Hoarder in the family : 5 Fear of the unknown

When the hoarder was dying, he kept his hands tightly gripped around the keys to the outbuilding, the keys to his shame. He was clasping the very last remnants of his control. All the years of bluster and movement, all the years of active bullying nearly behind him. Now he held on, knowing that soon everyone would know his secrets.

That’s what I imagine.

In truth, we have no idea what is behind the door of the garage, which once housed their tractor collections, the glass cabinets full of tiny metal toys. We don’t know why he nailed shut the outbuilding that once held the cats he would care for in a misguided act of kindness, of protection.

The pictures in my imagination hopefully more terrifying and gruesome than reality.

The widow has said that she has not been in the garage since his death, but I suspect she has been inside. The roof was repaired, after a winter collapse, a few years ago.

I think that the garage will hold a lot of garbage, probably bins of used cat litter. My heart knows that this cleanup will involve us, whether we want or not. Now or in 10 years time, it will come to us.

The shed though, that is creepy. That is a where the imagination takes the reins.

What’s the worst we will find? No human bodies. I don’t think the Hoarder had that kind of evil inside. His was the misguided evil, where you think you are helping, doing good, but are harming the ones you love. Holding them close so they cannot leave, controlling their movements to keep them safe. Safe from the outside, where danger lurks.

The cats in the shed lived sad repressed lives. No trees, no grass and garden holes to dig. No rooms to escape to. No vet appointments or spaying or neutering. Just existing in a crowd, in a small windowless building. The Hoarder visiting with food, changing the litter, disposing of the ones who didn’t survive, carrying on with his act of kindness until he couldn’t.

I don’t know what’s in the shed. Something is. Not gold or treasure.

I want to burn it down to give the tiny ghosts inside a well deserved escape, to see the sparks flow into the night. Freedom at last. I want to burn it and rake the debris and plant wildflowers, catmint and chamomile. I want to smudge the area and place a fountain in the centre. or a birdbath, a small concrete cat to honour these cats who never lived as cats.

Until these buildings are exorcised, the burden of the unknown weighs heavily on my heart.

This is what I fear is inside. This is my fear of the unknown.

Hoarder in the family : 4 Scars

We have established that the Hoarder in this story, was the husband of the Widow. His death stopped the accumulation of stuff, of papers and garbage, of cats and dirt. At the end of his life, as his cancer made him unable to function even in his own dysfunctional manner, he stopped allowing the Widow to clean – to tidy – to attempt any order. It became a free fall into chaos.

I can’t pretend to understand what made him into the obstinate, racist and emotionally abusive man that squelched the Widow’s spirit. I don’t know what he experienced as a child, but something had to have triggered the meanness that the Widow lived with for nearly forty years. Yet, even now, she speaks of him with kindness. She still mourns his death.

The scars from our childhood follow us all the way through our lives, and form the decisions we make. She had suffered sexual abuse as a small child from a farm labourer at a time when sexual abuse was inconvenient and not spoken of in public, never in polite circles. It was shameful and the victim was at fault. She was in the wrong place. She was a tease. She was wearing skimpy clothes. The widow was a child though, and after the farm hand was initially dismissed, he was rehired later because the farmer needed the help.

What kind of message would that send a young child? Not only was the abuser not brought to justice, but later was rewarded when his employment was reinstated. Who was more important? Obviously the man was.

She was ripe for a bully to enter her life.

I don’t think I know a woman from my generation who was not sexually abused, in some manner. Our protectors often were the abusers. If not, we were told that the incident was somehow our fault. Now, we quietly wait for them to die, and wonder how many women we caused to be abused, by our silence. Eyes meeting those of other women across the room, learning to avoid corners, self preservation.

I don’t know the history of the Hoarder. He grew up in a small town, and didn’t get along with his siblings as an adult. He didn’t get along with his neighbours, he didn’t like the Widow’s friends, he didn’t like family gatherings, and if pushed to attend, could be belligerent.

His other side, though was this massive kindness that could flow out of him if you needed help. He would do anything for you if you were in need. If you needed a place to stay, if you needed help with plumbing or moving. When we bought an old house in the late 1990’s, he helped us run a gas line to our stove. He lowered himself through a tiny hole in the floor located in a small cupboard which led to a half-full cistern of water under our kitchen. He ran the line, in this cold water, and got our stove working.

Later that year he and husband worked together to replace our furnace. He was strong, he was tireless in those days and he wanted to help. He loved being needed.

A damaged soul, he also wanted to be a good person, and to be liked and loved.

Unfortunately, the bad often trumps the good when we remember people.

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.