Prissy Smith, Public Health Nurse

I was admitted to the hospital but had to stay in the emergency department for two days to wait for an available bed.  Finally a bed became available on an off service unit which means a specialized unit for a a specific diagnosis or disorder other than the one I have.  I was admitted to a gynaecology unit and I was a neurological or medical.  I waited on this off service unit for three weeks for an appropriate bed to become available.

During the early days of my hospitalization I noticed that my condition continued to deteriorate.  I found that I could no longer stand on my own so I was glad to be in the hospital.  The unit I was on was a little short on insight into care necessary for a patient that had immobility problems.  I know what I needed though, and I asked for a wheelchair and a commode to be positioned by my bed.  I put my wheelchair on the right side of my bed and the commode on the left.  I had an over bed table as well on the right side and so getting into my wheelchair became an exercise of moving my over bed table out of the way far enough that I could get from my bed into my wheelchair.

Getting onto the commode from my bed was frightful as the only thing working by now was my arms.  I pulled myself up to a sitting position using the bed side rail.  Then I  widdled my way to sit on the edge of my bed then grabbed the arms on the commode, managed my clothing, and swung my rear end around so that it was positioned to plunk my butt down all in one motion.  If I was not positioned correctly to the commode or the breaks on the commode were not on I risked falling to the floor.  Being incontenent I had to do this maneuver quickly.  Often I would not make it and the nurses would have to change the sheets on the bed and mop the piddle on the floor.

Using the commode was terribly embarrassing.  There were three other patients in the room, the closest right beside me.  Although there was a curtain that separated us, my commode was right beside my neighbours night stand and it was embarrassing to piddle on the commode knowing how close I was to my neighbour .  The hospital staff were not careful to leave my carefully positioned wheelchair and commode in place.  If the commode got in the way of the gaggle of physicians making rounds, they would move it and not put it back when they left.  They would also leave the drapes separating the beds open.  I spent my whole day getting my commode back in place and applying the brakes on it, pulling the drapes back in place to give me the illusion that I had personal space, and going for multiple tests.

My immediate neighbour was crabby and her interaction with any one was aggressive.  She was not gracious to me.  My over bed table became full of things.  I was not hoarding things but because I could not walk and getting into my wheelchair was frightful and laborious I did not throw empty containers in the garbage  which could not be placed within reach because of the placement of the wheelchair and the over bed table.  I completely lost my appetite so often when dietary staff picked up my meal trays, they would leave a juice or a yogurt container on the table.  I also had some magazines that my sisters brought me, tissues, glass cleaner and a sundry of other things on the table and it became cluttered.  The policy of the hospital was that if there was no room on the over bed table to place the meal trays, dietary did not leave the meals.  On one occasion I was away from my room to have a X-ray in the radiology department.  When I got back every one was eating lunch.  I asked my neighbour where my lunch tray was.  "They didn't leave it because your over bed table is dirty" she said.  "Dirty?" I questioned myself.  It was cluttered, not dirty.  Interesting choice of words but then she was there when the public health nurse came in with documents declaring my house condemned.

The public health nurse came through the door, came straight to my bed and asked me if I was Autumn Balm (my pen name).  I was afraid to say I was.  She looked stern.  Her brows were furrowed and her eyes were so squinted that I could hardly see her pupils.  Deep wrinkles appeared on each side of the bridge of her nose.  Her lips were pursed hiding the pink of her lips.  I could not hide since my name was on the end of my bed  and I could not run so I said that I was who she was looking for.

"I am Prissy Smith", she said (not her real name but that is what I heard), "and I have documents for you to sign officially designating your house as condemned."

"Oh yes, I've been expecting you" as I recalled that my sisters told me she would be coming.  My sisters were the ones that called Public Health.

She found a place on my overbid table to place the papers and she pointed to where she wanted me to sign.  I borrowed her pen and complied.  She then signed her name as a witness and dated the document then turned around and walked away.

I could understand her disgust with the condition of the house and at first I excused her harsh interaction with me. "I deserved being treated this way" I thought.  But I realized I was left feeling hurt and discarded by her.  Then I concluded that she was a nurse and should have been at least professional if not compassionate with me.  If it is in the public health mandate to "deal" with people like me they should have the education to the point of understanding hoarding so they see hoarders as real people.  Be disquested with my house, not me I thought.  I thought of the hymn that I've sung at church called "He looked Beyond My Fault and Saw My Need".  My only resolve with this hostile interaction is the vision of the public health nurse as an old person with crevices on each side of the bridge on her nose and craters on her upper lip like a child would draw as rays around the sun which is entirely possible if she keeps that face on.

