The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old

by Hendrik Groen

When you’re young, you can’t wait to grow up. As an adult, until about the age of sixty, you want above all to stay young. But when you’re as old as the hills, you’ve got nothing left to strive for. That is the essence of the emptiness of life in here. There are no more goals. No exams to pass, no career ladders to climb, no children to raise. We are too old, even, to babysit the grandchildren.

If you don’t have anything special to do all day long, a molehill can turn into a mountain. A person’s time must be filled with something; one’s attention has to have a focus.

As for me, I am moved only by death notices for children. They make me think of my little girl. Obituaries of big shots with dozens of tributes from all the companies they steered or boards they sat on leave me as cold as their cadavers. Heave-ho, in the ground you go. Now see how important you are.

We haven’t much time left, yet we have all the time in the world. We should be in a hurry, but have almost nothing left that’s worth hurrying for.

A nation’s level of civilization can be measured by the way it treats its oldest and weakest citizens.

Tomorrow I’ll go back to reporting on the charming details of daily life.

There’s a big fuss about the prediction that of the female babies born today, half will live to be a hundred. I have yet to hear anyone ask the most pertinent question: is that supposed to be good news or bad? Of the people in this home close to turning a hundred, at least half wish to die as soon as possible.

Opinions about the doctor’s treatment by the police were mixed. Many in here remain staunchly in the straight-and-narrow, Christian mind-set about euthanasia. But everyone did agree that there was no reason to arrest the kind-hearted doctor (which I’ll assume he was, until evidence proves otherwise) in the dead of night and interrogate him for hours. Surely it can’t have been that urgent.

I am not underestimating the importance of magazines like Libelle and Margriet. For many of the residents they are their windows into the world. Few people here read the newspaper, and they rarely watch current-events shows. 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.

And as long as I’m sitting there twice a day, I might as well read a good book to her or let her listen to some music. If it doesn’t give her any comfort or peace, then at least it consoles me a bit. You can’t read aloud and fret at the same time.

“It was best for her.” You can say it a hundred times, but it doesn’t make a dent in the grief.