The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old

by Hendrik Groen

A week and a half ago it was eighty-two degrees outside, and summer. Now it’s fifty-seven degrees and autumn. I don’t like autumn. Yes of course, the colors are nice, but they’re the colors of necrosis. In the late autumn of my life I am already confronted often enough with death and decay, I don’t need dying leaf debris to remind me of them. Autumn smells like a nursing home. Give me spring, a new beginning, to compensate. I also hate the short, cold days; and Santa Claus and Christmas don’t exactly make me jump for joy. If I sound like an old grump, isn’t that what this diary is for? It lets me gripe and moan from time to time, and it doesn’t bother anyone.

Jealousy in old age sometimes goes to ridiculous lengths. Owing to the overabundance of women here, the married ladies do not like to let their husbands out of their sight. Mrs. Daalder never strays more than three feet from Mr. Daalder’s side. She growls like a vicious guard dog at any female who dares to pay the slightest attention to her man. Even if the unsuspecting table-mate is just asking him to pass the sugar. “Can’t you reach it yourself? Don’t give it to her, Wim.” Wim is thoroughly depressed because he can no longer have a decent conversation with anyone. And no woman wants Wim anyway, because he’s ugly as sin; and yet he has to tolerate his jealous wife’s watchdog surveillance. I sometimes detect in Wim’s eyes a great longing for death.

All things considered, it’s through luck rather than wisdom that we still exist. 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.

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.

I am quite sprightly again today, and feel I can safely have a drop this evening. I find I am more addicted than I thought. You may not realize it as long as you’re in the habit of drinking, but after a few days of imposed abstinence, the longing for a nip can take a terrible toll on your mood.

All in all, trying to talk politics in here is not for the faint of heart. It’s not as if anyone had anything interesting or sensible to say anyway. Evert recently asked the assembled, out of the blue, if any of them were still keeping their pubic hair properly trimmed. You should have seen their faces. Later he explained that it’s sometimes necessary to use shock tactics to keep our little table from getting too crowded.

Old people often lose touch with their last remaining friends outside the retirement home; they stop visiting each other or doing things together. They dread having to take any initiative. If you want to be kind, you can attribute it to fear and lack of energy. But I think it’s laziness and apathy. Not letting yourself grow lonely costs a great deal of—sometimes fruitless—effort.

It turns out that she broke both her arm and her leg. She had used a chair to climb up on the counter in order to dust the tops of the cabinets. “But that’s the way I always do it,” she is said to have groaned. Makes perfect sense. Myself, I have accidentally sat down on my glasses three times this week. In the end it proved to be too much strain for one of the arms, which promptly gave up the ghost. This was my backup pair, since I sat on my good pair last month. I repaired the arm with some tape borrowed from the handyman, and finally found the time to bring the other pair to the optician.

What can explain the fact that we are so bad at remembering names? “Christ, what’s his name again? You know, that singer in that band. There was a blonde girl too. Begins with an A. It’s on the tip of my tongue.” You find yourself suddenly unable to pry the name of someone you’ve known for years from the right brain cell. Then, hours later, the name will pop into your head unbidden. I have to rack my brain more and more often for a name or a word, only to come up empty. I should just accept it, but it bothers the hell out of me. Don’t let it, Groen.

“Ah yes, we live in uncertain times,” I chip in. “Life is a five-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle with no picture to follow.” Not bad either, even if I say so myself.

Mrs. Van Diemen is considering a face-lift. “What’s the plastic surgeon supposed to do with all the extra double chins?” Evert asked straight-faced. “Maybe he can give them to someone else,” said Van Diemen. She seems a bit out of her depth these days, and well on her way to the locked ward.

I miss Eefje, who was so good at tactfully helping you over the hurdles. A single remark from her was enough to make your irritation at all the bellyaching and mindless blather disappear. Giving you the strength to tolerate the sometimes abominable ignorance in here again.

“Henk, if you’re sick of life, just put an end to it, why don’t you? Don’t mess about with assisted-suicide counselors or doctors, just go out and buy yourself a sturdy rope. As long as you’re still able to get up on a chair and step off, you don’t need anyone else. And if you don’t have the nerve, which is normal, then stop whining and just try to make the best of it.” There was no arguing with his logic. I tried protesting that some people don’t kill themselves because they don’t want to cause their loved ones grief or saddle them with guilt. Well, as far as he could tell, there wasn’t much need for me to worry about that. He was willing to give me a helping hand in tying the noose. Not that he wanted to be rid of me, certainly not, but true friends are there to help you in your hour of need. Without thinking of themselves.

One day one of the elevators was out of order because of a technical hitch. It gave rise to a line stretching as far as the eye could see. Having to wait their turn does not bring out the best in our residents: there’s a great deal of pushing, shoving, ankle bashing, and cursing.

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.

When Miss Slothouwer was made to see that a couple of trees felled by the wind in the Netherlands two weeks ago really did not compare to the current devastation in the Philippines, she brought up the North Sea floods of 1953, which in her opinion were worse than any measly typhoon. Put your own disasters first, that’s her motto.

Will human rights ever improve all over the world? I’ve grown a bit more optimistic, actually, since reading a small item in the newspaper, namely, that Russia, Cuba, China, and Saudi Arabia have all been elected to the United Nations Human Rights Council. Each brings a wealth of experience to the table pertaining to human-rights violations.

“People are so ready to jump to conclusions, when sometimes it’s just an unfortunate set of circumstances.”

I am also struck by the come-back of the fondue. A few years ago it was definitely passé, but these past weeks the supermarket shelves have been groaning with ready-to-cook meat-fondue packages. (Won’t they spoil?) We had fondue bourguignonne in here once, a couple of years ago. The damage: several first- and second-degree burns, a number of dresses and suits to the cleaner’s, one singed wig, charred meat, and two staff members who finally blew their tops. A complete shambles!

The Christmas dinner was splendid. Ria and Antoine shuffling into the darkened room bearing an enormous turkey with three sparklers in its bottom, Evert helping his own lap to a big slice of tiramisu when dessert was served, and, if I may say so myself, my after-dinner speech wasn’t bad either. It was about friendship as the essential ingredient for a good life. It may have been a bit on the sentimental side (Antoine dabbed away a tear) but it came straight from the heart. We raised a glass to Eefje, “the silent heart of our club, tragically too silent now.” Then we drank to friendship, until death do us part. Not an abstract concept for any of us.

Even Mrs. Stelwagen’s speech was excellent—that is, mercifully brief. If you aren’t a gifted speaker, the least you can do is follow one rule: keep it short. It’s a rule that is often forgotten, especially at funerals. “I’ll never forget the first time I met Piet, it was at a meeting of the Flying Rats, the pigeon-fanciers’ club, and he said to me, ‘Jan,’ he said, ‘won’t you…’ ” Whenever someone starts off that way, you know you’re in for a snooze, and that it’s going to be mainly about the speaker himself.

And after that trip, I’ll have to come up with another plan. As long as there are plans, there’s life. This afternoon I will go out and buy a new diary.