I predict that in the municipal elections next March, the local old-age parties will emerge victorious, together with the Socialists and the Freedom Party. The Labour Party will be toast. Its leader will step down. The Cabinet will finally collapse. There will be a political deadlock, but in the end, even with the new parties in charge, everything will be the same as before. This is your political commentator Hendrik Groen in the old-age home, signing off.
Thursday, 19 September
Two days after the opening of Parliament, the budget is no longer a topic of conversation, but the ladies aren’t finished with lambasting the hats on display during the King’s Speech. The ladies were not charitable in their appraisal of the female politicians: mousy plain Janes suddenly overcome with the need to wear ridiculous hats. There was one that looked like something torn off a wedding dress, someone said. ‘Well, that one’s not that terrible,’ was just about the most positive assessment.
Our ladies are the last generation of hat-wearers: sensible headgear for the wintry weather, ‘but also to look nice’. They greatly disapprove of the carnival hat procession in the second chamber.
Eefje often wears very fetching hats.
I like walking next to her, proud as a peacock. Preferably arm in arm.
Friday, 20 September
There’s an announcement on the noticeboard offering a course on ‘Falls Prevention’. All residents are encouraged to sign up.
The people who are most afraid of falling are the ones who fall the most. It’s a fact that’s been established through biomedical research. People who are afraid think: As long as I don’t move, I can’t fall down. Their physical condition and motor skills decline rapidly, and so they are bound to fall more often – on their way to the loo, for instance. That’s the fall paradox for you, in a nutshell.
The course teaches you to ‘improve your balance’ and, no less important, how to get up again if you do fall.
The hard facts and figures: ‘Falls are the leading cause of injury among people 65 and older.’
I too have been feeling less steady on my feet … Still, I’m not sure about taking a course …
I asked Eefje what she thought; she won’t even think of it. Graeme is waiting another year, and then he’ll see. Grietje often gets lost, but never falls. Evert is the only one who is keen to take part, in his wheelchair. Just to make a nuisance of himself.
Could I ask for a private trial lesson, I wonder?
Antoine and Ria are mourning the passing of their hero, Johannes van Dam, the food critic who used to make chefs quake in their shoes. Towards the end of his life he was giving the eating establishments he visited increasingly high marks. Was it perhaps to support his contention that he was personally responsible for having raised Amsterdam’s culinary standards?
Another possible reason for the improved standings was the fact that he could no longer go incognito. He was far too recognizable. So whenever Johannes walked into a restaurant, it was all hands on deck.
Saturday, 21 September
A few years ago, Johannes van Dam wrote in Het Parool that being unable to live independently was an unbearable torment. I brought this up with eight or so fellow residents over coffee. It set off a lively debate. Evert, the only one of us in sheltered accommodation, was also the only champion of the late Johannes’s view. He was up against a majority expressing outrage at such a negative mentality. It was quite a showdown. Evert was on top form: sharp and blunt.
Stelwagen was watching from a distance. When she noticed me looking at her, she nodded at me and walked away.
Today is World Alzheimer’s Day. What are you supposed to do with that? Try to remember it?
It seems silly to me, all those days marking this or that, especially diseases: World Leprosy Day, World AIDS day, World Diabetes Day, World Diarrhoea Day. I must go and see Grietje later, and tell her cheerily, ‘It’s your day today! Actually, it’s doubly your day, since today is also Good Neighbour Day!’ Apparently there aren’t enough days in the year, so Alzheimer’s has to share its day with the neighbours.
Anyway, Alzheimer’s Day is wasted on people with Alzheimer’s. They don’t even know what day of the week it is.
Sunday, 22 September
Even if you’re eighty, and you have a big mouth, and your name is Evert, you can still have moments of doubt. Evert asked me for my opinion on his arrangements for next Wednesday’s outing. He has booked us into a painting class, and is a bit worried no one will like it. ‘Isn’t it a bit skimpy? Do you think I should add something else?’
I assured him his plan is fine just as it is, that it can hardly go wrong, and will in any case trump my own golfing fiasco.
‘That’s true,’ he said with a smirk I didn’t really appreciate.
I didn’t see any furious fleets of Zimmer frames, Cantas or mobility scooters at the anti-government rallies protesting the fact that the elderly are getting screwed.
Actually, it turns out it isn’t as bad as we thought, if I can trust the article in yesterday’s Volkskrant with the heading, ‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, OLD AND PITIFUL?’ The conclusion of greatest note: the young people of today will have to work considerably longer, and have to pay more for their pension, than all those pensioners who are now screaming bloody murder.
It’s a cheering prospect: a Socialist, Communist and 50Plus coalition going to bat for the beggared-beyond-belief oldies. According to the latest poll they stand to have sixty-six seats in Parliament.
Monday, 23 September
Yesterday afternoon the sun broke through again, after a week of autumn weather. There wasn’t an empty spot to be had on the benches outside the front door.
