I had to agree. Eighty-five years old, and still sharp.
‘Well,’ Edward granted, ‘I suppose it’s better than turning into a mingy old derelict. We have enough of those here.’
I had to agree there as well. It’s often all or nothing: you have the residents who eke out their final days immaculately groomed, and you have those who can’t even be bothered to disguise their threadbare slippers and moth-eaten clothes.
‘What difference does it make now?’ the frumps say.
Self-respect, dear senior citizens, it’s a question of self-respect.
A bit later I glanced at my reflection in the glass of the patio door and saw a very neat gentleman wearing pale-coloured shoes, beige trousers, a short-sleeved blue shirt, immaculately pressed, and a coquettish straw hat resting upon sparse but neatly trimmed hair.
‘Hmm, nice-looking gent, if I may say so myself,’ I muttered.
Yes, what a vain little man you are, Hendrik. Too bad about the nappy. I always worry it shows under my trousers, even though Evert swears you can’t tell.
Speaking of Evert, tomorrow he is venturing out with Leonie to buy a new suit. She spontaneously offered to go with him when my chum publicly announced that he needed a new suit. Deliberately, I expect.
‘It’s the suit for the coffin,’ he confided to me in a whisper. ‘But of course Leonie doesn’t know that.’
I didn’t say it, but if I were him, I wouldn’t be so sure. Leonie may not have had much schooling, but she is not lacking in intelligence – especially not in social intelligence. As an old head teacher, I would bet my nice new hat that Leonie has her suspicions.
Tuesday, 4 August
Since they weren’t able to jump in the car and race to the scene of the accident, the rollator-pushing rubberneckers were gathered round the porter’s computer. What they were watching, with great excitement, was the umpteenth replay of the collapse of two huge cranes in Alphen aan den Rijn. That poor dog that was buried under the rubble – that was the worst, the residents decided. The poor thing had even barked in the end. A pathetic final death-bark.
Then the sensation seekers trooped into the conversation lounge, where the television had just been switched on for the first on-the-scene reports. These were composed, as usual, of interviews with local residents, witnesses and experts.
‘I thought, what on earth is that noise?’
‘So you didn’t immediately think it might be two enormous cranes that toppled on to a bridge spanning twenty- five by fifteen metres?’ I wished I’d heard the reporter ask.
Equally unsurprising: the deputy mayor says it’s a tragic accident.
After the umpteenth replay and yet another inane interview, I decided to take my scooter out for a spin with my unperturbed friend Geert. For him to get perturbed you’d need something more than the collapse of a couple of building cranes. It was hot. The meadows of Waterland were looking downright torrid in the heat, if that’s what torrid looks like. Besides the cows there was not a soul to be seen. A sluggish breeze. We had an ice cream at the special needs farm ‘Ons Verlangen (Our Expectations)’ in Zunderdorp. We’ve stopped there before. The folk who work there are ‘people with disabilities’. We used to call them – no harm intended, I assure you – the village idiots. They always greet us, noisily and enthusiastically, as old friends.
I’m afraid the writing is on the wall for our ice-cream-tasting project at ‘Ice Cold Best’ on Meeuwenlaan. After going three times and sampling not even half of the flavours, we feel we’ve seen it all, or rather, tasted it all. Ice cream parlours are popping up all over the place, like mushrooms. The main reason: ice cream parlours don’t need a special food permit. A few trays of Italian gelato in a vacant storefront, a manager behind the counter, and you’re in business. In order for all those new stands to thrive, every Amsterdam citizen would have to consume two ice cream cones a day.
Wednesday, 5 August
We who were children during the war are outraged that our soldiers no longer have real bullets to practise with. Instead they have to yell ‘Bang-Bang!’ or, even more cringe-worthy, ‘Peanut! Peanut!’
‘Do you suppose that when the Germans invade our country again, they’ll respond to our so-called “firepower” by yelling, “Erdnuss, Erdnuss!”?’ Mr Helder wondered in despair.
