It could be worse?
“Sweetie, can you please come over and help me, the city came by and cited the yard. Said I have trash outside that has to be removed or else they’ll ticket me.”
“What kind of trash, mom?”
“Oh, not much. Just a few odds and ends”.
“I’ll stop on my way home, don’t worry.”
As I hung up the phone I reminded myself, it could be worse. She could be finally accepting my invitation to help her clean her house. She could be allowing me to come over suited up with a pseudo Hazmat uniform complete with a gas mask while carrying a shovel. But not this time. This time she only needs me to help her clean some recycling containers, maybe a few branches and dead tree parts. Perhaps even the broken glass from the window that was busted out last year that is now boarded up to cover the hole.
It could be worse, right?
No. Actually, it couldn’t be much worse.
You know that show, Hoarders? Well, I have yet to see an episode that shows anyone’s home worse than hers. The power went out (apparently) and she didn’t even realize it until months later because she couldn’t even get to the kitchen. She has three dogs, but there’s nary a sign of doggie doo in the backyard. How can this be, you will wonder. I caution you not to do that. You will bring yourself to the conclusion that this might explain why she doesn’t use the kitchen, and the deplorable minefield that she’d encounter should she try.
As I pull into the driveway I cringe at the site of the windows, grimy with paw prints undoubtedly from the sludge on the floor, obliterating any view to the inside. I remind myself that my not seeing inside is probably working in my favor.
“You don’t want to see inside.”
“You don’t want to know.”
I get out and hug her, tell her I love her, she makes me promise not to talk about the house. “Not today, Chris”, she says. I clean up the things she asks me to in the backyard that’s cleaner than her house. When I am finished, I notice how filthy my hands are. I won’t ask to wash them now. Washing my hands would mean going into the house. Must.Not.Go.Inside.
When I leave, I don’t cry. I hug her tightly, pull back and say, “Please reconsider on my bringing the shovel for the living room next time, okay?”
She sighs, smiles, hugs me again and says, “I’ll think about it, okay? I love you, Chris.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
I get in my truck, turn on to the street and then pull over, because the tears flooding my face have destroyed my vision.
Cassie
all I can say…that must be hard to watch. and then…I’m glad you are strong enough to do that…
Reply
Jason
Oops Mom, sorry I sprayed the hose in the house. Poor thing, you need to take her out one night, and invite an OCD therapy group over to help:)
Reply
chrissa
I’d call “Hoarders” but she’d kill me and I’d die from humiliation.
Reply
Rivka Jacobs
Oh Chrissa, this is so heartbreaking. I watch “Buried Alive” and any show on hoarders. Maybe because I know, but for the grace of God, there go I. Seriously, my son wanted to have a talk with me about the clutter in my house a week ago. I told him, I’m already cleaning it up. It all is just displaced clutter, nothing new, with shelves and drawers available. But I can see how easy it is to go into a kind of denial, to not see any more how stuff is piled in the bedroom where floorspace used to be, or in the living room where once used to be able to access the bookcases. It wouldn’t be hard for any of us to cross this line.
The thing about “Buried Alive” and “Hoarders” that I like is, they call in the best psychologists and mental health experts, that most of us can’t afford or don’t have access to.
If your story is based on truth, I hope you find the support and help for your mom, so she can begin her recovery.
As for the story, it’s fantastic. Brilliantly written, and very powerful. Very painful and powerful. One of the best stories I’ve read on Elephant Words.
I’m sorry I didn’t comment earlier. I just didn’t get back to my comments a few months ago, and I apologize.
Reply