On the Bright Side

by Hendrik Groen

  I really find myself a bit stumped by that question: what do I like, or dislike, most about myself? I’ll bring it up with Evert this afternoon, over our paschal cocktail. The best thing about Evert is that he always gives it to you straight. Less pleasant is his tendency to overdo it a bit when he’s had a few too many. So it’s a question of timing.

  Tuesday, 7 April

  Diederik Johannes Maximilianus Govert baron van Slingelandt is a name that does not give one an immediate sense of kinship, of being one of us.

  ‘We should ask him to spell it for us,’ said Leonie.

  Diederik is the banker who wanted to give the directors of ABN Amro, the national bank, a raise of a €100,000. Most Dutch people consider €100,000 a bit over the top.

  But there are always bigger fish in the sea: the American financier Stephen Schwarzman made over a billion dollars last year, Graeme informed us.

  ‘For doing what, for God’s sake?’ Mr Pot wished to know.

  Something to do with ‘private equity’.

  Graeme, who likes playing with numbers, then calculated that this Schwarzman could spend in one day what the residents in our home, all taken together, would spend over the course of three years. ‘Approximately.’

  Schwarzman thinks his salary is totally justified. I think he should be locked up in a loony bin as a megalomaniac. Let him have as much bread and water as he wants.

  When I asked Evert yesterday what he liked most about me, he frowned.

  ‘Hmm … Well, your genuine interest in and consideration for others,’ he said at last, having pondered the question for quite a while.

  I could live with that.

  ‘And least?’

  Evert didn’t need any time to think that one over. ‘That you can sometimes be a gutless, slobbering brownnoser.’

  Gulp. And here I was under the impression that I’d been making such great strides in that regard.

  ‘And what about my worst and best qualities?’ Evert asked.

  ‘You’re a great boorish lout who cares about other people.’

  Then we drank a toast to our flaws.

  Wednesday, 8 April

  Devout Mrs Van Dalen, following in her Lord’s footsteps, gave up the ghost on Good Friday. Her death created a bit of a scandal, since she’d been out cold in her room for four whole days before she was found. Her neighbour had noticed she was missing on Easter Sunday, and finally decided to check on her on Tuesday morning. Van Dalen had slipped off her chair, and was lying on the floor ‘as if she’d decided to take a nap under the table’.

  Since the rooms don’t get cleaned during the holidays, and since Van Dalen was quite independent otherwise, no one had been in her room for several days. An attendant did knock on her door twice, but when no one answered, she assumed Mrs Van Dalen was downstairs having coffee. Mrs Van Dalen was one of those residents who, like me, never had visitors, or the alarm would have been raised sooner.

  There’s nothing in the regulations about leaving residents dead in their room for four whole days unnoticed. Stelwagen has ‘paid a few friendly visits’ to try to hush it up and contain the gossip.

  She acted as if it was the deceased’s fault, and not the staff’s. I briefly considered making a stink about it, but on second thoughts I didn’t think it would help anyone. The attendants may have been a bit remiss, true, but in the big bad world outside, old people are sometimes discovered in their own homes months after they’ve died. With some 200,000 old people living by themselves in the Netherlands, it’s rather to be expected.

  This afternoon there’s another Old-But-Not-Dead Club outing. Ria and Antoine are the leaders, so I am expecting something to do with food.

  Such a shame about Gertrude Weaver. She was able to enjoy her status as the oldest person in the world for just one short week before she died. She was 116. That’s a record which, by its very nature, you can’t hang on to for very long. We’ll all just have to learn to live with that fact.

  A hundred and sixteen, please don’t let me live that long.

  Thursday, 9 April

  Yesterday’s Old-But-Not-Dead outing was a sweet-treat extravaganza. Ria and Antoine had organized a truffle-making workshop for us. There’s actually quite a lot that goes into making those posh chocs. Rather fiddly work, not our strongest suit. A good number of the delicacies wound up looking like chunks of peanut brittle, where a nice smooth, symmetrical shape would have been preferred. And the creamy filling would sometimes squirt out in unintended directions. It didn’t really matter, since the best way to clean up the mistakes was to pop them in your mouth. After two and a half hours of fiddly mess-making, we were left with a rather nice collection of about twenty reasonably competent creations. Of course for what it cost us, we could have bought ten kilos of chocolates at the confectioner’s, but where’s the fun in that?

