The ladies think Krauwel is handsome on account of his leonine grey hair. Every new gentleman is welcomed with secret excitement because of the great surplus of women. It’s embarrassing to see some of the old girls trying to attract the new chap’s attention. They daub their thin lips with lipstick, hike up their deflated breasts, squirt themselves with overpowering perfume, talk too loudly and laugh too readily.
The one that hooks Krauwel will live to regret it. She’s getting a hyena for a mate.
I feel a bit fluey. I can’t afford to be sick now. The care-giver must keep giving.
I happen to have an appointment with the geriatrician the day after tomorrow, so he can take a gander at this stubborn little cough while he’s at it.
Thursday, 28 November
I had a dream that I put a pillow on Eefje’s face and then sat on it. I woke up in a sweat, panicked. It took me thirty minutes and two cups of tea to calm down.
Sitting by her bed, seeing her sadness and pain, I have from time to time wished her a peaceful death. But to make it happen by my own hand – I could never. The very thought of it makes me ill.
We have finished the first book. Thank God. To be continued with something lighter, I hope. The Solitude of Prime Numbers. The title doesn’t give much away. Of the remaining candidates, Eefje chose that one.
I have the sense it doesn’t make that much difference what I read to her, as long as I read to her. I see myself as a tranquillizing, babbling brook.
The choice of music for her daily iPod session doesn’t matter much either, although I would never put on a heavy-metal band just for a change, or one of those English rappers raging about fuckin’ this and fuckin’ that. With that genius trio of Bach, Mozart and Beethoven, a disc jockey can’t go wrong. It usually puts her right to sleep.
Friday, 29 November
I have just ambled through the supermarket in my first nappy. It felt fine.
So that barrier has been broken. It may have something to do with the fact that there’s a new lady resident who is often seen walking round with a big wet spot on the back of her dress. It’s always pointed out to her discreetly, although loud enough for all to hear.
‘Oh, did I leak again?’ she’ll say, in surprise and dismay, as if it isn’t something that happens several times a week.
Just to rub it in, someone will then exclaim that her chair is also soaking wet.
I want at all cost to prevent people from pointing out that I’ve wet my trousers. So I decided to try out the pack of incontinence nappies (mini) the geriatrician gave me this morning.
Aside from that, the doctor told me nothing new. No new ailments (‘Status quo equals progress,’ said the doctor, satisfied) and no fresh hope for Eefje either.
‘Since the lady did not make her wishes known beforehand that she did not want to end up in a nursing home, the living will can’t be found, and she is now unable to express herself clearly, euthanasia is not on the cards, I’m afraid. There’s no physician who will risk it.’
Saturday, 30 November
I read that Bernard and Georgette Cazes, married sixty years, departed this life hand in hand. Bravo!
They chose a luxury Paris hotel as the scene of their final deed. I am sorry that they had to resort to putting plastic bags over their heads. They’d ordered breakfast in bed, so that it wouldn’t be long before they were found. The poor chambermaid.
On a more positive note: I had dinner last night with Ria and Antoine in a little Indonesian restaurant. Delicious meal, except that at one point I had such a coughing fit that the kroepoek were blown off the table. But nobody seemed to mind.
The conversation was not only about food this time: it seems they want to go on a wine tour next spring, and asked if I’d like to join them. They were very disappointed to see me look rather dubious at first, but I thought they said ‘Rhine tour’. The thought of a boat trip down the Rhine with several hundred old people, and being unable to get off, doesn’t appeal to me; that’s a living hell.
When we’d cleared up that little misunderstanding, I told them I had been chewing over a similar idea. ‘Let us therefore join forces,’ I proposed. I do have some reservations about lugging Evert in his wheelchair from chateau to chateau. He tends to fall off his chair from time to time, especially when he’s had a few.
We might ask Stelwagen to look after his dog.
