The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old

by Hendrik Groen

His philosophy: the only point of being alive is to kill time as pleasantly as possible. The trick is not to take anything too seriously. I envy him. But I’m a fast learner.

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

Nice guy, only he’s as deaf as a post. Which is a shame, because I’m sure he’s someone you could have a nice chat with otherwise.

James Onedin is dead. He is fondly remembered from the seventies British TV series The Onedin Line. One or two old ladies wiped away a tear. Such whiskers! Such boldness! And then, forty years ago, they would have glanced at the guy next to them on the couch and decided that, sadly, he would just have to do.

There are people who despise anything old, gray, or slow. This bratty shopgirl was one of those. It’s hard to steel oneself against a total lack of respect.

Mrs. Van Diemen hopes that the new pope, when elected, will in good time come to Amsterdam for Willem-Alexander’s coronation. She really wants it to be a Dutch pope. Mrs. Van Diemen is well on her way to the locked ward.

I only mean to say that we had better take those in authority with a grain of salt.

Unpleasant Mr. Pot spends the first half of the week jawing on about who came last time, and the second half of the week about who will come next time. He has eleven children. Pot is the kind of man who waits at the crosswalk until there’s a car coming, and only then steps out into the road.

“We’ll just have the minibus drive up to the front twice a month to take us somewhere. If all six of us at this table participate, and each comes up with a plan for four outings, then we’ll have twenty-four field trips per year. That’s something to look forward to, don’t you think?” He was absolutely right, and, at Grietje’s suggestion, it was decided to meet in the common room tonight for the inaugural meeting of the Old But Not Dead Club. I can’t wait.

Opinions are divided on whether it was fate or coincidence, but be that as it may, it was an extraordinarily happy combination of circumstances that this particular group of six people just happened to be gathered around one table on Monday afternoon. They are all jolly nice, intelligent and, most important: not a whiner among them.

Evert wanted to find out about Amsterdam’s bungee-jumping possibilities. Edward said he wasn’t coming, because bungee jumping was sooo 2012. It’s a shame no one else heard him say it.

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 mom to tell them where to look.

Sometimes I do wonder: a cooking club, isn’t that a bit sissy? But on the other hand, if you can’t be bothered to give things that don’t immediately interest you a chance, you risk being an old stick-in-the-mud. At least it’s something to do.

In honor of cucumber time, I give you this from the old newspaper clippings box in the “How Can That Be Possible?” category: some years ago Berlusconi was presented with an award for his human rights’ record by none other than…Muammar Gaddafi.

Younger children fare much better. They’ll babble away merrily, and haven’t yet learned to be embarrassed. Old people and toddlers get along famously.

We all ought to live as if every day were our last, but no, we’d rather waste our precious final hours on empty stuff and nonsense.

The accompanying note from the doctor: “Take comfort in the fact that there are more ailments you don’t have than ones you do. I would like to see you again in six months.”

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. In this stimulating environment, it isn’t always easy to set yourself a modest goal or two. When I look around I see only passive resignation in people’s eyes. They’re the eyes of people with nothing to do but go from cup of coffee to cup of tea and back again. I may have said this before. Maybe I shouldn’t grumble so much. I should just work harder at making sure that every day is worth living. Or at least every other day. There have to be rest days too, just like the ones in the Tour de France.

Yesterday I took in a lunchtime concert. Rereading my own complaints about the emptiness of our days, I told myself to buck up and do something.

It has made me painfully aware, however, that when I, or other people, laugh, it is often for social acceptance. A little laugh here, a smile there, for no other reason than to be polite. As a friendly gesture, or because you’re too spineless to reveal you didn’t think the joke was funny. Or as a way of avoiding the subject.

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.

Reading about cute American five-year-olds who on their birthdays are presented with their first pink gun, “My First Rifle,” complete with real bullets, made me wonder if in American nursing homes the oldies walk around packing loaded My Last Rifles.

In short, it wasn’t easy, all those feelings at once.

For some, disappointment at being left out turns to envy and spite. Envy and spite that have plenty of time to take root in here.

The first concrete move we’re making is to take turns popping in every afternoon to check that Grietje hasn’t left the hamster in the freezer. That was Grietje’s suggestion; she doesn’t actually have a hamster. Next we made lists, lots of lists. A list of names, roles, and telephone numbers. A list of things that have to be done on a daily basis. A list of things she should never do. A shopping list. A list of where things are and a detailed daily schedule. We’ll help where necessary. If she doesn’t remember or understand something, she’ll jot it down and ask us later. If it’s urgent, she’ll get us on the phone.

The roles are reversed: where the children were once lectured by their elders, the children now reprimand the parents. “We’d appreciate it if you would put on a clean shirt when we visit you, and why don’t you ever have anything to offer us but the same old stale cookies?”

Rumors about nursing home closings are swirling around the Conversation Lounge. “That will be the death of me,” I have heard several residents stoutly declare. I’m not sure whether you can hold people to that kind of pledge. There are a few I will definitely try to remind of it when the time comes.

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.

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. She wondered aloud how she would react to her own letter later on. By the time I know the answer, it’ll probably be too late for her to understand. What a surreal state of affairs.

“I won’t be around to see it” is not such a far-fetched assumption for people in their nineties sitting in their little room waiting for death. Momentous events pass them by completely. Only trivial annoyances still matter. “If Greece goes bankrupt the bingo prizes will probably get smaller,” was Mrs. Schouten’s analysis of the eurozone crisis.

Endless torrents of vapid verbiage drowning out everything else like rampant weeds. Thoughtless. Senseless. Relentless. Aired just to let everyone know that the speaker isn’t dead yet and still has something to say. Whether there’s anyone willing to listen is a question they rarely ask themselves, otherwise they’d keep their mouths shut far more often.

