Small Victories
He comes to the edge of the doorway to tell me he’s heading into town. His favorite bakery is open and he wants to get there before it closes. Small town businesses often operate randomly. This particular place is run by a woman with considerable baking skills. She offers a tasty array of home baked goods; sometimes she’s open and sometimes she’s not. His favorites are the orange cranberry scones and oatmeal raisin cookies. No doubt he’ll also fill one of his numerous thermoses with a large ration of coffee. Coffee and pastries are his two favorite food groups. If I wasn’t here to cook for him, that’s all he would eat.
He asks if I want to come with him. I beg off with a gesture pointing to the piles of laundry on the guest room floor. I want to get my sheets changed and my room vacuumed. I ask if he’s stopping by the credit union. He affirms that he is. I tell him to get some money for groceries so we can shop later. He explains for the 5th or 6th time this week (It’s Wednesday) that he doesn’t really know how to use his debit card so getting cash is the best option for him. I smile and nod silently. I do a lot of that these days.
As he makes his way to the front door, he pauses at the chaotic mess of coats piled on the otherwise unused exercise bike. It sits intrusively on the edge of the living room carpet, jutting into the increasingly narrow path from the dining room. He stops and begins to fret, wondering perhaps why the pile is so much smaller than yesterday. I feel my gut starting to tense and my shoulders climbing towards my ears. I ask what he’s doing and he halfheartedly responds, “Oh, I don’t know. Just making sure everything is where it needs to be I guess.”
My emotions are a combination of compassion for his confusion and rising anger at the possibility of having to fight this battle again. Yesterday, after much arm twisting, I convinced him to go through the 4 foot tall mound of coats. The collection of outerwear was starting to consume the dining room table. It was also beginning to swallow his Mother’s old easy chair, and the exercise bike. After a good amount of fretting and a reminder of the plan we have in place to winnow his belongings down to a more manageable size, we filled 8 large garbage bags full of excess garments. These bags, like the others I’ve managed to fill, are going to the local donation center to be resold in their thrift shop. The victory of finally being able to sit in one of the few chairs in the living room or dine at the table was hard won. I am not about to concede. We haven’t even gotten to the clothes in his multiple closets yet. This is just the overflow.
I remind him of the garbage bags full of clothes in the back of his car and tell him not to worry about them. Praying silently to myself that he doesn’t forget what they are by the time he gets to the garage and decide to investigate. Visions of him reopening the bags trying to sort them out, changing his mind, and deciding to keep the stuff flash through my mind. I don’t allow myself to jump to conclusions. “Pick your battles.” I remind myself.
Ambling towards the door, he tells me again that he’s going out for coffee and scones. Once more, I wish him well and wait for the sound of the garage door opening. There’s a pang as I wonder if he should be driving, but with the combination of not yet having an official diagnosis, and his unyielding resistance to the idea, my hands are kind of tied. I see him pull out of the driveway, and I spring into action like a flash.
I’ve been plotting this plan for several days. I race to the kitchen, tearing a streamer of garbage bags from the roll. I hurry to my bedroom and throw open the closet door. I start rifling through the hangers. The closet rod groans in protest. The poor thing is about to snap. I file through about 30 coats and 3 times as many shirts in a matter of seconds. Outdated fashions of all shapes and sizes are crammed into the tiny space. My own clothes, hung just a few weeks ago upon my arrival, are shoved to the side as I begin grabbing things and jamming them into the white plastic bags. I know he hasn’t worn most of this stuff in years, if ever. Some items still have price tags attached to them. I also know he doesn’t even remember that half of this stuff exists. With him, it’s out of sight out of mind, and I am using that to my advantage.
My progress is halted by a tangle of wire hangers. I pause, take a breath and regroup. I continue pawing my way through the closet until there are 3 bags full. I turn towards the bed that’s currently stripped of sheets and start to pull things from behind the headboard. I find empty boxes that once held model train parts, faded Christmas ribbons, and a purple and black stocking cap with the words “BLOOD DONOR” knitted into the band. I continue unearthing random objects from under the bed wondering where he got all of this stuff. A cheap throw pillow with the phrase “We love our nurses!” embroidered on it. An old shoe box packed full of empty ziplock bags. A hideous Christmas sweater that’s about 4 sizes too small, and another throw pillow that wishes me a “Happy Halloween!”
I know he’s only just left, but I move with more than a bit of urgency. If he catches me in the act, the plan is toast.
Scenes from the movie “Sleeping With The Enemy” flash before my eyes. Suddenly, I’m Julia Roberts executing my long planned escape from my abusive husband. I’m faking my death because it’s the only way out. I laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of the connection. I’m certainly not abused, nor am I trying to fake my death. However, I am racing against the clock. I pray to God that he’s left the garage unlocked. I hoist two of the swollen bags off the bed and head for the back door.
