiting the report from the veterinarian.’ I suppose performing an autopsy on a neon tetra is easier said than done.

  This time the police were left out of it. That does show a learning curve on the director’s part.

  I found an invitation that had been slipped under my door. It is for a Christmas dinner chez Evert, organized by Ria and Antoine. Our whole club is invited, minus Eefje. It’s going to be a bit of a squeeze in Evert’s cramped flat, and Mo will have to be put outside so that his farts won’t spoil our appetites, but it’s something to look forward to. Evert’s place was chosen because it’s sheltered accommodation, where cooking is allowed. The feast is scheduled for Christmas Day, coinciding, not really by accident, with the home’s traditional Christmas dinner. It gives us a good excuse not to attend.

  Sunday, 15 December

  Our proposed truancy from the official Christmas dinner has not been received kindly. Last night Cook came out while we were eating our puddings to demand, in front of all the other residents, if his cooking wasn’t good enough for us or something. I was rather dumbfounded.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, because you prefer not to join us for dinner.’

  ‘We are having dinner en petit comité,’ said Antoine.

  ‘On petit comitay?’

  ‘That means in intimate company.’

  ‘What’s wrong with our company?’ Mr Bakker yelled immediately.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well then!’

  This new cook takes everything rather personally. If someone leaves so much as one potato on their plate, he likes to storm into the dining room to chew the miscreant out. He has pride in his profession; he just can’t cook, which is a distinct disadvantage for a cook. Perhaps, in my drive for complete candour, I should have told him that, but it didn’t feel like the right moment. I could have had a knife plunged into my ribs. And, in the immortal words of Karel van het Reve: ‘I hate being stabbed to death.’ The atmosphere is hostile enough already. People were muttering darkly about the fact that they weren’t considered fun to be with. I didn’t think it was the right moment to tell them to look in the mirror.

  Monday, 16 December

  People were giving me pitying glances; ah, look at the old man on his little buggy in the pouring rain. But I was having a grand old time. I had been waiting for a good downpour to try out my new rain gear. It isn’t as waterproof as promised on the package – it leaks a bit at the seams. But fine, no whining, just keep your eyes on the road.

  After about an hour I wheeled into the foyer, drenched to the skin. The porter looked furious because of the trail of mud behind me, and he’s the one who has to keep the entrance hall clean. I gave him an extra-friendly nod.

  In this weather you mustn’t forget to load up your battery before setting off. If you run out of power on the way, and nobody shows up to rescue you in time, you’ll die of hypothermia. On a Sunday afternoon in December, many parts of North Amsterdam are completely deserted. And if anyone does come along, the question is whether he’ll stop for an old man on a mobility scooter desperately signalling to him, or just give a friendly wave and continue on his way. I always take my mobile, just in case. I don’t know if the AA comes out for a motorized chair.

  After my rain-soaked ride I stopped at Evert’s for a glass of brandy. It wound up being three. Then we ordered a pizza. The pizza quattro stagioni had been sitting in its cardboard box for rather a long time. Even Mo found it tough to chew.

  Back in my own room I had just enough energy left to fall asleep in front of the telly.

  Tuesday, 17 December

  ‘You may as well stop reading to her. I don’t think Mrs Brand can hear you any more.’

  Eefje rarely opens her eyes now and barely reacts, so the nurse may be right. But viscerally, I think, she may draw some vague solace from the voice a
t her bedside. And as long as I’m sitting there twice a day, I might as well read a good book to her or let her listen to some music. If it doesn’t give her any comfort or peace, then at least it consoles me a bit. You can’t read aloud and fret at the same time.

  I have also just started reading a new book: Your Money or Your Life. It’s about five old geezers in a nursing home who decide to rob a bank. So far I think it’s a good book, with recognizable protagonists.

  Old is in. At least, there seem to be films, books, documentaries and newspaper articles about old people galore. We don’t notice all the extra attention having very much effect on our daily lives; on the contrary, there is less money for us and less care than a few years ago.

