10) The Hunger Strike

A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent who fell over on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He’s currently in hospital thinking he can come home soon... He has terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, a bladder and a chest infection, asthma, diabetes, skin cancer and he’s 95. Meanwhile I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly trying to possibly make things safe at his house in case he gets sent home, yet being acutely aware he will have an uncanny ability to know if anything’s missing and he won’t be pleased. I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

                                          

Today I had a phone call from the social worker from the hospital discharge team. Wtf?? They understood that we wanted to be involved in the discharge process and that we may have a few concerns...

Yes. We do. 

I went through all my concerns. To be fair she listened politely, making all the ooohh and aaaawwww noises. Is it very cluttered?' she asked... I then described it and started blubbering. Again. Although this time, possibly, it was to my advantage, because she grasped I'm a woman on the edge and not to be ignored. 'Could we possibly help tidy up a bit?' Yes she said that. I said if she had a spare few years and Im sure the poor NHS shouldnt be stretching to that. She will bring up everything I mentioned in the meeting with the team...

I took my other daughter to see dad in hospital.  We decided to go after tea as it was easier to park. We arrived at 7pm in the car park and went up to the ward.

He was sitting in the bedside chair. He saw us and said 'I'm on a Hunger Strike!'

'Ah!' I said. 'Let me get a chair a minute.' I went to the corridor to take 2 of a stack of plastic chairs and we sat down. 'Why are you on hunger strike then?' I asked.

'Well the food is diabolical. It's dreadful, the rest of the ward had sausage and chips but they wouldn't let me have any because of my stent. Ridiculous. Poppycock. I've never heard such rubbish. They gave me damn tuna sandwiches - dry and awful - there they are. See.' He pointed to a mainly eaten pack of sarnies - see above - only the crusts were remaining. 'Do you want them?' he asked, pushing them at me.

'Er no! I'll pass thanks,' I said.

'Well they'll go to waste as well then.' he said, grumpily. 'You have them.' he said to his granddaughter - the first time he'd acknowledged she was there. She politely declined the offer.

He carried on about the food was too spicy and gave him oral thrush - then proceeded to explain what thrush was. He then hacked up a few greenies, spitting them into a tissue, which he dropped in the sandwich packet. Disgusting.

He went on talking about how he was 100% sure they were plotting to kill him and how he kept hearing his name via feedback through his hearing aid. They were, he said, finding everyone with his name by their net worth and saying some were not worth finishing off because they were worth under £2000. He again mentioned the drain and needing his chimney swept. He wanted to be there himself so wanted to wait until he came home.

Not wanting to go back to that conversation again, I asked him if he was going to eat his yoghurt as that was surely easy to eat and he said he hadn't eaten much for tea.

'Well once you've got my spoon then I can eat it, but you haven't got my spoon yet have you?'

'Well you haven't asked for a spoon.' I pointed out.

'Yes I did. Of course I did. When you first came in and I asked you to get one from the table and you went to get one.'

'No dad.' (Yes I know it's a small thing but seriously, why make me out to be the ignorant one. He's done it all my life and I'm not putting up with his shit anymore. no matter how small.) I said 'you didn't ask. If you had, then I'd have found you one.' I didn't point out in fact the first thing he'd said was he was on hunger strike. 'You definitely didn't ask.' I said adamant he wasn't going to bully me anymore.

He threw his arms up in the air in dramatic fashion 'YES I DID ASK' he bellowed, 'Oh WHY must you turn EVERYTHING into an argument ALL THE TIME!' He then turned to his granddaughter and said 'I did ask didn't I?' She, worried what to say, said she didn't know.

Infuriated I went off asked for a spoon from the kitchen and handed it to him.

'There you go,' he said 'Not so difficult was it?' I sat on my hands to prevent them doing damage. My daughter instinctively grabbed one hand (like her sister did two days ago) and squeezed it firmly in a 'mum you've got this. Don't worry I'm with you.' kind of a way. I took a huge lungful of air as he ate his yoghurt. I looked at my daughter and she blew me a kiss. 

Thank you God for daughters.

'Look dad,' I said, in a stupidly vain attempt to get him to say something meaningful to her, to communicate with her, to ask her about herself. 'Your other granddaughter's come to see you today.'

He glanced at her. 'Yes, is she going to a party?'

She replied she wasn't. He said as she had come home from Swansea, he assumed it was for a party. That was the only thing he's said to her since September when she went to Uni. She said she felt like he was just looking through her for the whole hour we were there.

We left shortly after that. She grabbed my hand and we walked out. 'Mum, you OK?' she asked. 'That was SO weird wasn't it? What planet is he from? - I couldn't make any sense whatsoever of what he was talking about... He thinks the doctors want to harvest him for parts... What the f...'

