Many of the residents are insured for all eventualities. ‘Because you never know …’ For all the funeral policy premiums that have been paid in here, we could have bought ourselves a decent-sized cemetery.
Very old people are a hazard at the wheel of any conveyance, even if it goes no faster than 5kph. Not just in the street, but also in the supermarket. Even if they’re manoeuvring their mobility scooter like an articulated lorry threading its way through Amsterdam’s busiest shopping street on a Saturday afternoon. Why all of a sudden the damn machine decides to jump into reverse, they have no idea …
However, none of this deters me from wanting to take my own scooter onto the highways and byways very soon, and make them unsafe for everyone else!
Wednesday, 10 July
An alderwoman in Hengelo, but it may have been Almelo, is of the opinion that the care of infirm OAPs should be given over to the unemployed, who would keep their unemployment benefits in lieu of a salary, putting the professional carers out of a job. Then they in turn can go on the dole.
Instead of a trained person with a diploma, you’ll get an out-of-work construction worker to help you into the shower and soap your bum. Reaching an all-time low in respect for the elderly. Fortunately a lot of people thought that the woman who said this with a straight face must be out of her mind. But if you’re going to allow all 408 local councils in the Netherlands to make their own decisions about elder and invalid care, you’re asking for trouble, accidents and waste. Local dimwits are a dime a dozen.
Bring on the parliamentary investigation.
In Germany, many towns are now entrusting a portion of invalid care, such as running errands, delivering hot meals or arranging transportation, to others in the Ruhestand, i.e. OAPs who are still fit and able. Their compensation is in the form of time-credit vouchers, which they can trade in later, when they may need help themselves. You do need a reliable stream of new retirees, which could eventually be a problem in light of the alarming greying of the populace over there.
However, the trained professionals can keep providing specialized care, and getting paid for it. Obviously!
Thursday, 11 July
This morning I took the minibus to the rehab clinic to visit Evert. He seems to like it there. ‘You do have to slog your guts out. Everyone in here does, in fact – none but the halt and the lame. But to put it in cycling terms: the morale is good.’
The doctors and physiotherapists have promised Evert that he should be reasonably independent in a week or so, and then he’ll be able to leave. A good goal to work towards, and Evert is doing his very best. He told me he has put himself on a strict ration of just four illicit drinks a day.
He misses Mo. I have the sense that the feeling is mutual, although it’s hard to tell from the minimal amount of effort Mo expends to get through the day in hot weather. I have never heard a dog groan as much as he does when he hauls himself to his feet. Once outside, ‘shuffling’ is a word implying more energy than Mo puts into it. That dog has always been a dawdler, but it seems to me that his gait is even more sluggish now. I keep having to wait for him when I take him for a walk, and that’s saying something.
Yesterday evening we had a meeting to discuss what’s next for our club excursions. Whether to postpone them against Evert’s express wishes, or keep going as planned, was the question. We decided to keep going, despite our dampened enthusiasm. We wouldn’t want to incur Evert’s wrath.
‘Fine, but if we’re going ahead with it, it’s got to be good,’ said Graeme solemnly. He is in charge of organizing the next one. He started acting all mysterious, asking if any of us was dirt-phobic, and whether we were all vaccinated against tropical diseases. That did the trick to lighten the mood of the Old But Not Dead Club.
Friday, 12 July
I have started cautiously sounding out the others about taking a short summer trip. The first person I asked was of course my friend Eefje. If she thinks it’s a hopeless quest, I needn’t put any more energy into it. But after thinking it over at some length (making me rather nervous), she expressed enthusiasm for the plan.
‘It’s never occurred to me, but it might be a very good idea,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I’ll just let it sit for a while, Hendrik.’
I asked her how long ‘a while’ would be.
‘I was thinking one day. Can you wait that long?’
We haven’t much time left, yet we have all the time in the world.
We should be in a hurry, but have almost nothing left that’s worth hurrying for.
The very nasty Slothouwer sisters knocked over a vase of chrysanthemums that landed on Mrs Van Diemen’s lap – ‘by accident’. Edward saw it happen and swears they did it on purpose. The sisters can’t stand Van Diemen. Or anyone who has ever made a comment about their antisocial behaviour. They mainly target the weaker amongst us. They’re both bloodthirsty and psycho. There’s been a great deal of commotion about wolf packs returning to the Netherlands, but we’ve had a couple of hyenas prowling about in here for years. The director sees it, but turns a blind eye. There isn’t much you can do about sadistic behaviour. You aren’t allowed, for example, to give the Slothouwer ladies a good kick up the arse. You’d immediately have the press on your doorstep: ‘AGED SISTERS (87 AND 85) BEATEN UP IN CARE HOME!’ Never the headline, ‘BEATING OF AGED SISTERS (87 AND 85) UTTERLY JUSTIFIED!’
Saturday, 13 July
Yesterday afternoon I went and visited my wife. The institution where she lives is located in the province of Brabant. A two-hour trip. Time to remember the way we once were.
I’m not sure if she recognizes me, but I think she does. The weather was nice, we strolled together arm in arm through the lovely garden. I was deeply affected, as always. There isn’t much to say. Even though there is practically no communication, there is a profound sense of connection. Moving and intensely sad at the same time.
