Tonight the Club is having dinner out. I made a reservation in a Thai restaurant near here that’s known to be good. I wasn’t sure if we had already eaten Thai, but then decided that if I didn’t remember, it wouldn’t make any difference. At least not for me. I don’t expect any great outcry from my fellow Club members if it turns out that the kitchen of Thailand has already been explored.
Wednesday, 9 December
It was delicious, I received plaudits for an excellent choice. The staff were very friendly, too. The only thing was, it was a bit embarrassing – the sight of a waiter with very short legs wearing enormously baggy trousers sent us into fits of the giggles. God punished us immediately, for Ria was laughing so hard that she peed in her pants. She immediately confessed it, and then there was the whole business of having to find a pull-on nappy … Anyway, it took a while, and in the meantime the food grew cold. Fortunately it tasted fine, even cold.
We were also very pleased with the bill. We are and always will be Dutch men and women, even when the cost of the dinner was borne by the Old-But-Not-Dead kitty, filled to bursting with the money Evert left us. We did not neglect to raise our glasses to him, naturally.
Yesterday afternoon a Residents’ Committee delegation, consisting of Leonie, Graeme and myself, had a ‘secret’ meeting with the Workplace Council about the director’s reorganization plans. At the last meeting Mrs Lacroix had insisted she wanted to go with us, but Leonie had given her the wrong date.
‘I didn’t think her painting show needed to be discussed with the Workplace Council,’ she said drily.
In order to keep it quiet that our Committee is girding up for a fight, Leonie had arranged to meet the chairman and secretary of the Eldercare Sector Workplace Council at the ferry dock café.
We presented the management’s plans to them, and they said that at the very least our director was jumping the gun a bit. The secretary is going to seek legal advice to see whether instituting a partial closure without a go-ahead from the Eldercare Workplace Council is permitted. He thought not. If it does turn out to be against the law, we decided it would be wise to delay revealing what we know for as long as we can. Our tactic will be to make Director Kerkhof seriously underestimate us. If at our next meeting, less than two weeks from now, he brings us a more detailed closure plan, we’ll act shocked, but fatalistic.
Just for fun, we also practised saying, ‘Well, I suppose you know best,’ to see which of us was the most convincing.
Thursday, 10 December
Mumba is dead. She didn’t feel well and then she just keeled over and died. Her mother, Thong Tai, and sister, Yindee, were at her sickbed. Very moving. Mumba is, excuse me, was, a toddler elephant at Artis Zoo. We were all quiet for a moment at coffee.
Artis recently announced they will no longer give the animals names, to make it less personal. Isn’t that kind of patronizing to the public? Had it already been so, we’d be saying, ‘Have you heard? Pachyderm 3 is dead.’
I have to admit: it does make it feel less sad.
There is a new nature programme on TV that’s very popular now: The Hunt. It involves fatalities and a great deal of spilled blood, for the programme is all about hunting. I am very fond of nature, but after watching one and a half episodes of The Hunt, I’m out. It’s too grisly for me. My sympathies are always with the underdog: the little deer running for its life from a lion, the seal being pursued by the polar bear. When I see that seal dangling from the bear’s mouth, I can’t exactly rejoice for the bear. Note that the programme is broadcast by the Evangelical Network. I don’t think a bloodied Bambi fighting for its life enhances the honour and glory of the Lord particularly, but the evangelists seem to take a different view. The whole thing just strengthens my sense of disbelief when it comes to the creation: it’s always eat or be eaten, death and decay. Who in his right mind would create such a world?
However, meandering on my mobility scooter through the Twiske nature reserve under a bright winter sun, as I did yesterday, I can’t helping thinking to myself: you’ve done a fantastic job, Creator.
Friday, 11 December
This morning I caught myself humming, unconsciously perhaps, a song from Bach:
Come sweet death, come blessed rest
Come lead me to peace
For I am weary of the world
After three bars I realized what the lyrics meant.
Don’t you have anything more cheerful in your repertoire, Groen?