I agreed.  We drove home trying to make sense of everything, but we couldn't. She said if she hadn't heard it herself she wouldn't have believed it. 😏 

 What's making me happy? Garfy - a young cat who I've not seen before, sitting outside my window demanding I pet him.

What is making me cry? The social worker from the hospital discharge team...

What's making me furious? Narcissistic idiots who are needlessly very, very rude.

What have I done to relax? Taken the day off work to do nothing at all and staying in bed until 09:03 :).

Interesting finds the mini oven in the pic above of my car, Freddie - found on its side in the living room at the house, being used as a coffee table. 

9) Why do I even bother? 10 Jan 26

A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent who fell over on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He’s currently in hospital thinking he can come home soon... He has terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, a bladder and a chest infection, asthma, diabetes, skin cancer and he’s 95. Meanwhile I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly trying to possibly make things safe at his house in case he gets sent home, yet being acutely aware he will have an uncanny ability to know if anything’s missing and he won’t be pleased. I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

                                                                            A view from the University Hospital Wales (UHW) aka Heath Hospital.

 10th January 2026

The thing with Generation Z, and I have 3 members currently living with me on an on off basis, is that they know what they do and don't want. They know what they like and don't like and who they do and don't like and they're not afraid to speak out about it. My three, now 22, 20 and 20, believe in fairness and respect. As with myself, everyone gets respect in the beginning, or at the very least, polite indifference, until they do something to lose that respect or turn that indifference into dislike. Family is no exception. I'm old enough and wise enough now to know who I like, who I can tolerate and who I'd happily never speak to ever again if I didn't want to. I have a lovely group of loyal and understanding friends and I have a perfect groups of understanding and fabulous cousins (you know who you are). Even though it is said you can't chose your family, I'm happy I have 99% of  them.

As I hadn't seen paternal parent (PP) for 2 days, I figured I should go and visit again, even though my previous visit was because he'd told the nurse he thought he only had a day to live. (What if, by some strange quirk of the universe, that had been true and I hadn't visited...). I took my daughter with me. She'd offered to come for moral support and also to go to the mountain on the way to collect Ant, and to see if we could spend just thirty minutes or so doing something.

For the first fifteen minutes, we both walked around in disarray and swearing, wondering how exactly to tackle it. Imagine standing at the bottom of a huge rubbish tip, knowing there are items in there which have to be kept as the person who owns the tip is a giant ogre who will shout, scream and get very very nasty if you move anything of his, while also knowing that when and if the ogre returns home with little or no notice, he will likely not be best suited to living in such an environment and you will have to run around while he barks orders at you. It's easy to watch the messy house cleaning videos and I've watched so many, trying to trick my mind into thinking dad's house will be done that quickly so I don't worry (especially the ones done on fast forward).😁

I absolutely know I don't have to do it, however I also realise there is nobody else who could do it. Only those who know hoarders, know that a savings book, share certificate, old family photograph, house deeds, car log boog - anything in fact, could be in a box of empty envelopes. an apparent empty envelope on the floor and covered in rubbish and dust and dirt could have ten £20 notes in there (yes it happened last time, more than once). The throwaway comment I hear on a daily basis 'If it was me I'd just get a skip and chuck the lot in there!' is HYPER unhelpful, shows a complete lack of understanding and is extremely dismissive.

Also the programmes showing a team of 'helpers' together with a hoarding psychologist specialist person wouldn't help. If there are too many people, things will go out which haven't been sorted.

The cleaning videos - the ones where they offer a free clean to help those with issues. Mostly these appear to be in America or Canada. I'm in the UK and if anyone knows one of them willing to help clean while I do the sorting, please let me know.

I'm not a control freak, merely a realist. I'm also not a hoarder. I merely have, possibly imagined sense of duty to make the house as tidy as it can be in case they send him home. 

We managed to get a small pile of stuff ready to go to the tip the following day and then drove to the hospital for a visit.

Dad was awake, he looked at me as I walked in 'Ah! Izabelle. Izabelle? It is Izabelle isn't it?' I had a mask on but was only about two metres away. I sat next to the bed, Ant sat the other side and my daughter sat next to me. 

Dad tried to talk but started coughing - a very nasty cough, clearly some form of infection going on there, he hacked and hacked while we watched in dismay. He said usually when that happened, he would have asked for his reliever inhaler and he would be ok again. I asked if he meant his blue inhaler. he said no - his reliever inhaler - he brought it in with him, he said (he hadn't brought it in - he went in from home by emergency ambulance and didn't take anything with him). I asked him a further 7 times did he mean his salbutamol blue inhaler and each time he yelled at me impatiently NO. Finally I got the nurse, she said he wasn't written up for one but finally brought him a Salbutamol blue inhaler. 

'That's the one!' he said.

Crisis averted, he sat in bed saying nothing.

'So how are the ribs?' I asked by way of starting a conversation.

'What?'