I Kicked the Doctor, and the Doctor Cried

After waiting in the emergency department for six hours my name was finally called  by a nurse and I and my sisters were lead by her to a cubicle containing two stretchers, one of which was occupied by an elderly lady with her family sitting around her and the other offered to me.  There was only drapes handing from the ceiling that separated that patient who was a complete stranger to me, and my stretcher.  I was given a hospital gown (certainly not a gown for a red carpet appearance) with the fastener at the top of the back, leaving the rest of the back open. I was assisted to the stretcher where I laid down.  After a moment I asked my sisters to raise the head of the stretcher  because the hard pillow supplied no comfort.  I folded my pillow  in half to support my head in in my semi-sitting position. Diana and Trisha continued to keep me company seated at the side and end of my stretcher. The nurse took my vitals and documented my history. I reviewed the evolution of my current mobility impairment as well as any previous surgeries, allergies and previous conditions which included high blood pressure and severe acid reflux and long standing depression.  All the while the person in the other bed in the cubicle and the visitors were suddenly quiet as they listened with interest.

Diana bagged my clothes "I'll take these home and wash them" she said.  I knew she did this due to the smell from my house permeated my clothing. After a short wait, the emergency resident came in and asked me to describe the progression of my mobility impairment again. I repeated to him the exact description I had given to the nurse.  He then began strength and sensory testing of each leg. As he moved each of my legs in various positions and asking me to push as hard as I could against his resistance I was focused on my unshaven legs appearing as porcupines; And then there was my lengthy toenails which captured and held dirt. Reality broke through my embarrassment as I realized my strength was impaired as I could not resist the emergency resident's push on my legs in the various positions. During the sensory assessment I did not think about the unkempt hygiene of my legs as I became more and more impatient with answering whether I could feel him moving my toes, ankles and knees which I could not. Then I answered whether I could feel him touching various spots on my legs which I could not. He asked me when my last drink was. As a medical professional I knew they had accessed my history on my electronic medical record and saw that I had previously been diagnosed with alcoholism.  Still, the patient and the visitors in the next stretcher were privy to my assessment.

Im sure that my poor hygiene was documented on my emergency paper record.  I can almost with certainty predict what was written by the nurses; "Thin middle aged women arrived with sisters complaining of inability to walk. Patient was unkempt.  Sisters reported that patient was found in her home on a make shift bed which was a broken chair, on the floor.  Patients home was reported to be filled with garbage with little room to move around."

Not determining whether I would be going home my sisters remained. The nursing staff told us that the emergency resident was making a referral to neurology. I was not surprised at this because I knew my strength and sensory assessment of my legs revealed grave results.  As my sisters watched the assessment from the foot of the bed they became aware of the gravity of my condition with horror.

After a while the neurology resident came, asked me to again repeat my history and then began a neurological assessment.   The testing the neurologist did was exactly the same as what the emergency resident did.  I took deep breaths and sighed with impatience and frustration while complying to  repetitive demands of reporting whether I could feel the pokes and prods,  or resist resistance through various positions. On one occasion, the neurologist while resting my leg above the bed on his arm, did something that caused my leg to jerk and kick him in the stomach, or I think maybe a bit lower.  "Ouch," he cried, "you kicked me." " I didn't do it on purpose"I replied.  At least I responded to something."  He then left without telling me about his findings or what he had planned for me.  I felt satisfied that the assessment resulted in me kicking him after all the repetitive assessment I endured but glad it was not intentional and a response he caused himself.

By the time the neurologist did his assessment it was revealed that I was a hoarder; a new diagnosis along with my alcoholism was on my electronic medical record that will follow me forever.   The details of the revelation my sisters made to the hospital staff about the condition of my house was recorded on my emergency paper record secured on a clip board and kept on a side table beside my stretcher.  No one asked me about my house or asked  me questions about my behaviour or hoarding tendencies,  All it took was the mention of the aberrant condition of my house by my sisters to the nurses and doctors and there it was, I am a hoarder.  No one asked me why my house was such a disaster or made a referral for me to talk to psychiatry.  The omission of a referral to psychiatry made sense to me at the time because my physical condition was a greater concern to both me and the medical staff.  I quickly adopted the label of hoarder and I became quick to admit it or reveal it from then on.  I felt that I needed to be completely honest about this in order to provide insight into my condition.  There was no point in denying it.  Appropriate intervention would not come unless I accepted it and owned it I thought.

Finally Diana asked a nurse whether I would be going home.   Only upon the enquiry by my sisters of what was ahead for me, the nurse told us that the neurologist wanted to admit me for further testing and treatment to improve my mobility.  Once the notification was made that I would be admitted to the hospital my sisters left and I remained becoming part of the hub of activity and the noise of indignity in the emergency department.

