Not that a five-day deferment helps him much, even he realizes that, but he needs time to prepare himself mentally for another operation. And he isn’t inclined to miss our dinner on Friday night at the community centre either.
He did look a bit of a wreck when I stopped by. He was holding a mug of tea, which didn’t seem very promising. When I mentioned it, he said it had a drop of rum in it. That was a bit more hopeful.
Together we told Mo. When he heard that he would be entrusted to my care again next week, he pricked up an ear and farted.
In the hoopla surrounding the watch theft, the director’s plan to install cameras everywhere suddenly gained popularity, but when it turned out that the watch had landed in the laundry by accident, enthusiasm for it waned. I heard from Anja that Stelwagen was almost disappointed nothing was stolen. Thus the report from our woman at the front.
Thursday, 27 June
Old people can look so scruffy sometimes, in their stained raincoats with greasy collars. Either they no longer see it, or they don’t think it’s important. It’s a big waste of money to buy a new coat if you don’t think you’ll be granted the time to wear it out. So they wear threadbare frocks or suits that are forty years old or more, worn-down shoes and socks full of holes. It’s the downhill slide to loss of dignity. If they no longer care very much about their appearance, they needn’t worry about piggish table manners, brazen crotch-scratching, or washing their hair but once a month either. ‘When I’m out of clean undies I just put the least dirty pair back on,’ one of my fellow residents announced without blushing.
Fortunately there are some immaculate, fresh-smelling, elegant ladies and gentlemen too, Eefje, Edward, Ria, Antoine and myself included, notwithstanding my dribble problem. Dapper old gents and stylish matrons, pleasantly perfumed and neatly coiffed.
I like to go to the barber’s once every two months to have the last few hairs on my skull washed not once but twice.
‘So, how shall we cut it today?’
‘Smart, please, and a bit modern. And take your time.’
‘I’m in no rush. Trust me, I’ll make you look good.’
I’ve had the same barber for years, and I never get bored with the chit-chat.
Friday, 28 June
It’s 28 June and the stoves are merrily hissing away. In a manner of speaking, since we do have central heating. In most of the rooms the thermostat is set at the maximum allowable 23 degrees, as always, and the first winter coat has been spotted heading outside. Yesterday the outdoor temperature never made it past 14 degrees.
Today I am eating very little or nothing at all in preparation for our dinner tonight at the community centre. It isn’t hard. The appetite for food diminishes as you get older. Sometimes I have to force myself to get something down. Fortunately they have started offering a liquid breakfast here. A liquid lunch as well, if necessary. It saves quite a bit of chewing. Evert’s situation isn’t whetting my appetite much either.
My old dinner jacket is a tad on the baggy side. But neatly pressed. The new-shirt conundrum was resolved in the end. When I went back to the shop to return it I was helped by a friendly Moroccan sales lady who measured my collar and arm length and then fished the right size out of a bin for me.
All in all I look quite dapper, if I may say so myself.
I also bought myself a new scent. I had tried out several on my wrist but they soon turned into an unrecognizable potpourri of smells. That isn’t what you’re supposed to do; you’re supposed to spritz a little on a special slip of paper. Finally a saleswoman chose something for me that she said suited me just right. And suited my wallet as well.
Saturday, 29 June
Hats off to Antoine and Ria of the pop-up restaurant Chez Travemundi. I haven’t eaten so well in years. Six courses! Served in relaxed fashion, modest old-person portions, and most pleasant company to boot. A wonderful evening. We sat there from five o’clock until ten, we sang during the washing up and then all staggered home. I was sensible about the drink, fortunately, otherwise I’d still be brain-dead now.
After the welcome cocktail, Evert took the floor. He spoke in glowing terms of the pleasures of life and the joys of friendship. He had really put a great deal of thought into it. In conclusion he casually mentioned that on Monday he would be taking a holiday in hospital for a few days, and announced the visiting hours.
‘If anyone says one more word about it tonight, I’ll personally smear this langoustine carpaccio in their hair.’