'Ribs, Dad. How are the ribs?'

He put on his annoyed face. 'Biscuit?' he said.

'Ribs dad RIBS.' I stood up pointing to my ribs. 'You broke your ribs. How are they?'

'Yes well I suppose we can if you want to.'

I wrote RIBS? on his whiteboard and gave it to him. He studied it carefully.

'Yes ribs - what about them? It's my eye appointment I need you to chase. I had a series of 5 injections and...' he went on to tell me the same thing he's told me already about 5 times so far. I've already looked into it and he's on the list for a cataract operation.

'I know dad.' I said. He carried on explaining. 'I know.' I said, again. He started talking louder at me, shutting me down.

I sat there and looked at my daughter with a resigned look. She reached down and held my hand, a small but meaningful gesture - she got it. My eyes started burning with the first prickles of yet more tears. I bit my lip to hold them back. Dad continued 'Are you even listening?'

'I know dad. you've told me four times. I've phoned them already. I've also cancelled three of your other appointments with the optician, podiatrist and hospice...'

He raised his voice 'I have to tell you four times', he said, 'because I can't be sure you're ever listening and I have to make sure you've understood.' My daughter squeezed my hand and a tear rolled down my cheek. 'I've also asked you to get your drain man friend to have a look at the drain outside the house but that hasn't happened.' I told his I had asked the drain guy to take a look but each time he had suggested coming, dad had either been going out or the drain man hadn't turned up. It's difficult trying to organise a tradesman to turn up at exactly the time that's convenient. I had contacted the guy twice and now I had taken photos that day to see if we could get a quote that way. I was waiting to hear back. 

'I have got a chimney sweep quote for you dad. £75. If you like we can get this done before you come home.' Perhaps this would make him happier.

'Well I know it's probably gone up. It was about £50 last time...'

'it's £75 dad. I can be there and get it done next week if you like.'

'We'll get it sorted when I'm home so I can be there.'

I wrote in the whiteboard I CAN BE THERE. He took the board and studied it. 'You can be there. Right. well I want someone there so we'll get it done when I'm home.'

I tried to lift the conversation. 'Look who's come to see you dad.' I gestured to my daughter - his grand-daughter who he'd not seen since September as she'd been in University. 'Why don't you chat to her?' 

He looked at her 'yes I see her. I'm chatting aren't I?'  He turned to her, 'Is it you or the other one who's doing the medical thing?' (She has a twin sister, and they look very different).

'It's me.' she replied.

'Well this eye thing you see - I've told you mother but I doubt she's listened or understood...' and he went on to explain about his eye. My daughter is a first year student for a respiratory disease degree - but he wouldn't know that - he's never really bothered to find out. He's never really been interested enough. He knows nothing about her life, her interests, her friends, her ambitions - in fact he knows virtually nothing about her. He hasn't forgotten, he's simply never bothered to find out. Never, ever asked her or her twin anything about their life, not since they were born. He's their only grandparent.

She listened politely. I just looked at her, apologetically. She squeezed my hand and whispered 'It's OK Mum.'

After he'd finished, Ant cut in 'I'm ready to go when you are.' He had said nothing at all and dad hadn't spoken to him either. We'd been there about 30 minutes, which I think is about right for a hospital visit. However, I was cross because he'd not once asked my daughter how she was, how was university, how was she enjoying the course, how was she finding it being away from home? All basic things a normal grandparent would already know. I pushed - 'Dad, she's going back to university tomorrow so she probably won't see you for a while.' I was trying to get him to engage in conversation with her.

'Ah yes. right!' he said, 'Could you pass my coffee before you go.'

Freddie car trips to the tip - 2nd of many

What is making me sad?     PP's lack of interest in his grandchildren

What is making me happy?  I went to the Rock Choir Christmas Party and sang and danced all night, only cried once.

What have I done to relax? Fell asleep on the sofa and planted some bulbs in the garden.

Interesting finds - Plushie toy Clifford the big red dog - about 15" high, which dad had won back in 2002, the year before his grandson was born. He'd chosen it for his grandson. I found Clifford, covered in dust, still sitting in the hoard. His grandson was born in 2003, his granddaughters in 2005. 

What else made me cry?  A facebook skit of a chap giving random little old ladies bunches of flowers  (I'm not usually that soft)

8) Called in again. He wants to see me - he thinks he only has 1 day left to live

 

A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent who fell over on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He’s currently in hospital thinking he can come home soon... He has terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, a bladder and a chest infection, asthma, diabetes, skin cancer and he’s 95. Meanwhile I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly trying to possibly make things safe at his house in case he gets sent home, yet being acutely aware he will have an uncanny ability to know if anything’s missing and he won’t be pleased. I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

                                                                   A tree at Roath Park lake.  I guess it signifies nothing is here forever...

7th January 2026

11.32am I was in work when I had a call.