And then one of them will make a great fuss about declining the pathetic little slice by announcing, “Only ’cause I haven’t had a bowel movement in four days!” Or conversely, “I’ve been sitting on the toilet all morning, I’ve got a bad case of the runs.” I DON’T NEED TO KNOW ANY OF THIS! Have a word with your doctor, or take yourself to the shit clinic (which exists, apparently), but do not come to me with your constipation or diarrhea stories while I’m sitting here trying to enjoy my sliver of cake, because it robs me of my appetite! The extraordinary lack of shame many old people seem to have! Coupled with the strange assumption that people will be genuinely interested in their complaints and ailments!

Little children are allowed to make a big fuss over their tummy-ache or scraped knee so that their mommy will rush over with a glass of warm milk or a Band-Aid, but in old people, the incessant whining is utterly pointless and quite unbearable.

Stelwagen hesitated, debating whether to respond, then gave him an inscrutable look and walked away. As a tactician, she mustn’t be underestimated. She makes few mistakes and her timing is excellent. She never reveals what she’s got up her sleeve, she shows little emotion, and she leaves the dirty work to others. I have yet to discover her weak spot.

Tonight I was Evert’s partner at Klaverjas. He has worked up an elaborate system of signals to show which suit should be made trumps. “Only in a case of emergency, and only with certain opponents, mind you,” he conceded. My virtuous disposition is opposed to it, but I will allow an exception if we have to play against Mr. Bakker or Mrs. Pot, and it looks like we’re losing. Sometimes one has to throw one’s principles overboard for the sake of a higher justice.

Evert and I wound up losing at Klaverjas, which is for the best, really. We are already not all that popular, and you don’t win friends by winning Klaverjas tournaments. In some old people, childish jealousy about trivial things can take on almost pathological proportions. People don’t like to give you the time of day, let alone grant you the first prize at cards, even if it’s only the eternal liver sausage.

The motto of this little group of resentful old coots must be: “How do I make things as hard on myself as possible?” As if being old didn’t bring misery enough.

Uden—a place to visit! It was fun. A pleasant break from the tedious routine. But I’m also glad to be home again. One’s attachment to the peaceful little world of the nursing home is stronger than I’d have expected, although it pains me to admit it. As the years multiply, the ability to go with the flow decreases. I thought I was more flexible. After only five days I started longing for a little room in a house full of old people. I console myself with the thought that I may be a bit less ossified than my average fellow resident.

Yesterday Grietje presented me with a big bunch of flowers and a gift voucher for a book. When I asked what I had done to deserve it she showed me a booklet about dementia, in which she had underlined the following sentence: “The illness will make someone with dementia barely able to appreciate all you are doing for him or her.” “I’m thanking you in advance.” “That’s not necessary.” “No, it isn’t necessary, but I’m doing it anyway.”

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

Rules, supposedly, are always for our own good. But of course they’re first and foremost a means of avoiding risk and preventing lawsuits.

It still astonishes me how much envy rules the roost in here. Returning from a successful outing, we’re given a predominantly cool, even icy, reception by our fellow residents. The thought that others have had more fun than they have is, for many, hard to accept. So today we see lots of pursed lips again. 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.”

The staff deal with dissension like nursery school teachers attempting to keep the peace. “Mr. Duiker, can’t you try being a bit nicer to Miss Slothouwer? Come, won’t you sit down here? Why don’t we all have a nice cup of coffee together?” I’d rather ram a ginger cookie down her throat and watch her suffocate in drawn-out agony, I can just hear Evert thinking. Evert doesn’t really belong in the “good-natured” category. Just so that you don’t think this place is a complete snake pit: there are also kind, courteous and compassionate people in here. Although they’re not usually the ones you notice.

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.

Took a wonderful drive around a sleeping Amsterdam. It is a privilege to live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But you do have to take advantage of that privilege sometimes, or what’s the point?

Grietje promised to be there, but extracted a promise from me in return: “Once I’ve gone gaga, will you please refrain from dragging me all over hell and creation?” “What do you mean?” 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. “A person with dementia is going to need three days to recover,” Grietje sighed. “So when the time comes, just let me sit in my chair by the window.” I promised.

I am going to try to find out about video games, although the chances of finding someone here to teach me aren’t great. Not having grandchildren is a major disadvantage. I would have loved to have some. I’d have made an adorable grandpa, even if I do say so myself. If…yes, if only. Actually, grandkids aren’t always fun and games. Edward has a grandson who’s addicted to drugs; Graeme has a granddaughter with anorexia. Comes a time when your children finally amount to something, and you’re faced with your grandchildren’s troubles. Yet another cause of insomnia. Maybe I should wait on the video games until the next study comes out; I wouldn’t be surprised to learn the first was seriously flawed and raises all sorts of scientific question marks.

Fortunately, eloquent words don’t necessarily speak the truth. These weren’t De Klerk’s own words, in fact, but came from the evangelical magazine Friend of the Truth. One of the residents, an erstwhile Communist Party member, mistook it for his old party newspaper, risen from the ashes. Claims to own the truth can come from many quarters.

They were all nice about it, assuring me that it had been a great idea, but that the weather and our advanced ages had failed to cooperate. Nonetheless, I am still, a day later, feeling rather let down. I am childishly bad at dealing with disappointment.

I was still fretting about the failed golf outing when Evert stopped by for a visit. After five minutes, he threatened to leave if I didn’t stop moping at once. “I can’t stand having to listen to an old fogey whining about a trivial little disappointment.”