Sunday, 1 December
Just one month to go, then the year’s out and the diary is full. Last night I reread some of it, and, I’m sorry, but it does sound rather down in the dumps a lot of the time, doesn’t it? When one of the reasons for writing was to poke fun at the reigning glumness in here.
But it is what it is: my daily rounds take me from amputated Evert to demented Grietje to vegetative Eefje.
Our Old But Not Dead Club, which flourished but shortly, is in dire straits. Its misfortunes were greeted by Mr Pot as follows: ‘They had it coming, didn’t they. We weren’t good enough for them. So now they can jolly well stick it up their arses.’
‘What did they ever do to you? Did it bother you, then?’ asked Mrs Aupers, surprised.
Fortunately there are also plenty of residents and staff members who have expressed sympathy for our club’s tribulations.
Would I care to come for a ride? Mr Hoogdalen, he of the Antelope mobility-scooter club that never got off the ground, was just the person I needed to shake me out of my gloom. Absolutely! I said. He on his pimped scooter-deluxe, I on my quite respectable Elegance.
He knew of a nice route: ‘Follow me, and just call me Bert.’ After an hour we stopped at a café for a cup of soup. Bert is a man of few words. He doesn’t like to speak in complete sentences.
‘Nice ride,’ about the ride.
‘Good soup,’ about the soup.
‘Shall we?’ on resuming our journey.
And upon parting: ‘Chin up. And, uh … give ’em hell.’
My mind is pleasantly emptied out.
Monday, 2 December
I don’t often receive mail, but when I do it’s usually a letter advising me to cash a cheque for €8,990 without delay. A stamped request form enclosed. And, as a further condition, I am to order six pairs of overpriced thermal insoles.
The implication is that I’ve already won that money. It’s only upon reading the fine print that you understand you just have a chance to win it. The whole thing is ‘supervised by a neutral third party’, so that’s reassuring.
I once casually asked how many people here receive this kind of unsolicited prize-letter. Most of them do. And many are unable to resist the temptation. They have not won any prizes, but they are now the proud owners of very expensive horse-chestnut extract for varicose veins, or have paid through the nose for bamboo health socks or energy hair balsam. I am not making this up! You’ll find such items stowed away in the bottom of a wardrobe in many a resident’s room.
Most of them don’t like to talk about it. But occasionally there’s one who’ll make a great fuss about how he’s been swindled.
The elderly are easy marks.
I don’t bother to cancel these solicitations when I get them, in order to drive up the enemy’s costs.
Tuesday, 3 December
I had to attend yesterday’s St Nicholas party. Evert had promised to make a nuisance of himself for a couple of hours, and I felt obliged to step in and save him from himself. It wasn’t easy.
He began by joining in the St Nicholas sing-song much too stridently and off-key, to glares of annoyance. Next he insisted that St Nick should invite Mrs Van Til to sit on his lap, which the saint refused to do, and for which I can’t blame him. Van Til weighs over a hundred kilos.
Within half an hour my mate had managed to swig four mugs of hot cocoa, generously spiked with the rum he had brought along, and slurped down big chunks of almond pastry he’d first dunked into the cocoa.
It would definitely have ended in a brawl if Mrs Zonnevanck hadn’t created a diversion by tripping over Black Pie
t’s big sack and fracturing her arm.
It took half an hour for Mrs Zonnevanck to be removed by ambulance and for the company to calm down again. Evert, sated after six cocoas, had nodded off in his wheelchair, and I was able to trundle him to his flat. There I left him, wheelchair and all, securely wedged between his wardrobe and his bed so that he couldn’t fall out, before heading back to my own room. There are limits to the care-giving mission.
The St Nicholas party in the lounge downstairs never really took off again. The question of whether or not Black Piet should be held responsible for the accident by leaving his sack lying about put a damper on the festivities.