  By the end of the afternoon we were all more than ready for some alcoholic refreshment. But after eating all that chocolate, we decided to skip the usual order of bitterballen.

  Thanks to the lovely weather, the garden will be unlocked ‘as an exception’ a week early. Thanks a lot, Mrs Stelwagen. It’s not at all clear why it’s locked in the winter in the first place. Perhaps they’re afraid of residents freezing to death out there unnoticed. The garden belongs to the home, so blame for a frozen oldie would be laid at the director’s door. There’s a big difference between wanting to be in charge, and wanting the responsibility. A thick book of rules and regulations was devised to shift the blame for any accidents on to the lowest-rung employees. One of those rules stipulates that the garden is to be opened to the residents on 15 April. And here we are a week early! How wonderfully flexible on the part of management! This afternoon the outdoor temperature is expected to be 18 degrees, little chance therefore that anyone will freeze to death.

  Friday, 10 April

  During yesterday’s Old-But-Not-Dead outing it struck me that Evert has lost weight. I mentioned it to him in the evening, over coffee, but he said looks were deceiving. He was feeling fine.

  Fifteen minutes before the doors to the garden were slated to open yesterday, a small throng of residents had already gathered there. There was some pushing and shoving. No sign of elderly courtesy. The nurse with the key had to squeeze her way through to the doors. When these were flung open, the residents charged, like old cows that have been shut in the barn all winter being released to frolic in the meadow. The crowd swarmed into the garden at a geriatric trot. I assumed it was out of enthusiasm for sun and nature, but it turned out that they were racing to capture a spot on one of the park benches. Mrs Slothouwer pushed Mrs Schaap into the bushes in order to snare the last free seat. Schaap was close to tears. She wasn’t the only one: five other residents were likewise too slow to score a seat for themselves. Crestfallen, they paced back and forth in the vicinity of the benches. Slothouwer, to the great delight of her many enemies, had miscalculated, however: she’d forgotten to visit the loo first, and she suddenly needed to go urgently. She was forced to choose: get up and lose her spot, or wet her pants. She stood up, gnashing her teeth. Mrs Schaap was awarded the vacated spot and plopped down in it, beaming. Slothouwer did not return.

  Mr Helder thought he had found a solution to the bench shortage: he started lugging a dining room chair outside, but Mrs De Roos of housekeeping stopped him.

  ‘Where are we going with that chair, Mr Helder?’

  ‘The garden?’ he squeaked.

  ‘No, out of the question. Imagine, if everyone started dragging chairs about.’

  ‘I’ll bring it back, I promise,’ he tried.

  But that wasn’t the point, said De Roos.

  Saturday, 11 April

  I find myself increasingly unable to come up with words I know exist and express precisely what I want to say. Not until long afterwards, when I’ve had to resort to ‘you know,’ will the right word pop out of its cubbyhole in my brain. By that time I no longer have any use for it.

  It’s even worse with
names.

  Little kids who don’t know another child’s name will simply say, ‘Hey, boy,’ or ‘Hey, girl,’ but if I want some lady who’s been living down the corridor from me for years to pass me the sugar, I can hardly say, ‘Hey, you,’ can I? The fact that many residents have the same problem is scant consolation.

  As his presidency wore on, Ronald Reagan resorted more and more frequently to fillers like ‘you know’ or ‘thing’. Researchers have closely analysed his speech patterns in hundreds of his off-the-cuff answers to journalists’ questions. The conclusion is that linguistic rustiness may be a precursor to Alzheimer’s Disease. With Reagan, the Americans very nearly had a president with dementia. And we may yet see the first granny president, because Hillary Clinton is about to announce her candidacy. Nearly seventy! What is that woman thinking?

