‘Well, yes, you have some that vanish without a trace,’ Schansleh said gloomily. He admitted he had lost dozens of birds over the years.
Saturday, 1 June
Bad news.
Yesterday Grietje and I went for a walk. After five minutes we had to sit down for a rest on the bench the council has so kindly provided. The sun was shining. After the usual pleasantries we found ourselves discussing more personal matters. She told me she has started ‘losing it’ quite a bit of late, both literally and figuratively. ‘I’m good at camouflaging it, but some day I won’t be able to do that any more. It’s making me feel very insecure. I’ll suddenly find myself standing in the lift, for example, with no idea how I got there or where I’m going.’
I didn’t really know what to say. We were silent for a while, then I suggested she might want to go to her GP to be tested for Alzheimer’s. And that any time she felt confused she should seek help from the people she trusted. They would set her right. ‘You can come and knock on my door whenever you like, Grietje. I’ll gladly help you, as much as I can.’
Grietje, the epitome of kindness, but always a bit closed and reserved. I was surprised that she was confiding in me. And also rather proud. And sad. In short, it wasn’t easy, all those feelings at once.
Evert seems to be doing a bit better. At the physiotherapist’s he is giving it his all – which manifests itself mainly in the amount of curses emerging from his mouth while he’s doing his exercises. Once, when Evert was about to step on the treadmill, one of the assistants made a show of stuffing cotton wool in her ears in jest. In response Evert plugged his own mouth with a huge wad of the stuff.
Sunday, 2 June
I had a bad night thinking about my talk with Grietje. Everything seems to point to Alzheimer’s. I asked her this morning if she had mentioned it to anyone else. She has not.
‘Not even to your GP?’
‘No, he’s an unpleasant chap.’
‘Would you mind if I asked the others for advice?’
She needed some time to think about that.
I did some browsing on the Internet. There are some 250,000 people suffering from dementia in the Netherlands. Alzheimer’s is the most common type. Your chance of getting it is one in five. And, rather alarmingly, you live on for another eight years on average.
It isn’t something we’re unfamiliar with here, of course. There are plenty of folk in here who start losing their marbles as they age. And after those first marbles, they keep losing more. Until all that’s left in the old noggin is a jumble of loose ends. If you’re lucky it’s a happy jumble; if you’re unlucky, a frightening or aggressive one. Fortunately we don’t have to witness the last stage of disintegration close up; by that time the poor things have been moved to the ‘other side’ – the locked ward. When people start stirring the soup with their hands, or slinging their poo about, their departure is imminent.
I don’t want to see that happening to Grietje.
Monday, 3 June
The Board has sent a letter to all the residents saying the care in this and other institutions is to receive a ‘makeover’. When management starts using that word you had better watch out: ‘makeover’ means cutbacks and reorganization.
From the letter: ‘The makeover will lead to improved quality in the long run.’
Yes, yes. The only thing missing was a vow ‘to put the elderly back in the driver’s seat’. The company’s spin doctor seems to have left a perfectly good piece of blarney on the table there.
Our Prime Minister Mark Rutte also promised to put the Dutch people back in the driver’s seat. Have you noticed anything changing?
Even though no one was able to pull anything concrete from the Board’s letter, opinions were divided. To some, we were on the road to hell, whereas others read the same words and beheld paradise gleaming on the horizon. Old people run the gamut of human beliefs.
One thing is certain: when all’s said and done, the planning and reorganization will inevitably entail a rise in salary for the Board of Directors.
Tuesday, 4 June
I wonder how the first anarchist old-age home in the Netherlands is faring? It’s a nursing home by the name of De Hoven, in the hamlet of Onderdendam in Groningen province. Two years ago they decided as an experiment to do away with all rules and regulations. Well, perhaps not all. Knowing what the average OAP is like, I’m afraid such freedom would mean murder and mayhem, and bingo every day.
The director of De Hoven wanted to see whether her colleagues and the residents would be happier without rules. The ‘Regulation-free Care’ experiment was to be conducted by scientists from the University of Groningen.
I have looked online but can’t find any mention of the outcome.
What made me think of it was a new rule that’s just been imposed here: only low-energy light bulbs are to be used in the rooms. The environment, you know.
I went over to our lawyer Victor’s house to look at the draft letter requesting that we be allowed to see our institution’s rules and regulations. It all sounded very legalistic, so legalistic that I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. It did inspire confidence. It was a pity Eefje wasn’t with me, she’s got a sharper eye. She wasn’t feeling well.
Although it was only two o’clock in the afternoon, Victor poured me an enormous snifter of very expensive cognac and gave me a cigar, which I cautiously puffed on, coughing and wheezing. Our lawyer is a bit of a caricature of the tweedy nob, a role he plays with gusto. Pretence and reality all rolled into one, but in his case the two don’t really contradict.
Wednesday, 5 June
Mrs Visser set out early this morning by minibus for the Ikea on the other side of town with two suspect coffee cups in her bag, to ask for her money back – although they’re not the actual Lyda jumbo cups that are being recalled because the bottoms tend to fall out, but a different Ikea design. Says Mrs Visser, ‘Who’s to say these will hold scalding-hot water?’ It has been almost three hours, and Mrs Visser still isn’t back.