As I look back through all the medical intervention I received throughout what became a very lengthy stay in the hospital, my hoarding was never addressed.  I didn't know it then at the beginning in the emergency department, but admitting to hoarding only labeled me.  It became a descriptor such as thin or obese, a judgement as is a drunk instead of being addicted, and not a condition that needed to be addressed.  I think my readiness to admit to being a hoarder was a cry for help which was unanswered; a cry that that said it is not my house that is a disaster but my life.  Help me.  The garbage in my house is desperation and I am on my way to destruction.  My cry was not even noticed because there were no tears.

The Emergency Department.

After checking into the emergency department of the nearest hospital to where I lived, I was given a wheelchair and I waited for eight hours to see a medical professional. So much for getting to the emergency department early in the day to get ahead of the other infermed. I was not a real emergency, I was breathing and my heart was pumping. My vitals (blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen levels in my blood and breathing rate) were normal. And so my sisters and I waited.

The hospital we went to was also close to the inner city and is where the prison folk are brought to. So if a person is not rushed for time it is a good place to watch people waiting in the emergency department; people puking, people drunk and not able to sit up, people complaining, babies crying, children coughing, people maimed by injured limbs, people curled up in a chair in a fetal position rocking back and forth hoping to ease their pain, people who smelled like they haven't bathed or washed their clothe ever (could be me), and people in orange onesies with shackles on their legs and handcuffed accompanied by an officer. I wondered what they did to be in prisioned.

Watching these people overtime revealed the tolerance process for having a lengthy wait. When people first came they sat down, some looking anxious and some looking like this place was a daily visit and comfortable to be there. Over time each showed agaiation toward others waiting and the medical staff , in various ways as their tolerence dwindled .Periodically, paramedics would arrive with someone on a stretcher and pass the waiting room. You know when someone in that condition require most of the staff which will increase the wait.

To ease the pain of a lengthy wait to see a doctor the hospital provided a television that hung on the wall which was turned on but with no volume. Magazines were available if you wanted to be informed of the news of the day, which at that time was a ferry sinking in Bangladesh, Prince Charles visiting flood stricken Ireland, Somalian pirates overtaking an oil tanker, Tigar Woods condition following his car accident then divorce, the emergency landing of a jet on the Hudson river, three women are found having been kidnapped eighteen years,  the death of Walter Cronkite, Ted Kennedy, Michael Jackson and Ford's Saturn.

If world news is not your thing, pop culture magazines were available that reported GQ' "badass" men of the year included Clint Eastwood and Morgan Freeman, Johnny Depp gets People Magazines's sexiest man alive, Kenya West boycotts Taylor Swifts award for best video, David Letterman confesses that he had an affair and was being blackmailed, Robert Redford and Bruce Willis both get remarried, George Clooney remains committed to bachelorhood, and the escapades;of a divorced mother named Kate who has eight children.

I however would never touch a magazine in a public place. The bottom right corner is crawling with
A plethora of disease bugs from the saliva as a result of the saliva from the tongue to the finger
method of turning pages. When this happens repeatedly, that wet finger space becomes dirty and crusty.

Some of the people in the waiting room could care less about the news or pop culture. Instead they are focused on the hopes that their condition will allow them more time to live. There is no other place on earth like the emergency waiting room. What else would bring this mix of people together with a commonality that they require treatment to be healthier.

The wait was not so entertaining for  Diane.  She had a Christmas party to go to that night. I didn't
 know this at the time and was happy to have someone as I wait and I go through the medical
assessment process.  I was not concerned about my condition but I knew that I could not function on
my own. It never occurred to me that I would be like this for the rest of my life.  Diane stayed until
they made a decision on wether I going to be admitted to the hospital or be sent home.

While we waited, and I remained in denial and my sisters debriefed on the discovery of me in my
house. Diane commented to Trisha, "John called me last night and said that someone needed to take her to the hospital".  She paused as her eyes filled with tears and then said "I could not find her in the house, she blended in with the garbage".  Diane continued " I was horrified, I don't understand this and I never will".  "She is worse than I expected she would be from what John told me". Trisha replied, "this situation cannot stay this way". Diane was already looking at needed to be done. At that point they were committed to many hours to first deal with the house and a potential handicapped sister.   This was overwhelming as they were already care givers for our parents whose health was declining

On My Way to the Hospital

Following my three week battle with a virus, I was malnourished, dehydrated and weak. I had difficulty getting up from my cushion bed on the floor. As a rehabilitation medical professional, I had taught many seniors how to get up from a fall. I now needed that knowledge. I rolled onto the floor face down and made it to resting on my hands and knees. I then raised up to a kneeling position.  Still kneeling, I raised my right knee to plant my that foot on the floor.   Then with a lot of difficulty, I pushed on the raised knee with both arms shifting my weight  over over my knee while planting my left foot on the floor in a crouching position. I then walked my arms up my thighs to my hips and I had made it. I was standing, but barely. I describe in detail how I got up because it describes the effort required to do so. I managed to walk to the kitchen, and supporting myself by leaning on the counter I drank water and devoured crackers I found in the kitchen cabinet. I made sure the crackers were sealed with no sign of mice munching.

