Hoarder in the family : 3 Boundaries

When I first heard of this situation, nine years ago, I was swept away with the activity of the family to help, to give aide to this fresh widow in a bind. The siblings might not have known the full extent of chaos, but I think some knew that things were not as they should be, not as they once were. The deceased partner had battled cancer for a number of years, and physically could not manage his stuff any more.

The widow, the sister, did not reach out during this time because he would not allow it. She could not touch his stuff, the piles, he locked up outbuildings and kept the keys with him until his death.

If the family had just pushed through a little further those nine years ago when the situation was realized, if the family had finished the job then, we would be in a less terrifying position now. We being two people, nine years older and much less driven to do the dirty work. Much less driven.

After my initial reaction – which was not kind, or helpful – I had to quickly reorganize my outward reactions, because I risked shutting him down and abandoning him to work through this alone. I couldn’t push him to force help from the siblings, because I could see that there was nothing coming from those directions. We are all nine years older now, and some are not able.

After three days of anger, frustration and fury at times – I realized that we needed to set personal boundaries. These would be rules we could fall back on to reign us in when the project began to spiral. It is bound to spiral, as we enter into the practical bits. The collections that will come to light. The money spent on these items, the emotional dreams that are attached to them. Whenever husband goes to visit her, he comes home with toys, which are sometimes squirreled away in our garage.

My boundary #1 : Monitoring energy levels. I will step in if I see signs of mental / physical strain. I will call ‘halt’, I will time him out. We will not be sifting though her stuff.

My boundary #2 : No stuff will enter out property. This includes the house, the garage, husbands workplace, our vehicles. No stuff.

When my sister died in 2018, I ended up with a cedar chest full of filled colouring books. She was ill with a lung disease and all she could do was read, watch television and colour. I recycled them. There were dolls as well, two of them, which went to charity. That is nothing compared to what is coming.

Once upon a time I used to sell things on eBay, and made a little cash. I was twenty years younger. Over the last nine years, while health was good, SIL could have sold stuff on marketplace, but she did not. Now it will somehow go. Somewhere. Not my house.

My boundary #3 : This project or endeavor will not infringe upon our travel time. We’ve waited many, many years to travel. We had four children and very little money. During the pandemic we purchased a comping trailer and during the summer love to camp. We are going on vacation for a week in April, to Lisbon, to walk the hills and stairs while we are able. Travel and vacations and adventure cannot be put off for a year, because we don’t know what next year will bring.

I talked to husband about my boundaries. I was sick with a cold probably exacerbated my stress, but we talked and he agreed that boundaries would help.

Husband’s boundary #1 : He will not use any holiday time to this situation. He has limited vacation time, and enough said, it goes with my boundary #3. Sometimes he will take a week and chill with a project at home, but that is his choice.

Husband’s boundary #2 : No physical work.

In years past he was the youngest in the family with energy to share. Energy to spare. Energy has to be coddled and loved. I know I’m making us out to be ancient beyond our years, but we know where we want to expend physical energy. Kitchen cabinet building left over from last summer. Model train layout goals. Gardening – and commuting to work. Again – not retired.

Husband’s boundary #3 : Financial.

I hadn’t even thought of this one. It takes money to pay for giant waste bins. It takes money to pay for people to take away stuff. The money will have to come from somewhere.

So, boundaries have helped to still the panic.

There will be more clarity in a weeks time after we view the property with our real estate agent. We will find out options, SIL will find out options.

Hoarder in the family : 2 Empathy

Or lack there of it.

We fast forward to now – January 2026. Nine years have passed, and sister in law wishes to move to a different province where another sibling lives. This is an excellent plan, but the challenge is now to get her from here to there without actually touching her stuff. Touching, sorting, tossing, organizing and so on is not in the plan.

In nine years, SIL’s health has declined and she has been diagnosed with COPD. She might have had the ability to sort even two years ago, but now she can’t. One sibling is in Alberta. Another, the eldest, also physically challenged, is four hours away. The third sibling is in the process of packing up her own house, to get remarried in March. This leaves my husband, the youngest, the only one still working full time, to figure this out.

I am quite apprehensive. I have a fairly neutral relationship with these four siblings-in-law. Over many years I have withdrawn my interaction, as they have. Husband maintains contact, I find out what’s up through him. I know I have to trust him to maintain his own life balance and set his own boundaries, It’s very difficult for me to give up control regarding my life periphery. I am also very aware of how this sort of project could snowball and become a beast that could eat half or all of our year.

I’m thinking of me while saying I am thinking of us. I’m thinking about how fragile health is and how quickly we can lose our mobility, our strength, our sense of adventure. At work I see how fast people can age, how rapidly they decline. That will, eventually be us, and we have no guarantee that we will age at the same rate side by side. There are no guarantees.

