Clutter, Thy Name Is Cancer

You know how pathologists and surgeons take pics of the gallstones or tumors or other anomalies that sometimes get removed during surgery/autopsy? Just to have a complete record of it, for thorough documentation purposes?

Well, there were several things that kept me from running amok with my camera yesterday. A, the fact that my parents-in-law might have been rightly offended; B, a weird, fascinated shock that makes you drop your arms limply to your side and simply turn in place, trying to take it all in with your eyes, and C: the 'patient' in question is still very much alive and has privacy rights.

What you see is just one of several outbuildings on an old farmstead in the Frankenmuth area. The pathology you see is rampant, untreated, decades-old clutter.

The inside of the house is just like it was described to me. I saw it with my own eyes yesterday. Tim and I and mom and dad put in about 3 hours of cleaning and trash removal in the afternoon. Well, they put in closer to 3 hours. I might have put in close to 2. While I wasn't wandering outside checking out the overgrown, completely unmaintained yard, fruit trees, flowering plants and trying to coax the neighbors' cats over to be petted. Unfortunately we forgot the dust masks and gloves (they were in the truck, and we took the car to do all our visiting in Saginaw/Frankenmuth. They would have come in handy, that's for sure.

I couldn't exactly wimp out, because there were my 80- and almost 80-something in-laws wading into the dank, dark house bare-handed to deal with this. Like they have for the last 2 months. But I must have sounded like I was about to cough up a lung at one point, and my mother-in-law suggested I go outside and get some fresh air. An awesome idea. Which I acted upon several times. You had to. You'd get so involved in sorting dirty mail, stained reciepts, illegible bank statements, unopened packages and mail order books, trash, and every single solitary rubber band, twister, screw, nail, farm part and metal bit that had ever come within reach of Uncle O. that you'd almost forget the sun was shining brightly outside and there was a a shocking place with dry fresh summer air and flowers and normal life. I wandered in a surreal daze amid blowzy peonies, irises, waist high grass, apricot and peach tree, and blackberry bushes.

I'm not sure if the bottle of chardonnay and bottle of merlot and sampling of Mr. Orange's mint vodka we enjoyed over a delightful brunch at my mom's would have helped at this point in the afternoon. The tail end of a perfect buzz was just wearing off by the time we arrived at the farm, and I'm sure that helped deal with the initial shock. But cold sober reality set in soon enough.

Cancer has several different treatment options. Usually surgery or chemotherapy are the main ones discussed. It seems the family has opted for the surgical approach. And now that I've seen the house, it seems like the best, if most time-consuming treatment.

Chemotherapy (as in the rapid combination with oxygen that occurs during fire) was mentioned among us kids several times. Jokingly, and sometimes not so much.

The fact that there is an occupied tenant house within 50 feet of the farmhouse makes that even more of an impracticality.

I've never had a passionate interest in houses beyond the fact that I wanted a really nice new one to live in, and the most basic working knowledge of the building process; old ones never did much for me. Too much upkeep, what about this or that wearing out, rotting, not being up to code, etc. But to see the solid bones of this grand old farm house, even below the shifting layers of clutter and filth...it was inspiring. To hear my mother-in-law tell me that back in the day, her schoolgirl friends were jealous of the 'palace' she lived in. And Tim talking about racing matchbox cars on the 1920's red, green and blue striped pattern on the kitchen floor when he was a boy, and to see the incredible amount of beautiful hardwood trim and flooring (cut from the trees back in those woods, mom said)...yes, I agree, surgery is the best option.

Some brain snapshots from the afternoon:

--The most spectactular, longest ceiling cobwebs I've ever seen in my life, illuminated by bare lightbulbs.

--The saved, rinsed hospital IV tubing hung up to dry in the bathroom, on the shower rod and towel racks.

--The punctured, half used, dessicated can of turkey gravy hidden in a pot in the pile of clutter atop the filthy electric stove. And the smell...

--The dim gleam of thick beveled-glass panes in French doors beyond unnavigable heaps of debris and antique furniture in the parlor.

--Puzzling over the expensive-looking, decades-old piece of camera equipment (I think??) in a moldy leather pouch with a carrying strap. What is it? Does it still function? Is it worth saving?

Later, after we'd dropped off some food at my grandpa's and visited with cousin Jeremiah for a while (and still, that crystal clear light and air that comes after a storm system blows though...both of them were shut indoors. Unbelievable.) we realized we were ravenous. We caved and indulged in Culver's somewhat higher-end offerings of fast food. Then the tiredness and the aftereffects of the nightmare started to sink in. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was an eye-lid lining 'wallpaper' of dirt and dust-encrusted bank reciepts, magazines in their mailing wraps, newspaper clippings, envelopes...

We got home, and perversely I did not see how much cleaner my own house was. No, somehow, unbelievably, it looked even dirtier to me than when we'd left that morning. I wanted to take a long hot bath. I found myself unable to contemplate doing so until I'd cleaned the bathroom. And it still really isn't clean enough to make me happy. I only did what I had the strength to do at 1130 at night. I really wanted to clean the whole house, and the garage and the basement, and the shed out back too, so I could finally go to an easy sleep, but I didn't know how much I could realistically accomplish before going to bed.

I also had to remind myself to stop brushing my teeth before I wore the enamel off with the brush, and to stop scrubbing my face before the skin became red and raw.

So, here it is the next morning. Me sitting in my house in all its cluttered, cat littery, messy glory in the sunshine. I tell myself it's a healthy kind of clutter. Manageable. Normal.

Cancer starts with only one cell...