After I rested for a bit I gained strength and it was time to go out for food. I discovered however that I  still required the same method of getting up from my floor cushion bed.   I was getting good at this method of raising. On my way to my car, I fell attempting the stairs at the back door. Not being injured, I got up by walking my arms up the stairs and was on my way to the fast food restaurant.

I found it mysterious that I could walk but could not manage stairs. I would stare at the stairs but be paralyzed on how to climb or descend them.  Attempting stairs from then on was accomplished on my hands and knees.

As the days went by, even though I became stronger, I still needed my adapted method of raising from my cushion bed and managed stairs on my hands and knees. My incontenence remained
however and I went to the medical store and got some pads for my bed. I was getting out but.
 strangely , I had no desire to go to the liquor store. I had no desire at that point to drink.

I drive a standard. I always have. Driving a standard is real driving and I feel I  have control of the car.  During this time, following my viral illness, I was driving to a fast food restaurant when I realized I could not find the gas or break peddles, or the clutch with my feet. Horrified I pulled over and needed to visually orientate my feet to the peddles. I had to consciously manage the peddles
from then on.

Once at the restaurant, I got out of my car and managed to walk to the door. I was faced with a step in front of the door without a railing. I stared at that step with fear. A man in the restaurant was looking
at me through the window. "I can't just stand here" I thought so with much courage I attemped to
ascend that step. I was not successful and crumpled on the cement step.  At the time I had collapsed on the restaurant  step, a woman was exiting and assisted me on my feet. I then made it to the counter and ordered my food. Then leaving the restaurant I again was faced with that stair. I had no choice
but to attemp to descend it and did so. Again I collapsed. The man wwho had been watching me came out and helped me up while saying to me "you need to go to the hospital".

Not much time passed when I discovered that not only I had difficulty getting up, and could not manage stairs, but I could not walk.  Following my raising to standing routine I took a step and
fell to the floor. I got up again and when attempting to take a step I fell. Not to be defeated I got up again. I wanted to take a step but was afraid to fall again. A wall was two steps away,  and I thought if I could take a leaping plunge to the wall I could use it brace myself. Getting to the wall was good in theory, but I fell again. I then crawled to the wall and used it to  raised my self to standing.

 As long as I had something to brace myself on I could walk. So, while wall walking was a success in my house I could not get anywhere where there was nothing to brace myself on or grab on to.  I went
back to the medical supply store and got a walker. My theory was that I just needed to get stronger and the walker would assist me.

One evening I went to visit my next door neighbor as I did many times.  My friend John  had become
a very good friend. It was the kind of friendship that I could be totally transparent. I got to his
house using my walker but was faced with his five steps leading to the front door. I hollered for him
to come out and help me with the steps. He heard me hollering for him and he came out and assisted me up the stairs.  We had a few drinks and then I needed to use his washroom. I could get up from the couch from a sitting position.  On my way to the washroom I fell. John helped me up.  After I used thewashroomhe told me I needed to go home because he was tired. This was unusual as we often visited late and sometimes he went to bed and let me stay and watch his television on my own just locking the door when I left.

I got back home and went to bed on my floor cushion and let the drunk put me to sleep. It was a short sleep however because I woke up needing to use the washroom. Because of my incontenence I went
 to bed with no bottom clothing so I would not soil them and it was faster.  By this time with
the state of my  disability with walking, I just crawled to the bathroom from my floor cushion and once reaching  the toilet, I used it to raise myself to sit on it.

The next morning I was woken up very early by my sister. "I'm taking you to  the hospital"  she said.
I agreed without thinking about how how I felt about it.  "Okay" I said, " I just have to pee first". As I crawled on my hands and knees to the washroom I was mindful of the view my sister had of my naked behind. She however was focused with shock with the condition of my house. She had not
been inside my house for years. "What prompted you to come " I asked her.  " John called me last night and told me you needed to go to the hospital" was her reply.

She loaded me into her  SUV and off we went to the emergency department at the nearest hospital.
My other sister met us there.   Little did I know that I would  never live in my house another day and that I would be in the hospital for six months.

Derailed

 I had been working on my next blog which  further describes my physical deterioration as a continuation from my last blog but I got derailed with negative thoughts. I was sick last week for a couple of days and during that time I ran out of meds, so I went without my anti depression, anxiety and nerve damage pain control medication. As a result my emotional thoughts superceded my
intellectual  ones.

