Complex Grief and Chronic Clutter

A truly magnificent orange tabby cat named Snoof.

“There are five gift bags in here,” Brenda told me about our last big project: the floor-to-ceiling full, ‘give the door a push and step in sideways’ spare bedroom. “For the first five Christmases after my son died, I still bought him Christmas presents - “ She had to stop there for a minute. 

She asked me to look out for the bags as I sorted through the room, putting them aside and not opening them or unwrapping the contents. By this point, we had been working together for months and had built up incredible trust. I knew what she would be okay with throwing away, what she would want to keep, and what she might want to give away, so I usually went through bags and boxes on my own. Of course I would find them and keep them safe!

She ultimately decided to display them on the top shelf of the closet, but first I would need to find the bags. Then I would need to reach the closet, and we had 7 years to sift through. 

The project itself took multiple sessions equaling about 25 hours. Rather than the project itself, what I want to talk about here is grief and the ways we cope with it. 

Eight months after my beloved, elderly cat Snoof died, his heating pad still lies on the floor next to my side of the bed where he last slept on it. 

In the week after he Snoofed his last, I hung his silly pink harness and leash on his larger-than-life portrait in the dining room. I washed and put away his bowls, which are now back in rotation for the orange lads we are fostering. I donated his medicine and his kidney support food. But even now his disgusting, snot-covered, pilled grey mess of a heating pad still lies on my bedroom floor. My husband unplugged it out of an abundance of caution. I move it to vacuum, then I put it back.

When we realized it was Snoof’s time and scheduled his goodbye appointment, I thought it would be the first thing to go. I would toss it directly in the trash - it really is disgusting. I was able to process everything else, even though I cried. Actually I’m crying now while writing this! But this is the only thing I would truly throw away rather than save for reuse or donate, and I just can’t do it yet. 

With Snoof, I had time to process a lot of my grief in advance. His health had been declining for months. Then he’d rebound, then he’d decline, then he’d rebound, so I had already shed tears. Then he declined - I waited for the rebound, and it didn’t happen.

That revolting heating pad has come to symbolize an empty space in my life that he used to occupy.

And let’s talk about perspective - I lost a cat. The clients I work with have lost children or spouses, have witnessed traumatic deaths or had loved ones commit suicide.  

It’s difficult to imagine the enormity of human grief if you haven’t experienced it. Our brains have to find a way to understand a huge loss. An absence. The way our thoughts turn to someone and with a shock realize again that the person (or cat) is gone. There might be guilt about not grieving enough, or regrets about time spent apart. To cope with grief and loss, some people turn to alcohol, drugs, or risky behavior. Sometimes they start doing terribly at work or drop hobbies. Sometimes they develop depression. Sometimes it’s a combination.

I can’t help feeling that comparatively, collecting too many things isn’t “that bad.” It’s certainly not healthy, especially if things get dirty, or you’re not able to throw away food/trash, and your home is left that way. But I think you can recover from over-collecting, and even from hoarding disorder to a certain extent (with therapy). I’m generally in the “the less stuff the better!” camp, just a few yards to the right of minimalism. 

But human grief is so complex, and I can’t toss that stupid pad.

We categorize grief into five distinct stages, which is all very rational and looks perfectly linear until we are in it. Then those five stages of grief are five stages at a badly-planned festival-style concert where they’ve been placed too close together, and you’re buffeted by a torrent of sound that makes no sense. You have such a headache that you can’t think. 

Collecting “stuff” to the point that you have trouble walking through your home seems irrational on the surface, and it is: as irrational as any other coping mechanism. 

When you see it from inside grief, it makes so much more sense.

You might buy something new to get a dopamine hit on an otherwise stressful day. The sparkly Christmas tree from the Dollar Store would have lit him up, I’ll buy it. Oh, he would have loved this lego set as a kid. I wish I could have afforded things like this for him. I’ll buy it for him now. 

You might go thrifting to spend some hours and feel like you found a gem, even if you don’t really need it. 

Maybe you don’t have the energy to get off the couch right now and a trash pile has been growing next to you. Or you think, what’s the point in clearing the kitchen table if I don’t serve family dinners here anymore. Or, I can’t handle going through this closet right now, it’s full of sheets for my parents’ bed and other stuff I used when I was taking care of them. I just can’t.

I spent 25 hours in Brenda’s spare room. Piggy banks, craft supplies, Christmas decor, summer activity items she picked up for her family’s next lake trip. New items inside their stores’ plastic bags inside reusable bags inside cardboard boxes to make it all stackable. A small, broken prism chandelier she intended to repair. A musical instrument! I can’t remember what kind, but I remember being surprised as I opened the boxy case.

Then I went deeper. 

Along the near wall, at the very bottom, where she would have placed them “for now” back when the room was empty: her son’s belongings. A box of his cleaning supplies. The bleach had eaten through its bottle, then the box (and didn’t damage anything else thank goodness!). A box of the food that had been in his cupboards. His personal notebooks and papers. His work documents.

In the farthest corner from the door, the rest of his belongings. Clothes. His beloved music and video game collection. (He and I had similar music tastes, I learned!) His computer and video game consoles. His backpack. The clothes that the ambulance crew had cut off to work on him.

She had thought (fairly, in my opinion), “I can’t deal with this right now.” So she collected his things from his apartment and put them in her empty spare room. Then she started to bury her son’s belongings. The more she bought and put in the room, the less she was able to deal with it. It became overwhelming by sheer volume on top of the already staggering overwhelm she felt from grief.

Seven years later, the rime of grief finally began to thaw. To be clear, grief never disappears. It is just something we learn to live with. She began to learn to live with the grief. 

We were able to donate so many of the brand new items she had acquired - looking at you, that aisle in Aldi. We threw out her son’s household cleaners and the expired food. She kept the rest of her son’s belongings, his computer, clothes, movies, and CDs - and that’s okay. I repacked them more neatly to take up less space. 

I don’t know how you decide to throw away the clothes your child wore on the day he died. I certainly haven’t decided to throw away that crusty old heating pad. 

I think most people can relate to emotionally significant items. Your high school yearbooks, as a classic example, or the bridal bouquet at your wedding. Historical family portraits that have passed down to you. How do you just toss those things in the garbage? They mean something. They symbolize an era of your life, the person you were. They’re pieces of you.

For people who struggle with chronic disorganization caused by complex grief, so many more things have emotional significance - and they start to pile up.

If this is you, know that someday you’ll be more okay than today. Know that there is help out there for when you are ready to start. 

A week after I started writing this post, I was finally able to move the tiny tin urn of Snoof’s ashes from my nightstand to the living room mantelpiece. 

Actually the urn had been down in the sub-basement because we were under a not-quite-historic-but-almost tornado warning, so the whole family took the hunker action, cats, dog, and all. We brought our medications and identity documents down just in case - plus Snoof and my husband’s cat Ed’s ashes. Of all the things I could hardly bear to lose, Snoof’s remains are pretty close to the top.

Rather than bringing him back to my nightstand where he had been the last four months, I took him to the mantelpiece. I cried doing it and I might change my mind, and that’s okay.

Grief comes and goes in waves. We stay afloat as best we can.