Tag: writing

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 Over many years I have withdrawn my interaction, as they have.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.