  The next generation of pensioners is starting to get nervous, now that they see their fathers and mothers growing lonely and isolated, or already in their graves. The rich and influential sixty-year-olds of today certainly don’t see themselves wasting away in a place like this.

  Wednesday, 18 December

  Mr Tolhuizen had taken the minibus to visit his son in Geuzenveld. Quite an undertaking for a man of ninety-three. On the way back the thoughtful driver helped him climb into the bus. He found a seat in the back, since there were already six OAPs sitting in the front seats.

  It was a long trip, via Bijlmer and South Amsterdam, and Mr Tolhuizen grew a bit sleepy because the driver had turned up the heat to 23 degrees for the sake of the old people. He must have nodded off at some point.

  When he woke up, he was slumped low in his seat. It took a while for him to realize where he was. It was silent and dark. The motor wasn’t running, and he was alone. The minibus was parked in a quiet lane in Koog aan de Zaan, and the doors were locked.

  It took half an hour for Tolhuizen to catch the attention of a passer-by, and then another fifteen minutes before the police breezed along. Within thirty seconds they had jimmied open the door.

  It took twenty minutes for the driver to be located. He came running over, terribly upset, in his slippers. He kept saying again and again how sorry he was, all the way home.

  ‘I started to feel sorry for him,’ said Tolhuizen, a man who had never been the object of so much attention.

  Thursday, 19 December

  Mrs Trock (‘I’m ever such an eggsellent speller’) thought she’d give the national televised spelling bee, The Grand Dictation of the Dutch Language, a try. She had thirty-seven errors. And that was just in the first sentence. Then she urgently needed to go to the loo. She was about to take her sheet with her, but Graeme stopped her. ‘I’ll keep it here for you, if you like.’ The other four participants gave up after the first read-through.

  I’m too chicken myself to give it a try.

  Mr Tolhuizen was informed over the phone by the Connexxion minibus representative that the driver who’d left him on the bus had been fired on the spot.

  Tolhuizen protested that it was his own fault, he’d ducked out of sight and had then fallen asleep. He said he wanted to speak to the driver, but Connexxion refused to give him his phone number.

  ‘He was such a nice chap. He couldn’t count, that’s all, but is that a reason to fire someone?’

  In the end he did manage to find out the man’s phone number, and rang to tell him he was prepared to declare under oath that he’d hidden himself on purpose.

  ‘People are so ready to jump to conclusions, when sometimes it’s just an unfortunate set of circumstances.’

  Hats off to Tolhuizen.

  Friday, 20 December

  Eefje is slowly, gently, slipping into death. She no longer opens her eyes. And the only sign of life is that she’s still breathing. I have stopped reading to her. I visit every day to say hello and hold her hand.

  We’ve had so little time together.

  I never told her I am crazy about her.

  Saturday, 21 December

  ‘If there’s anyone in here who’s against diarrhoea, it’s me,’ said Mr Bakker. ‘I have the trots at least three times a week. But I certainly don’t need anyone to start a fundraiser for me.’

  Some residents thought the week-long campaign on the radio against world childhood diarrhoea was pure nonsense.

  ‘Why can’t they just send a few truckloads of Imodium over there? It doesn’t have to cost ten million, surely?’ opined Mrs Pot, who on an annual basis swallows at least a thousand euros’ worth of pills herself.

  Today I visited Grietje in her room. She had a nice nativity display on the table, but I couldn’t help noticing that the baby Jesus was swarming with flies.

  ‘Yes, I’d noticed that too,’ she said.

  The fruit-fly trail led to two rotten bananas hidden behind the crib.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been looking for those everywhere!’

  She had spent days trying to find the bananas, because she’d checked them off on her shopping list, but had finally given up hope of locating them before they spoiled. We had a good laugh about it, and she cleaned up the mess. Hopefully the flies will leave of their own accord. Now Jesus knows what it’s like to be a poor African baby.