I went down a thought path where I felt unconfident about myself and the purpose of this blog and wether I should be doing it at all. I thought about my friends who one by one are retiring and doing things that I have on my bucket list which includes travelling and owning a house. I pay outrageous rent a month just to remain here because I have two dogs and there is no other rental accommodation that will accept two dogs. Besides, they have already wrecked this place. They are very old and have lost their bladder control. They have peed on one spot in my living area so I might as well stay here until they have passed away.

When comparing my financial situation with my friends who are successfully retired and are travelling I have myself a pity party. I focus on how I ruined my life and health through hoarding. I am a medical professional and should have a good retirement fund saved through work and my own savings. Because of my hoarding I lost my house which I would have owned by now and would be mortgage free. I would have had enough money to do the travelling I want to do except I spent everything I had. Any money I had saved I used up when I was disabled and had no source of income.

And so I was very discouraged and thought "is all I have in life is to blog about how I wrecked my life"?  Then a friend of mine who I see only occasionally because she lives in the opposite side of the country was here to visit and said that she needed to pick my brain about my experience because she has a loved one who is suffering with hoarding.   We had a conversation about my experience with hoarding and following that I told my friend that her enquiry came at a great time because it reinforced why I was blogging about hoarding, depression and alcoholism. The reason I am blogging about my experience is to help hoarders, their family and friends and the intervention service providers.

If anyone who is reading by blog as I write it has questions or comments please use the comment functionality included with the blogs. Perhaps other hoarders or their family and friends or service providers could use this blog to be encourage each other and gain insight into this mysterious disorder.  I will continue to blog to tell my story. I encourage everyone who is reading any portion of it to read from the first blog though to the most recent so it reads like a book.

Total Disability

I had been unemployed for three months. For the three months I took up knitting for something to do but could do that only when I was not drinking. I ended up only knitting about three inches on the side of a sweater.

I would wake up at about nine o'clock and drink the remainder of the alcohol I had from the day before, and then sleep  to late afternoon. I then would go out, get some fast food and alcohol for the evening. After dinner I would go to either one of my neighbors who would drink with me until late, and then I would stumble home and pass out, another day making it through. If I had a calendar and crossed off day after day that I did this I might have realized how my life was passing by, but only by surviving the time that a day measures. That is what my life had become; making it through each day. What worth in life comes from daily survival from self induced complications?  The answer to that escaped me because I did not ask it. I kept drinking so that I did not have to because I was fearful of what the answer would command.

Then one day I woke up sick. It was not a cold with congestion and coughing, nor was it a gastrointestinal illness with nausea and diarrhea.  Every cell in my body screamed with pain. My temperature was up I'm sure as I sweated profusely. My body shivered. It hurt to move. Every joint jolted with pain if I tried to change position.   I had to weigh the result of pain from movement with the discomfort of staying in the same position for long periods of time when I decided if I would move or not.

I did not eat or drink anything. I was not hungry and even if I was I could not get up to get it. Even so, by body continued to function and provided the need to go to the bathroom to void. It took a lot of courage to move to get up and go to,the washroom. When I did my body more than shivered, it almost convulsed with chills.

I was thankful for sleep but was wakened by the need to go to the washroom. Again and again I mustered the courage to move, get up and get to the washroom, each time barely making it due to the pain with removing my clothes.   After some time passed, it did not matter if I could get up.  I lost control of my bladder and that caused the problem with clean up. I grabbed newspapers close by and placed them under my hips hoping that using and removing the paper when soiled would take care of that problem. Whether the newspaper solved my new experience with inconvenience or not I did not care, the pain I was sufferring was more prominent.

I shivered and shook for quite some time.   I had lost all awareness of time but once the fever broke and the shaking stopped and I reoriented myself, I determined that I was sick for three weeks.   Then something very unusual and concerning happened. I could not stand up or get up from my floor cushion.  Every time I would try to stand up, my legs crumpled from beneath me.

My Physical Deterioration

I battle hoarding, depression and alcoholism every day.  Each of  these conditions merit explanation on their own. For now I will focus on my physical deterioration due to the hoard.

I was laying on the floor on my cushion, the remains of my swivel chair, when I noticed I could not feel my right toe. I was sober at the time so it was not because of alcohol induced altered sensation.   Because I am a medical professional, I know how to do sensory testing and so I did. I wiggled my toe but could not feel the movement. I moved my toe with my hand and I could not feel either my toe moving or the touch of my hand. I then got a sharp needle and a knitting needle and poked my toe with each, but again no feeling. I thought that lack of sensation in my toe was mysterious, but I had no concern over a toe while at the present, my physician and I was monitoring a more seriousphysical condition.

