‘Full of themselves, aren’t they,’ is another one.
For some, disappointment at being left out turns to envy and spite. Envy and spite that have plenty of time to take root in here.
Never underestimate the grudge-holders, the schemers and the backbiters. They’ll go after their tame, indifferent, or naïve fellow residents relentlessly. The affront is usually trivial, but in the long run the consequences can be contempt, derision and hate. If you don’t have anything special to do all day long, a molehill can turn into a mountain. A person’s time must be filled with something; one’s attention has to have a focus. Nasty character traits need an outlet. In contrast to what you’d expect, narrow-mindedness increases and tolerance lessens with the onset of old age. Old and wise is the exception rather than the rule.
I can sometimes feel the tension now. People start coughing into their fists when I approach. Conversations stop. Glances are exchanged.
I mentioned this to Edward and Graeme this morning at coffee; our table remained curiously empty. They too feel the hostility sometimes. It isn’t very nice, but we’ll just have to put up with it; there’s nothing else we can do.
Friday, 14 June
The world’s most famous old man, Nelson Mandela, is not doing so well. One day he’s reported to be a bit better, the next a bit worse. People in here really feel for him. He’s probably the least controversial hero of the past twenty years, by far. But even heroes must die. The newspapers can take their time polishing the obituary. The world’s leaders are hoping the funeral will fall on a day that’s convenient.
Fortunately Mandela has not appeared in public for a long time, so our last image of him will be of a frail but dignified and wise old man. That’s where his greatness lay.
Saturday, 15 June
Grietje, Eefje and I have together come up with an Alzheimer’s plan of attack. From information provided by Alzheimer Netherlands, it appears that 70 per cent of people with dementia live at home. Now, ‘home’ doesn’t quite apply in this case, but still, it’s encouraging for Grietje to know that it’s fairly unlikely she’ll be transferred to the dementia unit any time soon. With a little help she should be able to stay in her own flat for quite a while longer. The first concrete move we’re making is to take turns popping in every afternoon to check that Grietje hasn’t left the hamster in the freezer compartment. That was Grietje’s suggestion; she doesn’t actually have a hamster. Next we made lists, lots of lists. A list of names, roles and telephone numbers. A list of things that have to be done on a daily basis. A list of things she should never do. A shopping list. A list of where things are, and a detailed daily schedule. We’ll help where necessary. If she doesn’t remember or understand something, she’ll jot it down and ask us later. If it’s urgent, she’ll get us on the phone.
We’ve also committed ourselves to read a book about dementia, in case our own common sense isn’t enough to sort it out.
It felt good to be able to come up with some concrete steps to take. And to consume a pound of smoked eel on old newspaper while we were at it. And a glass of white wine. Grietje is a great hostess. We’ve promised to warn her if she starts offering us only dry bread and water.
Sunday, 16 June
There exists a home for senior dogs where sick, handicapped old mutts live out their days in a homey setting. They are given a great deal of individual attention and, if necessary, hospice care. It’s run by an organization called the Djimba Foundation. There’s a drawing on the Djimba site of a blind guide dog with a cane and dark sunglasses. I am not making this up.
I wonder if the level of care is dependent on doggy budgets?
We have received an answer to our request to see the regulations, statutes or other documents that concern us. That’s to say, just an acknowledgement of receipt, forwarded to us by Victor.
‘The great stalling tactic has begun,’ our lawyer wrote in an accompanying note, ‘but by return post I gave them an ultimatum of 1 August. And threatened them with an interim injunction. I thought, I’ll just bring out the big guns at once. I wouldn’t want the documents we’ve requested to be released when we’re all senile or dead and gone!’
Good work, Victor.
It’s Sunday afternoon, visiting time. The first sons and daughters are already drinking coffee downstairs with their aged p’s. The roles are reversed: where the children were once lectured by their elders, the children now reprimand the parents. ‘We’d appreciate it if you put on a clean shirt when we visit you, and why don’t you ever have anything to offer us but the same old stale biscuits?’
Monday, 17 June
Rumours about nursing home closings are swirling around the Conversation Lounge. ‘That will be the death of me,’ I have heard several residents stoutly declare. I’m not sure whether you can hold people to that kind of pledge. There are a few I will definitely try to remind of it when the time comes.
According to the consulting firm Berenschot, 870 ‘elder-care locations’ will have to be shut in the coming years. The number of new patrons will start declining precipitously as a result of the new stricter admission requirements. They’ll have to live independently until they’re no longer physically able to, and then go straight into the nursing home, is the idea in a nutshell. Meanwhile the OAPs living in care homes now will keep dying. So you don’t have to be a maths genius to forecast a considerable vacancy rate. The powers-that-be won’t wait for the last resident to die before shutting the place down, naturally; the remaining oldsters will be uprooted and replanted elsewhere.
That’s what will be the death of them, some of those potential victims say. Several are even convinced they’ll be forced to go back to living independently. Worse still!
The fear of having to move out is great. As a way to keep the discussion pleasant and light, Mr Bakker likes to call it ‘deportation’. But I’ll bet that instead of dying, once they’ve been transplanted into a spacious new room most of the residents will never want to leave.
