9d. A Non-Comprehensive List of Things I Tried, Part Four
Thing I tried: Cleaning the house myself
Report: After the extreme cleaner delivered his extreme letdown, I abandoned the idea of hiring a cleaning service and decided to do it myself. I’m good at cleaning, always have been, and I often find it soothing. Finally tackling the problem hands-on felt great. For the first five minutes.
I arrived one Saturday afternoon with my supplies and started on my mother’s en suite bathroom. Clumps of her hair everywhere, cat litter underfoot, junk mail stuck to an amber stain on the floor. Everything thick with grime. A rotting wooden chair in the shower, ready to collapse. Two cats came in to see what I was doing, a third coiled herself in the basin of the sink, the only uncluttered surface in the room.
I put on my gloves, cracked open a garbage bag, and knelt to the floor. Grabbed everything I could: empty toothpaste tubes, supermarket circulars, clumps of hair. Shoving it in the bag. The cats wanted to be pet, they always wanted to be pet and paid attention to. I tried, I tried, I tried.
There was so much to do. I couldn’t even clear the floor by the sink. The used Q-tips were cemented there by gunk; I kept grabbing whatever would come loose. Cats butting me with their fuzzy heads, me trying not to cry over them. Don’t cry. Clean.
I spent an hour in the bathroom. My mother came in and out of the room, checking on my progress; I said it was going great and sent her back to the living room. She offered me some mashed potatoes from Boston Market, a place they frequented, as proved by the greasy bags overflowing the garbage. I barely wanted to open my mouth in the house, much less eat.
At least the toilet worked. At least the water ran. Unlike some of the homes on Ron the Extreme Cleaner’s website—homes he had agreed to clean! My mother’s bathroom didn’t have bags of shit on the floor, like I saw a few times in the hoarding shows on cable. The place wasn’t buzzing with flies.
I’m telling you how bad it wasn’t, because I can’t tell you how bad it was. I don’t want to. Within three years, it was hazmat suits and flying maggots. But we weren’t there yet.
My mother came back into the bathroom and told me I was doing too much, it was making her anxious, she wanted me to stop, “for now.” I tied up the two trash bags I’d filled and lugged them out to the kitchen where they would sit, indubitably, for weeks. That was the last time they allowed me in the house.
Upshot: Despair.
Thing I Tried: Calling Adult Protective Services again to try and reopen the case
Report:
Me: Hi, my elderly mother is being financially abused by her husband, he is restricting her access to medical care, and she is in danger.
Phone Lady (unbothered): Okay. Why do you think she needs help?
Me: Because…because she’s very sick, physically and mentally. And her husband is denying her medical care.
Them: So why isn’t she calling us?
Me: She can’t.
Them: Did she ask you to call for her?
Me: No, she can’t, she…
Them: So how do you know she needs help?
Me (becoming incredulous): BECAUSE SHE’S VERY SICK, and her husband is being abusive…
Them: But if she was being abused, wouldn’t she call herself? Wouldn’t she want to leave on her own?
Me (wondering if I am obliged to explain to the woman answering the emergency elder abuse helpline that sometimes people suffering abuse are unable to leave, or to evict their abusive partners, especially in the presence of serious medical and cognitive issues): …
Me (wondering why the system is set up like this): …
Me (wishing we could burn it all down): …
Upshot: APS refused to reopen my mother’s case.
Thing I Tried: Calling the local police non-emergency line and asking them to conduct a welfare check on my mother.
Report: I actually did this a few times. I’d reach a point where I couldn’t stand not hearing from her, and I’d call the cops to go to their house. Each time I did it, my mother called and yelled at me: You can’t send the police here! This is our home! We do not want police at our front door!
Me: Then call me back, or I’m going to assume you’re dead, and I’m going to call them again!
The third time I asked for a welfare check, the police did not call back to notify me that she was safe. I had to call the non-emergency line several times over the next two days before I got confirmation that two officers had seen her, live and in person, on her front porch.
Cop who finally took my call: You can’t keep calling in welfare checks, we can’t go over there every other week.
(I called three times in two years.)
Me: She’s not safe in the house. Did you go inside? Did you smell…
Cop: Your stepdad didn’t allow us entry.
Me (screaming in my head): He’s not my stepdad! He’s not my anything! He’s my mother’s thing!
Me (aloud): But it’s unhealthy, she’s very sick, he’s abusive…
Cop (done with me, with my mother, with the situation, with this call): She said she’s fine, and she doesn’t want any more welfare checks. So, good luck.
Upshot: I didn’t call the cops again. She died.