Sunday, 14 July
Evert is doing as well as can be expected. He is making a rapid recovery. ‘I’ve only fallen down three times.’
He is learning to use crutches; a prosthesis is being made for him, but it can’t be fitted to his leg until the wound is healed.
If Evert’s to be believed, he’s almost given up the booze. ‘I only drink to be social, really.’
When I visited him yesterday he asked whether I felt like accompanying him to Uden for a week. His son has invited him to stay with him the first week of August.
‘It’s to assuage his conscience, if you ask me,’ Evert added. ‘He feels guilty because he’s hardly bothered to see me for years.’
Evert isn’t on such good terms with his extremely proper daughter-in-law, and he thought that if I came with him and could calm the waters a bit, a stay might be quite bearable. I would have my own room and the dog would have his own cage. ‘She isn’t just a fanatic housekeeper, my daughter-in-law; she’s also a great cook, and maybe, if we drop a cautious hint or two, they’ll even treat us to a day at Efteling amusement park. We can ride the Python together,’ is how he ended his sales pitch.
I said yes. A week seemed a bit long to me, so we decided to make it five days. A nice little holiday just fell into my lap.
Monday, 15 July
‘OVER 90 AND GETTING SMARTER’, was the headline in the newspaper Trouw. Even smarter? Absolutely. According to Danish researchers.
It’s a matter of improved mental and cognitive abilities; the brain. The body, sadly, hasn’t made any such strides. That’s compared to twelve years ago. If the improvement continues at this rate, I’ll still have a few marbles left twelve years from now. Hope on the horizon for the over-eighties!
The response to my holiday enquiries has been enthusiastic. Grietje is the only one who doesn’t like to commit herself. ‘It depends – I’ll see how it goes,’ she said, ‘because I’ve noticed that I get disoriented more easily in unfamiliar surroundings.’
Of course I totally understand. Grietje has been handling her dementia like a graceful tightrope
walker so far. She skilfully sidesteps the holes in her memory that crop up from time to time, and she employs a light-hearted irony to conceal her uncertainty. ‘So far, so good, anyway,’ she said when I remarked on it.
As far as our trip goes, the preference is for September. Quieter, and cheaper. We are Dutch OAPs through and through. And not too far away either, if possible. Someone proposed the pre-eminent holiday resort for old people: Luxembourg. Maastricht was also mentioned.
Tuesday, 16 July
‘I won’t be around to see it’ is not such a far-fetched assumption for people in their nineties sitting in their little room waiting for death.
Momentous events pass them by completely. Only trivial annoyances still matter. ‘If Greece goes bankrupt the bingo prizes will probably get smaller,’ was Mrs Schouten’s analysis of the eurozone crisis.
To people who have watched every penny their whole life long, something like the US national debt – ten thousand billion pennies! – is quite incomprehensible. As it is to anyone else, in fact. A couple of dozen billion would end world hunger and provide everyone on Earth with clean water. And the Americans are a thousand billion euros in the red and think nothing of borrowing another fifty billion or so.
I have resolved to go to my grave in the red. It isn’t that easy to do. I still have about €8,000 in my bank account, but of course I have no idea how long it still has to last me. My immediate plan is to do my bit to stimulate the Dutch economy with an additional outlay of €1,000 per year. If we don’t get over this crisis, it won’t be because of me.
Wednesday, 17 July
Seated downstairs in the lounge, feeling a bit blue, you hear next to you, ‘And then I go to the bakery but get there late because of my pedicure and I ask for half a loaf of brown bread, and then they tell me all they’ve got is wholegrain, which I don’t like very much, I don’t like the crust, but a body’s got to eat, and normally I have a bag or two of frozen slices in the freezer but my grandson had eaten it, all six slices, can that boy ever eat –’
‘Well, you should see that boy of mine! Eight pancakes slathered in syrup, and it has to be Van Gilse because he doesn’t like the other kind very much. My word, it’s hot in here!’
‘We never had a freezer in the old days; at home we had to eat the old bread first and so we always had stale bread and never fresh because my mother always bought a bit too much bread, since you never know, and it wasn’t until it was covered in mould that we were allowed to feed it to the ducks.’
Endless torrents of vapid verbiage drowning out everything else like rampant weeds. Thoughtless. Senseless. Relentless. Aired just to let everyone know that the speaker isn’t dead yet and still has something to say. Whether there’s anyone willing to listen is a question they rarely ask themselves, otherwise they’d keep their mouths shut far more often.
Thursday, 18 July
Edward found an old Consumers’ Guide with an investigation into nursing-home hygiene. One hundred and twenty-one homes were asked to participate, out of a total of about three hundred. Half of that number, including ours, refused to cooperate. In the end, thirty-seven homes were inspected. The result: 18 Fs, 11 Ds, 8 Cs and not a single A. Were they that strict, or are the homes really that filthy? I’m sure the ones that refused to participate wouldn’t have come off any better.
I’ve asked Anja if she can dig up our management’s letter to the Consumers’ Union explaining its reasons for not wanting to participate.