Saturday, 12 December
Yesterday we had a Club meeting to discuss the filling of Evert’s spot. There are two candidates: Mr Okkie and Mrs Heineman. The latter is a newcomer who came to us from another care home that had to close. Apparently we do still occasionally let in new residents, on an emergency basis at least.
I am a fan of Mr Okkie, but I have to say that Heineman would be an asset too. She wears an enormous pair of glasses, has huge breasts and a healthy dose of self-mockery. She joked that her glasses are so large that she’s signed them up for a maintenance plan from the window washer. And as far as her prominent bosom goes, she likes to warn, as Evert too used to say: ‘If equal in all other respects, ladies with big tits go first.’ But unlike Evert, she means it in the sense of being ceded priority when entering or exiting the lifts or the dining room.
We vote ten days from now. The chosen candidate will be invited to participate in the Old-But-Not-Dead Christmas dinner on a probationary basis.
Statistically speaking, we members of the Old-But-Not-Dead Club may count ourselves lucky, considering the fact that so far this year we have lost just one of our comrades, even if he was an exceptionally great Club member. But aren’t we all? Yes, we are!
The odds are that we’d have had two members leave us by now, or, in the worst-case scenario, three. Time works inexorably against us. As the years accumulate, the chance of meeting your maker rises exponentially. I would rather not dwell on it, but here I go anyway: In the not-so-distant future, every member of the original Old-But-Not-Dead Club will be dead and gone. Not a happy thought.
I am feeling rather sombre these days, no matter how hard I try not to. I have an appointment with the doctor next Monday. I’m going to ask him for some pills to cheer me up a bit, since just telling myself ‘no whining’ doesn’t seem to do much good any more. Yesterday my friends expressed concern about my mood, even though I was doing my very best to be jaunty.
Sunday, 13 December
‘Christmas markets are very vulnerable to terrorist attacks,’ said Mr Pot.
There is some trepidation about our day trip next Wednesday to the Aachen Christmas market. Mr Pot has decided not to go because of the risk.
‘Then you’re doing exactly what the terrorists want,’ Graeme said.
‘I don’t care,’ Pot replied.
He wanted his money back, and so he sought me out, since I am the Residents’ Committee Treasurer. I had to disappoint him.
‘The rules are clear: once you’ve signed and paid, no refunds. Most of the expenses are already incurred, you see.’
I saw the disappointment on his face slowly turn to pure rage.
‘The registration fee can be refunded only in case of death,’ Leonie added, ‘but of course I wouldn’t want to put any ideas into your head.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Mr Pot suspiciously.
‘Joking,’ Leonie said, smiling.
Since he isn’t getting his money back, he’s going to have another think about whether or not to come along. On second thoughts, Germany did seem to be quite a safe country, actually.
I then casually reminded him of the evacuation of Germany’s football stadium just recently.
‘Yes, it was either a Code Orange or Code Red, I don’t remember which,’ Graeme added. Which wasn’t true, but anything’s fair game to keep Pot off the bus.
I am not looking forward to this outing myself. Six hours in the coach for the sake of two hours of wandering about inhaling bratwurst grease. It’s lucky that I lov
e bratwurst. Mit Sauerkraut, please.
One lady asked the Committee to prohibit beer drinking. She had nothing against beer, mind, but was afraid that if people drank, a single rest stop on the journey home would not be sufficient and we might be late for dinner. Our response was that we don’t believe in prohibition.
Monday, 14 December
This morning I was supposed to have an appointment with the GP. He was out sick, I was told when I signed in at the desk, but his new colleague in the group practice could see me.
This was a young, not bad-looking woman. (I’m not sure, actually, when you should use ‘not bad-looking’ and when you’re supposed to say ‘good-looking’. Is ‘good-looking’ better than ‘not bad’?) I was already a bit nervous, and having to see an unfamiliar doctor didn’t help. I needn’t have worried. My own doctor tends to look pensive and worried, and specializes in awkward silences. I don’t like awkward silences while I’m in the examination room. It makes me think the doctor is wondering how best to break the bad news to me.
This new doctor was a breath of fresh air. She greeted me brightly, with a twinkle in her eye.
‘Hello, Mr Groen, I am Doctor Steenbergen. How are you?’