To me it doesn’t make much difference if I live here or somewhere a few kilometres from here. As long as my friends move with me, and on moving day they offer us a free trip down the Rhine.
Tuesday, 18 June
Forgive me for writing about the weather, but yesterday was such a lovely summer’s day. Not too warm and not too cold. I spent the afternoon in the park with a newspaper and a book. First with Eefje, who left after an hour or so, and then with Evert, who came hobbling along around cocktail hour pushing his new rollator. He had two Thermos flasks in the shopping basket: one filled with whisky and one with white wine. He pulled two glasses from his coat pocket, neatly wrapped in loo paper.
‘I’m drinking less,’ he said. ‘No, really, I’m serious!’ And when I kept nodding sympathetically, he added that he’d started splurging on more expensive, therefore more palatable, booze. I told him that was very sensible of him, and the wine he’d brought was indeed excellent, although it did have a bit of a Thermos aftertaste. So we sat on the bench drinking like two respectable winos until it was time to walk home, a bit flushed and unsteady on our feet, the rollator between us, each with one hand on the handlebar. This morning, Edward commented that he’d seen us from his balcony, and it had been a touching sight. Maybe there’s an untapped market for a tandem Zimmer, a rollator built for two.
At home I fell fast asleep on the couch and when I woke up it was close to midnight. A nurse had popped her head round the door when I’d failed to make an appearance at supper. She had come to check if I was still alive, but did not take the trouble to wake me up.
Wednesday, 19 June
Hot weather always brings a spike in the death rate among the elderly. The weatherman is predicting 33 degrees. I hope I make it through the day.
I stopped by Anja in the administration office to ask if they are on to us yet. The director was away at a conference on the changes in the elderly-care system, so we had the place to ourselves.
She told me there had been an internal me
mo devoted to finding out who’s behind the freedom-of-information request. The director has told the Board she suspects that ‘a small but tight-knit group of discontented residents’ is behind it. That’s us.
The threat of an interim injunction seems to have alarmed the Board, and they had asked about the possible motivation. The fact that care-industry bosses have seen their names in the newspapers all too often of late works in our favour: they are terrified of negative publicity. Stelwagen was therefore ordered to do whatever necessary to prevent any further exacerbation. She assured them she would get in touch with the lawyer shortly.
Later Eefje and I debated what we should do with the information Anja has been giving us. We decided to keep the identity of our source from our lawyer as well as from the other club members, in order not to saddle them with incriminating information. We wouldn’t want our Anja Appelboom to be mentioned in the same breath as Julian Assange, Edward Snowden or Bradley Manning.
I must confess it’s making me a bit nervous.
Thursday, 20 June
Someone broke into Mrs Van Gelder’s room yesterday. She wandered up and down the corridor sobbing, telling everyone she met that her watch had been stolen from the drawer of her nightstand while she was downstairs having her tea. It was a wedding present from her husband.
The news has shaken everyone up.
The thief must have had a key, since Van Gelder always locks her door.
Residents are required to lock their rooms when they go out. That’s been compulsory ever since a befuddled old gent entered the wrong room and got into bed. Later, when the bed’s rightful owner pulled back the covers, it gave her such a turn that she fell and broke her wrist.
The missing watch has given rise to vague, almost casual insinuations fingering various cleaners or attendants. The general view: the browner the skin, the more suspect. And: ‘It must have been a man, because a woman just wouldn’t do that.’ I wonder if a course teaching logic would be lost on people over seventy?
It hasn’t improved the atmosphere, anyway.
The director wasn’t happy about it. I have it from a trustworthy source that she doesn’t so much care about the watch as about the home’s reputation.
Friday, 21 June
Made it to summer! Even if it feels like autumn.
‘Suicide weather!’ exclaimed the reliably peevish Bakker at least three times over a cup of tea. After he’d said it the third time, Evert said, ‘I’ll escort you up to the roof if you like.’ He also offered to look after Bakker’s wallet.
The number of suicides among the elderly has increased quite a bit of late, according to the statisticians.
Our institution does not make public the cause of death of residents who pass away. So suicide simply does not exist. Statistically speaking, at least a few must have done away with themselves over the last few years. But any information of that kind would only sow unease and put ideas into people’s heads.
I found the sight of my own gaunt nakedness in the GP’s mirror yesterday quite alarming.
Humans really are rather misshapen and ugly animals, I fear. With a few exceptions, people are much nicer-looking with clothes than without. Only children are beautiful when they’re naked. But the older you are, the more layers of clothes, please. And the looser, or even baggier, the better. The procession of pear-shaped ladies in tight leggings parading through the halls every Monday on their way to the gym is extremely off-putting.
The doctor, by the way, was, all my ailments considered, quite happy with my physical condition. There is nothing that can be done about the dribble. ‘You’ll have to start wearing nappies, Mr Groen. You’ll get used to it soon enough.’
