9c. A Non-Comprehensive List of Things I Tried, Part Three

Thing I Tried: Hiring a heavy-duty cleaner who specialized in hoarding situations

Report: I went looking for a heavy-duty cleaner on a site for “adult children of hoarders.” (Ed. note: This oxymoron, “adult child,” is the aptest description of me.)

I found the website for a guy named Ron the Extreme Cleaner and browsed the standard Before and After photos. Some of the Befores were as bad as my mother’s, or even worse. My mother’s house wasn’t stuffed to the ceiling with random crap. There was still functional plumbing at my mother’s; there wasn’t any structural damage or caved-in ceilings. Not that I was in a position to feel superior.

I told my mom and her husband that I’d found a qualified cleaner who worked in homes with multiple animals. This cleaner was going to come over on X evening, and I’d be there too, and he’d come up with a quote to do the job, and I would pay him, and they wouldn’t have to lift a finger—their house would be magically cleaned.

Husband Five: It’s a waste of money. You’re paying him $200 for what, to come over and look around? Oh, he’s gonna give you an estimate? Listen, for $200 we can rent one of those steamers that you get at the grocery store, you know the ones? We do the rugs, mop the floors, and it’s clean. There’s other things we need way more than some guy who’s gonna charge an arm and a leg…

It had become clear, over the past few months, that Husband Five would prefer for me to give him my arms and legs directly, rather than me continuing to use my limbs to pay directly for things like doctors, heating oil, or the sanitizing of the house.

Me: Well, let’s just see what the guy says.

Ron the Extreme Cleaner was a stocky, sixtyish white guy in a canvas worksuit—all business, no nonsense. Ron quickly won my mother and Husband Five’s favor by noting that “nobody wants to work these days,” then asking if the caseworker from APS was “one of those kinds,” while waggling his finger in imitation of a Black woman he once saw on TV.

Ron the Dogwhistling Boomer went from room to room, coolly assessing the scene, dropping soft compliments: lotta space here, good floorplan, great area. I wobbled around the living room, unwilling to sit down on any surface or even lean against a wall, while cats wound around my shins.

Ron came back into the room and addressed me.

Ron: Can you show me the basement? (To Husband Five.) Spare you going up and down the stairs.

Me (leading Ron down to the basement): They keep the door closed and the cats out, so it’s the cleanest part of the house…

Ron (stopping to face me, interrupting): This is a bad situation.

Me: I know, I’m sorry. I really appreciate you coming here today.

Ron: No, listen. You’re a good daughter, okay? I can see that. You’re trying to do the right thing here. You’re trying so hard.

Me (breaking into instant tears because I’d been wanting to hear that for so long): Buh huh.

Ron (gravely): Bad news is, I can’t help them.

Me (WHAT THE FUCK): Why? Why not?

Ron: I can’t help them, because they don’t want the help. They’re not going to accept it. If they didn’t want to live this way, they’d change it. But they don’t mind living this way. You mind it, but they don’t.

Me (sputtering while my hopes explode): No, he doesn’t mind it! But my mother never lived like this…she’s ill, she can’t clean…

Ron: The job is impossible. You can’t clean those walls and those floors; they have to be replaced. Thousands and thousands of dollars, and the second the work was done, it’d go right back to the way it is now. And that would be a waste. I see you’re trying to do the right thing, and I don’t want to take your money when I know it won’t work.

Ostensibly, he was being kind. He was operating against his own self-interest, which would have been to take my money, make the place marginally less unsanitary, and leave. And that’s all I wanted him to do, not give me professional confirmation that this whole shitshow was hopeless.

Ron (wisely, goddamn him): They’re not feeling any pain from living this way. You’re feeling pain. But until they’re in pain, they’re not going to do a goddamn thing.

Upshot: I gave Ron $200 so he could tell me he couldn’t help me. Husband Five gloated after he left.

Husband Five: He think’s you’re a sucker, so he’s gonna quote you fifteen thousand dollars, or something crazy like that. The whole thing’s a waste of time and money. You should have given us the $200 you gave him.

Thing I tried: Calling the Department of Health

Report:

Me: Hi, I’m calling to report unhealthy and unsanitary conditions at a home located at [her address].

Them: Okay, that’s not our department.

Me: But it’s a health hazard. There’s too many animals in the house, and there’s animal waste…

Them: Okay, then you gotta call the ASPCA.

Me: I have called them! But there’s two senior citizens in there…

Them: Okay, then you gotta call APS. All right? ‘Cause we can’t help you.

Call ends.

Upshot: At the time, it felt like they were purposefully denying me the help I deserved. Another door slammed on me; another indignity to add to the list. Now I get it. I walked into a laundromat and got mad that they wouldn’t sell me birdseed. It wasn’t personal. I was just in the wrong place.

Thing I tried: Calling the Department of Buildings, multiple times

Report:

Them: You’ve reached the Department of Buildings. If you know your party’s extension, you may dial it at any time.

Me: 3987#

Them: You’ve reached [Guy’s Name], I’m not available to take your call right now, but if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you when I’m able.

Me: Hi, it’s Janice Erlbaum again, calling about [Address], please call me at 917…

Call ends.

Upshot: About six months after my mother died, I was declared the legal owner of her property. The house was unlivable and unsellable, so I did not move to evict her fifth husband, because he was mentally unwell and broken and had nowhere else to go.

I was sorting through their three defaulted mortgages and ten years of unpaid property taxes to see if there was any value left in this lovely one-acre plot with a small pond and a festering dump in one of New York City’s more desirable suburbs.

Then, out of the blue, I get a message from a guy from the Department of Buildings.

DoB Guy (shouting and incredulous): Hey, you’re the owner of the property at blah blah blah? I’m out here right now—Jesus! What’s goin’ on out here? You gotta do something about this place! It’s a health hazard!

They slapped a CONDEMNED sticker on it and declared the land a biohazard. I handed the whole mess over to the bank and walked away. Husband Five continued to live in the condemned house for the next three years, then one day his long-estranged sister called me to say he was in the hospital and the property had been seized.

I don’t know what happened after that.