An army with no bullets is simply absurd. Imagine the drill sergeant screaming at the marine to yell ‘Bang-Bang’ louder. And we’ve also sold off our tanks. I’m no fan of the military, but I do think: either you provide the soldiers with bullets and tanks, or you disband the entire kit and caboodle.
I thought I was getting very forgetful, but no, it seems I just have a mild case of cognitive impairment. That’s what it’s called in the newspaper, anyway, so I can breathe a sigh of relief. That ‘mild’, especially, makes me feel better. We of the old guard sometimes have trouble with the modern terminology. We’d only just got used to committees for this or that, and now we understand that it’s taskforces. A Dementia Daycare Taskforce, for example, a Volunteer Caregiver Taskforce, and the Dignity and Pride Taskforce for Compassionate Care in Nursing Homes. We’d also just adapted to saying ‘dementia’ instead of ‘senile’, but now it’s ‘Alzheimer’s’ or something ‘cognitive’. Difficult new terms that tend to obscure rather than clarify, especially when uttered by policy-makers. It often has to do with hiding something – either a budget cut, or hot air, or both at once.
Most of the residents just resign themselves to whatever new words they come up with. We no longer have the sharpness, or the energy, to keep asking ourselves what ‘they’ really mean by it, or what ‘they’ are trying to achieve.
I plan to visit my friend Grietje in the locked ward tomorrow. I think I’ll casually ask the nurse how all those taskforces are doing.
Thursday, 6 August
Yesterday I was pleasantly surprised by a visit from Frida. Knock, knock, a little head with a blonde ponytail peered round the door.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course, how nice.’
I said I was happy to see her again after such a long time, and asked if her mother knew where she was.
‘Well … actually, I told her I was going to play outside. Otherwise she’ll only tell me not to talk to strange men. Mama is tidying Grandma’s room.’
Did that mean she was allowed to talk to strangers who were women? That, thought Frida, wouldn’t be a problem.
‘But you don’t have to worry, because you’re not a strange man any more. I’ve already visited you three times.’
I asked her what she would like to drink.
‘Orange squash, please.’
I didn’t have any squash. I only had coffee, tea, wine or brandy to offer her. Fortunately I knew the lady next door always has some on hand for her grandchildren.
A little later Frida and I were sipping orange squash. The first squash I’ve drunk in fifty years. We talked about school, about growing old and about dolls. And then she asked me, ‘May I call you Grandpa?’
I am now Grandpa Henk. It’s about time.
On the heels of yesterday’s assortment of taskforces, I have now discovered there is also an Elder Abuse Barometer, which tells us that the tip of the abuse-iceberg in Amsterdam is growing like a cabbage. Mrs Schansleh couldn’t have put it better herself. The number of reported abuse cases has doubled in five years. There are no recent data about the dimensions of the iceberg, unfortunately. An estimate from a few years back was that 200,000 old people are abused by their children, partners or caregivers every year. Our care home isn’t the kind of place where the worst abuses occur. Bruises would be too conspicuous there. Old people living alone, with just one person caring for them, are at much greater risk. When the last ‘care centre’ has closed because of budget cuts, people will think back on the good old – safe – old age home with nostalgia.
Friday, 7 August
At tea yesterday, the Residents’ Committee unveiled the ailment-free-zone initiative. Our
in-house artist Eugenie had painted a handsome sign with the text: ‘YOU ARE KINDLY REQUESTED NOT TO TALK ABOUT AILMENTS, ORGANS OR DEATH AT THIS TABLE’.
Mrs Duits came waddling up, saw the sign and read it aloud. (Another similarity between children and the elderly: they find it hard to read to themselves.) Her performance drew quite a bit of attention. Our idea of introducing it quietly therefore fell by the wayside.
‘Why can’t I talk about my ailments?’ asked Slothouwer. ‘That’s my personal right to free speech.’
‘Think of it as the quiet coach in a train. To have at least one place where there’s no noise,’ I tried to explain.
‘Quiet coach – I’ve never heard of it. I’ll talk about my ailments wherever and whenever I like, thank you very much.’
‘You can talk about your aches and pains wherever and whenever you like, EXCEPT AT THIS TABLE! And if you insist on doing it here anyway, I’ll give you something else to complain about,’ is how Evert decided to clear things up in his own inimitable style.