I was very overweight due intake of drinking and a fast food diet.  As a result my blood pressure  dangerously elevated . Three times I was hospitalized and treated until my blood pressure came down. I was on medication to treat  the hypertension.  I was embaressed on one occasion when a nurse rubbed an area on my arm to prepare for insertion of an interveneous and the swab was black from dirt on my skin. "Oh my!"  she said.  I quickly replied that I had two dogs. She assured me that she understood because she had dogs too but I knew that she knew that I neglected my hygiene. Remember I had no access to water to my tub and bathing was difficult. Sometimes when I was in the hospital I would stuff body wipes in my purse and used them at home until the supply ran out.

Every time I was hospitalized for high blood pressure I woud get encouragement to stop drinking.  I never admitted to drinking but blood tests reveal the damage of excessive alcohol.  The shape of the hemoglobin in the blood which delivers oxygen to the body become altered and cannot do their
 job.  The blood also shows a deficiency in vitamins and electrolytes resulting in malnutrition and
impairment of any body organ that requires electrolyes.  So the physicians knew I drank excessively even though I told them I didn't drink more than a couple of drinks a week.

I hated my obesity. I have a short build so weight piles on the only places that expands outwards making me very round.  I am well endowed and my large breasts rested on my bloated stomach. When I put on weight my chin bloats up like a frog and my belly expands as though I was pregnant. I had a well earned beer belly, and muffin top. When I went out everyone greeted me by looking into my eyes, and then theirs would shift down to the belly. Even though I hated my weight gain, I did not stop to think that my drinking and fast food was the cause. Drinking provided numbness and I had no choice to eat fast food because I had no fridge or stove.

I also sufferred with stomach reflux and the alcohol didn't help. Often at night I would wake up with stomach acid in my throat. On one occasion that this occurred I had a whispered raspy voice because the acid burned my vocal cords.  This condition was dangerous because I was at risk of aspiration of  stomach acid into my lungs.

Every time I went to the doctor or was in the hospital to treat my hypertension I  mentioned that my toe had no feeling and it was always brushed off by them with a shrug and a reminder to stop drinking.  My next blog will describe further deterioration and spread of  altered sensation.

My Living Quarter

The last room room off the hallway was the living room. It was where I spent all of my time. There was not much accessible space in that room, not because of hoard and piles of items, but because of new furniture.  The haul guys that took my fridge and stove also took my old living room furniture. I had my couch and love seat removed because I heard mice in them. My cat reaffirmed this as she would sit and cock her head while looking at the couch for long periods of time.  I cleared out the living room by shuffling all the items into the other rooms in the house and closed the door  so it was presentable had room for the delivery of my new furnature.

My brand new furniture was delivered;  a new couch and love seat that looked like it was from the 50's with curved arm rests, a swivel rocking chair and a three piece coffee table set as well as a dining room table with a matching side board.  It was  placed along the long walls of the living room. This resulted in stacks of large packaged boxes that left a thin walkway to the television.   The only piece of furniture I set up was  the swivel rocking chair which I placed in a remaining space just inside the doorway fron the hall. where I could see the television.

The new furniture  remained packaged and unmoved  for a couple of years. I managed to set up my new computer that I bought from benefits I received from my last job on a portable table beside my swivel rocking chair. Gradually, the floor space that was not covered by the new furniture was filled up with garbage bags filled with fast food packaging.

My tv was in disrepair and I could not fix it and of course I would not let anyone in to fix it. Because watching TV was my only activity while I was at home, I drank more to numb the condition of my home.  Alcohol was the easiest way of surviving in it.

Over time the swivel rocking chair broke down. The metal framework split at the soldered joints
which left the one piece upholstered seat and back cushion flat on the floor. It was uncomfortable due to the metal frame pieces which remained under the cushion but I learned where the soft spots were.

Just before I was removed from my house by my sisters and taken to the hospital due to my physical condition,  I layed on that cushion on the floor watching mice travel their pathways through the living room. They would crawl to the top of the television antenna, run up the curtains to sit on the curtain
rods, run through the maze spaces between the packaged furnature and in the garbage bags. One day I played dare devel with one. It was in a box and would duck into the box every time I looked at it. It's face looked very cute I thought.

My physical condition was such that I had diffulcty rising to stand from the cushion on the floor and
once I was up I couldn't walk. To get to the bathroom I had to roll on the floor and crawl to the bathroom. Often I could not control my bladder and I voided on the cushion. I took news paper and layed it on the cushion to protect it from my bladder accidents.

Now that I have completed the description of the condition of my house, I want to describe in the next blog, the physical condition of my body and the disabilities I sufferred as a result.

