I miss Eefje, who was so good at tactfully helping you over the hurdles. A single remark from her was enough to make your irritation at all the bellyaching and mindless bunk disappear. Giving you the strength to tolerate the sometimes abominable ignorance in here again.
Friday, 1 November
Over the course of my lifetime, the number of people on Earth has escalated from two billion to seven billion. In one generation the world population has more than tripled. This may possibly be the most drastic change the world has ever seen. More significant than either the industrial or the digital revolution.
When the subject of the population explosion came up over coffee, Mrs Brom allowed that it was ‘indeed getting rather crowded’.
‘I hadn’t really noticed,’ Evert scoffed, ‘judging by the number of visitors we see here.’
‘That’s because you are not a very nice man,’ Mrs Brom replied.
Evert took that as a compliment.
If everyone on Earth was allotted the same space, proportionately, as a battery hen – say, 150 x 150cm – then all seven billion would easily fit into half of the Netherlands.
If one looks at it that way, there’s room for many billions more.
Eefje is coming home this afternoon. That is, she’s coming home to the nursing ward.
The upshot of her daughter’s consultation with the GP was that euthanasia is out of the question. Even if we were able to find her living will declaring she does not wish to live in a vegetative state, he still wouldn’t be able to do anything for her. That’s all he would say.
Saturday, 2 November
Yesterday late afternoon found five of us club members gathered round Eefje’s bed. It looked like a reunion of sorts. Or perhaps a dissolution. The nurse came to tell us only two people were allowed at the same time. ‘So as not to disturb the other patients.’
Eefje is sharing the room with a nonagenarian who is strapped to her bed and can’t stop clicking her fingernail against the metal bed rail, and another old woman who keeps up a constant stream of mumbling. The only thing about Eefje that’s still in good working order is her hearing. Please God that her mind isn’t alert enough for it to bother her.
Three old biddies in one room, no privacy to speak of, no personal belongings. Stark comfort in the year 2013, in one of the richest countries in the world.
I’m even more scatterbrained than usual. I left my toast too long in the toaster three times in succession. Burned to a crisp each time. My mind was elsewhere. I was lucky: there wasn’t enough smoke to set off the fire alarm. That would have created a huge ruckus and my illegal toaster would probably have been confiscated. Making toast is included in the prohibition against baking, frying and cooking.
Sunday, 3 November
Evert and I had a good talk. We were playing chess. That is, I was blindly moving the chess pieces about.
‘It’s sheer checkmate-suicide, Henk, the way you’re playing.’
‘What?’
‘You’re doing what you don’t have the guts to do in real life,’ he pointed out. Evert doesn’t need much of a pretext to get to the heart of the matter.
Naturally I began by beating about the bush, but with Evert you can’t get away with that. First he let me stutter on a bit, until I fell silent. Then came the advice.
‘Henk, if you’re sick of life, just put an end to it, why don’t you. Don’t mess about with assisted-suicide counsellors or doctors, just go out and buy yourself a sturdy rope. As long as you’re still able to get up on a chair and step off, you don’t need anyone else. And if you don’t have the nerve, which is normal, then stop whining and just try to make the best of it.’
There was no arguing with his logic.
I tried protesting that some people don’t kill themselves because they don’t want to cause their loved ones grief, or saddle them with guilt.
Well, as far as he could tell, there wasn’t much need for me to worry about that. He was willing to give me a helping hand in tying the noose. Not that he wanted to be rid of me, certainly not, but true friends are there to help you in your hour of need. Without thinking of themselves.
‘And you can trust me to explain it to the other club members, although I don’t think they’d have any trouble understanding. After all, we’re all in the same sinking ship. And now, back to chess!’
Monday, 4 November
At lunch Graeme announced that he hears a strange click every time he picks up the phone. ‘I’ve got the feeling someone’s tapping my phone,’ he said gravely. A few hours later, at teatime, five other residents announced that they too could hear a strange click when they answered their phones.
‘Now I understand how Mrs Merkel must feel,’ said Mrs Schenk, without a grain of irony.
Graeme later confided to me that his phone has been sitting in a drawer, unused, for weeks. ‘I never get any calls. If the phone does ring, it’s always for Neonatal Care over at the IJ hospital. Their number is practically the same as mine.’
Our Prime Minister Rutte has lodged a sharp protest with the NSA: how come they’ve been spying on Merkel and the pope, and not on him?
We haven’t heard anything further about the building works, which are supposedly imminent. No news is often bad news here. I miss having Anja as my mole in the administration. Our retired whistle-blower is doing fine, by the way. She’s enjoying her life. We see each other for coffee on a regular basis.
Nothing new on the Eefje front.
Tuesday, 5 November
I decided that Eefje might like it if I read to her. She always was a big reader. I found three books in her room that looked as if they hadn’t been cracked yet. But it hadn’t been simple. The manager wouldn’t allow me into Eefje’s room at first. So I marched straight to Stelwagen, explained the situation and asked if I could collect a few of her books. That turned out to be the right tactic; from now on I have access to Eefje’s room whenever I want. I was even given a key, which I believe is against the rules.
