Forgive me please. I’m just rattling on.
Whereas in fact I have just taken a few important steps towards going down having a blast. With new friends and wild plans. Whoopee!
Wednesday, 27 February
I’m writing this a bit later than usual because I was waiting to hear how Eefje’s audience with Stelwagen had gone. We had a cup of coffee together beforehand, and when she left I wished her luck. She returned fifteen minutes later. There was something sternly resolute about her, but don’t ask me what made me think that. Her eyes, perhaps.
‘Compliments on your perceptive prognosis, Henk. It didn’t miss the mark.’
She told me that Mrs Stelwagen had started off by enquiring how she was, and then almost casually mentioned that it wasn’t customary in ‘our home’ to receive guests late at night.
‘Do you mean me?’ Eefje had asked in response.
‘It’s nothing personal, but in view of the need for peace and quiet, we don’t like to have people wandering the corridors after ten o’clock or so.’
‘I’ve never noticed any excessive noise, myself.’
‘Other people have.’
‘That’s a shame. But what does this have to do with me, anyway?’
‘I heard that you entertained some guests a few days ago.’
‘Yes, I did. Very calm and civilized people. I asked my neighbours the next day if they had been bothered by it, but they had not. Fortunately.’
This was great. I gave Eefje a high five. The first high five of my life, actually; where that came from, I have no idea.
Stelwagen had seemed a bit put out, but when she said goodbye to Eefje she was all smiles, as if there were no tension between them at all.
‘This isn’t over, Hendrik,’ said Eefje. ‘I feel it in my bones.’
We took a little stroll through the garden. There’s a touch of spring in the air. The snowdrops are poking their heads up through the plastic litter and rusting tins.
We’re feeling combative. At least I think I can speak for her as well.
Thursday, 28 February
I picked up a brochure downstairs about mobility scooters. I must broaden my range, otherwise I’ll wind up being Old But Not Dead’s weakest link.
Graeme has announced that the first outing will take place on Thursday, 14 March. We’ll assemble at 13:00 in the entrance hall.
I’ve been racking my brain about fun day-trips. I haven’t come up with anything besides the Rijksmuseum, and that’s certainly not going to win any prizes for originality. Besides which that museum seems to be closed more often than it is open. But no need to panic, I have six weeks to think of something more exciting.
Eefje played me a bit of her double CD Top 100 Bird Songs. At number 6 was the garden warbler (never heard it nor heard of it); at number 5, the wren; at number 4, robin redbreast (I always thought that ticking call was the only sound they made); at number 3 the song thrush; number 2 was the nightingale (with a great reputation in poetry and song) … and the gold medal goes to the blackbird, finally a bird whose whistle I recognize. And then there are ninety-four more whistling blowhards to go. To each her own.
After ten birds, Eefje could tell my attention was waning.
‘Aren’t you just fascinated?’ she asked wickedly.
I blushed. ‘Oh, I am.’
‘If I may be so bold, I don’t believe you, Hendrik.’
‘Well, you’re right, I’m sorry, but birds only really interest me when they’ve been roasted. And at that point they’re generally no longer singing.’ It made her laugh, luckily.
What about the bulb gardens at Keukenhof, would that be something worthwhile? Chances are someone else has thought of it. But six weeks from now would be the perfect time of year for it.
Friday, 1 March
Mr Kuiper found a newspaper article in a cuttings file in the library and pinned it on the noticeboard: ‘DOCTORS IN FAVOUR OF REMOVING KIDNEYS FROM TERMINAL PATIENTS WHILE STILL ALIVE.’
Mrs Brandsma immediately cancelled the date for her surgery. ‘Just leave that fibroid right where it is, I won’t have them helping themselves to whatever they like in there. After all, we’re all terminal in here!’ she cried, and she does have a point. The average age, I believe, is eighty-nine, so when you say ‘terminal’, you’re talking about a high probability.
The reason for removing organs from patients that aren’t dead yet is that they are fresher. I don’t know if you can call ours fresh, exactly. The average age of the kidneys in here is of course also eighty-nine. I’m not sure how it works with the expiry dates of internal organs.
It’s a bit grim, really, that article. You’d better not hope for a medical miracle: say you survive a terminal heart attack against the odds, and then it turns out they’ve removed both your kidneys!
Mobility scooters aren’t as straightforward as you’d think. They come in all shapes and sizes. You have to decide how tight a turning circle you want, for example, which is important to know if you want to be able to turn it around in your own room.
The range. How far do you want to be able to go?
Three wheels or four. How tippy is it, can it capsize?
Also of some importance: how fast do you want it to go?
And finally, the most important factor for a Dutchman: what does a thing like that cost?
I’ll have a word with Mr Hoogdalen shortly. He’s very knowledgeable. And a nice chap too.
Saturday, 2 March
The woman from Breda who escaped from prison by digging a tunnel with a spoon has yet to be caught. It’s great to know that such things can still happen in real life. What if an OAP were to escape from this institution the same way? Now that would be brilliant. Just for the symbolism, naturally, since he or she could also just walk out the front door. The hard part comes afterwards, since most of the inmates here have nowhere to go. Their children would certainly have no part in it.
