My parents have dedicated one entire bedroom of their mobile home to storing the excess junk they brought up with them when they moved. Maybe “junk” is too strong a word—but since they refer to it as the junk room, I won’t argue. The real mystery is why they still have so much stuff considering that they traded up (at least in square footage) from a smaller townhouse—and even threw out or donated a fair amount of their belongings before leaving southern California.
Unopened boxes are stacked randomly throughout the room along with a few paintings and odd pieces of furniture. A cheap roll-top desk is so overloaded with old paperwork that it lists to one side, on the verge of collapse. Filing cabinets take up most of the closet. Among the boxes is one that contains the urns my parents will eventually occupy, part of a package deal from the Neptune Society. (I asked them once if they’d ever opened the box to check out the urns; they hadn’t. I suggested they might want to see what they look like while there’s still an opportunity.)
At least the rest of their house is relatively free of clutter. So long as nobody needs the extra room, they can close the door and ignore what’s inside. I’ve known other seniors who live in squalor, almost buried in their own belongings. One man I met was the ultimate hoarder: even on his deathbed, he refused to let his wife throw out anything, once threatening to kill her as she tried to discard a used tissue.
I’m not sure if hoarding and other obsessive behaviors are more common in the elderly, or whether old people are simply less able to hide the results. Jeannie reports that my father now collects used paper napkins. They turn up all over the place, usually in his dresser. When helping them unpack after their move, I was alarmed to find several boxes of cereal stuffed in the filing cabinet, along with a year’s supply of allergy medication.
Even before Gene’s dementia diagnosis, I saw encroaching signs of odd behavior. I recall how once when I was visiting at their previous home he pointed out his two toothbrushes—“one for after meals, the other for after snacks.”
An 82 year old woman I know suffers from multiple compulsions, even though she’s allegedly dementia-free. I remember seeing a note posted in the kitchen, reminding her to floss on even days and take out the trash on odd days. Another time, I noticed that she'd moved the toaster from its usual place to the living room sofa, and was stupid enough to ask why it was there. Patiently, she explained that every other Saturday at 6:30 p.m., she makes a BLT sandwich for dinner, but because that activity conflicts with a prerecorded TV program she has to watch at the same time, the sandwich must be prepared in the living room while she's watching her program. Of course, I said.
And what else could I say? I suppose there’s no real harm in stashing a few used napkins here and there, or enjoying your BLT on a tight schedule. Maybe the real issue is the lack of purpose so many older people feel.
The need for direction combined with too little stimulation may incite elders to create their own routines, however pointless, so they can have a sense of structure, something to look forward to. Without that artifice, maybe there would be terminal boredom and staring into the void…either that, or the looming sense of responsibility to do something meaningful with whatever time one has left.