Slothouwer slunk off, and the case was settled. She is wary of Evert since she knows a slew of little mishaps will happen if she lingers too long in his presence. A loose cap on the bottle of Worcestershire sauce, an overturned glass and salt in the coffee are just a few examples.
‘Rather a good idea, actually,’ was the verdict of a good number of residents, and there was soon a crowd gathered round the ‘no-ailments table’. After fifteen minutes Mr De Grave’s attention wandered a bit, and he accidentally let slip that his eczema bothered him in this hot weather. Mrs Quint haughtily demanded his dismissal, but the Residents’ Committee pressed for leniency. From here on in, everyone is allowed one slip of the tongue. Mr De Grave kept his mouth shut the rest of the time, just to be on the safe side.
Wouldn’t it be nice if it were the other way round: so that if you wanted to talk about your ailments, your organs or dying, you could only sit at one specially designated table, off in a corner somewhere – the table of illness, death and organ recitals?
Saturday, 8 August
Yesterday I paid Grietje a visit. When I asked the nurse what was going on with all the different taskforces, she stared at me blankly. Grietje, smiling warmly, took my arm and dragged me off to show me her new sixteen-piece jigsaw puzzle.
Today Evert and I went to the cemetery to choose a nice resting place for him. It turned out that it isn’t possible to reserve a spot. One section is set aside for dead Catholics, another area has graves for dead Protestants, I expect there’s also a patch for ‘Other Religions’ and finally there’s a zone saved for atheists.
‘If I understand correctly, you wish to be buried in the non-religious sector?’ asked the caretaker, pointing us in the right direction. ‘But even there you can’t choose your own spot. We fill the empty spaces on a first come, first served basis.’
‘And what if I paid a bit more?’ Evert tried.
No, that wouldn’t help.
While we were there, Evert did make a decision: he wanted a plot all to himself.
‘I don’t want to have a coffin above me and another underneath, Hendrik. You know I rather cherish my privacy.’
‘Indeed! What if you and your neighbours didn’t get along?’ I empathized.
‘Right, it’s not a happy thought. Three corpses stacked on top of one another, that’s Holland at its thriftiest.’
The sun shone effusively, and the birds sang their little hearts out. It was a special moment, there in the cemetery. Amusing, moving, peaceful and sad, all at the same time.
Sunday, 9 August
‘You people are still in fairly good shape. I can’t do any of that any more.’
I looked at the fellow who said that and realized that there was no point objecting. Facing me was an emaciated, bitter little man in a wheelchair. On the table in front of him was his mug of tea, topped with a lid with a spout to prevent spillage, like a toddler’s. He can no longer do anything without help, or go anywhere, but he’s still got all his buttons.
That ‘you people are still in fairly good shape’ referred to our Old-But-Not-Dead Club. And he’s right; with some reciprocal help, patience and goodwill we manage to get ourselves out and about.
The envious bloke, I don’t know his name, would love to be able to do the same. Sometimes he’ll fly into a rage. He’ll smash his hand on to his plate of spuds as for the umpteenth time his fork hasn’t managed to make it into his mouth. He doesn’t possess what for many old people is the final remedy: resignation. Stoically waiting for death while enjoying a nice cup of tea.
The Old-But-Not-Dead are still too fit and resourceful to be resigned. That’s the reason they were chosen to be members; harsh, but true. You’re a member for life, but in order to participate fully, you do have to have your faculties. Grietje, for instance, is a Member Emeritus. She can’t come with us any more, even if she wanted to. And when Evert goes, he’ll leave yet another hole that will be very hard to fill.
Evert is going to start a rival club: the One-Foot-In-The-Grave Club. He is looking for suitable candidates.
Monday, 10 August
I woke up exhausted. I sat on the edge of my bed for a while and then lay down again. It was one of those days when you’re dragging life along behind you like a bag full of sand. I did get up in the end because Antoine came to find out what was keeping me.