People in here don’t like taking risks. If there’s a recall on any food item anywhere in the world, every kitchen cupboard is thoroughly excavated for potential samples of the offending tin or package. On the other hand, people are not pernickety about expiry dates. Throwing food away is a dreadful shame, even if it’s covered in mould. ‘Just scrape it off or scoop it out and it’s still perfectly fine to eat!’ Which does much to explain the frequency of food-poisoning cases among the elderly. Meanwhile the kitchen has to check the butter every day to make sure its temperature is between 5 and 7 degrees.
A new record was set recently: in clearing out a deceased resident’s room, they found something in the refrigerator that was seventeen years past the expiry date. The room was spick and span otherwise. That’s the rumour, at least, for of course that sort of thing is never made public.
We have another outing set for tomorrow. The weather report predicts perfect conditions for the aged: not too warm and not too cold, very little wind and no humidity.
Thursday, 6 June
If you happen to see any Amsterdam municipal guards about – I believe they are now called neighbourhood-watch officers – you can be fairly sure the coast is clear, for they tend to avoid danger at all cost. So in nice weather you’ll find them sunning themselves on the bench by our door. I expect that for the paltry salary they make you can’t blame them for avoiding troubled neighbourhoods ruled by street gangs. I have never witnessed one of them stopping a motorcycle that’s racing along the bike path at 70kph with the roar of a fighter jet. Municipal guards radiate sad impotence. Their uniform is also always a bit too tight.
It could be worse; some time ago I read that in The Hague the average meter man or maid gives out one parking ticket a day. Apparently they don’t work on commission. I wonder what the interviewers are looking for in applicants for the job?
There we go: yesterday we had the first complaints about the warm weather! ‘It always gets so muggy here in t
he Netherlands!’ according to Fat Bakker. Only two days ago he was still complaining about the cold. Sometimes I’d like to kill him.
I am wearing my best and only lightweight suit. I have also unearthed an old-fashioned straw boater. I want to look a bit like Maurice Chevalier. We are to report after lunch for an outing organized by Graeme. He’s been saying for days that as long as the weather’s nice it can’t go wrong.
Friday, 7 June
At 13:00 sharp three pedicabs pulled up in front. Driven by three strapping young fellows, so we don’t have to feel sorry for them. One of them was a friend of Graeme’s son, who had organized our transportation. We were helped on board courteously, and with many eyes on us, the convoy moved off. I shared a cab with Evert, who immediately launched into ‘Bicycle Built for Two’. Every single lyric and refrain. He sounds like an old crow.
The trip took us through the Waterland region: Zunderdorp, Ransdorp, Uitdam and Zuiderwoude. Picturesque old villages seemingly untouched by time but, judging from the fancy modern cargo bikes on the driveways, in fact taken over by rich Amsterdam yuppies.
Evert regaled me with stories of the past; from time to time we heard peals of laughter from one of the other pedicabs, or Eefje would demand a bird-watching halt. I recognized the godwit from its picture on the matchbox, but that’s as far as my bird expertise goes.
In Zuiderwoude we were driven to a wine shop. The greengrocer is gone; a sommelier has taken his place. A wine-tasting was planned for us, with snacks. Titbits which, according to Evert, were too light for really heavy drinking. In wine-tasting, you’re not supposed to swallow but spit; still, there are limits to our compliance. We’ll spit when we’re sick, but not when we’re imbibing. We let the pedicab boys join in the tasting on condition they promised not to drive us into a ditch on the way back.
After an impromptu passing of the hat we bought two dozen bottles with the proceeds. A good time – I can’t think of a better way of putting it – was had by all.
We started the return journey with some more singing, but soon we all nodded off.
We were deposited at the front door, the drivers were each given a bottle of the wine as a tip, and were then gaily waved goodbye.
We always discreetly settle up with the organizer the day after the outing. Expensive? Let’s put it this way: an outstanding price–quality ratio.
Saturday, 8 June
There’s a ‘DIY Alzheimer’s Test’. The name is a bit misleading, since the test is designed to find out if someone else has Alzheimer’s. I did test myself, however, and got a reassuring result: no Alzheimer’s.
The reason I’m mentioning this is that I paid close attention to Grietje on our trip. She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely, but did occasionally have a dazed look on her face, and sometimes one of surprise. I haven’t known her long enough or well enough to administer the Alzheimer’s test to her, but she does have symptoms that point in that direction. What she herself told me is not reassuring.
To realize that you are slowly but surely losing your grip on reality … Unlike the frog in a pan of hot water that doesn’t realize it’s slowly getting cooked, you’re painfully aware for a long time of your own deterioration. You find yourself sinking more and more often into a deep black hole and spending less and less time crawling out of it, certain you’ll only fall in again. Still time enough to see where this leads: ending up like one of all the other befuddled, frightened or furious old bundles of misery (not counting the few that remain obliviously cheerful), anxiously trying to retrieve what no longer exists. And then confined to bed or listlessly drooling in a wheelchair. Tied to the bed once there’s nothing more they can do for you. No dignity left.
