Mortal Steps on the Staircase

Service people aren’t allowed in my parent’s house. My father's afraid someone will report the hoard to an “authority.” In which case, I wish I could ask, “If you’re afraid someone will ‘report’ you, doesn’t that mean there’s something wrong? And, "If there’s something wrong, don’t you think it’s time to fix it?” But, “wrong” and “something” and “fix” are all subjective words, and I don’t have the energy for arguments that define those words. Instead I say nothing. I am a “child”, therefore, I am nothing. They are the “parents”, therefore, they are everything. The rigid dichotomy is suffocating and scary.

About 6 years ago my parent’s central air unit failed. It wouldn’t bother me to know that my elderly parents do without air, except my mother won’t allow my father to open any windows and she’s afraid of floor fans, believing wholeheartedly they will burn down her house. When their air conditioner failed and temperatures soared in the 90s outside, they sat huddled in their 80+ degree house with closed windows, hoping something would change but doing nothing to actively effect change. It wasn’t until the overflow pipe clogged and water backed up, leaking into the walls of the house, that my father decided to call for help. My mother’s hoard of clothing in the hallway soaked up much of the moisture, but my father recognized the very real potential for that moisture to become black mold. Otherwise he wouldn’t have called anyone and I likely wouldn’t have been wiser.

This year, as the country steeled against 90-100+ degree temps and high humidity for weeks on end, I feared for my parents and their fickle air conditioner. I called to ask how they were and delicately requested that they call me. I heard nothing. Not a peep for 6 weeks. Then, out of the blue, after phoning “one more time”, my mother responded, acting like she couldn’t understand why I called and pretending not to know 6 weeks passed. It wasn’t in conversation with my mother, but rather with my father, that I learned their air conditioner again backed up and that, while water streamed down their walls, they sat in a hot house during the highest temperatures on record and didn't call anyone for help. They seem oblivious to the dangers of their behavior and completely clueless when it comes to self-care. They would call it independent, claiming that because they called no one they are self-sufficient.

Equally disturbing were the years when--rather than have a clog in the kitchen sink repaired--my father carried each day's dishware to a utility sink in the basement. I visited him in 1992 and was told not to use the kitchen sink heavily because it was draining slowly. In 1994, when I visited again, my father was more sensitive to sink use and urged me not to “stress” that drain. By 1999 I was able to spend time regularly with my father; by then the sink was completely clogged. My father nursed the "slow draining" kitchen sink for 7 years with natural cleaners, futile attempts to snake the pipes on his own, and light use. When it clogged completely, rather than calling a repairperson, my father's solution was to buy a basin and carry his wash items to the basement. And, while it seemed strange to me, what was more disconcerting was his unsteady gait. I noticed the beginning of tremors and faulty footfalls. I recognized the early stages of Parkinson's Disease. I dared not say anything or give his tremors a name, else he'd have sloughed off my "diagnosis" as a "story" or--worse--not allowed me to visit with him anymore. For an additional 9 years, until 2009, I watched with dread as my father fumbled on the stairs, carrying a weight of dishes, cookware, and utensils in a basin. I feared the worst.

After my father started to show up with bruises on his arms and weak explanations of bumping things when he felt unsteady, due to tiredness, I took matters into my own hands. I called a doctor and set up an appointment for him to be seen for the first time in 20 years. Then, I called my own plumber and scheduled the kitchen sink for a reaming. Both were met with resistance.

My father didn’t want to go to the doctor because, in his mind, not knowing was better than knowing. And, not knowing meant… he would never have to admit that anything was wrong. Still he went. I was shocked. He was unhappy. I was ecstatic. The diagnosis? Parkinson’s Disease. In development from 1999 until 2009.

My mother didn’t want the plumber in the house because, in her mind, everything was fine the way it was. And, not having anyone in the house meant… never having to feel ashamed of the hoard. Still she relented. I was relieved. She was anxious. I was determined. The diagnosis? A full-on clog that only truck-mounted machinery and a heavy-duty auger could expel. In development from 1992 to 2009.

I can’t get back a sense of peace in knowing my parents are safe, and I can’t get back a sense of security in knowing they’ll tend to their own needs. I can’t get back something that never existed. While my mother was and is always too quick to tell me that I am the “child” and she is the “mummy”, that he is the “daddy,” and that they are "everything." But, my "mummy" should have called to schedule the doctor's appointment for my father... at least a decade ago. And, my "daddy" should have called to schedule the pipe reaming for the kitchen sink... nearly two decades ago. Instead, I am the "mummy" and the "daddy", 35 years their junior, with no real "power" to wield... as I am the "child" and I am "nothing." The rigid dichotomy will one day be the death of them… or the final demolition of me.