'Hello, it's The ward where your dad's staying. Nothing to worry about, but...' (why does that phrase always worry me?) 'dad has become very confused again. He wanted to see you because he's run out of clothes as there's porridge on his pyjamas. He's also convinced he only has one day left to live... Any chance you can nip in?'

I asked why he thought he only had a day to live. The nurse said she didn't know, he was very confused, however if I could go in it'd be very helpful.

Now I had a worry. As far as I was aware, and the nurse, and the doctors I had spoken to hadn't mentioned life expectancy being that short. Of course I know he's 95 with terminal oesophageal cancer, skin cancer, a kidney function issue, a chest infection and three broken ribs. The doctor also told me today his heart doesn't appear to be pumping as well as it should.

However, on the other hand I've read many accounts of people just knowing these things without cause or reason. Should it be true in this case and I didn't go in, I'd feel bad for a very long time.

But I was in work. I sat at my desk and the tears flowed out - again. I hate it when that happens - trying to keep it all together when your face is leaking. I snook out to call Ant, who was home. still clearing his bedroom.

Ant said the neighbour had offered him a lift in and he would take the clothes. I was feeling a bit under the weather so I went home to bed.

8th January 2026

As far as I was aware dad was still alive so I went to visit for 2pm. After 30 minutes following about 50 other cars also looking for a parking space in the University Hospital of Wales car park, I gave up and drove to the nearest residential parking street and walked 20 minutes to the hospital - in the howling rain of storm Goretti. I took up the suggestion of hand sanitiser and a mask when going into the ward. This made it impossible to communicate with dad who vaguely relies on facial expression rather than lip reading. Luckily, on the suggestion of a nurse, I'd bought him a small whiteboard so I could communicate.

We did well with it to be fair. He still thinks the nurses are going to kill him - it's only a matter of time. He still thinks the two elderly gents in his ward are conspiring something terrible and going to report him to the police.

I asked had he had many visitors. He was drifting to sleep as I asked. He looked at me annoyed. 'You talking to me?' He said. 

I repeated the question.

'Some woman came to see me this morning.' He said. 'And Ant came with some other woman. I don't remember the name... Was it his old teacher?' I said that was unlikely. Ant is 59. I knew who it was anyway.

He then asked me to write down the name of the chap in the opposite bed as he was sure he was plotting to sell his story about him to a TV company. I asked what story. He snapped back 'About the damn lake!' I reminded him that wasn't a true story so what story exactly did he think the man wanted to sell to the television. He told me it was all partly true but didn't want to tell me which parts.

Then he lowered his voice, 'That man had a woman in bed with him last night!' Again I looked at the wizened old Santa-like man in the bed opposite. 'I don't think so dad' I said; but fair play to him if he managed that on a 4-bed hospital ward.

'I know what I saw,' he said. Subject closed.

What is making me mad? Trying to park at the hospital

What is making me happy? Music and car karaoke on the commute to work and back.

What is making me furious? My inability to keep my composure recently

What have I done to relax? Went for a walk around Roath Park lake as the sun set.

7) Apparently the hospital staff are still trying to kill him.

A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent who fell over on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He’s currently in hospital thinking he can come home soon... He has terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, a bladder and a chest infection, asthma, diabetes, skin cancer and he’s 95. Meanwhile I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly trying to possibly make things safe at his house in case he gets sent home, yet being acutely aware he will have an uncanny ability to know if anything’s missing and he won’t be pleased. I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

I went to see dad on 6th January with Ant. He was awake and quite perky. As I sat down he started to tell me he was lonely in the hospital so he was glad to see us. He said before he forgot he'd like to get me to pay his credit card.

'OK' I said. I have power of attorney so it's a simple phone call. 'I'll do it tomorrow. So how have you been?'

'It's the blue card you need to pay off,' he said. You need to nip into the bank and...'

'Dad. I know. There's no need to go in. I'll do it tomorrow.'

'You need to see how much is due and then get the other card and...'

I was getting a little irked by now. I have had my own bank account since I was 17 and have worked for two major UK banks. I know how it works. I told him so.

He put on his, Why are you being such a damn awkward imbecile child, face. held his hands up in front of his face and flapped them at the elbows which he does when he is annoyed with the person he's speaking to and determined for them to listen to his perceived wisdom. He then spent fifteen minutes explaining to me how to pay a credit card bill.

I listened - it was quicker than arguing. It always is.

'They have decided NOT to do the radio programme,' he said. I looked at him quizzically.

'What radio show?'

He looked at me like I was stupid. 'The one about the water of course.'

'But dad, that never happened. you dreamed that. Remember?'

'Oh,' he said. 'Another dream? I'm having difficulty knowing what's what. The dreams are so real.' He looked confused. 'So there was no pollution?'

'No. And no radio programme.'