Mrs Bakel had brought along a bargain-size tube of sun cream, which she generously shared with anyone who asked. A short while later eight senior citizens with gobs of cream on their faces were seen basking in the sun, eyes closed. A pretty picture.
Then Mrs Bakel, glancing at the tube, exclaimed in horror, ‘It’s out of date!’
‘And not even by a little,’ said Mrs Van der Ploeg, who had put on her reading glasses.
‘August 2009. Do you think it could be harmful?’
The question led to wild speculation.
‘Maybe it’ll give you the big C, skin C,’ Mr Snel suggested.
Upon which eight senior citizens were seen frantically mopping the cream off their faces. Which was easier said than done, because of all the wrinkles.
Tuesday, 24 September
Mr Van der Schaaf was accosted in the street by a young man who asked him if he could exchange a euro for two fifty-cent coins, for a supermarket trolley. The kid was very helpful, and offered to hold his wallet for him. When Mr Van der Schaaf got home, it appeared that he had exchanged one euro for one tenner and two twenties.
And if they do ever catch him …
Unarmed robbery? He’s looking at community service at most, with no loss of benefits.
People tend not to get more lefty as they grow older. More right-wing is the norm. What does that say about us?
I believe this was the third obvious scam one of our inmates has fallen for in the last few months. We have all been warned, but when it comes to someone asking us for help in the street, half of us are grimly suspicious, while the other half remain naïvely convinced of the honesty of their fellow man.
Wednesday, 25 September
A scientist, I don’t remember the name, claims that Alzheimer’s disease will be preventable fifteen years from now or thereabouts. That’s bitter news for all the old boys and girls who are just starting to lose it. They won’t be here to see it; not in their right minds anyway. Rotten luck.
On the other hand, Americans have had some dashed lucky escapes over the years. From 1950 to 1968 there were at least 700 serious incidents involving nuclear weapons, newly declassified secret documents have revealed. An American bomber once ‘accidentally lost’ two nuclear bombs over the US somewhere – two warheads 260 times more powerful than the ones dropped
on Hiroshima. One of them very nearly exploded when three of the four safety devices failed.
There is no reason to assume that such incidents have suddenly stopped happening. Only, they won’t be made public until the year 2058. So I won’t waste any more time fretting about it, promise.
All things considered, it’s through luck rather than wisdom that we still exist.
Mankind hasn’t always put the most sensible people in command. Hitler, Stalin, Mao, just to mention a few, are good for a tidy two hundred million dead between them, and that’s even discounting any nukes. If there was a prize for the most hare-brained creature on Earth, man would certainly be one of the nominees.
Tomorrow I’ll go back to reporting on the charming details of daily life. The minibus will soon pull up in front, and eight spry OAPs will be on their way to spend a lovely day burying our heads in the sand. We’ll only come up for a drink and a nibble.
Thursday, 26 September
There’s a handsome portrait of me on my dresser, painted by Graeme, who turns out to be endowed with a striking neo-expressionist style.
After lunch yesterday, the minibus drove us to Bergen aan Zee, the artists’ village in North Holland. They were expecting us at an elegant beach pavilion. Evert hadn’t taken into account how we were going to get him across the dunes in his wheelchair. It took some effort to push him up the brick path, and once at the top we had to struggle to keep him from hurtling down the other side and landing head-first in the sand. We finally found two strong, young joggers who offered to carry Evert downhill, dragged him a hundred metres through the sand and delivered him safe and sound to the beach café that was the venue for our painting class.
An artistic lady had set out paints and canvases on eight portable easels. We were divided into pairs and instructed to paint our partner’s portrait. The results were hilarious. Every style of the past five hundred years of art history was represented.
Afterwards Eefje and I moseyed down to the water to dip our toes into the North Sea. Arm in arm.
The final evaluation was of a sound culinary and alcoholic nature. Then the beach-café’s owner gave Evert a lift back up the dune in his tractor, Evert waving at us from his lofty perch like a queen. There was rowdy singing on the bus ride home.
This morning Mrs Kamerling asked Graeme if he would paint a portrait of her too. Evert advised Graeme to charge her €780, VAT not included.
Friday, 27 September
‘To mark the end of Dementia Week, I’d like to invite the three of you for a glass of wine and bite to eat at the Eye café,’ Grietje said to Eefje, Edward and me yesterday. When we objected, saying we should share the costs, she just said, ‘Stuff and nonsense!’
Taxi out, taxi home.
As we sat there basking in the sun, gazing at the waters of the IJ, she explained nonchalantly: ‘I’m determined to be a big spender in my old age. I want to empty my savings account before I no longer know what a savings account is for.’
That’s the correct approach to dementia, if you ask me.
But I do think enough is enough. An Alzheimer’s Day is one thing, but it seems we now have an entire week devoted to it …! There must have been at least eight programmes about dementia on the telly recently. OK, now we know. It isn’t that complicated: you’re diagnosed with dementia, and after a while your mind goes completely blank and you can’t even recognize your own face in the mirror. Then it’s time for the locked ward.