  Grietje is slowly and almost imperceptibly going downhill. But: ‘Every fine day is one more day,’ she says.

  Sunday, 22 December

  Preparations for the Old But Not Dead Christmas Day dinner are in full swing. On Boxing Day we’re joining the other residents down in the dining room. Although even that was far from straightforward.

  ‘So I assumed that you wouldn’t come on Boxing Day either,’ said the cook, waving the meal-plan form I’d filled out.

  ‘On what do you base that “So”?’ I asked.

  He needed some time to think about that. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you said “So” we wouldn’t come for Boxing Day either.’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Yes, and so?’

  He was completely confused. ‘So … you are coming, then?’

  As the scribe charged with writing the Christmas Day menus, I’m the only one who knows what we’re having to eat.

  I am looking forward to my first stuffed turkey. It’s the Christmas dish they always have in films and books, but I have never seen one of those giant chickens carried to the table myself. With Ria and Antoine as chefs, you can be sure that turkey won’t have died in vain.

  I am also struck by the come-back of the fondue. A few years ago it was definitely passé, but these past weeks the supermarket shelves have been groaning with ready-to-cook meat-fondue packages. (Won’t they spoil?)

  We had fondue bourguignon in here once, a couple of years ago. The damage: several first- and second-degree burns, a number of dresses and suits to the cleaner’s, one singed wig, charred meat, and two staff members who finally blew their tops. A complete shambles!

  Monday, 23 December

  It must be the devil’s work: our most obese resident, who loved to eat – nay, to stuff herself silly – just passed away, two days before the culinary high point of the year. She weighed 160kg, a bit on the heavy side for someone her height (1.45m), wouldn’t you think? She couldn’t help it; she had Prader-Willi syndrome. She did nonetheless reach the surprisingly ripe old age of seventy-eight. Permanently parked in her custom-sized wheelchair for almost ten years, she occupied herself with just a single activity: gorging herself. Besides that, there was nothing very human about her. She had no friends. It must have been quite a job for the nursing staff to keep that huge tub of lard, with all her rolls and creases, reasonably clean. The undertaker will have to have a coffin specially made for her, in the shape of a cube, I imagine.

  Forgive me, I’m being a bit crude and rude about this, but I can’t make the reality prettier than it is: sad, grim and funny all at once.

  I had a surprise visit from the head of housekeeping. She had been informed that I have a real Christmas tree in my room, which is against the rules. She was prepared to turn a blind eye this year, however. Hmm, how very tolerant of her!

  She wouldn’t tell me who had ‘informed’ her
of it.

  Tuesday, 24 December

  I am fasting today so that tomorrow I’ll have a good appetite.

  My best suit is hanging next to a freshly ironed shirt and the gold bow tie I once bought in a party shop long ago. The shoes have been polished.

  I’m still quite dashing for my age, if I may say so myself. Vanity is for ever.

  All the menu cards have to be rewritten on account of one or two unfortunate mistakes in the French names. Antoine tactfully pointed them out to me. I must also polish up my after-dinner speech a bit. Busy, busy, busy. I won’t have time for my daily drive.

  At teatime yesterday I asked around and found out that some of the residents have not set foot outside since October. They remain indoors for most of the autumn and the entire winter, unless there’s an urgent reason to venture out. And then it’s usually limited to shuffling to the minibus or an offspring’s car and back again.

  I like to get good and drenched sometimes, and to let the wind tousle my few remaining hairs. I’ve had more than enough occasion to do so these past few weeks. No sign yet of the severe winter they’ve been predicting.

  Wednesday, 25 December

  This morning I popped round to see Eefje and to wish her a merry Christmas. Standing at her bedside, it occurred to me there wasn’t much left to wish for. A pleasant voyage, perhaps.

  She looked so peaceful lying there, thin and pale, yet dignified and lovely.