Silence.
Then Graeme made a toast to Evert, and the spell was broken.
There were other eloquent speeches last night, and songs and funny skits; there was even a food quiz. I’m just sorry I’ve already forgotten so much of it.
The Tour de France begins this afternoon. You’ll find me indoors every afternoon for the next three weeks. I love it: endless live TV. For the first few hours I’ll follow the Belgian narration, but towards the end, when it starts to get exciting, I’ll turn on Radio Tour de France and listen to the Dutch commentary while watching the muted picture on the telly.
Sunday, 30 June
I’m at the midway point of my exposé. At the end of today, the first six months will be behind me. I’ve only missed five or six days due to illness. Not bad, is it?
It isn’t always easy. Material to write about doesn’t necessarily present itself spontaneously, and I find myself having to weigh my words carefully. But being obliged to write does sharpen the senses and keep you on your toes. Whenever someone says something noteworthy, I try to remember it, but memory happens to be one of this ramshackle body’s many weak links. A small notepad is a solution, but I can’t be too conspicuous using it. Beady little prying eyes lurk everywhere.
‘What are you scribbling all the time, Hendrik? Let me read it!’
‘I’m working on my memoir. You can all read it, but not until it’s finished.’
Then they’ll usually want to know if they’re in it, and then I’ll say they are, no matter who it is. ‘Only good things!’ I’ll reassure them. They’re usually content with that, even though they do think I’m a bit of a pretentious dick, slaving away on my mem-mwahr.
I have become a rather anxious Tour de France spectator. Last year’s race and the one before saw so many pile-ups of injured cyclists sprawled on the tarmac, with a couple of Dutchmen invariably at the bottom of the heap, that it started to hamper the pleasure of watching. The opening leg yesterday did not give much hope for improvement. The first one to take a spill was our national fall-guy, the unlucky Johnny Hoogerland. Luckily it was a banner he ran into, and not barbed wire. There were several other spectacular falls to come.
It’s too bad the coach that got itself stuck under the finish-line arch was dislodged just in the nick of time. What a lovely melee that would have been.
Monday, 1 July
This morning Evert took a taxi to the hospital. I rang him just now. He is waiting for the surgeon who operated on him the last time. ‘Not my best mate, but you don’t have a say in who’s going to be your doctor.’
No, the free market doesn’t work in one’s choice of doctors. At least, not if the insurance is paying. If your name is Queen Beatrix, it’s a different story, naturally. I wonder if she’s on supplementary insurance too?
Yesterday afternoon an unknown Belgian who has never won anything of note before was ten metres out in front of the peloton the whole way to win the second leg of the Tour de France. Even if you don’t like bicycle racing, you can cheer when Tom Thumb beats the giant, when David prevails over Goliath. I love underdogs! As long as they’re not poor losers, that is.
Grietje has written herself a long letter and pasted it on the kitchen cupboard. In it she explains to herself that she has Alzheimer’s, listing the problems she might encounter. She gives herself advice and courage in the face of whatever may come when she starts losing it. She ends with, ‘Losing it isn’t the worst that can happen; winning isn’t everything. Love, Grietje.’ Th
e way she addressed herself moved me greatly. She is handling her illness in her own fresh and unique way.
She wondered aloud how she would react to her own letter later on. By the time I know the answer, it’ll probably be too late for her to understand. What a surreal state of affairs.
Tuesday, 2 July
Evert is afraid he’ll lose at least a couple more toes. The surgeon had looked rather grim.
‘Aren’t you happy with the result of your own work?’ Evert had asked him. Well now, the doctor wouldn’t put it that way. He preferred to talk in terms of unforeseeable complications. The first doctor who spontaneously admits he’s made a mistake has yet to be born. If the baker burns the bread, it isn’t the end of the world, but if the surgeon amputates the wrong leg … then it’s the fault of the nurse who checked off the wrong box on the form. Tall trees may catch a lot of wind, but they also make sure they have good storm-damage cover. When a hotshot totters and falls, he’ll soon be back on his feet up the road somewhere. On full pay.