It’s at moments like these that you need friends to rescue you from complete apathy, and give you a kick in the behind: no whinging! Another day the roles may be reversed and it’s your turn to cheer someone up and help them to get through the day. If you’re alone, you can’t do it. You’ll sink into total lethargy, unable to haul yourself out of your chair by the window. Then you’re dead before actually dying. You have to keep yourself from falling into that trap. That’s what our club is for: Old-But-Not-Dead. It sounds a bit pathetic, but it’s the truth.
Tuesday, 11 August
In Flanders they’ve come up with a solution to the problem of the elderly living alone: the postman keeps an eye on them. There are 1,500 people over eighty in Hasselt, Belgium, who receive a monthly visit from the letter carrier. Not to deliver the mail, which they receive very little of anyway, but to make sure they haven’t fallen into self-neglect, or aren’t lying dead somewhere. The social services pay the postman for this job. It’s cheaper than sending a social worker, since they’re making the rounds anyway. After a crash course in ‘Communicating with the Elderly’ he’s ready to start. It’s a pity that the Netherlands has just sacked all our old-time mail carriers.
Wednesday, 12 August
I never knew it, but as many as a million Dutch people suffer from some rare disease. Even rare diseases aren’t at all that rare, it seems. According to the newspaper there are close to 7,000 rare diseases, so it’s quite likely you’ll come down with one. All things considered, I’ve been very lucky when it comes to rare diseases.
I couldn’t discuss this subject with my friends at coffee time because I was sitting at the ‘no-ailments table’. The system is working perfectly. The sign ‘YOU ARE KINDLY REQUESTED NOT TO TALK ABOUT AILMENTS, ORGANS OR DEATH AT THIS TABLE’ has already been copied and posted at two other tables. Although for many of the residents it takes some getting used to. Now, if you’re sitting at one of the unrestricted tables and happen to mention a problem with your bowels, it will seem as if you’ve chosen that table specially to discuss the state of your poo. It does make it a bit awkward. So on the whole there’s much less talk about physical ailments.
It has also already been suggested that we should have a table where any complaining in general is not allowed. That may be taking it a bit too far. Blurting ‘Whew, isn’t it hot?’ could get you banned.
‘Well, at least it’s a nice heightening of the general awareness,’ I couldn’t help remarking.
‘Nice heightening of the general awareness …? Mr Groen, what are you saying?’ Evert chuckled.
When Stelwagen first read the sign, she hesitated,
and then walked on. There has been no other reaction so far. As far as I know there have not yet been any complaints from the residents either.
Tomorrow Leonie, Ria, Edward and I are going for a swim in the Flora Park pool. Swim time for the elderly is from 10 a.m., until 11 a.m., although I’m not supposed to call it that any more.
‘No, we no longer call it that,’ said the lady on the phone. ‘You mean the quiet hour.’
‘Are the elderly allowed during that quiet hour as well?’
The quiet hour on Thursday morning is reserved for people who like to swim laps at a snail’s pace. Evert isn’t coming.
‘I can’t swim laps with my one leg, I can only paddle in circles.’
Even if he were allowed to swim in circles, he’s far too weak for that now. He’d sink immediately.
I have dug my forty-year-old swimming trunks out of my wardrobe. It looks like they still fit.
Thursday, 13 August
Just got back from the swimming pool. It was delightful, except for some minor setbacks. I couldn’t wear a nappy in my swimsuit, naturally, so I visited the loo right before going in, and then just ignored some minor leakage.
A problem of a more technical nature was that after forty years, the elastic in my trunks had rather lost its stretch. I was able to solve the problem temporarily with two safety pins that Ria happened to have with her. Every once in a while I’d feel something dangling loose down below, and I’d stuff it back in under the water, hoping no one would notice. Fortunately the ladies all swam with their heads above the water to keep their hair dry.
All the to-do with the swimsuit hampered me from showing off my powerful breaststroke. Honesty compels me to confess that I stayed down at the shallow end. The swimming did go better than expected, in fact, but I still did not dare venture into the deep end. I was afraid I would never manage to hoist myself up one those flimsy little ladders to get out. The good thing about the shallow end is that you just wade in and wade out again.