There’s a big fuss about the prediction that of the female babies born today, half will live to be a hundred. I have yet to hear anyone ask the most pertinent question: is that supposed to be good news or bad? Of the people in this home close to turning a hundred, at least half wish to die as soon as possible.
Saturday, 28 September
When the lift door slid open, there were already two rollators and one mobility scooter inside, but Mrs Groenteman thought there was still room for herself and her scooter. She did rev the engine a little too hard, however, sweeping the others into a great logjam. It took half an hour to extricate all the dinged metal and trampled oldies. The groaning was deafening, although the injuries were barely perceptible to the naked eye.
The director has let me know – very indirectly – that she believes I’m the one to whom Anja has passed on confidential information. Yesterday she personally invited me to the farewell cocktail party for Anja on Monday 7 October. I must have looked a bit startled, for she added, ‘You are a friend of Mrs Appelboom’s, aren’t you? I mean, I understand you were often seen in the office having a cup of coffee together. I’m just sorry it always happened to be when I wasn’t there.’
I must have blushed. I stood there and didn’t know what to say. I felt a tad checkmated.
‘A tad checkmated’ is an oxymoron!
Stelwagen smiled, bade me good day, and left.
The fact that the farewell do is on a Monday speaks volumes about the esteem in which Anja is held by her office mates.
In any case, she now seems more relieved than angry about her abrupt dismissal.
Sunday, 29 September
As soon as the news got out yesterday about the pile-up in the lift, the corridor turned into a sea of rubberneckers.
‘Oh, oh, oh!’ Hands up to appalled mouths, heads shaking, and daft speculation as to cause and effect.
‘No, it was because the people in the lift were taking up too much room.’
We lose some capacities as we age, but being a nosy parker isn’t one of them.
We’re having an Indian summer. Although the weather can be a bit treacherous. Early this morning I took my scooter out for a spin; almost froze my fingers off. I must buy myself some toasty winter gear, or some fine day they’ll find me frozen stiff at a traffic light.
They do say that freezing to death, like drowning, is a good way to die. If you can believe those who lived to tell the tale.
I’m not planning to try it just yet, but it may be a useful backup, as an alternative to the suicide pill. All you do is drive to some deserted spot on an icy winter night, fling off your coat, and wait for death. Another plus is that if they don’t find you right away, you won’t stink.
Monday, 30 September
My foot hurts so badly that I can barely walk. I’ve rung Eefje to ask her to fetch me some aspirin. I think it’s gout. I recognize the symptoms – Evert once had it. I’ve been sitting in my chair with my leg up all morning. I only got up once, to crawl to the WC on hands and knees.
Eefje came and sat with me for an hour, and this afternoon Evert’s coming for a visit in his wheelchair. The halt and the lame.
I’ve asked the staff if I can have my supper brought upstairs.
‘Sorry, not standard procedure,’ Mrs De Roos of housekeeping informed me.
‘Standard procedure?’
‘Right, we won’t do that. You’ll have to ask to be moved to the nursing unit.’
Stuff your rules and procedures; I’ll just ask Graeme to bring me up a plate tonight. Graeme is still ambulatory. They’ll probably make a fuss that that isn’t ‘standard procedure’ either, but Graeme will ignore them.
The people here are perfectly capable of letting someone die like a dog, as long as it’s by the rules.
It’s lucky I have friends these days.
Tuesday, 1 October
I was right; it’s gout. The doctor gave me pills and told me I can’t drink while I’m on them, and even when I’m over it I’m to stay away from red wine and try not to eat any strawberries. One can survive without strawberries, especially in October, but the season for red wine has only just begun! Now I’ll have to restrict myself to the whites of summer. If that’s all it takes to keep the gout away, I can deal with it.
It takes great effort and excruciating pain to hobble to the loo. Roaming the premises, so important to my sanity, is out of the question for now. What’s left: reading, writing, watching the telly, and waiting for visitors.
And leafing through some of my files.
I found an old newspaper article in one: ‘A United States investigative committee has discovered that some 6.6 billion freshly printed dollars that were air-shipped in several planeloads to Baghdad to pay government salaries may have been stolen.’ The Americans gave Iraq the cash, Iraq simply lost it.
Lost it? Six billion dollars? That’s a few lorries stuffed with cash. Lost. Just left it sitting around somewhere.
I know why I kept that article. It’s too unbelievable for words. Somewhere, in a Baghdad warehouse perhaps, an Iraqi Scrooge McDuck is diving into a swimming pool full of dollars.
Wednesday, 2 October
By way of consolation I told Grietje that Europe has at least six million dementia sufferers.
Evert: ‘So you thought, oh well, sorrow shared is sorrow halved, didn’t you.’
Upon which Grietje said, smiling, ‘Don’t mind him!’
I think I must have gone quite red.
Still, it isn’t a very cheering thought, that Europe alone has enough dementia patients to fill 120 football stadiums.
Grietje said that when the illness is advanced, you might walk right past a mirror without recognizing it’s you. She said she hoped she’d think to herself, ‘My, what a nice-looking woman!’