My bedroom did not have boxes or items on the floor however it was no healthy place to be. First of all, it was a circuit for the mice to go through to get to the rest of the house. Mice typically get around  in a house by running along the baseboards or the edges of a room. I noticed that they came up from the basement through a hole in the linen closet then proceeded into the adjacent bedroom along the baseboards. Soon, on their journey they disappeared behind the dresser. Once they were behind the dresser, they were out of mind. If I could not see them, they did not exist. This could be considered denial but frankly the sight of them was overwhelming and my mental capacity froze.

Most of my clothes were hung in the bedroom closet but the few I wore were recycled from wear to washing to piled on the bed.   After a while my wardrobe widdled down to just a couple pairs of pants and a couple of tops. This simplified my morning routine because I washed what I was going to wear every morning to freshen my clothes. I was told by my boss that I smelled. My clothes took on the odour of my house.

Eventually I just kept my two ensembles in my living quarter, the cave I hoarded around. This left the mattress clear of clothes but it took on a whole new purpose. My dogs started using it as a litter box and over time their feces piled up.  The mice regularity reminded me that I shared my house with them as one day I noticed that the dog feces on the mattress had been chowed down on. Half of each feces had disappeared and there was fine brown powdered residue surrounding each poo.  I want to cry now thinking about this. writing about it and putting it out there to share with you makes it real but cathartic. I was so good at ignoring the conditions I was living it. Keep in mind, it took years to get this way. Each day I accepted a little bit more of the deterioration which over time and collectively resulted in a serious medical condition for me and condemnation of the house by the city public health department.

I need to tell you that admitting to this makes me a lot of shame. You will understand why I lived in these conditions as soon as I finish describing my house conditions. Next and finally I need to describe my living room. That is where I spent all my time.

 One bedroom off the hallway was converted into an office. This room was filled with boxes of craft items, art supplies,  scrap booking supplies and photos. My computer sat on a desk but it was hard to reach due to the boxes. This was the room where many things were thrown in to be organized later. Included in the quagmire of items was a photo album given to my family by my grandmother. It included all the photos of us that we had given to her since we were kids. The album was organized by person, each of my four siblings and myself. There was school pictures of all of my four brothers and sisters and myself. The album was to.be passed around to all of my family.

At that time digital photos was new technology. Cameras held digital photos on a memory card and a hard copy of a photo could be scanned and stored in a computer.  I was given the album and I wanted to scan all the photos so that I would have all of them. As well, I started a project to give my parents for Christmas. The project was to do a pencil sketch of oll off us siblings from our grade one pictures and frame them. I got three of them done and they were in the office somewhere but if I was asked, I would not know where to start looking for them.  The sketches turned out really well and I was very satisfied with them.

I am an advid photographer and I had many photos stored on my computer.  As well, included in the boxes of photos in the office were ones I had taken since I was 16 years old. They were a record of many of the trips I had taken, any significant events of myself, my family and friends. They were photos that were imaged on film. The film was taken to a photo printing store and you would wait up to a week to get them printed. Of course that changed to one hour printing which was a great advancement. I loved my photos. When I looked at them I felt blessed. I had done many things and had many friends.

The hallway was a square space which led to two bedrooms a bathroom and the living room. Boxes were piled against the walls but there was  space to move through the hallway to get to any of the rooms. . The hallway had a linen closet.  The back wall of the linen closet was shared with the bathtub facet plumbing. I could not close the closet door  because I had to take out the shelves to try and get to the bathtub  plumbing  because the tub facet was continuously running water. Contents of the closet layer on the floor of the closet and hallway.  I try to fix the running water problem myself with no success and I sure wasn't going to let anybody into my house to do the job. I solved the tub running water problem by shutting off the water  by a valve I found in the closet. To bathe  I would take a pail of hot water from the kitchen sink to the bathtub, step in the bathtub and give myself a rub down and then pour the water from the pail over myself. I washed my hair the same way however the whole procedure took two trips to the kitchen sink to get hot water and I didn't bathe often because I saw it as too much trouble.

Other than the fact that the tub had no running water,  the bathroom was not too bad.   It was small and nothing was piled on the bathroom floor.  One night, however  before I turned the water off to the bathtub, in a drunken stupor I fell asleep for the whole night while the water in the tub kept running. By morning the bathroom, hallway and some of the bedroom floors were drenched with water which seeped through the floor boards and through the ceiling tiles in the basement. To determine the damage I  pulled up the rug in the hallway to find beautiful hardwood floor underneath however  the hardwood was so drenched with water that it swelled and bubbled up.

The water that dripped through the floor soaked a dresser where I stored hundreds of dollars worth of fabric. This fabric I had purched at one time. I loved the fabric and had plans for every piece but now my hoard of fabric was completely drenched.  As well the water had dripped down a wall and I could see the ridge seperating the wet from the dry wall which extended almost to the floor. I did nothing about the damage of of the flood so eventually mold had formed and spread. The fabric eventually rotted and added to the amount of mold in the house .



