The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old

  The world won’t be better off with two billion mobility scooters creating havoc in the streets.

  Investment advice for enterprising twenty-somethings: buy shares in incontinence nappies.

  Last night we had an Old But Not Dead meeting in Graeme’s room. With Chablis and appetizers, delivered from the snack bar because deep-frying in the rooms is prohibited. There is nothing better than a piping hot bitterball with a cold glass of wine. It was a lovely evening.

  We decided that if an excursion has to be postponed for some reason, it will not affect the date of the next outing; but we’re allowed to swap dates amongst ourselves.

  We have had various requests from people who would like to join our club, but after careful consideration we have decided to keep the number at a maximum of six for now. A manageable number, easy to organize, and we all have time for one another. There were one or two rather good candidates; we’re putting them on a waiting list. And the rest, eight or so old bores, we can just give the brush-off.

  Thursday, 4 April

  In Amsterdam there is a care home for wealthy OAPs: they have bridge instead of bingo, Haydn instead of Humperdinck, filet mignon instead of meatballs. And … unlimited clean disposables. Long-term health insurance pays for the nursing care, and the residents pay €4,000 a month for food and lodging. If I were to check in there, I’d have to find a cardboard box to sleep under in three months’ time.

  There are also homes for ageing vegetarians, for ancient artists, for geriatric anthroposophists and for old homeless people; I believe you’re not supposed to call them tramps or bag ladies any more. I don’t know if I would exchange one of those institutions for ours. I don’t think whiny vegetarians or anthroposophists would be an improvement on our own bellyachers. I would like to live somewhere without griping, moaning or groaning. A little cantankerousness is fine, otherwise I too would be excluded.

  Actually, I don’t believe we have even a single vegetarian living here, let alone any anthroposophists. We do on the other hand have some ladies who are adept at needlework, and a few gents who are excellent billiards players.

  I have asked Anja if she could dig up this home’s charter and regulations, and photocopy them for me. Plus any other documents that could be relevant, such as the Arbo labour ordinance, to find out if Mrs Stelwagen’s refusal to allow us to use the kitchen is legitimate. I suspect that our club will run into problems with ‘Madam Management’ again in future, and it will be useful to have a look into the forest of regulations she hides behind.

  I’ve told Graeme and Eefje about it, and they’re willing to help me read through them. Evert wasn’t interested, ‘But if the need should arise for another round of cake crumbs in the fish tank, I’m your man!’

  Friday, 5 April

  Everyone was still reeling from the news: ‘FISCAL LAW AFFECTS 65-PLUSSERS’. And then on top of that, today: ‘GOVERNMENT INSTITUTES NEW MASTER PLAN TO TURN DEMENTIA TIDE’. Rather a lot to digest round the coffee table.

  To begin with the tax issue: it seems that the newly simplified tax law, as it applies to old-age benefits, is hiding a fly in the ointment. I just can’t believe that not one of the Inland Revenue’s 30,000 employees (that’s right, 30,000!) had the foresight to work out what the consequences of the new regulations would be for us. Everyone’s always surprised: ‘Oh dear, are poor Gramps and Gran taking yet another hit?’ The Finance Minister ‘will have to take measures to rectify it of course’, as he himself now says. And if you ask us, he should be quick about rectifying it too, at least if it means changing it back to the way it was before. Otherwise we’ll all be staring at Krol’s indignant protest-face for ever.

  As for the dementia tsunami they’re expecting, more on that later. Too much misery to cope with all at once.

  And it’s still too cold for the time of year; we’re desperate for some nice toasty sunshine. After three weeks of this blast from the east, wind force 6, everyone’s despondent. Summer’s nearly here and ‘your balls’, to quote Evert, ‘freeze to your bum’. I am not one to drone on and on about the weather, but even the most high-minded human is only human; you wind up joining the bellyaching rabble, you can’t help yourself. I admit it: I’m turning into an old misery guts.