Where did my empathy go? I have it for my children, for my sister who lost her granddaughter to cancer, for my brother-in-law who just lost his wife, my eldest sister. Maybe I have given up on some unsuccessful relationships and feel my empathy is better served elsewhere.

Although I feel I am spinning in a whirlwind of survival energy, I will strive to be the calm voice in the sea of chaos for my husband. I think my empathy needs to be directed toward him, to help him navigate this shit show.

Hoarder in the family : 1

What makes a hoarder? I know it’s a mental illness. I’ve watched the shows, I’ve seen the experts come in and talk to the hoarder, to help the family, to encourage the hoarder to part with one can of expired corn or one book or one pile of soiled adult diapers, to no avail.

Husband’s sister is not like this, at least she wasn’t nine years ago. We think that her husband was the hoarder, and she was brought along on the ride.

In the 1980s, they were married, and soon after began to collect stuff. From what I remember, it was Kinder Egg toys, and possibly DVDs, camara equipment. They had no children but a love of toys. So many people were collecting Beanie Babies, dolls, plates, they did as well. Their house was small but really cute. Her husband made some good renovations early on. Everyone loved visiting them in those early days. He was not always nice to her, he was a bully. She was submissive. Nobody wanted to rock the boat.

Time passed. People visited less. Her friends didn’t visit at all. We were all busy with babies and toddlers. When we came to visit, nothing seemed to be out of control.

They built a massive garage in the 1990s to house the lawn equipment they now owned. It also housed her Camaro, which didn’t run anymore, but she couldn’t part with. It had shelf units to hold all the toy tractors they were collecting. They would go to toy shows and buy these tractors. All sizes.

My husband’s toy Tonka trucks were taken from his childhood home for their collection. Too valuable for small children to play with.

Years passed and as they do – they blend. When did the siblings stop visiting? When did the collecting stop, and the hoarding begin? When did the amassing of toys turn into the amassing of old pens and pencils? When did the collecting of Pepsi cans go from squishing them to recycle, to filling the basement because you couldn’t be bothered to squish them anymore?

It all came to a head in 2017. Her husband had been ill with cancer and died that October. In the aftermath one sister discovered the secret. No one had been to visit them in years, and the sister came to help. She found the cats. She found the garbage.

She dealt with the cats. How many I don’t know. She called on us, and we helped. We filled three dumpsters full of garbage and containers full of used cat litter. Carpets. Papers.

Over the course of a month the siblings restored her main floor to a clear and clean area. The twenty year old alcohal from her wedding, tossed out. Boxes of paystubs from the 1970s and 1980s. The room of paper piled to the ceiling, cleared out.

The upstairs was touched upon. It was semi-cleaned, somewhat cleared. Not well, so much mouse dirt. Dressers of beautiful linens ruined. Then we ran out of steam, she said she wanted to sift through stuff and sell it. We were all happy to leave her with it, feeling somewhat bruised from the experience.

We left her with one cat, a functional main floor.

Somewhat relieved, but always aware of the dark cloud looming.

Someday, someone would have to tackle the outbuildings.

Someday has come.

Shall I Begin Again?

I have been pondering my absent blogging world, after a three year silence. I wonder if I have words worth an audience, or whether my words should stay tucked away in my bullet journals and be recycled every year, as I have been doing.

I wouldn’t want family members to read of my middle aged angst when I die, or when I lose control over my privacy.

Since the pandemic I have been writing letters and making cards for my dear friend Randy, who I have known since I was seventeen and working my first full time job, at an art supply store in Toronto, before college. Randy was twenty-three and adopted me as a sidekick. He introduced me to falafels and I introduced him to eggnog. We have written through all the lockdowns, and I even made it to Toronto to see him last November.

I will go again soon.

So Randy has been my journal. He holds the timeline of my close-to-home day to day ramblings and worries and simple joys.

But I feel the need to express more than what I write to Randy.

I have also used Instagram as a journal. I can trail back over the years and I see our hikes, our gardens, our camps, our few gatherings and even the photos of clothes on the line give me joy. Satisfaction. See me, I am still here. I am still alive, maybe even vital.

Another old friend said that she was envious of my life, when she looked at my photos. Her life has been very taxing in recent years with parents dying, her husband is at the latter stages of MS. He is planning medical suicide this autumn. There were whispers maybe even in September.

I am thankful he has that choice.

We traveled north to see them in early August, and had a good visit. My friend is not sure if she will be disappointed if he changes his mind, because she is tired. Tired of living with MS. She is worried that she will die first – that her heart will burst, and what then will happen to him?

I have been posting less on Instagram. One post a month, and that is ok too.

My dear older sister Kathy lost her eldest granddaughter this past May, to cancer, and watching her family maneuver through all these levels of grief and anger and helplessness has been stark. I see her on Friday for a coffee visit. She carries on, they carry on. The little sister is now the only child. Her position altered.

But I am fine, we are pretty well. We keep on going to work, and laughing and finding things to feel passionate about.

Maybe I still have words.