  For my next turn at planning the Old-But-Not-Dead outing, I am thinking of a visit to the Kröller-Müller Museum in High Veluwe National Park. My favourite museum; has been for years. Haven’t been there in years either. It’s a scenic ride, and as far as I can recall, wheelchair- and elderly-friendly. And it has a wonderful sculpture garden. Since the success of the latter is rather dependent on the weather, I shall ask to have flexibility for the date at our next Club meeting. In the meantime I’ll ask Edward’s nephew Edwin if he’ll sacrifice a day to act as escort for the Old-But-Not-Dead gang, in exchange for food, drink and gratitude. And a strictly no-whinging busload guaranteed.

  Sunday, 12 April

  ‘No Dutch celebrities seem to be dying this year,’ Mr Pot remarked.

  ‘What about Hugo Walker, then?’ I said.

  ‘Who’s that?’ someone asked.

  ‘See? That’s what I mean,’ said Pot. ‘If a celebrity does happen to die, we’ve never even heard of them.’

  Last week we had two funerals and one cremation at the home, so it’s not as if we’re slowing down in that department. I no longer attend these. I’m not in a mood to sit and watch my own funeral. I prefer to stick my head in the sand. Some of the other residents can never seem to get enough of it, they have to say goodbye to every single dear departed, even if they’ve never exchanged so much as a word with them when they were alive. I suspect some of them only go for the cake. Not long ago I heard someone complain that they served Bastogne biscuits instead of cake at the cremation. Not very surprising, really, but it does show there’s something that’s even worse than funeral cake.

  ‘They were rock-hard, those Bastognes,’ the complainer added. ‘I always let them sit in the cupboard until they get soft, myself.’

  Nods of agreement round the table.

  I have left written instructions that after I am laid in the ground I want the wine and liquor to flow freely. I’ve entrusted the document with my last wishes to Evert, and am sure that he will carry out that part, at least, to the letter. For the financial arrangements I have opened a joint account in his name. Evert has a son and daughter-in-law who will arrange his funeral, but I have no one. I’d rather Stelwagen not be involved; if she were, chances are the cake would be past the expiry date. Evert may be a bit of a loose cannon, but when it really matters, he can be relied on to take care of business, in this case my business. He has vowed to get plastered after I’m laid to rest, raising glass after glass to my health. At my expense. He’s more than welcome to it.

  What I just said about the cake being stale if Stelwagen arranges my funeral – that’s taking it a bit too far. I take it back.

  Monday, 13 April

  I must get a move on planning that trip to Bruges. Early June would seem to me to be a good time to go, which means I have just six weeks to pull it all together. Yesterday I asked Leonie if she would be my co-organizer, and she promptly agreed. We’re having our first meeting this afternoon. Bruges, prepare thyself for the arrival of the Old-But-Not-Dead Club!

  When Mrs Langeveld takes a bite of something, she opens her mouth long before the spoon is anywhere near it, exposing a bubble or thread of spit. Then she sticks out her tongue. This is the surface upon which the food lands before being pulled inside. Next commences the slow chewing. The mouth opens briefly every so often, allowing me to check on the mastication progress of, say, the meatball. All accompanied by slurping sounds. She sits hunched back in her chair, stretching the distance from her plate to her mouth, as well as multiplying the chances of spills along the way. For that reason a large napkin spans the area from her neck to her knees as a protective shield. Her frock stays clean, but after the meal there’s usually quite a bit of spillage under the table.

  Mrs Langeveld hasn’t been here for very long, and she was sitting across from me at dinner yesterday. I kept being drawn to look at her, whether I wanted to or not. This would be quite convenient if I were interested in losing a little weight, because it does spoil my appetite. I already find it hard to concentrate on my food in the company of six noisily chewing tablemates. Sometimes I think I should sit down to dinner with ear plugs in and blinkers on.

  I, myself, am chewing my food extra carefully of late. I read an article in the newspaper where a scientist advised old people to keep chewing as long as they’re still able. Supposedly a weakened chewing ability is linked to a weakening memory.

  Free chewing gum for everyone!