Poor Grietje. What can I say to console her?
Sunday, 9 June
Mrs Surmann decided to dry her wet slippers in the microwave. She set the timer for twenty minutes and then went to watch the telly. The slippers melted and set off the fire alarm.
I shouldn’t be surprised if management used the incident as a pretext to outlaw the use of microwaves.
The same management has sent round a letter announcing that cameras are being installed in the corridors ‘for our own safety’. That’s really the last straw. The word ‘Gestapo’ has been muttered. ‘Has she completely lost her marbles, that Stelwagen woman? Cameras? To find out who’s been tossing cakes in the fish tank, or whose rollator won’t give way to the nurse with the pill trolley?’ Graeme was uncharacteristically incensed. He vowed he’d personally trash those cameras. Evert promptly offered to help.
I think Mrs Stelwagen has overplayed her hand this time.
Most of the inhabitants don’t want surveillance cameras in here. Although they do like the other kind of camera. Whenever the local TV station shows up to film a 100th birthday, they fall over themselves to get in the picture. Residents who for years have done nothing but mumble, are suddenly capable of belting it out at the top of their lungs. Ladies who always sit downstairs in the same grubby grey frock are suddenly seen wearing an exuberantly flowered dress and party hat.
Fortunately, the forty-five minutes of showing-off the cameramen filmed last time was cut down to exactly fifty seconds for the broadcast. Everyone was terribly disappointed; some even felt seriously insulted.
Monday, 10 June
Yesterday was the kind of day when you doze off four times over the newspaper or telly, then stay up tossing and turning half the night. I first tried a glass of warm milk and honey, then swallowed two sleeping pills.
According to addiction experts, I am one of the 930,000 Dutch over-fifty-fives who resort to a pill when sleep won’t come on its own. It seems old-age homes are teeming with junkies. They’re addicted to sleeping pills containing benzodiazepines. Huh? Yes, benzodiazepines. They also help assuage anxiety and fretting. But they come with a dangerous side effect: you might break a hip. In the Netherlands alone they’ve caused over a thousand broken hips, by the experts’ estimate – all elderly folk who wake up in the middle of the night in an extra-doddery state, stagger to the loo and take a fall. Crack.
Tuesday, 11 June
Our club meeting yesterday was hosted by Evert. A rather disappointing performance. He burned the appetizers: blackened bitterballen and charred chicken nuggets. His extractor fan is too efficient, so nobody noticed the smell of burning. Elderly noses. The liver sausage was past its use-by date. We had to make do with cheese and of course an over-abundance of alcohol.
The clamour to include Ria and Antoine Travemundi, our home’s aged culinary whizz-kids, grew too loud to ignore. They were immediately and unanimously voted in as probationary members of the Old But Not Dead Club. A delegation consisting of Grietje and Edward was sent to invite them to join us forthwith. They came, and were quite moved; they heartily thanked each and every one of us in turn. Antoine had tears in his eyes.
‘Isn’t it nice we can all still be part of this,’ said Eefje sardonically. Antoine nodded. Ria laughed a bit awkwardly. Then they went back to their room to raid their fridge for some French cheeses, serrano ham and smoked salmon, to celebrate their hard-won initiation.
‘Ha, that’s the only reason we got you to join us!’
We never discuss too many orders of business at once, to give us the excuse to have another meeting. This time the only item on the agenda was to evaluate the first round of excursions. Nothing but praise all round. A veritable flurry of feathers in our caps.
We drew up a fresh list of outings and their proposed dates:
End of June – Ria and Antoine (As probationary members they will be counted as one for now)
Mid-July – Graeme
End of July – Eefje
Mid-August – Grietje
End of August – Yours truly
Mid-September – Evert
End of September – Edward
Sounds good: we have lots to look forward to right up until the end of summer.
Wednesday, 12 June
Grietje came over for
a cup of coffee. Not without a purpose. Having consulted the Internet and her GP, she now has enough information to know she is definitely on the road to dementia.
‘It doesn’t make me jump for joy, but there’s nothing anyone can do about it. I’m just going to try and keep going as long as possible.’
She asked me to help her achieve that goal, and was also going to appeal to a number of other people, including the rest of the Club. On condition that we are completely honest with her, telling it like it is. No pointless pity. I had to solemnly swear that I’ll entrust her to the good care of the nursing ward once she becomes a burden, or unmanageable. She couldn’t suppress an ironic little smile as she said it. She knew that there was nowhere else for her to go, and she had resigned herself to it. But before giving up she was determined to give every ounce of her strength to enjoying life ‘as a person in her right mind’.
I got a lump in my throat, and vowed to do everything in my power to support her. She thought that ‘everything in my power’ was a bit over the top, but ‘Fine, that’s why I asked you.’
We discussed what form that support should take, but that isn’t an easy thing to work out. We are going to sleep on it for a night or two.
Thursday, 13 June
I sometimes detect a faintly hostile attitude from my fellow residents. I know that they often gossip about our little club. ‘Snooty go-getters’, we are. ‘Ingrates’ for turning up our noses at the many diversions that are already offered here.