Our director mentioned in passing that Eefje’s room would have to be surrendered on 1 January, unless there was a marked improvement in her condition of course.
‘That’s so flexible of you.’
‘If there’s a need, I’ll use any space I have.’
Eefje nodded when I asked if she’d like me to read to her. I let her choose between Simone van der Vlugt’s Jacoba, Paolo Giordano’s The Solitude of Prime Numbers, or Sarah’s Key by Tatiana de Rosnay. She nodded when I showed her the latter. I hope it isn’t too gloomy. In hindsight I am glad she didn’t choose Jacoba, which is about Jacoba van Beieren, the fifteenth-century Countess of Holland. Chapter One begins: ‘Death drifted into the room.’ That would have been a tough way to start.
I read 17 pages in half an hour. The book is 331 pages long. So there are enough words there for 20 reading sessions.
When I stopped I asked her if she’d enjoyed it. She nodded.
Wednesday, 6 November
‘Right, girlies, I’ve spiked your coffee with a couple of pills, and I’ll be seeing you in my room shortly.’ Evert could already picture it. He was hoping it wasn’t too late to have a shot at the new female-libido-enhancing pill.
‘You old blowhard,’ Graeme grunted.
‘I have a lot of catching up to do,’ said Evert, ‘because I was married for thirty years to a very sweet woman, but she was as cold as a chest freezer and as dry as a biscuit.’
‘That pill makes ladies grow a moustache,’ Edward warned.
‘Most of the ladies in here already have one,’ Evert said, to put the problem into perspective.
‘Right, Evert, enough now,’ said Grietje, sending him a withering glance.
The Old But Not Dead Club was assembled for the first time in weeks, and it felt good. We drank wine and snacked on bitterballen and the mood was serious and cheerful by turns. Ria and Antoine are inviting us to dinner on Sunday in the restaurant of old friends of theirs. Everyone’s going. Well, except one. I’m going t
o read to her again this afternoon. I don’t know if I’ll have the heart to tell her about our dinner out on Sunday.
Thursday, 7 November
In Norway they’re watching a programme on the telly that’s just twelve hours of non-stop knitting: ‘from sheep to sweater’. To promote the notion of ‘Slow TV’. For the Dutch version, I propose a twelve-hour broadcast of people shuffling in and out of our lifts. Now that’s slow television. The threshold alone, a minuscule ridge, causes tremendous delays.
One day one of the lifts was out of order because of a technical hitch. It gave rise to a queue stretching as far as the eye could see. Having to wait one’s turn does not bring out the best in our residents: there’s a great deal of pushing, shoving, ankle-bashing and cursing.
Bakker: ‘Bleedin’ crap lift!’ Not exactly a good title for the latest Hello Kitty book. There were shocked, indignant glares and some oohing and tsk-tsking.
I read to Eefje for the third time. It feels good, except that the woman in the next bed won’t stop muttering. I asked the nurse if she ever shuts up. ‘Only when she’s asleep, but then she snores a bit,’ was the alarming answer.
I asked Eefje if she’d like me to bring her some earplugs. She nodded yes. I told her I would take care of it. It shouldn’t be a problem; ears appear to be a booming business these days, because within a short space of time two new hearing-aid outlets have opened in the shopping centre. I’m sure they must stock earplugs as well.
Friday, 8 November
The financial problems of the publishing industry have caught our attention. That is to say: there is great alarm about the impending demise of the women’s weeklies Margriet and Libelle, two cornerstones of our civilization. The consternation is felt largely by the ladies, but there’s even a gentleman or two who will miss those magazines dearly.
They were offended at my suggestion that once those exalted magazines have ceased publication, there’s always the option of going back and rereading the old issues.
‘Most of the people in here have such bad memories, they wouldn’t even notice,’ Graeme said to back me up, but that only made it worse. Furious glares! We had to save ourselves by assuring them we were only joking.
‘I enjoy reading Margriet myself from time to time,’ I even added.
I’m offended that nobody realized it was meant as a joke.
I am not underestimating the importance of magazines like Libelle and Margriet. For many of the residents they are the windows to the world. Few people here read the newspaper, and they rarely watch current-affairs programmes. As the years add up, the world of the elderly shrinks. They venture outside the four walls of this home less and less often. Friends and old acquaintances die. They haven’t worked in many years. Nothing and no one to cater to or care for. What remains is Margriet. And plenty of time to keep a nosy eye on everyone else.
Saturday, 9 November
Grietje was wondering if it made sense for her to hurry up and try to become bilingual.
I must have looked surprised, because she added, ‘It’s a joke, but I read that it takes four years longer on average for bilingual people to lose their minds. Wouldn’t that be nice?’
‘No, Grietje, it’s too late for you. The only difference would be that you’d be unintelligible in two languages instead of one.’
Thank you, Evert, for your helpful and positive comments.
Sarah’s Key, the book I’ve been reading to Eefje, is heavy going. I don’t sense there will be a happy ending. I’ve asked Eefje twice if she wouldn’t prefer me to read something more uplifting, but she shook her head both times.
Reading to her gives my days structure. The afternoon, or the occasional morning, finds me ambling to the nursing unit to read to her for a half hour. Then I’ll hold her hand for a while. She often falls asleep after fifteen minutes or so.