  Tuesday, 14 April

  Grandma Clinton has indeed announced her candidacy for the US presidency. China was for many years ruled by men in their eighties. Since Clinton isn’t even seventy yet, shouldn’t I give her the benefit of the doubt? On the other hand: it’s better not to trust an OAP who’s still striving for that much power.

  Yesterday, Leonie and I spent three hours trying to find the most elder-friendly hotel in Bruges. It used to be that you’d go to the Belgian tourist office, pick up a few brochures and call it a day, but now you’ve got hundreds of hotels scrolling by on your computer screen, and it’s hard to see the wood for the trees. Or, rather, the wood makes it impossible to spot the best tree.

  We finally decided on one, and Leonie immediately picked up the phone to gauge their initial reaction to the arrival of eight elderly travellers.

  ‘Ah, well, that’s fine. Lovely,’ they said and didn’t seem to have a problem with it.

  That was encouraging. We took the leap and reserved seven singles and one double room from the 2nd to the 4th, the week after Whitsun.

  I do like Leonie. She is very thorough, and great at organizing. For our trip we’ll rent Stef’s luxury minivan, with him as our driver. Stef is the nephew of our honorary member Grietje, who is cognitively no longer with us. He regrets not seeing us any more, and has offered to continue to be an Old-But-Not-Dead Club driver, even now that his aunt is no longer able to join us. Now we have the luxury of a second chauffeur, we don’t have to ask Edwin every time.

  We’d like to have another person come along and lend a hand as well, because we have our work cut out for us: the lame helping the lame. Evert will ask his son Jan to sacrifice those three days and join us ‘in order to give me the last unforgettable days of my life’. He thought that was a sufficiently persuasive way of putting it.

  His son is a nice bloke, very like his old dad, so I’m sure he’ll come.

  Wednesday, 15 April

  Jan is coming along to Bruges. That’s a relief. I’ve been acting as if it’s perfectly normal for eight OAPs to go on a little trip, but in my heart I know we mustn’t be too optimistic: we’re a decrepit bunch, and we need help. When we take to the road we bring a load of ailments and handicaps with us, and a whole fleet of rolling equipment. Just getting in and out of the coach takes twenty minutes. But between Jan and Stef, we’ll have two helpers to keep us from careening off the rusty rails.

  I’m looking forward to it again, confident that it will be a success. I had begun dreading my own plan a bit. That’s a dangerous thing, dread. Dread is only a small step from the inclination to postpone something, which in turn is unpleasantly close to cancelling it altogether. And, if you’re looking for it, you can al
ways find a reason to do nothing, and then before you know it you’re sitting in your room staring out the window. Once you stop, you’ll never get on track again. Keep moving, both literally and figuratively, until you drop dead – that’s the motto.

  ‘Bach is quite a good composer, granted, but his tunes aren’t the greatest. Give me Connie Francis or Petula Clark any day.’

  Does Mrs Duits think Bach is still alive, perhaps?

  Someone had accidentally turned the radio to a classical station in the lounge.

  Come to think of it, is Connie Francis still alive? I decided not to ask. I was afraid someone would start singing ‘Arriverderci Roma’. There are very few people over the age of eighty who are still able to keep a tune. None in here, in any case. I am not looking forward to the opening rounds of the Elder Song Festival, starting less than a month from now.

  Thursday, 16 April

  People still have over a week to put their names in for the Residents’ Committee. No one has come forward so far. The Old-But-Not-Dead members have done their best to dissuade potential candidates, as unobtrusively as possible.

  ‘Oh, my, that Residents’ Committee is a real wasps’ nest. Nothing but aggro. I’d never want to sit on it, if I had a choice.’ Leonie was most persuasive. Even Ria and Antoine have temporarily dropped their principled stand against lying and deception, and given a little negative advice here and there.

  I don’t expect many residents will realize what’s happening when, at the last moment, five members of our Club suddenly put themselves forward for the position and, for want of opponents, are all chosen.

  At some point Stelwagen will of course realize that the Residents’ Committee has suddenly become an extension of the Old-But-Not-Dead Club. But by then it will be too late. She’ll have to put up with us for two whole years.