I dash down the porch steps. Thousands of grasshoppers leap from the dry grass as I scurry down the path. Gravel crunches under my hasty steps as the laden bags thwump against my legs. I reach the garage door, already sweating under the late Summer sun. I try the knob and blessedly it turns. “Yesssssss!” I hiss under my breath. My eyes scan the dim interior of the double car garage. Dad is forgetful, but he isn’t stupid. To underestimate him is foolish. If he sees a pile of unfamiliar garbage bags, his curiosity will be piqued, and I’ll suddenly have a lot of explaining to do.
The garage, like his house, is bursting at the seams with too much stuff. "One man’s trash…” I mutter to myself ironically. I see an opening between a pile of dust covered cardboard boxes and an old armoire. I head in that direction, surveying the potential hiding spot. It’s deep enough that I can temporarily cache the contraband clothes, but not so deep that it will be a struggle to retrieve them later. My plan is to load them in the car the next time I’m running an errand on my own. I’ll take them to the donation center and leave them there.
It isn’t lost on me that much of this stuff probably initially came from the thrift store. I imagine the bemused looks on the faces of the staff as they unpack items they’ve sold once before. Once Dad figured out he could get a lot more stuff for a lot less money, the idea of second hand items was no longer beneath him. I consider the possibility of Dad discovering his former possessions on a future shopping spree. I immediately dismiss the thought, counting on his failing memory to keep me in the clear.
A pang of guilt shoots through me as I stop to acknowledge what I am doing. I don’t like going behind his back. I don’t like the idea of using his cognitive decline against him either. I also know that as a hoarder who may or may not be suffering from early onset Dementia or Alzheimer’s, these decisions are going to be made for him at some point anyway. It’s my sister and I who are ultimately going to be responsible for sorting through all of this stuff. Whether he gets his wish of living out his remaining years at home, or ends up in the assisted living center we toured a few days ago, these items aren’t necessary. He has so many clothes, he could wear a new outfit every day for a year without repeating any of them. I’m the one who’s stepped up here. I’m the one who said yes to assuming Power of Attorney. I’m the one who needs to decide on things like this. For a hoarder, it’s not about logic, it’s about emotion. To him, there is no difference between a family heirloom and a box of used sandwich bags. Every item represents some sort of unresolved emotion, feeling, attachment, or thought. It’s up to me to do this for him.
I remind myself that this is part of having Power of Attorney for his estate, medical wishes, and financial affairs. This is just the beginning of the executive decisions I’ll be making. Considering what my legal responsibility could mean down the line, this decision is relatively innocuous. The difference between honoring his DNR order and whether or not to donate stuff behind his back is vast. This realization jolts me from my reverie and I drop the bags in the spot right next to a cowhide covered barstool. “Where the fuck did THAT come from?” I cover them with an ancient bedsheet and exit the garage with relief. I make my way back to the house for the rest of the items. I celebrate that I’ve got another 5 bags of donation goods secreted away to be disposed of another day. Small victories are the most important ones these days.
He asks if I want to come with him. I beg off with a gesture pointing to the piles of laundry on the guest room floor. I want to get my sheets changed and my room vacuumed. I ask if he’s stopping by the credit union. He affirms that he is. I tell him to get some money for groceries so we can shop later. He explains for the 5th or 6th time this week (It’s Wednesday) that he doesn’t really know how to use his debit card so getting cash is the best option for him. I smile and nod silently. I do a lot of that these days.
As he makes his way to the front door, he pauses at the chaotic mess of coats piled on the otherwise unused exercise bike. It sits intrusively on the edge of the living room carpet, jutting into the increasingly narrow path from the dining room. He stops and begins to fret, wondering perhaps why the pile is so much smaller than yesterday. I feel my gut starting to tense and my shoulders climbing towards my ears. I ask what he’s doing and he halfheartedly responds, “Oh, I don’t know. Just making sure everything is where it needs to be I guess.”
My emotions are a combination of compassion for his confusion and rising anger at the possibility of having to fight this battle again. Yesterday, after much arm twisting, I convinced him to go through the 4 foot tall mound of coats. The collection of outerwear was starting to consume the dining room table. It was also beginning to swallow his Mother’s old easy chair, and the exercise bike. After a good amount of fretting and a reminder of the plan we have in place to winnow his belongings down to a more manageable size, we filled 8 large garbage bags full of excess garments. These bags, like the others I’ve managed to fill, are going to the local donation center to be resold in their thrift shop. The victory of finally being able to sit in one of the few chairs in the living room or dine at the table was hard won. I am not about to concede. We haven’t even gotten to the clothes in his multiple closets yet. This is just the overflow.
I remind him of the garbage bags full of clothes in the back of his car and tell him not to worry about them. Praying silently to myself that he doesn’t forget what they are by the time he gets to the garage and decide to investigate. Visions of him reopening the bags trying to sort them out, changing his mind, and deciding to keep the stuff flash through my mind. I don’t allow myself to jump to conclusions. “Pick your battles.” I remind myself.
Ambling towards the door, he tells me again that he’s going out for coffee and scones. Once more, I wish him well and wait for the sound of the garage door opening. There’s a pang as I wonder if he should be driving, but with the combination of not yet having an official diagnosis, and his unyielding resistance to the idea, my hands are kind of tied. I see him pull out of the driveway, and I spring into action like a flash.