Heavy Hoard

Clothing inundates my parent's house. Clothing overruns all three bedrooms, cascading through the doors of five double closets. Piles of clothes cover the hallway floor and hang from hall closet doorstops. Clothing swamps the bathroom and drowns the bathtub. More clothing drags down the shower curtain rod in such quantities it's frightful. Clothes are stacked in piles behind the bathroom door, in the laundry room, and in the "rec" room. In the basement, most of the clothing accumulation on the floor stands 4-5' in height. What dangles from the ceiling hangs 3-4' down. All of it comes together like stalagmites and stalactites. My mother calls herself a "Fashionista"; that's fancy talk for "Hoarder."

In the early days, most of the clothing came first to me as hand-me-downs from older cousins. Things I received but into which I couldn't fit and styles I refused to wear, instead of passing them to my younger cousins, to another family, or donating them, my mother collected everything and swore she'd wear it all. Things my mother bought for me, she took those too. My mother enjoyed saying she was wearing "little girl styles" or "teenager styles" and proclaimed--as often as possible--she was "cute" in her outfits, demanding agreement and expecting me to confirm that she looked "like a little girl" or a "school girl", and that she was "too cute for words." As I got older, taller and bigger, and fit into clothes that were too large for my mother, wanting styles she didn't like, she started to resist buying anything for me. It felt like she was punishing me for deviating from her "program" and for attempting to express my own voice, define my own style. So, at 14 I was forced to start buying my own clothing with my own money. I got a job so I could support myself.

For a time, when my mother paid for my things, I went with my mother's likes, allowing her to steer me in the direction of frilly collars and pastel colors, fuzzy sweaters with hearts or flowers or teddy bears woven into the patterns, and corduroy "slacks." When I made my own money, I bought jeans, sweatshirts, t-shirts, and sweatpants: nothing my mother liked and nothing she cared to brag about "fitting." I eschewed frilly pastel "girly" clothing for "duds" that fit me, mentally and physically. I became acquainted with comfort rather than "style." And, I felt "free." In years to come, my mother found a way to appropriate even those items, adding them to her "sleepwear coordinates."

When I was old enough to leave home, I fought to take my clothing with me. Not only did I buy all of it with my own money, but I chose my outfits to suit my taste. Claiming anything brought into the house was automatically hers by virtue of its existence under HER ROOF, my mother hawkeyed me to ensure I wasn't "stealing anything." Once packed, she inspected my bags, claiming to be protecting herself from me, the thief. It felt, to me, like she wasn't so much protecting herself as she was shopping for possessions in my suitcases. If memory serves, there were several things she pointed out and said she wanted before I left. It was hard to separate, and even harder to enforce boundaries when she behaved and talked like that. But still, I escaped.

Once I left home, my mother took to "visiting" discount racks and second-hand shops where she "couldn't pass up a bargain." Eventually my father bought armoires, chifferobes, and old department store racks with wheels so my mother could "organize" her "closet", not protesting all all... even as the house became a 1,500 square foot closet. My mother lined the basement with racks, not unlike a stock room. When she ran out of space, she started lining the floor and making mounds again.

Today my mother wears three select outfits. She wears them no matter the season. She's "saving her wardrobe" for special occasions. These days she doesn't leave the house for anything more than medical appointments or to have the "senior special" lunch at a local diner. For decades there hasn't been a special occasion for her to attend. Yet, when I've tried to discuss the possibility that other people might greatly appreciate clothing donations or that she might have better use of her space if she were to give away some of her collection, she resists. She has a multitude of reasons for "needing" 31 white blouses of the same style.

She might stain one and need a backup.

She might forget to wash one and need one in a pinch.

She might not ever find another nice one like the ones she has.

She might regret giving them away.

She might have to deal with seeing someone else wearing "her" blouse.

The manufacturer might go out of business and hers might be a collector's item... someday.

So on and so on and so.

If I repeat back what my mother says, so she can hear how strange the reasoning sounds, she gets angry with me, saying I'm making fun of her.

If I attempt to question her as to the last time she needed a white blouse, she blows up at me, saying I don't understand.

If I explain to her that she has enough white blouses to go a month without wearing the same one twice, she smiles with glee as though I've just complimented or congratulated her.

If I suggest she might help others with the donation of white blouses, she wants to change the subject and talk about how poor and unfortunate she is.

If I dare ask how many other similar blouses she has in other colors, she tries to make me leave her house.

And, If I tell her that there's no such thing as "collector pieces" in modern day "throw away" clothing, she scoffs and claims I'm undervaluing her collection.

At one point, after threatening to report my parents to the fire company, my mother lightly packed 4-dozen trash bags of clothing and let me donate them to Goodwill. I was afraid she might go to the area Goodwill and repurchase all her donated items, so I drove an hour out of town to deposit items that were usable and threw away the rest, which was unusable (i.e. a single shoe, shoes with holes, shoes from which the sole was separating, etc.). In that episode, the first and only of its kind, over 6 weeks, my mother and I cleared a 3' path from the front door to the dining room (all of a 15' strip). In less than 3 months the path was closed by new hoards of clothing my mother collected from friends who were cleaning their closets for spring.

