Member-only story
A Deadly Disorder
The first time I entered the home of a hoarder — which is not the same as a collector! — was around 1988 on a Vermont back road. The structure itself was probably historic, a modest white-painted farmhouse. Inside, towers of newspapers and plastic containers and cardboard boxes outlined paths through the kitchen. I was there to pay a call on an elderly man who’d been in the habit of walking among several villages each day. When he lost the ability to get out of bed, it seemed neighborly to go say hello … especially since I was trying to understand my role as a Presbyterian church deacon.
The elderly man in his bed turned out to be reasonably comfortable. His hosts, who received rent through his Social Security funds, took decent care of him. I’m sure he missed his daily walks, but in the years I’d known him, he’d rarely been a talker, mostly just grunts and an occasional prolonged laugh. Toothlessness made even his rare words hard to understand. But he was, all things considered, doing OK and cared for.
I worried, though, about whether I should do something about or for his hosts. Having survived a house fire myself, and just barely, I could see how dangerous these stacks of flammable materials were. When I walked back through the kitchen to leave, I fumbled a sort of invitation to the woman showing me the door: “I see you are a saver,” I said with forced cheerful appreciation…