  Saturday, 6 April

  Old people are forever grunting and groaning. Sometimes it’s out of exertion or pain, but more often simply out of habit. I have made a small study of it.

  The champion grunter is Mr Kuiper, not my best friend to start with. Standing up, putting on his coat, picking something up, even if it’s just a teacup; everything is accompanied by a groan as if he’s being run over by a steamroller.

  Once I started noticing, it began irking me more and more. That’s wrong. Don’t get annoyed, just wonder at it, my father used to say. Advice meant for others, since my father got extremely worked up about everything.

  This morning I plucked up the courage and asked Kuiper what made him groan so when he sat down.

  ‘Who, me?’ he replied, genuinely surprised. For half an hour afterwards he didn’t make a sound, but then, slowly but surely, the grunting started up again. It was like women’s tennis. There used to be very little grunting, as far as I’m aware, but nowadays I have to turn down the sound when watching the tennis on the telly. They’re doing it deliberately. And it’s contagious: the men seem to be doing it more and more as well.

  Meanwhile it’s left me with a problem. I’m starting to loathe Kuiper, because I notice every little groan. And it’s not just him. Quite a number of the other inmates as well. And, worst of all, I can sometimes hear myself doing it too. How do I break myself of the habit?

  I presented my problem to Evert. He thought answering each grunt with an even louder grunt might help. He tried out his theory a few hours later. The grunters gazed at Evert in surprise and asked him if he was feeling all right.

  Sunday, 7 April

  Mr Schaft from the dementia unit managed to slip through a door that had been left open and sat down with us in the common room. He showed us his new bracelet, proud as a peacock. He maintained that his mother-in-law had given it to him. It read Do not resuscitate.

  ‘Do you know what it means?’ asked Eefje kindly.

  No, he did not.

  I asked if he was certain his mother-in-law had given it to him.

  That made him laugh, which brought on such a coughing fit that he almost suffocated. Which attracted the attention of the attendants, who conducted him back to the locked ward, so that we are left not knowing who is distributing those bracelets.

  Evert saw a business opportunity there, he told us with a perfectly straight face.

  I promptly ordered one from him. That stumped him for a moment.

  It was a joke, but then again not really. I think he’ll probably try making me one.

  Be that as it may, I am going to look into whether bracelets of this kind are legally binding. While I’m at it, I might as well investigate if the advance directive requesting euthanasia in case of mental incompetence is valid, because that seems dicey too. Although it’s a subject that almost never comes up. ‘There’s a great taboo on the eu-word,’ was Graeme’s solemn but provocative reaction to the resuscitation bracelet. There was some uneasy shuffling in chairs and long and concentrated stirring of coffee cups. ‘Suicide isn’t something these folks care to talk about,’ Evert added slyly.

  Monday, 8 April

  Spring: anyone who is able to totter took a walk yesterday. Even if only to the bench by the front door. Four of our residents were sitting there companionably discussing the lovely weather when an elderly gentleman no one had seen before sat down in the last empty space. Mrs Blokker wasn’t spry enough to head him off. She glared at him. ‘You are sitting on our bench.’

  ‘I don’t see where it’s written that it belongs to you,’ said the man, unfolding his newspaper.

  ‘We always sit here,’ Blokker’s fellow inmates said, backing her up.

  ‘Well, for the next half
hour I’m going to be sitting here,’ said the gentleman, unperturbed.

  Mrs Blokker went off to get help but couldn’t find anyone but the porter. ‘This bench is the property of this home,’ the porter tried telling him.

  ‘This bench is located on a public thoroughfare and therefore belongs to everyone,’ was the answer.

  After reading his paper for half an hour in icy silence, he stood up, bowed, and walked away.

  I had to listen to this story four times, in every major and minor key of indignation. It was Sunday’s major event.

  Excursion number three has been postponed for two days because Grietje is still getting over a light bout of pneumonia. It was supposed to be tomorrow and has been moved to Friday.