‘Hello, son, I’ve come to live with you.’
‘Sorry, Pa, but that’s just not convenient right now.’
The fugitive OAP doesn’t have many options other than a hotel on the Veluwe. Then, once the money’s all gone, it’s back to the old-age home or the Salvation Army with your tail between your legs.
Incidentally, here in the Netherlands there are 13,000 people ‘missing’ from prison. That’s quite a number. The police aren’t very good at finding them, apparently.
The old noggin is failing. Senility-light is gradually turning into senility-moderate. I was trying to recall the top ten bird songs but couldn’t get past the first four.
What surprises me is that some people can’t remember a shopping list with three items on it, but are able to sing along to ten thousand songs on the radio. Or at least hum them. All those tunes stored away intact! Music and memory; they must be linked somehow. They ought to set German vocabulary lists or the first law of thermodynamics to music. Or write a musical based on the important dates of Dutch history.
Sunday, 3 March
Yesterday a rack from Kring the Chemist’s appeared downstairs in reception with some fifty different information leaflets. Allow me to give just a sample of the uplifting topics: haemorrhoids, diarrhoea, eczema, head lice, incontinence, boils, constipation, athlete’s foot, worms and warts. Every ailment under the sun neatly arranged in alphabetical order. And without regard for the audience in here, because I also noticed leaflets on acne and post-natal care, matters of no great concern to us.
As if there’s not enough talk in this place about aches and infirmities.
All right, to be perfectly honest, I did slip the incontinence leaflet as unobtrusively as I could into my breast pocket. It seems that I am in good company: there are about a million other Dutch dribblers. Which means enough urine is collected in our citizens’ underpants and nappies to fill an entire swimming pool every day. Yippee!
There’s a great deal of speculation and fishing about where our first Old But Not Dead outing will take us. Evert w
ants to set himself up as a bookie so that people can place bets on it.
The excitement is akin to the feeling you had as a kid the night before a school trip. If I remember it right, that is.
Mrs Schreuder (of the hoovered canary) was wondering who’s in charge now in Vatican City. The old pope has stepped down and the new one hasn’t been chosen yet. ‘We are a Church without a shepherd,’ she declared. ‘Like a chicken without a head,’ said one of the Slothouwer sisters, never shy about pushing someone’s buttons.
I am trying to picture the conclave: 115 elderly cardinals in one room, not allowed to set a foot outside until they’ve sent the white smoke wafting up the chimney, and that’s easier said than done. During the 1978 conclave, the fireplace didn’t draw well, and the room filled up with black smoke.
Monday, 4 March
A huge panic: Mrs Schaar has escaped from the dementia unit. It seems she persuaded a new intern that she was allowed out without an escort. The intern’s excuse is that her own IQ is somewhere around 55. Mrs Schaar graciously swept out the front door. She believes she’s nobility. She introduces herself as Lady Schaar. Always on the lookout for her estates. Crazy as a loon, and a diabetic too.
A good portion of the staff was sent out to look for her. Someone asked Stelwagen if the police shouldn’t be called in. ‘No, that’s not necessary, there’s no reason.’
The director is terrified of negative publicity, and likes to keep the dirty laundry under her hat.
A short time later the floor manager announced that Mrs Schaar had been found. Probably a fib to make everyone calm down, because Schaar was nowhere to be seen. Evert put the story to the test by casually telling a nurse that he had seen Lady Schaar standing at the bus stop. Two minutes later a couple of staffers were seen heading for the very same stop. That said it all.
Forty-five minutes later Sister ‘Compostella’, a dear with an unpronounceable Spanish name, came and told us that Mrs Schaar had been found. ‘But wasn’t she already home safe and sound?’ asked Mr Brentjens. ‘Yes, but now she really is,’ the nurse said brightly.
Five minutes later the baroness was led in through the back door. Spackled with mud. She later explained that she had been held up by the hunt on her estate. It turned out that she slipped and fell in the mud in a little park two kilometres from here, and was unable to get up again by herself. A man walking his dog found her and alerted the police. The officers who brought her back spent at least twenty minutes in Stelwagen’s office. Afterwards all residents were urgently requested not to spread any gossip about the incident, for our own good. Stelwagen made a point of stopping by Evert’s armchair to tell him Mrs Schaar had not been on any bus.
‘I never said she was, Sister. I only saw her standing at the bus stop.’
‘I am not your sister and I have my doubts about what you saw. I would advise you to be more circumspect in future.’
Evert, who calls everyone who works here ‘sister’ or ‘brother’, was ready with a retort: ‘To be even more circumspect than I already am – impossible, Mrs Sister!’
Stelwagen hesitated a moment, then turned and walked away.
Later some of the staff went round asking if anyone had noticed if Mr Duiker had stepped outside at all today. He had. Mr Evert Duiker isn’t an idiot.
Tuesday, 5 March
Interesting discussion at teatime yesterday afternoon, sparked by the finding that scientists have managed to connect the brains of two rats separated by a distance of several kilometres.