I hesitated. Should I say ‘well’ or ‘middling’ or perhaps even ‘terrible’? Under normal circumstances you say ‘very well, thank you’, even if you’re feeling terrible, but in the case of a doctor that isn’t very helpful, is it?
‘If I were to express it as a number, I’d give it a five,’ I said after giving it some thought. ‘And you?’
‘Um … eight and a half … no, just eight.’ And she went on, ‘Just a failing five? What can I do for you to make it a passing grade? What seems to be the trouble?’
I immediately felt at ease, and related in uncharacteristic detail all that’s been weighing me down of late. She listened calmly, asking the occasional question.
Twenty minutes later I left her office with a prescription for Citalopram. I hadn’t even taken one pill yet, but already felt quite a bit jauntier.
The doctor had said, ‘Normally I’d first send you to the psychiatric consultant, but in this case we’ll just cut corners a bit. At your age we’re not going to waste any time. I think your request is well justified.’
I thanked her profusely. Her only condition was that I return in two weeks to report how I was doing.
I went straight to the chemist’s to pick up the anti-depressant, and took the first pill when I got home. According to the doctor they only start working after a week, ‘but,’ she added, ‘if you have enough faith in it, you’ll feel some improvement in a day’.
I started reading the insert, but the long list of possible side effects made me feel even more depressed, so I threw it away. I doubt the intention is to have the leaflet and the pills cancel each other out.
Tuesday, 15 December
Yesterday Leonie and I met with Peter Johanson, a lawyer who’s an old friend of Antoine’s. Friendly bloke, early sixties, with a long career in social law.
‘My heart is with the vulnerable and indigent,’ he explained with a big grin.
‘You sound a bit like a missionary,’ said Leonie.
‘More like a man with a mission. If I can throw a spanner into the bureaucratic works somewhere, or foil an arrogant trustee or two, I am a happy man.’
It seems we’ve caught ourselves an old Provo. I decided his motivation was more than sufficient to take our chances with him. Our lawyer further told us we were his first eldercare matter, and that he would be honoured to thwart the closing of our care home, or at least to postpone it considerably.
We told him about Van de Kerkhof’s plans. He asked a few incisive questions and then started nodding to himself.
‘I can see possibilities. We’re going to let that Kerkhof dig his own grave.’
A noble ambition.
Johanson is to remain under the radar for the time being. He will, however, immediately begin studying the legal precedents and parent company’s regulations. We’ll let the Workplace Council deal with all official contacts with management and board. The Council has its own legal counsel.
Tomorrow we’re off to Aachen with forty-seven other residents. I have a hip flask of brandy in my bag to help me get through any difficult moments. If, for instance, a singer or songstress manages to capture the driver’s microphone.
I mustn’t forget the earplugs.
Good news from Paris: the climate is saved. Just in the nick of time too, according to Mrs Schansleh, because ‘Once you’ve whipped the egg, you can’t unwhip it.’ The residents are happy for their children and grandchildren.
Thursday, 17 December
It wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. Upon boarding, the Old-But-Not-Dead members quickly secured the last two rows for ourselves. It’s an old law of nature that the seat you claim at the outset is yours for the remainder of the trip. At the front of the bus there was a scuffle for the first rows. Mr Pot thought he had the right to claim a front seat, even though it was already taken, because that was where he’d sat the year before.
‘That was last year, and this is a different coach,’ he was told.
Sulking, he had to make do with the fourth row. Pot had decided to come after all, in spite of his fear of a terrorist attack, because otherwise he’d have paid good money for nothing.
‘So you’d rather get blown up, then?’ Graeme asked in passing.
It was quite a trek: over 200 kilometres there and 200 kilometres back. But the group at the back of the bus was as elated as a class on a school outing, so the time flew by.
You have to love German Christmas markets. The beer tankards were gigantic and the sausages snapped nicely as you bit down on them. There was German Christmas music, played by a live brass band whose members all looked as if they were extremely partial to beer and sausages. The tuba player looked ready to explode at any minute, and a few of the horn players were clearly bound for a glutton’s death.
