Last weekend, I had given myself the task to start organizing Lionel's belongings so that his family could come and get whatever keepsakes they wanted. Although I had two days, I didn't make very much progress.
It's not that he has that much stuff. Well, he does...but most of it is not stuff anyone is likely to want except for sentimental reasons. For the last three or four years, Lionel hadn't worked and therefore hadn't had any income. Most of the new possessions he had were birthday or Christmas gifts from me.
But even when, Lionel had money, he wasn't particularly interested in shopping. Every once in a while, I could convince him to accompany me to a mall or store, but he only went out of boredom, for the change of scene. Once, there he couldn't wait to leave. Except for sitting and eating in various food courts, he wasn't the recreational shopper I am, and generally couldn't wait to get home.
One trait we did have in common, however, is that we were both packrats. This teeny apartment packed with random, scavenged stuff is solid evidence of that. Lionel did a lot of roaming around and delighted in finding things, usually discarded miscellaneou items that he dragged home with the intiention of fixing them or selling them. Something that never occurred.
This past summer we held several yard sales to get rid of a lot of the junk that he and I had each accumulated, living in a one bedroom apartment for over 25 years. That was major for us because, like most borderline hoarders, it was difficult for us to get rid of anything. At least the yard sales gave us the illusion that nothing was going to waste, we weren't throwing it away, we were selling it -- although frequently for little or nothing, and we never really made any money except on a couple of items that I was determined to get rid of.
But it wasn't the quantity of his possessions that kept me from making progress last weekend. Much of it had been stuffed into his closet when his niece and nephew were here to help look for any insurance information he may have left behind.
The real reason, I was able to discard nothing more than an old toothbrush and some half-used books of matches, was that it all still reminded me so strongly of him. With his magazines and papers scattered about, with his towel still hanging on its hook in the bathroom, his medicines and diabetes info strewn about, his clothes pretty much thrown where he had left them nearly three months ago...it still seemed, still looked...like he was coming back. Like he had just gone for a walk around the block to get a beer or a cigarette, or stretch his legs.
Somehow, I've found that notion comforting over the past few weeks. That illusion that he might return any moment. Even though, I knew it was impossible. Since it looked like nothing had changed, it felt like nothing had changed. His presence still permeated the apartment.
But as comforting as it was, it is also painful. Because deep down, I know better. And sometimes it hurts to glance around and see a toy he saved from a box of cereal, the water he liked to leave in the freezer to get nice and cold, scraps of paper on which he'd scribbled grocery lists, or telephone numbers, or notes to himself. I see his brush in the bathroom, the mirror and clippers he used to cut his hair, his favorite coffee cup, or the stack of mail that has come for him and, each time, it's like a sharp dagger into my heart. Each item, a reminder that he will never be back to claim it, or finish that thought, or call that number or count those pennies into a roll.
So maybe it will do me good, if his family comes and takes some of this away. Maybe that will give me the momentum to distribute the rest of it and find something less painful to take up that empty space. But, right now I doubt it. I fear, like him, it will just be...gone.
It's not that he has that much stuff. Well, he does...but most of it is not stuff anyone is likely to want except for sentimental reasons. For the last three or four years, Lionel hadn't worked and therefore hadn't had any income. Most of the new possessions he had were birthday or Christmas gifts from me.
Even when he was working, he was not a particularly materialistic person. Part of this, I suspect was because he found other uses for his money. For that reason, he always said that he considered having money a "trigger"...a catalyst for some self-destructive behavior that he was trying to keep under control.
But even when, Lionel had money, he wasn't particularly interested in shopping. Every once in a while, I could convince him to accompany me to a mall or store, but he only went out of boredom, for the change of scene. Once, there he couldn't wait to leave. Except for sitting and eating in various food courts, he wasn't the recreational shopper I am, and generally couldn't wait to get home.
One trait we did have in common, however, is that we were both packrats. This teeny apartment packed with random, scavenged stuff is solid evidence of that. Lionel did a lot of roaming around and delighted in finding things, usually discarded miscellaneou items that he dragged home with the intiention of fixing them or selling them. Something that never occurred.
This past summer we held several yard sales to get rid of a lot of the junk that he and I had each accumulated, living in a one bedroom apartment for over 25 years. That was major for us because, like most borderline hoarders, it was difficult for us to get rid of anything. At least the yard sales gave us the illusion that nothing was going to waste, we weren't throwing it away, we were selling it -- although frequently for little or nothing, and we never really made any money except on a couple of items that I was determined to get rid of.
But it wasn't the quantity of his possessions that kept me from making progress last weekend. Much of it had been stuffed into his closet when his niece and nephew were here to help look for any insurance information he may have left behind.
The real reason, I was able to discard nothing more than an old toothbrush and some half-used books of matches, was that it all still reminded me so strongly of him. With his magazines and papers scattered about, with his towel still hanging on its hook in the bathroom, his medicines and diabetes info strewn about, his clothes pretty much thrown where he had left them nearly three months ago...it still seemed, still looked...like he was coming back. Like he had just gone for a walk around the block to get a beer or a cigarette, or stretch his legs.
Somehow, I've found that notion comforting over the past few weeks. That illusion that he might return any moment. Even though, I knew it was impossible. Since it looked like nothing had changed, it felt like nothing had changed. His presence still permeated the apartment.
But as comforting as it was, it is also painful. Because deep down, I know better. And sometimes it hurts to glance around and see a toy he saved from a box of cereal, the water he liked to leave in the freezer to get nice and cold, scraps of paper on which he'd scribbled grocery lists, or telephone numbers, or notes to himself. I see his brush in the bathroom, the mirror and clippers he used to cut his hair, his favorite coffee cup, or the stack of mail that has come for him and, each time, it's like a sharp dagger into my heart. Each item, a reminder that he will never be back to claim it, or finish that thought, or call that number or count those pennies into a roll.
So maybe it will do me good, if his family comes and takes some of this away. Maybe that will give me the momentum to distribute the rest of it and find something less painful to take up that empty space. But, right now I doubt it. I fear, like him, it will just be...gone.
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