The question was: whose brain would you want to have linked to yours if you had the choice? Many of the parents among us chose one of their offspring. I don’t think that if it were the other way round, a child would enjoy peeking inside his father’s or mother’s head. Mrs Brandsma chose Tom Jones. Fat Bakker would like to give Obama a piece of his mind.
I couldn’t think of anyone myself. Frightening idea, some outsider poking about inside your head.
Great disappointment for a number of residents: they weren’t able to reserve a minibus for the coronation on 30 April. The bus company won’t put on an extra bus to drive them to the Royal Palace. They are now trying to line up transportation to the banks of the River IJ, in hope of catching a glimpse of the royal couple as they sail past. Mrs Hoogstraten has already bought herself a pricey pair of binoculars. She has begged God to let her make it to 30 April, and to see in the new pope as well. She even asked me to pray for her. Sadly for Mrs Hoogstraten, God and I have long agreed to stay out of each other’s business.
A bank was robbed by two thieves disguised as old people. Latex masks and all. Wouldn’t it be a laugh if the men under those masks were actually OAPs?
Wednesday, 6 March
The first sunny day of the year is the best. Yesterday afternoon I spent forty-five minutes sitting on the bench at the front entrance. I was the first one there. Not long after, the bench was full. A few envious latecomers paced up and down waiting for us to leave. Tough luck.
As the years ratchet up, everything else slows down. Walking, eating, talking, thinking. Reading, too. It takes me three to four days to get through all the Sunday supplements, if I don’t want to fall behind on the daily paper. I finally got round to reading a special section on ageing yesterday. It’s something I’ve noticed before: old age seems to be in fashion these days. The babies born right after the War are retiring; a few years from now it will be the hippie generation’s turn. The age group that’s in power now has discovered one important thing: you have to take good care of yourself. No one need spend much time worrying about those so-called OAPs for another fifteen years at least. These over-fifties don’t in any way resemble the over-eighties for whom this home is the penultimate resting place. We are the ones who learned to take good care of others, namely our own kids, now in the prime of their lives. We’re feeling rather neglected by those kids at the moment, actually. Many of my fellow residents wound up in here constrained by circumstance: too old and infirm to continue living independently, and too poor to hire the help they needed. They have had to come to terms with the prospect of living out their sunset years in an old-age home.
After a while, the phrase ‘old-age home’ began making people feel uneasy. It was replaced with ‘retirement community’. The nursing home became a ‘care home’. The care home became a ‘care centre’. And in the latest version, it seems I am enrolled in a ‘market-oriented health-services organization providing individually tailored care’. I now understand why health-care costs keep rocketing.
Thursday, 7 March
I took a head count once: we have 160 old-age pensioners living in here, give or take. Connected to this care centre is a nursing unit that has about another 80 befuddled or seriously impaired geriatric patients. I can’t give you an exact number because there’s a constantly revolving door of the living and the dead. I would estimate that when they arrive a person has on average about 5 years left to live, so if you count the care centre and nursing home together, that works out to some 50 deaths a year. If you grow to a very old age in here and remain on your feet, you may have to attend as many as 500 burials or cremations in the last 10 years of your life. A lovely prospect.
This morning I couldn’t find my keys anywhere. Turned my entire room, including the bed alcove, upside down, small as it is. Luckily I wasn’t in any hurry. I must have searched for an hour without swearing (almost), finally to discover the keys in the fridge. Absent-mindedness. Old people, like children, are always losing things, but they no longer have a mum to tell them where to look.
Friday, 8 March
Having broached the subject of death just yesterday, I now discover that death has paid a visit to ‘Feel Good Fitness’!
Mrs De Leeuw announced, ‘I don’t feel so good,’ and two minutes later she was no longer feeling fit either. She sat slumped in her chair and didn’t catch the ball that was thrown at her.
‘Pay attention, Mrs De Leeuw,’ Tina the exercise teacher chided her. Then Mrs De Leeuw
slid off her chair onto the floor.
They tried to resuscitate her; the defibrillator was brought in, but all in vain. The dreadful Slothouwer sisters stood there gaping, fascinated, until someone told them to move out of the way. Later, during coffee, they gave us a blow-by-blow of what they had seen. Given the chance, those Slothouwers would happily be spectators at a public execution.
Mrs De Leeuw’s passing put a bit of a damper on the cheerful mood brought on by several days of springtime weather. Some inmates won’t set a foot outside the door if it is at all cold or wet. So in the spring, at the first sign of a bit of sunshine, there’s a good deal of rapturous outdoor strolling. The announcement yesterday that we may have snow again in four days’ time led to even greater zeal for taking a constitutional.
I wanted to go for a walk with Eefje, but she wasn’t home. So I had to make do with my mate Evert. Upon entering his room I found him snipping at his nose hairs with a pair of nail scissors. I was a bit embarrassed, but Evert kept at it, taking his time, even with me standing there. We weren’t allowed to go out until he had finished trimming his ears.
‘You never know who you might bump into,’ was his explanation.
Saturday, 9 March
I am ill. I’ll spare you the unappetizing details. I hope to have recovered by Thursday, the day of our first excursion.