Most of the cleaners in here you see swabbing the corridors in silence because they speak little or no Dutch. They do know how to give you a friendly nod. Most of them don’t look very lively, however. Let’s just say they are good at adapting to the tempo of the residents. I think they do an average job for the minimal wage. Every once in a while there’s one that stands out above the rest. They’re not usually with us long. Lured away by the competition or harassed until they quit, by co-workers who can’t stand people who try too hard.
Monday we’re having another club outing, organized by Graeme. Evert wants us to send him a postcard. I have already bought a stamp.
Friday, 19 July
Mrs De Koning, my timid next-door neighbour, knocked on my door. Glancing skittishly over her shoulder, as if she were selling me some heroin, she entrusted the cassette player to me. She must have been at her wits’ end, because in the two years she has been living next door she has never asked me for anything. ‘It’s a recording of my late husband’s voice, you see,’ she said.
I pried out the tape and then managed to rewind it by twisting a pencil in one of the holes. She must have thanked me at least seven times, walking out of the room backwards, bowing.
I have received a copy of a letter from the Board. Victor delivered it by hand. The Board greatly regrets that it cannot accede to the release of the requested documents, for vital privacy reasons. And asks if we might like to review the matter further with their legal representative. Victor thinks we should meet to discuss the next step.
Eefje and I have an appointment to see him next Wednesday.
Saturday, 20 July
For the first time since I began this diary, I seem to have writer’s block.
Sunday, 21 July
There are a few residents who have the unpleasant habit of complaining about the condition of their bowels. Preferably on a Sunday, when the greatest number of people come downstairs at teatime. That’s when the home offers the residents each a piece of cake. I know from my reliable source that it is a ninety-cent cake from Aldi which, per the unit head’s instructions, is cut into at least fifteen slices, so that the gift works out at six cents per person.
And then one of them will make a great fuss about declining the pathetic little slice by announcing, ‘Only’ cause I haven’t had a bowel movement in four days!’ Or conversely, ‘I’ve been sitting on the loo all morning, I’ve got a bad case of the runs.’
I DON’T NEED TO KNOW ANY OF THIS!
Have a word with your GP, or take yourself to the shit clinic (which exists, apparently), but do not come to me with your constipation or diarrhoea stories while I’m sitting here trying to enjoy my sliver of cake, because it robs me of my appetite!
The extraordinary lack of shame many old people seem to have! Coupled with the strange assumption that people will be genuinely interested in another’s complaints and ailments!
Little children are allowed to make a big fuss over their tummy-ache or scraped knee so that their mummy will rush over with a glass of warm milk or a plaster, but in old people, the incessant whining is utterly pointless and quite unbearable.
Tomorrow another outing with the incomparable Old But Not Dead set.
Monday, 22 July
The Tour de France has ended. This afternoon the hole it has left in my life will be filled by Graeme. He is the organizer of our day-trippers’ outing. Calling us ‘day-trippers’ may be a bit over the top, but if you take into account that the average age of our group is eighty-two and a half, it can be quite a production.
The goal of the biannual outings organized by the Residents’ Association, on the other hand, is merely to provide a change of scene for the daily coffee (10:30), lunch (12:30), and afternoon tea (15:30), with a good deal of coach sitting in between. No different from the daily routine at home. Any time that’s left is spent loading and unloading forty-five elderly persons into and out of the coach four times, and allowing for at least three visits each to the service area’s WC for the disabled.
I pleaded sickness for the home’s last two outings. The second time I used that excuse it was received with some suspicion. ‘Again? Really, today, of all days?’
Once is bad luck, twice is deliberate churlishness. By the third time, you’re a pariah. I’ll have to force myself to go at least twice, or else.
How different are our jovial Old But Not Dead jaunts! Absorbing activities until we drop, interspersed with (for we are only human) coffee breaks, meals and plenty of wine.
Tuesday,
23 July
Fortunately it was loads of fun, if you’ll excuse the cliché. I’d been worried that Evert’s absence would put a damper on the day, but it turned out better than expected.
It was a day at the zoo, with – an emotional highlight – a baby gorilla landing in his mother’s fruit salad while trying to execute a handstand.
Graeme had scoped it out beforehand and had organized a treasure hunt with witty clues. The prizes were handed out at cocktail hour. Ria got the booby prize for being off by 2,700 kilos in guessing the elephant’s weight. It was a set of second-hand bathroom scales not too meticulous about showing a kilo more or less.
We rang Evert to tell him we missed him. He bought us a round on the phone.
Graeme had also brought along three user-friendly digital cameras, for a photo safari. Edward and I, for example, had to snap a ‘Great Bums’ series. Another duo had to photograph animals that looked like members of our club.
Graeme has promised a slick PowerPoint presentation for the next club meeting. Who says we’re behind the times?
Departure at eleven and home again at five. I was knackered. We had arranged for two wheelchairs, so I could sit down once in a while, but it was a lot of walking for me. In the end it was just a shuffle from one bench to the next one. We have just two reliable wheelchair-pushers: Antoine and Graeme. The rest of us are better at getting pushed.