Evert’s surgery is scheduled for Thursday. They’re keeping him under observation until then. He hopes his surgeon is not the vindictive sort, and isn’t inclined to use a dull scalpel on him.
The phone call left me feeling rather upset. Tomorrow I’ll go and visit him. He’s asked me to bring him another bottle of that Bols mineral water (wink wink).
I also have to bring him some get-well-soon cards from fellow residents. To save the old skinflints the cost of a postage stamp.
Wednesday, 3 July
This morning I paid the sick call. Difficult. You’re supposed to radiate hope and cheer, and that’s not easy if you regard it as sombrely as I do.
I would be a very poor hospital clown.
To make myself feel better, I could say that compared with another visitor there, I was a ray of sunshine. Two beds down, a woman was with her husband who had just come out of surgery. All she talked about for half an hour was herself, especially her own ailments. I did something I’d never have dared to do before. I asked her, ‘Hadn’t you better trade places with him?’
My remark cheered Evert up no end, but the woman just glared at us, as if she had no idea what I was talking about.
‘My friend means that your ingrown toenail is far more serious than your husband’s open-heart surgery, and so it would make sense for you to lie there instead of him,’ said Evert, straight-faced.
‘Mind your own business!’
As if the bus that got stuck under the finish banner wasn’t bad enough, the Tour escaped an even greater disaster. In a replay on TV, they showed that at the end of the third stage a little white dog, the spitting image of Tintin’s faithful companion, Snowy, started crossing the road just as the peloton came racing up. If the dog had been killed, the Tour would suddenly have become of interest in here, especially among the ladies. Dozens of cyclists have suffered broken bones and concussions, but the death of one cute little dog would have transcended all. I can tell you they’d have watched that slow-motion replay over and over, shuddering with horror.
Thursday, 4 July
The expectation is that Evert will wake up in the recovery room at about 7 p.m. this evening. That sounds reassuring: the ‘recovery’ room. He promised to give us a ring as soon as he’s able. It’s going to be a long day.
Maarten van Roozendaal has died. I’d never even heard of him. We exist on a remote edge of society; not everything gets through to us in here. The main thing we’re proficient in is recycling old hat.
Grietje let me borrow her van Roozendaal CD. She told me to listen to the track ‘Het te late einde’ (‘The Too-late Ending’). It’s about a husband taking care of his demented wife.
Never have I heard such a moving song about old age. I told Grietje I didn’t know how, as an early-stage Alzheimer’s patient, she can bear listening to it. ‘Maybe it’s crazy, but it gives me comfort. Or rather, acceptance. Even so, it’s also energizing.’
There are several other beautiful songs on this CD. Who will write a song for Maarten – ‘The Too-soon Ending’?
Egypt’s President Morsi is deposed after a military coup. Well, a coup … ‘The army has taken it upon itself to guide the transition process,’ explained our Foreign Minister Frans Timmermans.
‘Oh, no, officer, I didn’t steal anything. I just guided the transition process to a new owner.’
The same goes for our director: she isn’t making any cuts, she’s just guiding the transition processes.
Friday, 5 July
Evert rang at 9 a.m. His leg has been amputated below the knee.
I can’t write today.
Saturday, 6 July
I’ve forced myself to pick up the pen once more. Writing is good for me. Once I have committed something to paper, or in this case the computer, I can distance myself from it a bit, and then I’m less insupportable. That’s a lot nicer for the people around me too.
Yesterday afternoon I paid Evert a rather emotional visit. Evert himself was already over the initial shock. He did admit he was pretty upset on Thursday night.
‘I thought to myself, I’ll just try to move my foot, but there was no foot. It’s lying somewhere on a heap of offal. I didn’t have the heart to ring you, Henk. I first had to get used to the idea myself.’
I said I quite understood and I’d been afraid of that when I didn’t hear from him.