A small slate that Grietje bought for her at the toy store hangs at the foot of her bed. I always write a little message on it, and when I’ll be there next. After that I usually pop in at Evert’s for a drink. I have yet to thank him for the kick in the behind he gave me last week. Don’t whine; do something. I think I’ll buy him two big bunches of gladioli. I’m sure he doesn’t have a vase to put them in.
Sunday, 10 November
There was Evert, with four kilos of flowers in one hand, and two crutches in the other.
‘Well, I’ll be going, then.’
‘Don’t you dare leave, you jackass!’
I pretended to close the door.
‘Henkie … please …’ It sounded helpless.
I had a good laugh at his expense, and then went to the rescue.
I had guessed right, Evert didn’t have any flower containers. The two gigantic bunches of gladioli are now arranged in two vases that somehow found their way into his rucksack after a lightning visit to Eefje’s ward. He’s been carrying a rucksack ever since losing his leg. The nursing unit has a cupboard full of vases, but they don’t allow flowers in the rooms. Apparently flowers are bad for something. In hospitals they used to put all the flowers out in the hall at night.
We sat and had a coffee. He said he was delighted with the flowers and very pleased that I was no longer whining but doing something. ‘Even if it’s only reading to Eefje.’ I am also quite pleased with myself again.
The restaurant outing is this evening. I have been fasting all day, because it certainly won’t be bubble and squeak or nasty stewed endive. If there aren’t at least five courses, I’ll eat my hat for dessert. Mr Hendrik is going to dress for dinner in a natty suit.
I didn’t have it in me to tell Eefje about our dinner. I thought it would be too painful.
Monday, 11 November
I must have gained a kilo last night. Seven courses and six different wines. A personal record. For someone who for the first fifty years of his life never had more than two courses and a glass of water, it was definitely a step forward.
Well, some of it was just a mouthful or two, of course. But delicious mouthfuls. The waiter’s explanation took at least two minutes for each dish. I’d never even heard of many of the ingredients. So don’t ask me what I ate.
At least as important was the fact that they weren’t too stuck-up in there. Nobody seemed to mind the occasional burp. Not an uncouth belch, mind you, like the one Evert let out, but a discreet burp of satisfaction made no one turn a hair.
We were all in absolute agreement: it was the best meal we’d ever had. Ria and Antoine, the organizers, were beaming as I had never seen them beam before.
We raised a glass to Eefje, our dear absent friend. We missed her, but didn’t let it spoil the mood.
After yesterday’s poached quail’s eggs on a bed of lamb’s ear (or whatever it was), today I am digging into a big bag of St Martin’s Day sweets. I’m already on my third mini Mars bar.
We never had children come round to our rooms trick or treating on St Martin’s Day until last year. That’s when a few kids discovered the advantage of roaming warm, indoor corridors. (I suspect the porter must have been dozing.) Last year, of course, nobody was prepared. People had to ransack their rooms for biscuits or sweets. Boxes of expensive chocolates were sacrificed, and a number of piggy banks raided.
This year we were better prepared. You’ll see that not a single child shows up and we wind up having to eat it all ourselves.
Tuesday, 12 November
I’ve been to the Better Hearing shop. I wonder if they deal with ‘worse hearing’ as well? I explained the problem to the man behind the counter: a sick old lady who is bothered by the noise of her roommates. The best thing to do, said the man, was to have earplugs made to order; that would come to about €90. The cost is no object, but in Eefje’s case the measuring could prove difficult. I bought a pair of good standard plugs and tried them on Eefje. That was an unexpectedly intimate operation. How would you feel, poking about in someone else’s ear? My hands tend to tremble anyway, and it took a while to manoeuvre them more or less into place.
r /> For just a moment I thought I heard her laugh, but it was wishful thinking. Though her eyes definitely did twinkle.
The nurse came along and started raising objections. Patients weren’t usually given earplugs. She would have to discuss it with her supervisor. ‘No, you can’t come along to ask her.’ She demanded that I remove them.
I had to do some quick talking to get her to let Eefje keep them in whenever she doesn’t have visitors, for as long as her neighbours keep up their clicking and mumbling.
Eefje had to nod a few times to the nurse’s questions to confirm that it was what she wanted.
When Miss Slothouwer was made to see that a couple of trees felled by the wind in the Netherlands two weeks ago really did not compare to the current devastation in the Philippines, she brought up the North Sea floods of 1953, which in her opinion were worse than any measly typhoon. Put your own disasters first, that’s her motto.
Wednesday, 13 November
Some good old-fashioned bellyaching again at coffee time: it seems that supplemental insurance policies are for the most part dropping physiotherapy. Mrs Van Vliet, who goes to the physiotherapist at least a hundred times a year for God only knows what imaginary ailments, has calculated that she’ll have to cough up €5,000 per annum starting next year. ‘Then I just won’t go. That’s much too much money.’
‘What about your aches and pains, then?’ someone asked.
Van Vliet ignored the question. The story goes that she’s sometimes had trouble remembering which ailment she needed the physiotherapy for. ‘Just do something for something,’ she once told the therapist.