'Oh.' he looked a little confused and was silent for a moment.

'So, how are your ribs?'

'What?'

'Your ribs dad. You broke three ribs, remember?'

Silence... 'Billy?'

'No, RIBS. YOUR RIBS.' I stood up and gestured to my own ribs. 'How are your RIBS?'

'Ah!' he said. 'You came on the bus - right!'

I had no answer and gave up trying.

He leant towards me and lowered his voice 'That chap in the bed opposite and the one in the bed next to me are conspiring to kill me!'

'What? How?' I looked at the men he referred to, one with a white wispy vicar haircut, fast asleep, mouth open, snoring gently, his head lolled slightly to one side. The other one, about 5ft "2, sitting on the edge of his bed in baby blue pyjamas, was chatting quietly to a white haired lady with a soft perm, wearing light blue polyester slacks and a beige roll neck top.

'And another thing, they keep stealing my glasses and I look for them and they're nowhere; then they suddenly reappear. Explain that. I know they all hate me because of what I did to the water, and I fully appreciate it's all my fault. At least some of it is as the food came from my freezer...'

'Dad. listen it DIDN'T HAPPEN!'

'Yes, so you keep saying, SOME of it maybe didn't happen but it's not all untrue. They're keeping the newspapers away from me so I don't know.'

'Dad. I can bring you a newspaper. Then you would see there's nothing in there.'

'But they would take the relevant pages out or just give me a different version. They don't even want me to see the clock. I can't make out what on earth that clock says as I can't see the hands.'

I glanced at the 'clock' on the wall to see it was some sort of digital device. If it was a clock, it was switched off.

After thirty minutes I could tell Ant was getting edgy and wanted to go. We stayed another 15 minutes and I told dad we'd see him on Thursday - in two days time.

I went back and dropped Ant home, loading my car with all the junk Ant had managed to throw out from his bedroom. There was a car-full, which I drove to the tip and went home. Ant is happy as Larry at the moment as he gets to throw his own junk out without being yelled at and without repercussions. It's taken him 3 days to move dad's junk off the top of the pile in his own bedroom to get to his own junk so he can reach all those old broken toys from his childhood (Ant is 59). I filled my car with his old TV Times magazines, old games, books, bags, old clothes and string, some old trainers and bits of rubbish.

For the past thirty years or so it appears dad has been choosing Ant's trousers for him - Debenhams best old man trousers.  Most have lasted decades but have thinning round the bum cheeks. I told Ant to bin them and I'd take him trouser shopping soon.

                                                                                ~

Freddie car trips to the tip - 1 of many

What is making me mad? That he's still treating me like I'm five and I'm putting  up with it.

What is making me happy? That he won't be home any time soon.

What is making me cry - anything and everything

What have I done to relax? went shopping and bought myself a whole box of Maltesers :)

Interesting finds A Radio Times from 2007 and a school photo of me and Ant

What stupid thing did I do today? Put my fresh salmon for supper in the freezer and not the fridge...

6) Under 24/7 observation and a temporary Deprivation of Liberty Order. One helluva crazy dream.

A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent who fell over on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He’s currently in hospital thinking he can come home soon... He has terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, a bladder and a chest infection, asthma, diabetes, skin cancer and he’s 95. Meanwhile I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly trying to possibly make things safe at his house in case he gets sent home, yet being acutely aware he will have an uncanny ability to know if anything’s missing and he won’t be pleased. I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

 I've been keeping in touch with the hospital for regular updates on dad. If I'm entirely honest, following the call last week from them asking me if I could go in as dad had suddenly become aggressive, confused and disorientated, I was a bit apprehensive about going in again.

When I arrived, with Ant, a nurse was sitting in another chair, just watching him. On seeing us, the nurse stood up to let us sit down but hovered nearby. Dad was sitting in the padded, winged PVC coated chair, fast asleep. I'd tried to gently wake him several times by squeezing his hand or gently shaking his shoulder, however, he appeared agitated to be woken up and so we decided to just sit there a while to see if he would wake by himself.

He didn't and we left after about 45 minutes.  The nurse immediately sat down. Since the aggressive episode last week, he has to have a nurse by his side 24/7, just in case.

Today, however, he was awake. I'd gone in by myself, leaving Ant at home, happily sorting his own bedroom out, utilising the little bit of space in dad's bedroom (on his bed) to be able to sort all dad's crap out of his own bedroom. Ant had made a lot of progress and wanted to continue doing so.

Dad appeared pleased to see me. I asked him how he'd been doing.

'Ah, he said, 'Are you by yourself?'

