Wednesday, 8:30am eastern. I get a phone call from my significant other, Mark, who lives in California. (In case you don't do that math, that would be 5:30am pacific. And in case you don't know Mark, he is NOT a morning person.)
"I have a plan," he exclaimed. (Not a hint of a sleepy voice.)
"Uh, you've been up for a while, haven't you?" I ask.
"Yep! And here's the plan. You fly out on Friday for a week and help me get this situation under control. With you spearheading it, we'll make progress and fend off the dogs. I'll pay for your plane ticket, a dumpster, and a storage unit."
(I'm pretty thrilled that I got top billing out of the three.)
See, his landlord and long-time friend is a hoarder. Not a hoarder like you might say you and I are. I kept all my college notes for 20 years before I downsized to an apartment about a 1/3 the size of my big-ass house. That so doesn't compare to this.
His landlord, whom we'll call N, had been this way for all of his life, and his house, which is pretty sizeable, was crammed to the gills with stuff. Imagine 30-40 years of accumulating everything, from suit coats to drill bit sets to VCRs to plastic grocery bags. (And a whole lot of stuff in between, a lot of it not pleasant.) Poor N's health was starting to go downhill, which, after seeing the condition in which he had been living, was not surprising.
In his efforts to get his health under control, he called just about every doctor and nurse in Carmel, finally reaching someone who decided to call 911. The fire department and an ambulance came out. Since the front door couldn't open because of all the stuff, the firemen had to take the front door off the hinges, climb over piles of stuff, debris, rotten food to get to N.
N had been fending off the local government, who had been trying to get him to clean up his act, literally, for decades. Now, since he had voluntarily let them into his home, they took pictures and notes of the living conditions.
Verdict: he can't come back into his home until it is no longer a health hazard.
Now, since Mark lives on the property in an attached studio apartment, he could be kicked out of his home if the entire property gets red-tagged. Hence, the need for a plan.
So, I go out to California thinking that I'll do for the N Project what I do for my clients: create a big-picture plan made up of the individual tasks and then dive in. Yes and no. What I realized from the very beginning was that Mark and I could in no way clear out the clutter (and debris and rotten food and dead animals. Yes, dead animals) in the entire house.
(Stuff piled way above the windows)
But Mark wanted to try, and I knew that he would have to try in order to appease his conscience.
After 96 hours, we made it about 20 feet into the house, probably about a 1/15 of what would need to be done, and that's just in the main house. That doesn't include the basement, the carport, or the deck. And then there's the drywall repair (bad mold), carpet and wood floor replaced (deterioration beyond recognition - "That's carpet?"), appliances replaced (no working refrigerator, and we don't know if the stove works), plumbing repaired (no working toilet or sink in either the kitchen or the bathroom).
(This is before we "cleaned" out the kitchen.)
(This is after we "cleaned" out the kitchen.)
What does that mean? It means we filled up a large dumpster, took stuff to storage (including 7 brand-new VCRs and 10 new drill bit sets), filled up 10 very large recyclying containers - twice (the paper alone was staggering), dumped the equivalent of two household's food pantries in the garbage, and probably so many other things that I just can't recall.
Oh, and we did all this wearing coveralls and breathing masks because the stench was almost unbearable (and I'm sure dangerous to our health). I ran out of the house twice, very close to retching.
It was a sobering, unreal, intense, unfathomable experience that will be with me for a long time.
The lost opportunities - what N dreamed about when he bought those things.
The money spent - just in 20 feet: 7 brand-new VCRs, 10 new drill bit sets (unopened!), the Dean Martin variety show on DVD set (the ENTIRE set, again, unopened).
The need - N felt safe cocooned in his stuff. What pain was he trying to hide from.
The denial - even now, N doesn't understand why we just didn't put the soiled clothes in a box (just one!) and clean them. They were unsalvageable. He also asked us to put newspapers on the carpet to protect it from damage. 1) Already damaged beyond repair, and 2) we couldn't even find the carpet until we removed 96 hours' worth of debris.
The sadness - we found pictures of the house when it was new. N actually had built it himself, and there are some stunning elements. When we found the pictures, I burst into tears. The way it was vs. the way it is now... I can't even find the words to explain.
(Bedroom now)
(The bedroom as new.)
(The living room as new.)
Here's what I learned personally:
- You can't take it with you.
- "But it might come handy - someday" is not a valid enough excuse.
- Buy what you need now, not what you might need someday.
- Your external environment mirrors your internal environment.
- Get rid of stuff that is no longer useful.
- Use it or throw it away or give it away.
- Buy only what you can immediately apply a use for.
- Remember the original vision and dream of what you've created.