Why not do anything abou conditions

The dining room table and all four chairs were loaded with boxes. There was not a square inch on the table to place a plate with a meal nor anywhere to sit. In my effort to cook ( remember I did not have a stove),   I bought a cooking device which consisted of a dome that covered an element.  The infomercial promised  it would  cook things increadable well, in fact I don't know why everyone wouldn't have this cooking device it is so good.  This cooking device was one of the things that found a permanent home on the table. Inside this cooker was a layer of solidified fat that had been rendered from a buffalo roast. The Buffalo roast was not a special cut of beef but in fact meat from a buffalo. I was told by the owner of the buffalo farm that it was the leanest meat that a person could buy. Cooking this roast with my new cooking device however resulted in a hard as a rock roast along with the one inch layer of solidified fat relating on the bottom.  That sat on my dining table for years.

The dining room floor was covered with boxes except for a cleared path that lead from the kitchen to the hallway.  As I walked through this pathway past the boxes, mice would jump from box to box like a water fountain that squirted water from bowl to bowl.  Along the wall  was an ironing board that could not not be used because it was covered with items. Even if I cleared the surface of the ironing board, it was dirty and would leave stains on my clothes where pressed with an iron.

So now on to the hallway wich lead to two bedrooms, the bathroom and the living room.

From the entry way to my cave

I said I would get into how bad my living conditions got. It is important to differentiate between the hoard and the mess. The hoard is collecting items, bringing things into the house and not throwing anything out, the result being a plethora of items, too many to have a place to be put away or belong or to be organized. The mess is a result of the hoard. The hoard happens for different reasons than the mess and I'll explain that in later blogs.

I should mention that I survived and moved on from that house, but barely and I mean barely because the conditions I lived in almost took my life. I went from that house to six months in the hospital, then to a assisted living facility to a town house where I presently live but continue to struggle with hoarding. . But more about that later. I want to get the unpleasantries out of the way first and describe the horror I created to live in. As I mentioned before a description of my house is important to my story. It is important to understand the disparity in which I lived and to understand how I got there to understand the miracles that happened after.

I'll start from the back door entry and work my way to the cave, my four by four foot area in the living room where I existed. I couldn't enter the house by the front door because the front entry way was cemented in by layers of newspapers that I took from my mailbox,  threw on the floor, layer by layer and eventually on piles as tall as I am.

The back entry was mostly always clear. Once in the door there was three steps up to the kitchen. The stairs also was mostly always clear of litter.  Once in the kitchen the first thing that you would notice was that there was no fridge or stove. I lived without a fridge and stove for about three years. I had them removed by a couple of guys I found by a  "haul your junk" listing in the yellow pages. Yes yellow pages was used when most people did not have an electronic device to keep in touch with the whole world in an instant. Come to think of it there were many phone books in the cement piles (not sounds like cement pond) at the front door.

Because I had no fridge or stove I did not prepare food in the kitchen and there was no food or mold on the counters. There were a few boxes on the floor filled with items that I was going to put away as soon as I got organized. The floor was filthy as it had not been washed in years. There was a few boxes on the counter as well. That is about it for the kitchen except the floor and counter was splattered with mouse turds.  That is why I got rid of the fridge and stove, because I heard mice scratching inside the stove.

Next was the dining room and that is where it starts to get bad.

How bad it got

It will take a few entries to describe the depths of filth I lived in and the subsequent spiritual, emotional and physical decay I experienced.  The reasons why it happened are multifaceted and I will address them seperately. Hopefully the order of the entries I write make sense.

It is hard to write about how bad my house got because it will make you readers skirmish. My friend, whom I can share anything with covers her ears and screatches  "I can't hear it, don't say it" when I talk about the condition of my house due to the hoard. But if I don't describe the deapths of my condition, the journey of my recovery will not have the same impact. It is hard even for me to envision my living conditions.  I rationalize the mental pictures in my memory as an episode on the TV show "Buried Alive" and assign my memories to their stories.

And so I will describe my house bit by bit from the periphery down to the four foot square area where I inprisoned myself with the surrounding hoard.  Again, I am new to blogging and hope to make this accessible to all who search for it to find encouragement and help without identifying myself. I need to remain anonymous because part of my story involves situations that some of my family members cannot know. If they found out, it would be devastating to them and they would question their sense of self.

Introduction of me.

I want to write a quick post to get this blog started. I need to do some more reading on blogs to understand what I need to do to get the most out of the blogging process.

I have not died and ascended to Heaven. I have however risen out of the hell of depression, a constant alcohol induced delirium, and paralyses from an overwhelming hoarding filth.  It now feels like I am living in Heaven compared to where I was.

I will write more but need to figure out this blogging process as I am new to it.