I said I was. Then it got weird. I asked how he'd been and he said, 'It's been very weird and I do realise I am in some kind of institution. It's a bit unclear what happened. I remember the police chasing me and they found me and I was suspended by a wire in between two really high buildings and they had to knock down two very expensive walls to get me out.  I know I've been in some sort of trouble with the police although I'm not sure it was all my fault. I know I had something to do with it because I know I may have caused something but I'm not sure how. I know there were a few out of date tins of meat and it somehow got into the water system for south east Cardiff and poisoned so many people. I remember being on the bus but I don't know how I was on the bus, because I had left my bus pass at home you see...  I know some of this isn't exactly true but I do know that they caught you and gave you some sort of injection you see, which knocked you out and as soon as you came round and weren't happy about it, they gave you a stronger injection and knocked you out again. I was the Arch Rogue and the price on my head was huge and I was on the run. I ran and ran to get away but in the end they caught me.'

He looked at me and said, 'I know some of that may be just in my head but I can't work out which part is true and which isn't.'

I told him I was OK and hadn't been jabbed by the police. He looked surprised. 'You haven't? Oh! I realise I must be locked up in some psychiatric place maybe...'

This was pretty shocking - not the whole police thing, but that reality and hallucinations and dreams and nightmares had all become mixed up into one and he still wasn't able to figure out or reason which was reality.

The tea trolley came round then and dad asked for a black coffee with milk. As he has three broken ribs he wasn't able to sit up in bed himself so the nurse came in, gloved up and in a well practised routine, flattened the bed (electronic bed) so his feet were up. Put two slidey sheets underneath dad and slid him down toward the head end, removed the slidey sheets and put the bed flat, then told dad to hold on while he lifted the head end of the bed so dad could sit up in bed and drink his coffee.

I left the hospital in a bit of a confused state myself, unsure what to make of it all and went to my friend's house to talk it through.

The consultant will be doing the rounds tomorrow and they said they will ask someone to call me to let me know what's happening.

The photo is of one of the items found in Ant's room belonging to our late grandfather. A 1930s (we think) radio. It has no plug and a 2 wire cord. Anyone know anything about these please let me know. 

                                                                                                            ~

What is making me sad? That until the fall, he was 100% sharp as a pin. Today he was away with the fairies.

What made me cry?  - The Soi Dog TV commercial.

What is making me happy? Ant is doing something positive and was quite chirpy.

What is making me confused? - That I was more happy we'd visited and he was asleep the whole time, than if he'd been awake.

What have I done to relax?  Fell asleep on the sofa.

Interesting finds the 1930s radio - pictured above...

5) Climbing the mountain (again) one hill at a time

A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent who fell over on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He’s currently in hospital thinking he can come home soon... He has terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, a bladder and a chest infection, asthma, diabetes, skin cancer and he’s 95. Meanwhile I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly trying to possibly make things safe at his house in case he gets sent home, yet being acutely aware he will have an uncanny ability to know if anything’s missing and he won’t be pleased. I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

Saturday January 3rd 2026

 With dad in hospital spending a LOT of time sleeping, something possessed me to attempt to clear a little part of his kitchen in an attempt to make it just slightly nicer for him if/when he returns home from hospital. Currently this is not appearing too likely as he's been hallucinating and confused and has been placed under a temporary Deprivation of Liberty Order.

I wasn't going to bother doing any tidying/clearing. After all the backlash is too unpleasant. Last time I spent six weeks clearing the house so he could come home from hospital, and I got virtually no thanks (I appreciate you think you're helping but...) was as close as I got.

Yet, here we are a decade or so later, and I find myself with the same questions and the same dilemmas.

This time though, dad is 95 with terminal cancer, a chest infection, kidney function issues, a water infection and 3 broken ribs. 

Last time, I managed to clear enough of the house for the authorities to let him come home. Once he moved back in, I left him to it and he re-hoarded the whole house. 

So, ten years later, we're here again. Why do I bother? I really can't give a definitive answer to that; some form of daughterly duty maybe, stupidity, moral obligation; I don't know. I fully appreciate some people would have just walked away, and that's a choice I don't really have. It's possibly to help Ant my brother, whose autism makes it almost impossible for him to make decisions about what to throw and what to keep. He lives with our dad in the pigsty they refer to as 'home'. Ant is dad's carer. He does the cooking, washing and shopping and everything else for him. However, should Ant dare to throw anything out, he gets yelled at. To cut a long one short, he's terrified of the repercussions.  I have no idea if dad will be allowed home this time, see below. However, if he is, then Social Services will no doubt go and assess the house, so anything I can do now may make the process quicker and smoother when and if it happens.

In June 2025 when he was diagnosed with oesophageal cancer, the hospice nurse said he'd have to consider, when the time came, whether he wanted to be looked after at home or in a hospice. If he wanted home, then he'd have to clear out a room for a hospital bed to be put in, in order for him to stay home. He's managed to sort one small box (out of about 450 boxes), in six months. Progress is not being made.  

