She had to laugh about it herself, though not very heartily.
The biscuits have been shared among all her friends and acquaintances.
Saturday, 24 August
The Arab Spring is no longer going well. I can’t think of any other season of the year (autumn?) that would accurately describe the present troubles over there. But the Arabs shouldn’t expect too much sympathy from the people here. The general opinion is that if those Islamists are so set on waging a holy war, they’d best wage it against one another. It’s not keeping anyone in here awake at night.
The cancellation of package tours to the Pyramids has created more consternation than thousands of deaths.
‘My son simply has to kiss all that money goodbye. Two thousand euros down the Nile!’ lamented Mrs Deurloo.
But the photographs of little children asphyxiated by poison gas have persuaded even the safe little world in here that there’s something truly horrific going on.
We may complain all the time about our elder-care system, but the health care system in England isn’t all fun and games either, with elderly patients complaining of being starved. Probably because feeding them took too much time. Another complaint was that the call bell was left just out of the patients’ reach. That must have saved the staff quite a bit of time and effort.
But it isn’t all doom and gloom: it’s been just a gorgeous summer, and yesterday I spent nearly two hours at an outdoor café with Eefje. Lovely company; someone to talk to but also to be silent with. Without it feeling at all awkward. Simply a delightful afternoon. Shuffled our way home slowly. I’d taken my rollator out of mothballs for the occasion, since Eefje says she won’t ride on the back of my scooter, not for all the tea in China.
Sunday, 25 August
Grietje showed me a photograph of the ‘Beach Room’ at the Happy Days Nursing Home. (A name like that always makes me a bit leery.) It’s specially designed for dementia patients, made to look like the seashore. Complete with a fake sun and stuffed seagulls. You hear the crashing waves and every so often the fans set up a little breeze.
It’s meant to make the geriatric patients calm down.
Grietje wondered if she should go out and buy herself a new bikini. Smiling, she said, ‘Well, Henk, it is what it is. Or rather: what will be, will be. I’ll take it as it comes.’
My admiration keeps growing for the way she is preparing herself to face her future.
Grietje says that my view of dementia is of a horror show. She’s right about that. Today I allowed myself an (illegal) peek into the locked ward, and saw three drooling old ladies vacantly watching Teletubbies.
Grietje told me she can well understand anyone not wanting to have to go through the distressing decline.
Not knowing where you are even in your own home.
No longer understanding the words on the page.
No longer recognizing your loved ones.
Monday, 26 August
Anja is being forced into early retirement. I just had her on the phone. She was on the verge of tears, from disappointment and anger. It was a short conversation, she couldn’t speak freely. I’m afraid she may have been unmasked by Stelwagen as the whistle-blower. I feel so sorry for her, and guilty too. She took risks, partly on my behalf.
We’re having lunch together on Wednesday, then I’ll know more.
It’s put quite a damper on my mood, which had been elated (for me), since I was so looking forward to the outing Grietje is organizing for us. We are gathering downstairs at two o’clock.
I think it’s best if I don’t tell Eefje until tomorrow.
Jetty Paerl has died. I doubt she will be mourned anywhere outside the nation’s care homes. There was much nostalgic reminiscing over tea about Radio Orange and our beloved wartime songbird.
‘Ah, yes, those were the days,’ sighed Mrs De Ridder, who seemed to have momentarily forgotten that others, the Jews for instance, might think differently.
‘You mean the days when you’d also see quite a few German SS round here?’ asked Edward wickedly.
Well, OK, but besides those Germans, they were lovely days, she insisted.
The sentiment that everything was better in the old days tends to run rampant in old-age homes, impossible to eradicate. It’s a kind of cold comfort for old people who find themselves shunted aside.
I’m going to drape myself in sartorial splendour and polish both my shoes and my teeth.
Tuesday, 27 August
Strange that old people never or hardly ever seem to do normal things any more, such as going to see a film. We took a survey, and added together the eight of us in our little club haven’t set foot in a cinema in over a century. Which is a simple and affordable pleasure, after all.
Grietje had chosen a film in 3D for us to see, which was for all of us a new experience; Cars, really a children’s film, but that was the only one being offered in 3D. There we sat, eight OAPs, wearing our special glasses, surrounded by forty or so little kids.
The 3D experience is quite interesting the first time. We kept cringing, panicked, especially the first fifteen minutes or so, as a car came racing out of the screen at us. The sound was three-dimensional as well; there was a loud crunching of popcorn all around us. It did not spoil the fun, however.
The film didn’t start until four o’clock; we had an elaborate high tea beforehand. So it didn’t matter that we got home just in time for dessert. The cook took it personally. That’s his problem, not ours.
Grietje was showered with compliments and thanks. It was moving to see her beaming like a young girl.
I’m worried about Anja. I tried ringing her, but did not get through.
I’m taking my scooter out for a drive tomorrow afternoon. The weather is beautiful. I’m going to stop by the garage of Hoogdalen’s son, who has promised to soup up my ride. I was going to go last week, but Hoogdalen Jr was too busy. He said he can do it while I wait.