To prove that he was almost his old mischievous self again, Evert wondered aloud if Muslims had to be operated on according to the laws of halal, which is to say fully conscious.
I worry that one lower leg won’t be the end of it, and that my friend will have to say goodbye to a few more affected bits of leg or arm until the inevitable end.
The petty incidents in this home, the chit-chat at the coffee table, sail right over my head.
I am leaning a bit on Eefje, who is so strong and level-headed, yet at the same time sweet and sympathetic. She cheers me up when we visit each other in our rooms, at least once or twice a day. I’m beginning to grow uncommonly fond of her.
Sunday, 7 July
Practically no one in here ever goes on holiday.
Should I cautiously sound out the others to see if they have any interest in a little wine-tasting trip, for example? (Not to be confused with a Rhine trip, which makes me picture a merry parade of invalids being pushed up the gangplank of the hospital ship Henri Dunant by cheery Red Cross volunteers. Not if you paid me!)
It should be possible to rent a comfortable coach for a small group, to drive down to Champagne, say, and spend a few days there in some nice chateau. Good food and drink, a few wine-tastings, a cathedral or two, and no pathetic or whiny old codgers to bother us. It would have to be wheelchair-friendly, of course.
The idea of a holiday occurred to me because after the distress of the past few days, I need something positive to look forward to. I’ll find out what Eefje thinks of a short club road trip.
This evening we’re discussing what arrangements we can make for Evert. ‘We’ means Grietje, Eefje, Graeme, Edward and myself. Ria and Antoine had tickets for the theatre. They protested they’d rather stay home so as not to miss the meeting, but we were able to persuade them to go. Ria did suggest she drop off some snacks before leaving. For form’s sake we protested loudly that there was no need. ‘But of course it would be lovely,’ Graeme let slip just at the right moment, and then it was a foregone conclusion. Graeme couldn’t help looking pleased with himself.
Monday, 8 July
‘You’re making good progress,’ the doctor told Evert.
‘Ha! I’d say having only one leg is rather a setback!’ Evert responded.
I went to visit him this morning. Evert will be moved to a rehabilitation clinic in a few days. If all goes well, he’ll be sent home after ten days or so.
Last night’s discussion was a fruitful one. We came up with a number of practical things we can do.
Edward is taking care of ordering an electric wheelchair. Eefje, who is on good
terms with the people in home-care services, will arrange for domestic help. Graeme is going to ask the GP about the availability of medical assistance. Grietje will do his shopping for the time being. ‘But you’ll have to make me a list! I can’t even remember the two little things I have to buy for myself.’ Ria and Antoine will take care of his food and I’m looking after the dog. Now that’s what I call a voluntary aid society!
We’ll do whatever’s necessary the first days he’s home, to give him time to work out for himself how to live with one and a half legs. The ultimate goal is to help him to remain in his independent flat. We all agreed: if Evert were to move into the home proper, we could expect a war between him and a substantial cohort of the other inmates. Clearly a lose–lose situation.
The measures we’re taking are not unwarranted. Anja reports that Evert’s sheltered-housing flat has been added to the list of residences that will soon become available. Who was behind this move our whistle-blower could not tell us.
Tuesday, 9 July
Mrs Groenteman’s Canta was rammed by a motorcyclist going at 40kph. In defence of the boy on the motorbike, it must be said that Groenteman had been driving in the road, then suddenly swung round to cross at the zebra crossing. It’s a miracle no one was hurt. That is, the Canta is probably a complete write-off. The biker sailed right over it and escaped with just a scratch or two. The way Mrs Groenteman was carrying on you’d have thought she was dying, but in the end only her hairdo was mussed.
Mr Ellroy (he of the stuffed moose head) witnessed the incident, and gave rather a juicy account of it at teatime.
Groenteman believes she has an iron-clad defence when it comes to allocating blame for the accident. ‘Anything on a zebra crossing has right of way,’ she kept insisting. Luckily she has no-fault insurance.