  I was very disappointed. Oh, don’t get carried away, Groen! You know perfectly well that the members of our club have seen better days and are prone to get sick. The vote we took not to alter the entire schedule if one outing has to be postponed is already being put to the test.

  I have finally come to a decision about the outing I am organizing: it will be a cookery class. After whittling it down to four chefs I found on the Internet, based on price and distance, I phoned each one at least three times in order to determine whether they had enough patience to deal with old people. My ploy disqualified two of the four. In the end I decided on a cookery school called Know Yer Onions because the name implies a sense of humour. They don’t take themselves too seriously, which is the way I like it. There are too many people who consider themselves far too important. And yet not one of us is anything but a grain of sand in the desert, a speck of dust in the universe.

  That’s a bit over the top, Hendrik.

  Tuesday, 9 April

  At last, another famous death to deplore over coffee: Margaret Thatcher. There haven’t been very many celebrities falling by the wayside this year, and there aren’t many people about whom opinions are as divided as the Iron Lady. Mr Bakker thought she was a wonderful woman: ‘At least she stood for something!’

  I asked him what she stood for.

  ‘Well, she stood for what she wanted.’

  Grietje: ‘And what did she want, exactly?’

  Bakker: ‘Is this some sort of cross-examination?’

  Yesterday there was a residents’ meeting to inform us of the Board’s plans to adapt this building to today’s needs. No idea what exactly ‘today’s needs’ are, but the underlying motivation is usually cost-cutting. All under the banner of good stewardship or increased efficiency.

  The director said emphatically, over and over, that nothing was set in stone yet, and that the purpose of this meeting was to ascertain the residents’ wishes. The pretence that we have a say in the matter. It only led to greater anxiety. Yet another reason for worrying. Residents started hoarding moving boxes that very afternoon. ‘Old plants should not be repotted,’ Mrs Schaap kept bleating at anyone who would listen. The fact that she compares herself to a plant speaks to a self-knowledge for which I’d never given her credit. She does speak, but other than that she leads a largely vegetative existence.

  Personally, I am all for a radical overhaul. The more disruptive the merrier, and the sooner the better. At least a year will go by before they start on any actual demolition work, and you never know if you’ll still be around to see it.

  What if the paramedics don’t notice your Do not resuscitate bracelet until they’ve got your ticker going again with a powerful electric shock? What then? Would they have to desuscitate you? What would people think?

  Or: what if the spouse of the person who doesn’t want to be resuscitated insists that everything possible be done to keep the patient alive, bracelet or no bracelet?

  I woke up this morning with these questions spinning round my head.

  Wednesday, 10 April

  My mole in administration tells me that the Inspector’s Office has given advance notice of a ‘surprise’ visit. Complaints have come in. Alarm bells are going off in the office. ‘Elder abuse’ is a hot topic in the papers. Two nursing-home operators are in trouble. One of them has had twenty-seven of its homes slapped with an order for extra oversight. ‘GRANNY ABUSE!’ blared a recent headline. Everyone was shocked, shocked! Maybe ‘everyone’ ought to go and have a look for themselves at these homes, to see what you get with poorly trained, overworked and underpaid personnel. Add to that the nine administrative layers heaped upon all self-respecting nursing-home conglomerates, and you’ll see that every possible thing has been done to guarantee mishaps. After years of efficiency measures imposed by the boards of directors, the only thing left standing is the quality of their own compensation packages. The care-givers, on the other hand, are allowed two minutes and fifteen seconds to hoist disabled residents onto the potty and pull their pants up again afterwards. Which doesn’t leave a great deal of time for bum-wiping.

  There, I just felt like having a good gripe.

  The other side of the coin is that some of the old people in here are such terrible bores that you wouldn’t mind letting them wallow in their own poo a bit longer.

  A recent scandal in here: a care-giver who was hit by one of the residents hit back. A little slap, which was not uncalled for. The so-called victim had been behaving worse than a toddler. Nevertheless: care-giver gets the boot; peace restored.

  Thursday, 11 April

  There are days when nothing much happens. Best just not to write anything.