Wednesday, 28 August
It’s even worse than I thought. Anja suspects they’d been watching her for a while. She is almost certain that her desk was searched, and thinks the stack of photocopies of board minutes, reports and memos she kept in a drawer was the reason for her dismissal. Having those documents in her possession wasn’t illegal, of course, but it may have thickened the cloud of suspicion she was already under.
Stelwagen is claiming that Anja’s early retirement is a reward for her many years of loyal service.
Her contract is up at the end of October. Since she is still owed twenty vacation days, she can stop coming in as of the first of October. Is it possible to have her desk cleared out by that date?
Anja is very upset, and I have little to offer in the way of consolation. I feel so guilty about turning her into a whistle-blower.
Our director still nods at me affably whenever we cross paths in the corridor.
My scooter now runs at a top speed of 25kph, I think. Cyclists and even some motorcyclists are startled to see me calmly cruising right past them. I have to say I’m a bit of a threat on the road. I really ought to be wearing a crash helmet. That way I can’t be recognized if caught on camera in a speed trap. No, only joking, just let the wind tousle the last four hairs on my pate.
Thursday, 29 August
‘CASH-STRAPPED OAPS TO JAIL’. It would make a great headline.
The prison in the town of Breda stands empty, and now an enterprising contractor has come up with the idea of turning it into cheap housing for the aged. If the newspaper is to be believed, he thinks a revamped jail cell measuring 11 square metres is room enough for two oldies. Works out less than 2 x 3m per person.
The oldies barely move any more, Ouborg must be thinking, and they don’t need a lot of stuff either.
Sliding French doors probably not included. A small window for ventilation should be sufficient.
The cheapest room will cost €870. I took that to mean per year, but no, that’s the monthly rent. Meals not included, but you do get some kind of ?
??basic care package’.
No, it’s not a joke.
That is what some people in this wealthy country would like to fob the elderly off with: a prison cell with a coat of fresh paint. We’re assured that no, it’s not meant for people who are already living in care homes like us. It’s for the ‘new’ OAPs, who would otherwise just pine away from loneliness, or be forced to sleep under a bridge.
I had lunch yesterday with Anja. ‘I’m a useless spy,’ she sighed. I had bought her a big bunch of flowers as consolation; I couldn’t think of anything more original.
But she had to admit she was also relieved to escape the chilly atmosphere at work. We drank a toast to her new-found freedom.
Friday, 30 August
Our legal counsellor is still on the warpath. I spoke to him this morning. Victor, as combative and optimistic as ever, had to admit, however, that we have had a small setback in the form of a letter from the appeals board dealing with our pursuit of the documents. The letter states that our case will be dealt with in mid- to late January 2014, five months from now. That timing takes into account the advanced age of the petitioners.
Victor was still trying to see if there wasn’t a way to hurry it up.
‘My best advice to you is to stay alive until then,’ were his parting words.
Sunday morning I’m launching my motor-scooter across the IJ. Having made a number of trips exploring every nook and cranny of North Amsterdam, I think it’s time to move the goalposts and take the ferry across. I’m looking forward to touring Amsterdam’s centre at a rare moment of peace and quiet: Sunday morning at 9 a.m. The canals were practically designed for driving laps, up one side and down the other.
Evert is considering getting a mobility scooter of his own. Not surprising, since he has trouble getting about in his wheelchair. Yesterday he came rolling up with difficulty, with Mo on his lap. The poor dog can’t walk just now because of an infected paw. And he’s got one of those lampshade things round his neck to prevent him from licking it. Quite the pair.
Saturday, 31 August
The bill before Parliament proposing that citizens have the right to clean nappies has been withdrawn. Just as I’m having to start wearing them! What kind of imbecilic country is this anyway, that needs a law to make sure old people don’t sit around in their own excrement all day? The reason the bill was scrubbed isn’t completely clear. The Council of State, the body that issues legal recommendations, claims it’s a law that’s already on the books. I just couldn’t tell you which law a demented old person should appeal to for that extra nappy change. I hope that, long before I find myself having to make do with one nappy a day, I’ll be peacefully resting in my grave.
Or … could this report be another hoax? Just like the story about the prison housing for cash-strapped OAPs in Breda? (Yes, I did fall for that one.)
There will be an information session about the proposed renovations. The Board is not able to rule out that some may have to move out. The underlying motives are unclear. Time suddenly does appear to be of the essence.
Those revelations are probably the last Anja will have managed to smuggle out from behind enemy lines. She’s decided to make good use of her last weeks in the office, even though she knows she is being watched. She no longer has to worry about the consequences. The director knows there’s no point hanging our whistle-blower out to dry. She is all too well aware that the publicity would almost certainly work in Anja’s favour.
Sunday, 1 September
In this home people are just called Piet, Kees, Nel or Ans; not Storm, Butterfly, Perdita or Sword of Islam.