In an effort to help, I went to the house. With no sensible plan or anything obvious but feeling the need to do something, an idea entered my head the night before - the single 4.5 foot high pile of stuff by the back door should be tackled. No better plan came to me, so that's what happened. The weather was freezing cold with a bit of a breeze but dry so we figured the best strategy was to get it all out onto the grass in the back garden, sort it, and replace the things to be kept.  This was the pile before we started.

 The pile (no.1) from inside.

Pile (No.1) from outside

So we (my daughter, Ant and myself), took it all out, and put it all on the grass.

And so it looked like this (above).

The floor was vacuumed and the windowsill was washed.  After four hours, we had sorted the keep pile from the rubbish. The keep was all the letters, bank statements, tools, and stuff we thought he'd miss, including 17 gardening gloves, a tin of 2024 biscuits, a long shoe-horn and 23 tins of paint. I don't know and I don't care why the paint was in the kitchen, nor was I going to try to find it another home. My mission for the day was to be able to fully open the fridge and the back door.

All bits which went out were; old carrier bags, 3 old shirts and 2 ragged vests, bits of tissue paper, a sandwich bag with 2 mince pies and some mouldy and squishy olives. bits of string, empty drink bottles, empty medicine bottles, empty used envelopes, bits of old pens, bits of a cheap plastic watch with a cigarette logo (none of the family have ever smoked). Empty, clean jars with lids and some unopened, recent TV Weekly magazines and illegibly dated small boxes of chocolates.

The 17 remaining tins of paint (6 went out as they'd gone off). were left on the floor next to the fridge. The fridge doesn't appear to have a reversable door and is hinged entirely the wrong way for the space it's in. The paint made it only possible to get in the fridge by leaning over the door. If dad's broken his ribs, that would be difficult if not impossible. We erred on the side of caution, if we weren't sure, we kept it. Safer that way.

7 boxes went out for recycling and the remainder went back in the same place as they had opened letters in.  The pile was now only about 2 feet high and looked like this...

There is a similar sized pile outside - a project for another day. Prioritising is the main factor here. 

The job was done for the day. Now I had to load my car 'Freddie' with all the crap to go out and work out where the recycling bins were in the house and which one took what. And produced a leaflet giving all the details - the containers had quite clearly never been used before. Sadly the collection had been that morning. We filled Freddie and I drove to the tip, windows open all the way there due to the stench.

I went home and had a much needed shower. My back complaining all the way home.

4) If you visit a hospital patient and they're asleep, do you leave them sleeping?

A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent who fell over on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He’s currently in hospital thinking he can come home soon... He has terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, a bladder and a chest infection, asthma, diabetes, skin cancer and he’s 95. Meanwhile I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly trying to possibly make things safe at his house in case he gets sent home, yet being acutely aware he will have an uncanny ability to know if anything’s missing and he won’t be pleased. I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

 New Year's Eve 2025 and dad has been in hospital since Christmas Day - 6 days, after falling and breaking three ribs. He is 95 and has terminal cancer. He's very frail.

I'd finished work at 1pm and gone straight round to the house. Ant had been taking the chance to tidy his bedroom which he'd not been able to do for many years, due to the level of stuff in the house. As is the case when tidying, while one area is being sorted, the area around it gets a bit cluttered for the duration. Fair enough - you need space to tidy. Ant had covered dad's bed with stuff. 50 years' worth of stuff. He'd unearthed the vacuum cleaner and gone to work with that and so far he had uncovered an old broken tv set, an old broken fan, 2 sets of old, crappy, Christmas lights, a load of old magazines and newspapers, a remote control car, 3 hot water bottles, all crumbling with age and - er - two bags of cement. Yes you read that right.

Ant also pointed out he'd been sleeping on two mattresses - the lower one suspiciously like the horsehair one I'd slept on for forty years. No wonder he'd been complaining of back pain of late. The bed frame, I noticed was an open base iron spring frame, which is probably worth a fortune as scrap value but of very little use as a bed-frame. We'll get that sorted very soon.

My priority today was to get anything obvious and portable out of the house while I had my car so it could be out of the house before dad could find it and have it re-absorbed again. Painfully aware that the social services will be paying a visit, I really needed to prioritise his bedroom - when the paramedics had come to the house on Christmas Day, it was clear the area around his bed would have been the most obvious place to start, however Ant's stuff was there - and Ant was in his element having space to tidy his own bedroom. The stairs would have been next; however Ant had spent the whole day before clearing the stairs and it felt like I was saying his efforts weren't good enough.

I walked around aimlessly asking Ant whether this or that was used on a regular basis or would be missed and Ant kept telling me this, that and the other was used on a regular basis. Despite this, we still ended up with ALL the recycling bins full of relevant items to go out. I took a few bits away like an old tv monitor but we hadn't even scratched the surface. Besides, I hadn't brought my facemask or hazmat suit and was still in my work-clothes so I didn't want to touch anything.