There was also an abundance of Christmas rubbish for sale. I saw a sign meant for hesitant customers: ‘GANZ NICHT TEUER (not at all expensive)’. Shopping fever and penny-pinching were engaged in a bitter struggle. First one would win out, then the other.
On the way home quite a lot of alcohol appeared to have been smuggled on to the bus and, with a cup of brandy, beer or wine in hand, the kilometres flew by. The problem that had been feared did come to pass: we had to make an extra lavatory stop.
‘I’m going to pee in my pants,’ Mrs Hoensbroek yelled, ‘I can’t keep it in any longer!’
‘I have to go even more,’ Mr Dickhout one-upped her.
The driver was forced to stop. A quick rest stop can take forty-five minutes, and so we arrived home late for dinner.
Cook refused to reheat the soup for us.
‘I’m not going to be thrown off my schedule.’
He still doesn’t get it: he’s wasting the goodwill he will shortly need when his job is on the line.
Friday, 18 December
Sometimes it’s almost as if the residents enjoy bragging about the ailments that come with age. Yesterday it was memory’s turn.
‘My memory has become a black hole; nothing escapes from it any more,’ said Mrs Van Diemen, when at teatime she wasn’t able to get any of her table companions’ names right. And the solution appeared to be retreating further and further out of reach: ‘I’ve already tried watching that memory training programme on the telly twice, but I don’t notice any difference,’ said Van Diemen with a sigh.
Mrs Smit put in her two cents. She’d returned from the shop downstairs empty-handed on two separate occasions this week.
‘I couldn’t remember what I was going to buy.’
‘I should think it was a pack of biscuits,’ I surmised.
‘How did you know, Mr Groen?’ Smit asked, astonished.
I told her that I am sometimes clairvoyant. That provoked wide-eyed stares. To forestall being asked to read their fortunes, I quickly added that I wa
s only joking. Smit could not accept it, after the miracle of the biscuits.
As a matter of fact, I too often find myself on my way somewhere without any notion of what I was going to do. When that happens I’ll return to my starting point and have a good look around. Then I’ll usually remember: ‘Ah yes, I was fetching the scissors to open that package.’
Saturday, 19 December
Yesterday was the great ‘A-Prize-Every-Time’ Christmas bingo tournament. Half an hour before the start, a great throng was already gathering at the overflowing prize table, as people tried to decide which prizes they would want to win. Even some residents who on normal days no longer leave their rooms had dragged themselves downstairs for the event, since you can’t let an opportunity like this slip through your fingers. Four residents at a competing care home had even come to join in. That led to a bit of a brawl, since Mr Pot insisted they be told to leave.
‘Bingo is for our own residents only,’ Pot insisted loudly. A few supporters nodded in agreement.
‘So you think we should close the borders?’ asked Ria.
Yes, Pot confirmed wholeheartedly.
The Residents’ Committee’s decision, however, was that this bingo was open to the public, and everyone could stay.
‘We’ll accept a whole tsunami of aged strangers if we have to,’ Leonie clarified.
Some people decided to be clever and order five bingo cards, but you were only allowed to have one card in play. The Committee had not anticipated the consequences of the Prize-Every-Time concept. The first completed cards started coming in at a measured pace, but as the numbers continued to be called out, many more prize winners began surging forward, in waves of ten or fifteen at a time. The jury, consisting of Graeme, Ria and myself, then had to draw lots to determine the order in which the contestants could choose their prizes. Some suspicious residents insisted that we check every single card. The cheaters were sent back to their seats. In short: there was a pandemonium of greedy residents, armed with rollators and canes. They were falling all over one another, desperately trying to get their hands on a Christmas candle, a garden gnome or an almond-roll pastry. Once again it was clear that the veneer of civilization amongst the elderly is but paper-thin. With all the squabbling over the prizes, the hour grew late. When we proposed cancelling the second round in view of the time, there was a popular insurrection, wherefore we quickly withdrew the suggestion. Halfway through the second bingo round, Cook came stomping out of the kitchen, where the dinner was getting ruined.
On the Bright Side Page 33