  I could waffle on about the food and the weather, but that’s already most of my fellow inmates’ favourite way to pass the time. Don’t even think of starting a discussion about Nietzsche. Which is fine by me, since I don’t know a thing about Nietzsche myself.

  Just as long as I have nobody whining at me, I’m content.

  The trick, therefore, is to be circumspect about who you end up sitting next to in the Conversation Lounge. Many of the seats are off-limits: they are reserved for the season-ticket holders, the people who always sit in the same chair and make a huge fuss if someone dares to sit down in ‘their’ spot. As for the allocation of the remaining seats, timing is all. If you get there too early there’s no choice to make, and if you’re too late, there’s no choice left. If you and a couple of your friends go and sit at another table – there are tables galore, after all – you’re chided for being unsociable. It may seem innocuous, but people get miffed if you don’t join their group. They think you’re deliberately avoiding them, as if they’re pariahs.

  Even though I prefer to sit with Eefje, or Edward, or Evert on the rare occasion he ventures to join us, all too often I find myself nodding politely as a lady seated next to me ticks off her laundry list of ailments or gives me a detailed synopsis of the latest instalment of The Travelling Judge on the telly. Then, silently wishing that she be struck dumb, I sit there stoically dunking my biscuit into my tea.

  We’re to report to the front gate tomorrow: the rebels’ club deploys at twelve noon.

  In the meantime, I have made a reservation for six OAPs at Know Yer Onions next Thursday. On talking it over with them, I decided to scrap the appetizer; we’ll have just a main course and pudding. Otherwise it would take too long and cost too much. I don’t know what we’ll be making; it’s a surprise for me as well. ‘If there are any dietary restrictions, I can work around those,’ said our hostess, ‘and in case of a picky eater, I don’t mind rustling up a meatball or two.’ That sounded reassuringly flexible.

  I have ordered the minibus and cancelled our supper in the dining room. Cook did not look happy.

  Friday, 12 April

  It’s ridiculous. Mrs De Roos, head of housekeeping, came at the behest of the director to ask why six residents would be absent for dinner next Thursday. I explained that we would be out that evening.

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, we have a little club that plans distractions from time to time,’ I explained feebly.

  ‘Do you mean to say we don’t plan enough distractions?’ De Roos asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ I
hastened to say.

  ‘The people in the kitchen aren’t happy if six people decide not to show up for dinner.’

  ‘You mean we’re only here to please the kitchen staff? I thought they were supposed to be there for us and not the other way round. It’s their job. So what the people in the kitchen think doesn’t interest me!’

  That’s what I wanted to say, but didn’t dare. Instead I muttered that we had already made the reservation.

  ‘What are you going to do, then, if I may be so bold?’

  When I said we were going to a cookery class she was silent.

  Then she said, ‘Aha …’ Another pause. ‘Well, enjoy yourselves, then.’

  She nodded and left. Probably straight to the director’s office to report what I had said.

  I’m working myself up into a lather about it, but I can’t tell anyone, or I’ll give away what I’ve got planned.

  Relax, Groen! Time to go. Don’t forget your raincoat.

  Saturday, 13 April

  Yesterday Old But Not Dead paid a visit to one of the Netherlands’ largest and most notorious old age preserves: Keukenhof. Actually, it’s not just for old people; it’s also for the Germans and Japanese. ‘Have they got their own country all tidied up again after that tsunami? Is that why the Japanese are over here again with their cameras?’ Evert wondered.

  Estimated average age of the Keukenhof visitor: over sixty-five.

  No senior discounts, therefore; giving discounts would cost the park an arm and a leg. People in wheelchairs are allowed in for free, however. It wasn’t exactly advertised, but Grietje happened to know about the policy. So off Evert went to fetch a wheelchair for me, and Graeme got one for Eefje. We thought more than two wheelchairs would look suspicious. We spent the forty euros we saved on the entry fees on coffee and cake. And we took turns letting ourselves be wheeled around.