It’s been six weeks since the surgery. The major symptoms, shuffling and incontinence have abated significantly. Yay! The cognitive issues remain pretty much the same, but GB is busy exercising his brain with puzzles and reading. He went in for his checkup today and the brain scan showed some of his brain was disappearing. I guess that’s not the medical term but it’s what it looked like to me. So, they adjusted the shunt to reduce the fluid drainage.
But here’s the good news on all that: GB drove himself to the doctor and he’s been able to resume some basic household chores which, I have to say, is helpful. One of those is assisting me in the evacuation of junk in his closet. He calls these bits and pieces of junk valuable possessions. Nevertheless they are junk. And that brings me to my thoughts on hoarding, since I am married to a hoarder.
GB is a hoarder. I am not. I like uncluttered kitchens, bathrooms, and closets. He stuffs unrelated objects into small pouches, puts those pouches into larger pouches, puts those into boxes, puts those boxes into larger boxes. He does this until there is no room left. Then he purchases organizers. Then he buys books on organizing.
This behavior has offended me each day of our 49+ years together. And so, while he’s been relegated to a main floor bedroom, I’m attacking his room.
Now, we have slept in separate bedrooms since the first time we ever slept together. It’s because of his snoring. Separate bedrooms saved the marriage. And while I was being happy at the salvation of my marriage, I chose to ignore what was happening in his closet. On occasion, I would find it necessary to visit his closet and bookshelves. My initial inclination was to begin throwing everything away but instead I’d just scream at GB, threaten him with health department invasions and then ignore it again.
But now, I’m in full attack mode. This is going to be another war I am going to win.
So, this cleansing has got me thinking. This blog is somewhat of a cleanser for my brain. Writing the blog helped me turn my attention to the piles of memorabilia we have stored under the stairs, in the garage, in the storeroom behind the office that overlooks our beautiful garden. It’s reminding me of my life, not just with GB but as a single woman, college student, child of the 50’s. It’s taking all the thoughts I’ve hoarded over 77 years and spewing them out on paper.
I’ve made a little progress with filing cabinets filled with bills from 1992 and tax returns from 2000. What remains is the challenge: boxes of framed photos, art, folk art, outdoor sculpture, gigantic cave-aged outdoor pots and urns, camping gear, sets of dishes, suitcases, nuts, bolts, screws, snow shoes, ski poles, bikes, keys, keys, keys, old sheets, towels, lamps, lampshades, light bulbs that are different colors, Halloween decorations, worthless stamp and coin collections, pesos, piles of stuff designated for Arc Thrift Stores, shoes, belts, pants, jackets, coats, baseball caps, scarves, ski clothes that don’t fit me anymore, new ski clothes that I’m not sure I’ll be using, computers, tv’s, clocks, jewelry. Oh, God. It never ends does it.
And why am I doing this? Because as we hoard stuff, junk, memorabilia, call it whatever you want, it’s about hanging on to our lives. And I believe that in saving, tossing, selling, and donating, I am in recognition of my own mortality. The smartest thing to do would be to leave it all for my heirs to figure out. But that seems wrong. My own parents did me the favor of cleaning out their junk years before they died. It made it much easier for me to simply select a few pieces I treasured and sell, donate, or toss the rest. And it convinced me that they understood the limits of their earthly visit.
While I’m thinking about my own mortality, I’m concerned for my neighbors. I’m just a little worried that they aren’t fully recognizing their own mortality. Now, I’m only referring to the older ones. The young, new neighbors have many future decades to collect the kaleidoscope of their lives. Yesterday, I popped into a neighbor’s home to ask for help starting GB’s car, which has been idle for four months. I was ushered to the back of the property to ask neighbor Mark if he could help recharge the battery. Mark and Adina live on a half-acre, as do we. Their garden is one of rocks. Mark has an elaborate workshop set up to cut rocks. Every day is Christmas for Mark said Adina. He never knows what he’ll find inside a rock. All true. The interior life of a rock can be like a peek into the universe. They are gorgeous. But as I looked around the yard, there were piles of unexplored rocks. I began to worry about who would take care of all this when Mark and Adina are no longer the caretakers of these small surprises. I didn’t share my concerns with them. Figured it would be rude.
Another neighbor collects vintage cars. He built a 7-stall garage to accommodate his passion. He also collects toy cars. He built display cases. I’m very concerned about his ability to manage his estate. I guess his wife, a cheerful and optimistic companion who is younger than he will handle it well.
I’m grateful for the new neighbors who moved in across the street. They’re young and minimalist. They just had a baby. They both work from home. They don’t seem overburdened with stuff, and because they’re young and healthy, I’m not worried about how their children will deal with the junk they might leave if their minimalism is defeated by the indiscretion of collecting. I could warn them of the folly of any level of hoarding, because, really, regardless of the amount or the way in which stuff is stored, it’s still hoarding. I could warn them, but I won’t. No one warned me and I think there’s some purpose in that. Like aging, hoarding is a process that one can only understand when one reaches a certain age, looks around the house and says, Oh, God. What a mess. I have to get rid of this before I die. There. See the connection?
This is what I think: we all hoard something. Pictures, cards, art, paper clips, magazines. Whatever. It gives us power over life. It’s our way of saying, I can collect crap forever and never die. Right? So, when we ultimately stand in the cluttered environs of the home, the garage, the storeroom, the rented storeroom (really? Yes! GB did that too.), and we acknowledge that it’s time to disgorge, that is the recognition of our own mortality.
While I am divesting myself of our collective lifelong stash of stuff, I am taking it all and putting it into this blog. I’ll be able to look at what I’ve written and let it go into the air. I won’t need to hold dear the cartons of junk that clutters storage spaces within our home.
I call that aging well.
Air. 
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