It was impossible to thrive when I was thrust--without my foreknowledge and against my will-- into competition with a woman 35 years my senior, someone charged with looking after my development, who poached my growth and my things and then who made laud her. Today it feels just as daunting to spend time with her, as I still look to her for that fleeting and fading "Mother" I always wished I had.

J-E-A

I don't remember my mother's first cat's death. I was too young. I do remember its name was "Scritch" and that she got it, as a kitten, from her father. Scritch was many years old before I was born, and died some time when I was learning to toddle. In no time my mother replaced Lucky with a breeder-born Himalayan show cat named "Scratch." As an adult I recognize the expense of such a purchase and I question the validity of such an expense, especially at a time when my youngish parents were strapped with a new mortgage and a new child.

I do remember Scratch's arrival. We drove to New England to meet the breeder and to visit him with his siblings. It was a full-fledged adoption process, complete with application, waiting period, and references. And, when my mother brought Scratch home she spent an inordinate amount of time holding him, hugging and kissing him, playing with him. Still greatly in need of her affection and attention at 3 years of age, I tried to climb into her lap while she held "my little brother." My desperate play for her to touch me was met with resistance as she said aloud and to no one in particular, "Oh! Look! Who's J-E-A?" Rarely spelling the entire word, my mother meant "jealous" and laughed at my distress. Instead of welcoming me into her lap or sharing the cat with me, she literally pushed me away with one hand, saying "It's Scratch's time now."

As months passed, when my mother hugged and kissed Scratch, I pressed for her attention too. Instead of recognizing my toddler need for her, she shooed me away saying I was upsetting the cat. When my mother fed Scratch, cooing at him for having a big appetite and praising him for eating so much, I picked food from his bowl and "num-nums" from the floor, crunching them loudly with my teeth, hoping she would hear me and praise me the same. I snuck into kitchen cabinets to steal cat treats, eating Scratch's "special food" and hoping my mother would think I was as cute and pretty as the cat. When she started to feed Gerber baby food to the cat, I asked for tastes too, trying to show her that I was a "sweet baby" and longing for her to notice me. Instead she told me how expensive the baby food was, how little there was in each jar, and reminded me curtly that it was Scratch-baby's food.

I competed with the cat for my mother's love. She played with him, whipping braided lengths of yarn in the air and running through the house so he could chase her in games of "tag." I felt rejected. I felt dejected. And, I felt forgotten. When all of my childish attention-getting behavior failed, I started to attack the cat in anger. As a toddler, I was too young to know how to express my feelings or understand why I felt the way I did. So, in my frustration, I took to chasing Scratch around the house, growling and shrieking at him. When he ran from me in fear, I was happy. The joy I experienced when he ran, slung close to the floor, was exciting. When my mother realized what I was doing and told me that my behavior was "bad", that I should "love" my "brother", and encouraged me to stop, I was rewarded; I learned that I could hurt my mother by hurting her cat. And, from then on, any time my mother neglected me or left me feeling rejected, I chased the cat.

It wasn't until I reached teen years and Scratch became sickly that I became aware how incapable my mother was at dealing with death. I was overseas when she decided to put the cat "to sleep." My mother claimed she chose that time because she didn't want to hurt me with his death, but it was one more exclusionary slap in the face, especially considering that my sibling--4 years my junior--was on hand for the "procedure." When I arrived home, my mother showed me fur she cut from Scratch's weak body, lost whiskers she collected from the floor, and nails she clipped from his feet. Eventually she had ashes to show, talk to and cuddle. They came in a styrofoam box and she transferred the "cat" to a decorative container. As a teen I no longer pressed for my mother's attention and knew I couldn't win her affection, so watching her "love" a dead cat was no great affront. Neither was seeing her carry on with it as though the ashes were alive. When my mother finally decided on a "resting place" for Scratch's container, a spot where he enjoyed sleeping, I was instructed not to disturb "him." When I joked about our house becoming a cemetery, my mother informed me curtly that she didn't appreciate my "jibes" and that I'd not cared as much when she put Lucky in his "favorite resting place" in our midst... behind the living room couch. To date there are three living cats in my mother's house and three deceased cats in "special spots" where they once roosted.

I do sincerely believe the only reason my mother doesn't have 987,123 cats and 465,321 ash containers in the house is solely because my father doesn't permit it. My mother is a hoarder, incapable of attaching to and building relationships with people. While my father does enable her, it's because of him that my mother isn't hoarding cats. Financially, in retirement and on a fixed income, my father is sensitive to my mother's emotional abyss, her excessive demands, and their lack of money. If he were younger, healthier, and more financially capable, I'm certain my mother would sneak in more cats, and my father would enable her. It's sad, to me, to see my mother giving her cats the attention and affection she seems utterly incapable of giving another human being, but which my father so sorely deserves and which I surely deserved.