We were all born before the time when parents began wanting to show off how original and cool they could be in naming their offspring. With all the dangers lurking therein. You give your daughter the name Butterfly, and damn if she doesn’t grow into a lumbering tub of lard. You’d have done better naming her Bertha.
This morning found me and my scooter on the nine o’clock ferry. Took a wonderful drive round a sleeping Amsterdam. It is a privilege to live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But you do have to take advantage of that privilege sometimes, or what’s the point? So that’s what I did, for the first time in years, and I’m going to do it more often, provided I am granted more time on Earth. I drove in ‘turtle’ gear the entire way, so that I could calmly gaze about and take in the sights.
But now back to matters of some import: the Residents’ Association has proposed a one-time €2 hike in the membership fee to cover the cost of an attractive package of Christmas bingo prizes. Good governance requires foresight.
Monday, 2 September
It is not easy to book an hour-long game of billiards on a Sunday afternoon. There is an opaque system for reserving the table. Graeme, Edward and I, after some insistence and a half-hour wait, were finally given a time slot from 16:40 to 17:20. By then we’d already had a few drinks. Being two sheets to the wind loosened us up considerably; but unfortunately, when it comes to billiards, looseness isn’t a great advantage. I think that we must have scored less than twenty points between the three of us.
Our tongues were loosened, on the other hand, to some effect. Graeme told us some wonderful stories about his childhood. He was the youngest in a family of fourteen boys and girls. All of them dead now. He also has a son in Australia and a daughter in Groningen. Every other year he and his son visit his daughter, and the alternate year his daughter goes with him to visit his son. He’s off to Australia for three weeks in January.
‘That’s what keeps me going, those trips.’ We nodded. He quickly added, ‘And your company in here, naturally.’
Edward is a bit of a sad sack. He’s got a lot to say, but is still practically impossible to understand, unfortunately. It’s even worse when he’s had a few.
‘Why don’t you write it down, Ed,’ suggested Evert, who had joined us for a drink.
Edward said that he would. He has promised to write us a letter once a week. Whether we choose to answer orally or in writing is up to us.
We’ve decided to play billiards more often.
Graeme is going to reserve a permanent hour for us; he is on good terms with the billiards club’s secretary.
Tuesday, 3 September
It’s my birthday the day after tomorrow. It’s the first time in years that I have enough friends to make it worth having a party. I have invited the Old But Not Dead members for a drink that night, and have asked Ria and Antoine to provide some savoury nibbles, which I will pay for, naturally. I’m doing both them and myself a favour that way. Bitterballen are de rigueur, of course – we can’t have a drinks party without them – but as far as the rest, they have free rein.
No flowers, no presents: I was adamant about that. I wonder if they’ll listen.
Grietje promised to be there, but extracted a promise from me in return: ‘Once I’ve gone gaga, will you please refrain from dragging me all over hell and creation?’
‘What do you mean?’
She explained that it’s a misconception to assume people with Alzheimer’s must be entertained no matter what, to prod them out of their apathy. They’re taken along on outings, but have no idea where they are, who the people gabbing at them so brightly are, and why they have to climb into some strange little train. On top of that they’re given unfamiliar food to eat, and subjected to kisses from total strangers.
‘A person with dementia is going to need three days to recover,’ Grietje sighed. ‘So when the time comes, just let me sit in my chair by the window.’
I promised.
Wednesday, 4 September
One of our porters is only a few years younger than the inmates. Yet he’s always going on about ‘the oldies’ and gives himself airs as if he’s the one in charge in here. He isn’t strictly a porter; his job title is ‘Host/Safety Associate’. He likes nothing better than to scold people who ignore the rules.
Evert and I were going out for a stroll. Evert is in the habit of implacably rolling
right through the doors as they’re sliding shut, so that as they close on his wheelchair, they automatically spring open again. This doesn’t sit well with porter Post (that’s his name).
‘You should either speed up, or slow down and wait,’ he told Evert sternly.
Evert looked up at him very slowly, squinted as if trying to see more clearly, and then said, ‘You have a bogey hanging from your nose.’
I almost choked laughing.
It caused the porter some perplexity. Should he ignore that remark? But what if it were true?
We looked back when we got to the door. He was gazing at his finger, which had just gone up for a little inspection.
‘A bit to the right,’ said Evert.
To misquote the old saw: ‘Porter, c’est mourir un peu.’
‘Leaving is dying a little.’
I have bought enough alcohol to supply three birthday parties. Better to have too much than too little. If you have a friend like Evert, it will all get drunk anyhow, sooner or later.
Thursday, 5 September
I was born on 5 September 1929. Today is my eighty-fourth birthday. Evert was standing at my door at nine o’clock – or, rather, sitting outside my door in his wheelchair – with an elaborate breakfast tray on his lap. A touching sight. Croissants, rusks, bread, tea, freshly squeezed orange juice and Prosecco. After an extremely off-key rendition of ‘Long May He Live’, Evert ate and drank most of it himself. I’m not a big breakfast-eater.