I’ve been plotting this plan for several days. I race to the kitchen, tearing a streamer of garbage bags from the roll. I hurry to my bedroom and throw open the closet door. I start rifling through the hangers. The closet rod groans in protest. The poor thing is about to snap. I file through about 30 coats and 3 times as many shirts in a matter of seconds. Outdated fashions of all shapes and sizes are crammed into the tiny space. My own clothes, hung just a few weeks ago upon my arrival, are shoved to the side as I begin grabbing things and jamming them into the white plastic bags. I know he hasn’t worn most of this stuff in years, if ever. Some items still have price tags attached to them. I also know he doesn’t even remember that half of this stuff exists. With him, it’s out of sight out of mind, and I am using that to my advantage.
My progress is halted by a tangle of wire hangers. I pause, take a breath and regroup. I continue pawing my way through the closet until there are 3 bags full. I turn towards the bed that’s currently stripped of sheets and start to pull things from behind the headboard. I find empty boxes that once held model train parts, faded Christmas ribbons, and a purple and black stocking cap with the words “BLOOD DONOR” knitted into the band. I continue unearthing random objects from under the bed wondering where he got all of this stuff. A cheap throw pillow with the phrase “We love our nurses!” embroidered on it. An old shoe box packed full of empty ziplock bags. A hideous Christmas sweater that’s about 4 sizes too small, and another throw pillow that wishes me a “Happy Halloween!”
I know he’s only just left, but I move with more than a bit of urgency. If he catches me in the act, the plan is toast.
Scenes from the movie “Sleeping With The Enemy” flash before my eyes. Suddenly, I’m Julia Roberts executing my long planned escape from my abusive husband. I’m faking my death because it’s the only way out. I laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of the connection. I’m certainly not abused, nor am I trying to fake my death. However, I am racing against the clock. I pray to God that he’s left the garage unlocked. I hoist two of the swollen bags off the bed and head for the back door.
I dash down the porch steps. Thousands of grasshoppers leap from the dry grass as I scurry down the path. Gravel crunches under my hasty steps as the laden bags thwump against my legs. I reach the garage door, already sweating under the late Summer sun. I try the knob and blessedly it turns. “Yesssssss!” I hiss under my breath. My eyes scan the dim interior of the double car garage. Dad is forgetful, but he isn’t stupid. To underestimate him is foolish. If he sees a pile of unfamiliar garbage bags, his curiosity will be piqued, and I’ll suddenly have a lot of explaining to do.
The garage, like his house, is bursting at the seams with too much stuff. "One man’s trash…” I mutter to myself ironically. I see an opening between a pile of dust covered cardboard boxes and an old armoire. I head in that direction, surveying the potential hiding spot. It’s deep enough that I can temporarily cache the contraband clothes, but not so deep that it will be a struggle to retrieve them later. My plan is to load them in the car the next time I’m running an errand on my own. I’ll take them to the donation center and leave them there.
It isn’t lost on me that much of this stuff probably initially came from the thrift store. I imagine the bemused looks on the faces of the staff as they unpack items they’ve sold once before. Once Dad figured out he could get a lot more stuff for a lot less money, the idea of second hand items was no longer beneath him. I consider the possibility of Dad discovering his former possessions on a future shopping spree. I immediately dismiss the thought, counting on his failing memory to keep me in the clear.
A pang of guilt shoots through me as I stop to acknowledge what I am doing. I don’t like going behind his back. I don’t like the idea of using his cognitive decline against him either. I also know that as a hoarder who may or may not be suffering from early onset Dementia or Alzheimer’s, these decisions are going to be made for him at some point anyway. It’s my sister and I who are ultimately going to be responsible for sorting through all of this stuff. Whether he gets his wish of living out his remaining years at home, or ends up in the assisted living center we toured a few days ago, these items aren’t necessary. He has so many clothes, he could wear a new outfit every day for a year without repeating any of them. I’m the one who’s stepped up here. I’m the one who said yes to assuming Power of Attorney. I’m the one who needs to decide on things like this. For a hoarder, it’s not about logic, it’s about emotion. To him, there is no difference between a family heirloom and a box of used sandwich bags. Every item represents some sort of unresolved emotion, feeling, attachment, or thought. It’s up to me to do this for him.
I remind myself that this is part of having Power of Attorney for his estate, medical wishes, and financial affairs. This is just the beginning of the executive decisions I’ll be making. Considering what my legal responsibility could mean down the line, this decision is relatively innocuous. The difference between honoring his DNR order and whether or not to donate stuff behind his back is vast. This realization jolts me from my reverie and I drop the bags in the spot right next to a cowhide covered barstool. “Where the fuck did THAT come from?” I cover them with an ancient bedsheet and exit the garage with relief. I make my way back to the house for the rest of the items. I celebrate that I’ve got another 5 bags of donation goods secreted away to be disposed of another day. Small victories are the most important ones these days.
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