Saturday, 22 June
Mrs Van Gelder’s watch has resurfaced. A cleaner found it along with the wet laundry in the washing machine. It’s nice and clean, but it no longer works. Mrs Van Gelder suspects the culprit got cold feet, wanted to be rid of it and tossed it into the machine. Why the thief would make a special trip to the laundry to dump a watch into the machine was something she couldn’t explain. ‘But crazier things have happened in the world!’
The possibility that she might have dropped her watch into the laundry basket herself by accident was ‘out of the question’.
She gave the honest woman who found it a fifty-cent reward.
My doctor yesterday made me aware of Jan Hoeijmakers, the geriatrics professor whose goal is to have people make it to an advanced old age without suffering from the usual ailments. Hoeijmakers is very optimistic and has already achieved decent results in mice. Something about treating the DNA in some special way. Ten years from now there could be a miracle pill to cure all kinds of old-age problems.
Just a bit too late for me and my friends, then; it makes me sick to think about it. I don’t need to get to 200, but crossing the finish line in relatively good health, that’s a deal I would gladly sign.
I forgot, by the way, to ask my GP again how he feels about euthanasia.
Sunday, 23 June
News about the renovation plans. In a letter to the residents, the director has proposed setting up a tenants’ committee charged with advising the building committee on ‘anything to do with wellbeing and quality of life’.
So apparently there’s a building committee, and the plans are already far more advanced than we were led to believe. The illusion that we are going to be allowed some input is meant to obscure that fact.
On the one hand, to many residents it comes as reassuring news: if there’s to be a major renovation, it means the home won’t be shut down in the immediate future. So they won’t have to move. On the other hand, a major renovation will almost certainly mean they’ll have to move out, even if only temporarily. Just the thought of it makes the average blood pressure in here rise precipitously. Uncertainty and change are two nails in every old person’s coffin. Mrs Pot, a sour doomsayer, could not rule out that the whole point of the renovation is to clear the place out. ‘That’s what they’re doing it for. Many in here won’t survive it!’ There are always some who will nod in agreement, no matter how daft the remark.
An extensive renovation will be a dust-up, both literally and figuratively, so bring it on. The more action the better. I wouldn’t mind being part of the group that’s supposed to advise the building committee.
At Eefje’s suggestion, I have asked Victor to write another letter specifically asking to be apprised of the renovation plans.
Monday, 24 June
Mrs Aupers is relatively new here. She has taken to reading aloud the newspaper obituaries at coffee every morning. I am waiting to see who’ll be the first to say something to her. Not everyone is keen on being subjected to such a jolly start to the day.
She’s not the only one who is fascinated by death. Whenever someone’s died, you can just hear some people thinking, There goes another one, and look, I’m still here. They also enjoy seeing the black-framed names of people they once knew in the newspaper; that’s even more satisfying.
As for me, I am moved only by death notices for children. They make me think of my little girl. Obituaries of big shots with dozens of tributes from all the companies they steered or boards they sat on leave me as cold as their cadavers. Heave-ho, in the ground you go. Now see how important you are.
Our newest club members, Ria and Antoine, have rented the kitchen and dining room in the community centre for Friday. I received a very nice card in the post inviting me to a welcome dinner to celebrate their admission into our club.
The invitation included a request for intermezzo entertainments in the form of speeches, stories or songs. You can practically hear my old brain cells creaking.
I took my ancient dinner jacket, which I haven’t worn in twenty-five years, to the dry-cleaner’s, and tomorrow I shall buy myself a new dress shirt.
Tuesday, 25 June
When Mrs Aupers isn’t reading the obituaries, she’s whinging about her cat, which she’s had to put in the animal shelter. She had ju
st spent €3,500 on the creature. Something about a crushed back leg requiring complicated surgery. The vet pocketed Mrs Aupers’s entire nest egg, grinning from ear to ear. I do feel sorry for her, even if she’s such a whiner. She loved that cat so dearly. But rules are rules in here: pets are not permitted. That was why she’d wanted to stay in her own home, but her children wouldn’t let her. They’d had enough of having to look after her.
The sales lady at C&A wasn’t inclined to put herself out for my dress-shirt purchase. The blowsy matron in the too-tight company uniform pointed, bored, to some bins in the distance. ‘They’re over there.’
‘Thank you kindly for your obliging assistance.’
That remark elicited, first, a look of surprise, and then an annoyed glare.
At the next shop the service wasn’t much better. Clueless old gentlemen aren’t very much appreciated as customers. In the end I bought, willy-nilly, a light blue shirt, which turns out to be too big. Which means I have to go back again tomorrow. I bet – it’s just a guess – sales people aren’t all that fond of old people returning things, either.
Wednesday, 26 June
Evert is not doing well. He went to the hospital this morning for a check-up and they wanted to admit him immediately. Evert insisted on postponing it until Monday, pleading a funeral he had to attend.
‘I’ve invented quite a few funerals in my life,’ he said. ‘I can never seem to think of another excuse on the spot. And as long as you don’t use the funeral pretext three times on the same person, they’ll never have the nerve to accuse you of lying.’