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)