Wednesday, 4 December
We don’t have any Chinese residents in our care home, unfortunately, otherwise Evert would surely have cracked a few politically incorrect jokes in sympathy with Gordon, the judge on Holland’s Got Talent, who really put his foot in it the other day when he told an Asian contestant his singing was ‘the best Chinese I’ve had in weeks – and I’m not talking about chow mein’. We don’t see much in the way of discrimination in here, since all the minorities living here are such nice people that no one has the nerve to say anything even slightly inappropriate.
A nation whose biggest gaffes are a joke about a Chinese singer and the desire to keep Black Piet looking black isn’t half as odious as some people here maintain. Do I take offence when a brown, yellow or black person calls me pale-face, cheese-head or skinflint? No. Would I be offended if St Nick were black and all his Piets were foolish, thin-lipped white helpers with exaggerated Amsterdam accents? No. Is that because my great-grandfather was never a slave, but a factory worker slogging away sixty hours a week for a pittance? No.
I’ve decided to be St Nicholas this year, and have bought some gifts for my friends. Namely: perfume for Eefje, gloves for Evert, a book about champagne for Ria and Antoine, a tear-off calendar for Grietje, a billiards instruction video for Edward, and a fold-out nativity scene for Graeme.
I bought a jumper for myself. The sales lady thought it looked very hip on me.
This evening I’ll wrap the presents in Christmas paper and tomorrow I’ll tiptoe from door to door spreading comfort and joy.
Thursday, 5 December
The friendly cashier at the local supermarket didn’t know what to do with a tip.
‘That’ll be twenty-four ten.’
‘Make it twenty-five even,’ Graeme said, handing over a fifty.
No, sorry, she couldn’t do it. Her till sheet wouldn’t balance tonight.
Graeme patiently explained in that case she should have a tip jar next to her till. He was delighted with his own off-the-cuff joke. The grumpy man behind him was not. ‘Oh come on, I haven’t got all day.’
When he heard Graeme’s story, Evert immediately came up with another idea: haggling. ‘That’ll be twenty-four ten.’ ‘I’ll give you eighteen euros for it.’ ‘Huh?’ ‘Well then, fine, twenty, but I won’t go any higher.’ ‘Sir, you have to pay twenty-four ten.’ ‘No, that’s too much. Just forget it, then.’ Upon which, Evert proposed, you should walk away, leaving the groceries on the conveyor belt. He’s going to try it tomorrow. He hopes it will start a fad.
The first snow is on the way, says the weatherman. I don’t like the winter. I wish I could hibernate, and not wake up until the first days of March. It’s a pity I’m such a light sleeper. I have enough trouble staying asleep for a full six hours. I would make a useless bear.
It’s getting too cold to take the mobility scooter out for a ride. It means sitting still, so you’re forced to wear so many layers you can hardly move. Still, the prospect of three whole months parked in a chair at the window waiting for the first crocuses to emerge doesn’t thrill me either.
Friday, 6 December
Nelson Mandela is dead. One of my last heroes. The man who never tumbled off his pedestal. All the world’s leaders will gather to show their respect for Mandela, but few of them have learned anything from him.
My friends were pleasantly surprised yesterday, delighted with their presents. I had some difficulty persuading them I didn’t expect anything in return. We live in much too much of a quid pro quo sort of world.
I told Eefje I had a present for her and then, after unwrapping it before her eyes, let her smell it. At the same time I realized that I didn’t know if her sense of smell was still intact. But she nodded when I asked if she liked it. I dabbed a drop on her neck and one on her wrist, and rubbed it in. It was an intimate moment, and I’m not very good at intimate moments. I get clumsy. Most of the perfume went wide of the mark.
Luckily I could quickly pull out The Loneliness of Prime Numbers and start reading to her. I’ve already asked her three times if this book is too sad for her. Her answer is always no.
Half an hour later I left her sleeping like an angel.
I went downstairs for a cup of pea soup. It went down a treat, but I had to listen to at least ten stories about mums and grandmums whose pea soup was so much better. The past, they’re always going on about the past. Live in the present day for a change, you mummified nitwits!
Saturday, 7 December
Emotions are running high about the goose population, and whether the nuisance they present justifies their being shot.
