Our in-house physiotherapist wasn’t bothered. He was quite happy to fill out the insurance forms. He’s in for some hard times now. He’s been driving a BMW thanks to Mrs Van Vliet alone.
Graeme summed it up as follows: people will go to the physiotherapist for the time it takes for the ailment to heal by itself in the first place. Yes, yes, sorry, I suppose there are lots of old people who benefit from various treatments, of course.
Thursday, 14 November
This morning in a moment of clarity it suddenly occurred to me that bedridden patients might like to listen to music. The body may be shackled to the bed, but the ears can still travel. It could be a welcome distraction to hear music once in a while. Or to listen to the radio. To make the suffering a bit more bearable. I’ll ask Eefje about it this afternoon. I know she has an extensive collection of CDs, in the main classical, which she liked to listen to.
I took a spin through the misty meadows of Waterland yesterday in the late afternoon. It’s rarely busy there. From time to time a car will come zipping along the narrow roads at 80kph, but then it’s back to the sound of the cows, sheep and birds. I felt at peace. That may sound a bit wet, but I can’t describe it any other way. I even started feeling a bit too peaceful, and almost landed in a ditch.
A farmer on a tractor stared at me in surprise and silently held up a hand in greeting; he must have been wondering what this old codger was doing so far from home.
It started to grow dark. It drizzled a bit, but I didn’t care.
It was the first time I ever drove with my lights on.
Friday, 15 November
Mr Bakker’s analysis of the disaster in the Philippines: ‘It’s lucky they’re so poor over there, the damage would have been even worse otherwise.’ The residents aren’t usually all that interested in what’s happening in the world, but they do make an exception for natural disasters. It would be surprising indeed if at least one person didn’t remark on man’s insignificance against the forces of nature.
They do pray for the victims, but that has not yet led to any results. To some people, prayer is a substitute for contributing to a disaster fund. Instead of taking out their wallets, they leave it all up to that great director in the sky.
A bit of a damper: the nursing unit is not prepared to take on fitting earplugs or playing music as part of the standard care package. Not enough time, too much work. ‘No will’ wasn’t said in so many words but was obviously a factor.
On the other hand, there is no outright prohibition against headphones or earplugs. If family or friends wish to provide these, and as long as it doesn’t bother the other patients, it will be permitted on an experimental basis. The hemming and hawing is courtesy of Mrs Duchamps, head of nursing, a small, snippy woman who always seems to know best. She’s French; she should have stayed in France. Arrogant and unsympathetic, but she does have a cute French accent.
Saturday, 16 November
Evert has discovered a suspicious black spot on his remaining big toe. ‘I hope they don’t have to lop off another piece, because this is my last foot,’ he said, joking. I did detect some hoarseness in his voice, however, and a pearl of sweat on his brow. Then he showed me. I scrubbed his toe with a scouring pad. It came out white as snow. I have never seen him look so relieved. He promptly poured himself a whisky, for he’d been so nervous that he hadn’t had a drink in two days, the first time that had happened in twenty years. I laughed and laughed; I couldn’t help it. It took a while, but then Evert couldn’t help laughing too.
I have purchased an iPod. I had never even seen one of those gadgets before, but an intern who works on my floor told me exactly what to buy. Tonight she’ll load it for me with a couple of CDs I found in Eefje’s room. A lovely girl. Her name is Meta and she’s from Badhoevedorp. She is glad to help me.
Will human rights ever improve all over the world? I’ve grown a bit more optimistic, actually, since reading a small item in the newspaper, namely, that Russia, Cuba, China and Saudi Arabia have all been elected to the United Nations Human Rights Council. Each brings a wealth of experience to the table pertaining to human-rights violations.
Sunday, 17 November
Meta returned the iPod to me this morning. It now holds nine classical CDs.
‘Did you like the music?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ she said, after some hesitation. ‘Not really’ means ‘Really not.’
‘That’s too bad.’
‘To upload it you don’t have to listen to the whole thing, you know,’ she said consolingly.
She didn’t mind Beethoven, actually. Was he still alive?
Meta doesn’t have any grandpas. One is dead and the other one is on the other side in a family feud. She never sees him now. She thinks I make a rather good substitute. I’m quite willing to be her grandpa once in a while. Not for long, alas, since her internship is almost over and then she’ll have to go back to Badhoevedorp.
I immediately took the iPod to Eefje. I’d wrapped it in pretty paper, which I ripped off as she watched. Carefully I put the headphones on her head and pushed play. The opening bars of a Mozart symphony.
She was very happy.
I promised to be her DJ for half an hour every morning, and to read to her for half an hour every afternoon. And if I can’t do it, I’ll arrange for a replacement.
Thirty minutes is long enough. She usually falls asleep after that. As she did this morning. I slowly turned the volume all the way down, then carefully removed the headphones. I wrote on the slate at her feet, ‘You looked so peaceful sleeping, I didn’t like to wake you. See you this afternoon.’
Monday, 18 November
‘I suddenly had no idea how to turn on my television! I sat there staring at the buttons on the remote control. Couldn’t for the life of me fathom how it was supposed to work. So I just listened to the radio instead.’