I'd had a plan in my head that big stuff would be dragged out and taken away... HOWEVER - it really isn't that easy. An old mattress which will be heading for the tip needs to be dragged out from under a pile of crap and needs enough space to get it out. The same for Ant's bedframe and spare mattress. We were reluctant to leave too much of a gap as dad would notice and have a hissy fit.

Here's a picture of my childhood bedroom... as it is now NOT how it was then. Note the mattress... How the hell to get that out without everything falling over.

If we thought he wasn't coming back the job would be a billion times easier. Not easy, but easier. In many of those boxes are letters with details of forgotten share accounts and letters referring to the affairs of my late mother who passed in 1994. Some letters dated 2008 - giving you an idea of how his mind works. Letters come in and instead of dealing with them he puts them aside - and they get forgotten and covered with boxes of more letters and stuff and more stuff and more stuff and... you get the picture.

Just so I could feel I'd done something, I took a random box home with me. The box contained letters of importance next to junk mail, Lidl magazines, bus tickets, a Church newsletter from 2021, a flyer for the local hospice, more junk mail, a cheque, uncashed for his car tax refund, a voucher for 30% off a local pub restaurant - expired in 2018, a £10 note, more bus tickets, a council letter attempting to justify their tax rises yet again, seven empty envelopes and an empty envelope with six Aldi receipts in for tomato soup, coffee and eggs.

My guess is you read that list and didn't clock the £10 note. The endless list of mundane crap. It's boring, it puts you in a daze, your mind just tells you to fling it all in the bin. However - the £10 note, was just lying there and the car tax refund cheque for £85, uncashed. Had someone come in with the order to clear the house, then both of those would have not been seen and would have gone straight in the bin. Yes, I hear you say 'so what - if you don't see it, you won't miss it.' You have a point, however that would be literally throwing money away. As the plan is for Ant to live in the house until he's ready to move out, and due to his Autism he isn't able to work, he'll need all the odd £10 notes he can find, and he'll need the money from the uncashed cheque. Who's to say the next box won't contain a couple of £50 notes, or a share certificate, or a sheet of penny black stamps. Trust me - anything is possible. This is why we will be refusing help from anyone who doesn't 'get it'.

This is also why I'll be shooting the nosey-parker-do-gooders, who always surface with their well intended words of ill-informed 'advice'. 'Get a skip' they say - 'just throw it all away'. If it were only that simple, I wouldn't be sitting here now writing this, avoiding going back to the house. Procrastinating. Worrying. Panicking.

It isn't easy.

'Just throw it all away while he's in hospital.' will be the next little gem of 'advice', which no doubt we'll be given shortly by someone who thinks it's obvious.  

The last time I threw stuff away - while he was in hospital, funnily enough, ten years or so ago. I did it so that he'd be able to come back home from the hospital, safely, with room to move about. I've still not heard the end of it. 'Since you threw all my stuff away I still haven't been able to find my worklist/cookbook/egg-timer/peg-bag/corkscrew' etc etc etc. He follows this with 'I know you were only trying to help but it's SO difficult when you move things about.' like all his life problems are my fault. 

I spent SIX WHOLE WEEKS at his damn house back then, when he was in hospital aged 84ish, having fallen from a ladder in the garden and broken a bone in his back. I was there almost every day for at least 5 hours each day, during the school holidays, clearing, sorting and making the house safe enough for him to come home. After a day at the house, most days I took a car-load to the tip, went to visit him and then went home to shower and off to do a 5 hour shift at the call centre. 

He wasn't grateful. He said 'thank you for your help but now I can't find anything; And that thing that was at the bottom of the stairs, I hope you haven't thrown it out and - well it hasn't let up.

This is the exact reason I want to help now but am frozen in the 'what if this bit of paper, container, box is important?'.

I have watched LOADS of cleaning hoarded house videos on You-tube and Facebook and everywhere. They are fabulous but everything literally goes in the skip/dumpster.  It's the ones who still have the hoarder's in situ which show the real issue - the not wanting to let go of ANYTHING. It's not a clean-up service I need, not yet. It's time and a few select people who understand the issue.

With my car boot holding Ant's throw out items, we headed to the hospital for visiting hour.

When we arrived, dad was sat there, attached to all sorts of drips and drains and monitors - fast asleep in his chair. A male nurse was sitting in a chair by the bed - just watching. He explained he had to sit there all the time in case dad awoke and became agitated and tried to rip out his lines again.

I tried to gently wake dad up but I couldn't. I tried many times but to no avail, the few times I tried he looked confused and annoyed. The nurse tried with the same result. We told him not to bother, just let him sleep.

As we were leaving, the nurse came in to sit back down , watching him sleep. Just as we were about to leave, the occupational therapist cornered us - 'Do you have a moment?' Indeed we did.