The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old

by Hendrik Groen

Self-knowledge tends to decrease drastically with age. Just as in children it increases year by year.

There is a great buzz about plans for a euthanasia clinic. Specially conceived for people with an uncooperative doctor. The Netherlands’ Right to Die Society came up with the idea. That’s a society that must have a rather serious member turnover.

Woe to the man who thinks he is worth fifty-six times more than the woman who lovingly performs the dirty work.

Old people, like children, are always losing things, but they no longer have a mom to tell them where to look.

The three Rs apply not only to children, but also to the elderly: Rest, Recreation and Routine. Recreation is optional, but Rest and Routine are the cornerstones of this society.

I’ll just have to resign myself to wearing diapers. Not so long ago I used to think that was when one lost one’s last shred of dignity, but I realize that I have now lowered the bar a bit. The frog in the cooking pot, that’s me.

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.

the Netherlands has some million and a half solitary old people, of whom over 300,000 are extremely lonely. That’s a lot. But it should be said that some old people do it to themselves. In this house alone there are dozens who are to be avoided like the plague because they are boring, bigoted bellyachers. Forgive me for stating the truth, but that’s just the way it is.

The older the people are, the more scared they are. At our age, surely, there’s nothing left to lose, so why not be fearless?

It’s the little things that get you. Or rather, that you don’t get. A daily annoyance: packaging. Cans with tabs you can’t wedge your finger under, vacuum-sealed LIFT UP HERE corners too small to pull, childproof cleaning products, applesauce lids, impossible to twist open prosecco corks, blister packs: they’re all specially designed to make it as difficult as possible for feeble, trembling, old hands to manage.

Evert takes things as they come. He weighed the risks beforehand, accepted them, and went on living his life as if he didn’t have diabetes. With gusto and bravado. That was still his attitude, lying there in his hospital bed.

Grietje has written herself a long letter and pasted it on the kitchen cupboard. In it she explains to herself that she has Alzheimer’s, listing the problems she might encounter. She gives herself advice and courage in the face of whatever may come when she starts losing it. She ends with, “Losing it isn’t the worst that can happen; winning isn’t everything. Love, Grietje.” The way she addressed herself moved me greatly. She is handling her illness in her own fresh and unique way.

I’ve forced myself to pick up the pen once more. Writing is good for me. Once I have committed something to paper, I can distance myself from it a bit, and then I’m less insufferable. That’s a lot nicer for the people around me too.

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.

Something exciting to look forward to is crucial to keep up one’s zest for life.

Our Old But Not Dead Club finds itself growing more and more isolated. Being the common enemy creates an extra-tight bond; but enmity is contagious. If you’re not careful it won’t be long before you find yourself detesting “the rest of them.”

In this home people are just called Piet, Kees, Nel, or Ans; not Storm, Butterfly, Perdita, or Sword of Islam. We were all born before the time when parents began wanting to show off how original and cool they could be in naming their offspring. With all the dangers lurking therein. You give your daughter the name Butterfly, and damn if she doesn’t grow into a lumbering tub of lard. You’d have done better naming her Bertha.

She explained that it’s a misconception to assume people with Alzheimer’s must be entertained no matter what, to prod them out of their apathy. They’re taken along on outings, but have no idea where they are, who the people gabbing at them so brightly are, and why they have to climb into some strange little train. On top of that they’re given unfamiliar food to eat, and subjected to kisses from total strangers.

The main thing is to stay alive until June. I am determined not to let death deter me, at least not other people’s deaths. If it turns out that I am dead by then, I want the others to give my urn pride of place on the dashboard. “He always did like looking out the window.” It isn’t true but it sounds good.

Mankind hasn’t always put the most sensible people in command. Hitler, Stalin, Mao, just to mention a few, are good for a tidy two hundred million dead all together, and that’s even discounting any nukes. If there were a prize for the most hare-brained creature on earth, man would certainly be one of the nominees.

We lose some capacities as we age, but being a busybody isn’t one of them.

I have promised myself I will report on at least one positive or funny thing every day.

one of the reasons for writing was to poke fun at the reigning glumness in here.

If I win the jackpot, I’m buying a small, private, old-age home for myself and my friends. It won’t have a director, an orderly, or a board of directors. No human-resources manager, accountant, or head of housekeeping. No rules, regulations, or interdictions. That will save buckets of money and a lot of red tape.

Then we drank to friendship, until death do us part. Not an abstract concept for any of us.