I made Grietje promise to call and ask me next time.
She’s definitely going downhill. She has noticed it herself. I pop in every day for a chat, and to see how she is doing.
Within a very short space of time I seem to have built up a busy home-care practice. That leaves me little time for all the coffee klatches and tea cliques and their depressing bellyaching. So much the better. I do have to make sure not to neglect the healthy members of the club, Graeme, Edward, Ria and Antoine.
Our congenial lawyer rang me to keep me apprised of where we stand. I had to tell him that we have lost our motivation in our battle with management. When I explained that my most important partner-in-arms is now in a quasi-vegetative state, he quite understood.
He was very sorry and asked if he might continue pursuing it on our behalf.
‘Of course you may. And if I can find the time and the energy, I’ll do what I can to help.’
‘I am sure Eefje will appreciate it if you do.’
Tuesday, 19 November
Graeme said that it’s exactly seventy years ago to the day that he lost his little dog. He was twelve. He had let it run off the leash in the park when four German police officers had grabbed it. The date is etched in his memory like a rusty nail. He never felt as powerless as he did that day. Later he heard that confiscated dogs like his were used as land-mine detectors.
My all-consuming care-giver tasks provide me with an anchor in my daily life. It gives me a sense of peace and of being useful. My three patients, Evert, Grietje and Eefje, are grateful clients. As far as reading to Eefje, I’m not sure Sarah’s Key was the right choice – it’s not very uplifting. But Eefje likes it. She is also very pleased with her personal radio station.
I got up the courage to ask her if she still wished to die. Yes, she still wanted to die, but less desperately than before. I gathered as much from the way she nodded her head.
Good news for most of the residents: the renovations have been postponed a year. Several ladies wondered if they should leave the moving boxes stacked in their rooms for another year, or lug them back to the supermarket one by o
ne. A conundrum. Then the conversation turned to fibroids. Lacking the moral fibre to stay and listen, I decided to go out for a stroll.
Wednesday, 20 November
Grietje and I decided to go and have a look at the dementia unit. Getting in wasn’t difficult. We just followed a nurse through the door, telling her we were visiting Grietje’s sister-in-law. We’d looked up the name of a patient at random, but as it turned out it wasn’t necessary. No one asked any questions. We wandered through various common rooms and saw a number of old acquaintances. We didn’t have to worry about being recognized.
It was lunchtime. A nurse was feeding a short woman with a bib round her neck. ‘Toot, toot, here comes the train … and … in we go!’ They call it senility or dementia nowadays, but they used to say you were in your second childhood.
Another lady sitting in a chair asked me if I wanted to see her pussy, and promptly spread her legs. I won’t give you a description. Some of the patients stared listlessly straight ahead, but there were others who nodded and smiled at us amiably. Grietje has the enviable ability to take things in calmly as they come.
‘So this is where I’ll be in a year or so,’ she said. ‘I hope I’ll still have some good times first. By the way, I don’t want you to visit me, Hendrik, unless I specifically ask for you. Agreed?’
Yes, that was agreed.
Thursday, 21 November
In a care home called High Time, in Den Bosch, some of the residents had to pay for their own loo paper. That was the case two years ago, anyway. There was great indignation about it at the time. Now there’s a rumour that a similar economy measure is being considered for our own institution. I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Some residents here are such penny-pinchers that if they had to pay for their own bog paper, they’d probably just not wipe themselves, or they’d wait and scrub it off later in the shower. Unless we are going to have to cough up for taking a shower too.
It doesn’t smell all that fresh in here anyway. I sometimes get the sense that the loo paper is already being rationed.
What intrigued me about that newspaper article was that only ‘some’ residents had to pay for their loo paper. Why not all of them? Were the residents given an allowance of a certain number of pieces, and had to pay extra once they’d used them up?
Not exactly a subject for polite conversation, Hendrik! Whereas I am in fact a reasonably respectable gent. Inconspicuously respectable, is how I would describe myself. Not tall, not short, not fat, not skinny. Grey or navy trousers, neat blazer. Plenty of wrinkles and just a few grey hairs, which the barber trims for €16 – in less than ten minutes. And at least five of those minutes are time wasted. Going to the barber’s will soon cost me more than one euro per hair.
Friday, 22 November
Eefje’s room is to be cleared out by 1 December at the latest. The director had been rather rash in giving us a deadline of 1 January. She really wishes she could give us a bit more time, but upon further reflection, the regulations won’t permit it.
‘You mean the regulations we aren’t allowed to see? Those?’
Yes, those were the ones she meant. I thought I saw a flicker of shame steal across her face.
I was summoned to Stelwagen’s office with Eefje’s daughter Hanneke to ‘discuss the situation’, but it turned out there wasn’t much to discuss. Hanneke asked me if I would go with her to tell her mother.
I didn’t want to, but I thought that I should.
We decided to take the news to her straight away. Eefje did not seem surprised that she’d have to move out of her room. She has made some progress. She can say something that sounds like ‘Yes’, or is at least easy to distinguish from ‘No’. She can move her right hand and right leg a little, and is able to swallow with less difficulty.