We have our own mother goose, who for the past ten years has been in the habit of trudging out to the shop three times a week for half a loaf of white bread (she claims that geese don’t like whole wheat). She has two slices for her own lunch, freezes two for the next day, and takes the remainder to feed the geese that have been dropping their poo in a nearby field all this time.
‘If every Dutch province is to be allowed to decide for itself on a goose-shooting policy, isn’t that terribly unfair to the geese? A goose has no idea what’s in store for it, or in which part of the country it can or cannot be shot,’ says our goose-dame.
After the insulted Chinese and endangered Black Piet, now we have the outlawed goose. How many major crises can this country be expected to withstand?
The inhabitants have been informed in a short letter that it is now official: the extensive renovations to this building are to begin in September. Not a word on the former pledge that the residents would have a say in the matter. The letter doesn’t explain what exactly is involved either. You could not have created more anxiety if you’d tried.
‘I hope I’ll be dead by then,’ said Mrs Vergeer, and she meant it, too.
‘You should never repot an old plant,’ said Mr Apotheker. He must have repeated it at least five times. What an old whinge-bag. If they’re thinking of repotting him, let them plant him head down.
Sunday, 8 December
I had left the book in my room and asked Eefje, in jest really, if she’d like me to read from the newspaper for a change. She just nodded, the way she always nods when I ask a question.
I suddenly wonder if there’s far less going on inside her head than I have been assuming. Who knows, maybe she is in a sedated stupor, calm and serene. Or maybe she is silently screaming. I have no idea.
I read to her, I put on music for her, and tell myself she appreciates it. It can’t do any harm, anyway, and at least it makes me feel good.
Talking about the newspaper: ‘Could someone pass me the paper?’ Mr Bakker demanded last week in the Conversation Lounge. Evert, rummaging in the rack, pulled out one that was a week old. Bakker never noticed! When Evert casually asked half an hour later if the news didn’t seem a bit familiar to him, Bakker blew a gasket. Not at himself, which I suppose would have been reasonable, but at Evert. Which delighted my chum, of course. We do enjoy seeing Bakker fly into a rage.
Monday, 9 December
Grietje and I went online and perused the website ‘Alzheimer Experience’. It’s an interactive site that shows the progress of the disease in an old woman and an old man in a few short videos. You can switch from the patient’s point of view to that of the care-giver. You can also click on a doctor in a reassuring white coat who’ll give you
a professional explanation.
It gave me the heebie-jeebies to watch those videos with Grietje sitting next to me, but Grietje herself was quite relaxed. She sat there looking with interest at what was going to happen to her in six months to a year.
The last video was about the funeral.
I didn’t know what to say.
‘Come on, Henk, don’t look so gloomy. You should be thinking, If she doesn’t mind, why should I? Anyway, Alzheimer’s is very hip these days. You can’t open a magazine without stumbling across a mention of it. Adelheid Roosen has written a play about her mother’s dementia, Jan Pronk talks about his demented mother on YouTube, Maria van der Hoeven described her husband’s decline in de Volkskrant. If you don’t have anyone close to you with Alzheimer’s, you’re just not with it. You ought to be grateful you have me!’
I gave her a round of applause.
Tonight she’s taking me out to dinner.
Tuesday, 10 December
It seems that Old Sore is already taken as a book title. It’s a book by Ellen Pasman about the ‘Willem Oltmans vs the Netherlands’ court case. If my diary is ever published, it can’t be called Old Sore.
I have come up with the following alternatives:
Down the Drain
The Living End
Over and Out
Not the Bee’s Knees
The Last Hurrah
Smoke Signals in a Hurricane (Sounds good but doesn’t really apply here)
Flies on the Caviar (ditto)
Yesterday Grietje and I had dinner at Stork, a hip fish restaurant on the banks of the IJ. The trend of using old factory buildings as places to dine in is something I have yet to get used to, but the food was good and the folk were nice.