We’ll ask her which of her things she’d like put into storage, and which personal effects she’d like by her bed, where she has a wardrobe, a chair and a nightstand. In the nursing ward, personal belongings are reduced to the sheer minimum.
Then I let Eefje listen to some music for half an hour; it relaxes her and brings her peace. I already know my way around the iPod quite well. I’ve bought another one for myself. (Someone said I was ‘so hip’!) Only, I don’t know how to load it up myself.
Saturday, 23 November
The porter has refused entry to one blue and one green Black Piet. The only Piet he allowed in was a black one, but Mrs De Roos said he couldn’t strew his goodies all over the floor, as is the custom, because they’ll get trodden into the carpets.
Rumour has it that the blue and green Piets have lodged a complaint, saying it’s discrimination. The management has issued a statement that the porter acted on his own authority. They’re terrified of a brawl. No one knows who sent those Piets here.
As a favour to Evert, I took part in the Klaverjass tournament again yesterday. No one else will play with him. They’d also rather not play against him. Some of the old codgers have developed an unhealthy aversion to my friend, which he doesn’t deserve, even if he can be rather annoying.
Unlike my usual habit of just slapping down some cards, I really did my best, resulting in a splendid third prize: two chocolate letters.
Mr Pot, as sour as they come, said, ‘I don’t like chocolate anyway, at least not that kind.’
‘Well, I do love chocolate, but I’m giving my prize to the tournament’s sweetest player, Mrs Aaltje, who can use the calories,’ said Evert, offering his chocolate letter to Aaltje, the skinny little mouse who came in last, and was now beaming from ear to ear. Evert isn’t allowed any chocolate because of his diabetes.
Sunday, 24 November
Nobody knows who sent us those three Piets.
The green and blue ones, as I said, were barred entry by the porter, and the black one left after just three minutes, uttering all kinds of incomprehensible sounds. Various conspiracy theories are circulating:
They were thieves in disguise. (‘I could hear metal objects rattling in the sack.’)
A rival old-age home tried to play a trick on us. (‘That one Piet, you know, was the spitting image of that Surinamese nurse from nursing home X.’)
It was supposed to be a surprise set up by our own Residents’ Association, which, when the joke fizzled, pretends it had nothing to do with it. (‘I even heard him say, Surprise!’)
The residents in here don’t have a shred of imagination, except when it comes to back-biting and baseless accusations.
Ria and Antoine consider it an honour to adopt Eefje’s houseplants. They have been to see her, to tell her the plants are in good hands.
In my own room there isn’t a speck of green. I can’t even keep a sanseveria alive. Potted bulbs, I can handle those. They bloom and then get tossed in the rubbish bin. The only place plants stand even less of a chance is at Evert’s. His dog Mo devours anything that grows and blooms. Only to spew it all up again.
Monday, 25 November
In the hall I bumped into that sweet little social worker who was once sent to ask me about my suicide plans. She asked if I was still trying to see the sunny side of life.
‘Well, to tell the truth, the skies are rather grey these days,’ I said.
‘But behind the clouds …?’
I answered truthfully that I did not expect to see many sunny days any more, and that when I’d finally had enough of this bad weather, I would let her know prior to taking my own life.
Hanneke and I spent a couple of hours yesterday sorting through Eefje’s effects. We stacked the stuff that can go to the charity shop on the right side of the room. On the left are a few pieces Hanneke is going to try to sell online. In the middle of the room are two boxes containing personal items: photos, paintings, a few statuettes, jewellery, books and CDs. An entire life in just two boxes. No need for a moving van; it will fit on the tea trolley.
The charity-shop van is coming on Friday to pick up what’s left.
The director, in a gesture of goodwill, says the home will
cover the costs of removing the nails and screws from the walls. ‘How very generous,’ I couldn’t help muttering.
The living will still hasn’t turned up. We’ve given up hope of finding it.
Tuesday, 26 November
‘With a bit of luck, next year I’ll believe in St Nick again!’ said Grietje gaily.
‘Yes, just keep going the way you’re going, and you’ll get there soon enough,’ Evert egged her on.
She liked the prospect of trustingly leaving her shoe by the hearth again. ‘St Nick could leave me an arch-support insole!’
‘Made of marzipan.’
Anja came to see me yesterday. Being forced to take early retirement seems to have done her a world of good. She does say she is sorry she wasn’t given the time or opportunity to smuggle out all the documents the Board wants to keep ‘confidential’. ‘I failed as a spy.’
‘But as a human, you’re a success.’
‘Sweet of you to say so, Hendrik.’
We decided to go to Museum Noord, she on her electric bike and I on my scooter. I could barely keep up with her. Museum Noord is the only museum in this part of Amsterdam. It’s closed on Mondays.
Wednesday, 27 November
One advantage of living here is that there’s little chance you might be lying dead in your room for ten years before you’re found. The residents are all able to agree on this. ‘But that’s only an advantage for the living, isn’t it; the stench won’t be as bad. It makes no difference to you once you’re dead,’ Mr Krauwel demurred. Mr Krauwel is our latest prize addition: negative as a nematode, always complaining. He and Mr Bakker together are a right crotchety pair of old gits.