Currently Chasing: A cure for Hoarding

I watch the television show Hoarders. I watch it a lot. I am amazed that people can keep that much shit in their homes. In most cases there are dead animals or loaded weapons all over the house. One guy had shit piled up all over his kitchen but would leave his gas stove on for heat. Crazy. Death at every turn! Kids living in these places with clothes and shoes to last them for days, but couldn’t find a place to play to save their lives. Children literally beg their parents to make a change. Child services threaten to take away children, the state threatens to take away homes, or condemn them. Husbands threaten to leave. The house at times is coming apart at the seams due to the amount of bugs/animals/mold/waterdamage/structural damage whatever that is living/breading/infesting the inside. It’s shocking, it’s disgusting, it’s heart breaking, it makes me throw up in my mouth.

Each time there is a professional trying to help these people out. They will bring everything out of the house and then they will begin a conversation that usually goes like this.

Helper: Ok Maggie. We’ve got 17 lamps here. What can we get rid of?

Hoarder: Nothing.

Helper: Well come on now. Some of these lamps are broken and won’t ever work again.

Hoarder: I can fix them.

Helper: What are the odds that you will actually fix them?

Hoarder: I’m not throwing any of them away!

Helper: How about just one. Pick just one that we can throw away.

Hoarder: Damn it. I already told you. All of the lamps stay!

Then the Hoarder stomps out, pissed off and goes into their house to love on their junk and shit somewhere on the floor because there is no running water and meanwhile the helper talks to the camera.

Helper: This is frustrating. She refuses to even part with one lamp. This is going to be a very long day.

I have never considered myself a hoarder. It has always been very easy for me to just throw stuff out. Mostly because in the Navy you move so often that you don’t feel like taking a lot of stuff with you. I have a few things…like my daughters first outfit, her first Halloween costume, some artwork and some photobooks. But for the most part, I don’t hold on to things for very long. I get rid of things to make room for new things. It’s the way I’ve always done it.

But recently I realized I am indeed a Hoarder. But I don’t hoard stuff. Oh no. I hoard PEOPLE!

I’m mortified by this discovery but I acknowledge it. And that is the first step right? Admitting that you have a problem. I made this discovery the other day when me and my friend had this conversation.

Me: Did you see the picture I posted on facebook?

My friend: Yeah, I commented on it, but maybe you didn’t notice because you have a thousand facebook friends.

Me: Whatever, I do not have a thousand facebook friends.

My friend: Ok, nine hundred and something. Basically a thousand.

So I log on to facebook and take a look. And there it is. 948.

So I go to the news section and start reading most recent and she says, you know you can change that so it will only show you the top news. And I said, what does that mean? And she said, it will just give you stuff it thinks you will be interested in reading instead of showing you every single thing people type. And I said, I’m fine with seeing every single thing people type.

She just stared at me.

My friend: Why do you care?

Me: These are my friends.

My friend: All 948 of them?

Me: Well yeah, I wouldn’t have added them otherwise right?

My friend: You can’t tell me you know all 948 of those people.

Me: No, I guess not.

My friend: Let’s go through and delete the people you don’t know.

(This was the moment. She had put all my shit out on the lawn and had asked me to pick a lamp to throw away.)

Me: I don’t want to delete anyone.

My friend: What about this person? You have not spoken to this person in three years.

Me: That is my cousin.

My friend: Um, ok, what about this person? From your first duty station in 1994. There is no way you are still in contact.

Me: She came to visit me last month.

My friend: Well, what about this person? She is just a friend of a friend that you’ve never met.

Me: She and her daughter sent me an awesome care package while I was in Afghanistan.

My friend: What about this girl. Some random Soldier.

Me: I wrote her a letter of recommendation three weeks ago.

My friend: What about this girl? She doesn’t even live in this country?

Me: That is Carly! Are you kidding me? She is one of my blogger crushes. Along with about 10 other bloggers. I’m not deleting any of my blogger crushes!

And the list went on. She would suggest someone, and I would immediately get defensive. I may not have a tie that binds me to every single last person on that list of 948, but I added them for a reason. Even if that reason was just so I could stalk their lives or find out what their wives looked like.

And the list use to be longer. But over the years (and even as recent as last month) people have deleted me. They have just hovered over my name and then BAM. Hit the delete button. And it was a simple thing. And they probably aren’t harboring any deep regret or wondering if my feelings are hurt over it.

But I can assure you that even though they are no longer part of my online collection, by deleting me they have graduated immediately to my in-mind obsession. And trust me. Nothing gets thrown out of there either.

Currently Chasing: Recognition

I started a new job which of course means new health care. One of the first things I like to do is set up an appointment and establish a primary care manager.  I kind of just meet with that person and give him or her some background and history so they can START A FILE. I love files.

In the Navy you very rarely see the same doctor. You are all over the place seeing whoever has a couple of minutes to see you at the time. You are left explaining and then re-explaining your medical history to every new person you see. Filling out pages of paperwork almost every time you go to the doctor because stuff gets lost or you didn’t fill it out correctly or whatever.

The idea of having one doctor that I see EVERYTIME I’m sick appeals to me.  Even when I was pregnant I didn’t see the same doctor twice. And they were wrong most of the time. They told me I was having a boy and we all know how that turned out. (For those who don’t…well I had a girl. Who came home in an all blue outfit. To an all blue room.)

So I go online and search for my area and doctors in my area and then doctors who are accepting new patients and I find one. Dr. W. That’s what I’ll call her. I call, set up an appointment, and that’s that. I’ve got me a doctor of my very own.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Or maybe I shouldn’t celebrate just yet.

So I go to my first appointment and the office is literally in a building that looks condemned. It’s behind some restaurant and just dingy looking. However, I am not a ‘judge the book by the cover’ kind of person, so no problem.

I park and walk in. As soon as you walk in you feel like you’ve gone back in time. The carpets are old and so very thin…almost like someone just laid some fabric over a cement slab. There are a bunch of different offices to choose from. I didn’t want to choose any of them. However, I found my office and in I went.

Holy shit. I’m not kidding you when I say that people are literally coming to this place to die. All of the patients were very old. VERY OLD. The receptionists were VERY OLD. There was a sign up that said, I’m doing this job because I can’t yet collect social security. Seriously.

The woman was nice enough. She told me to sign in and have a seat. My appointment was for noon, and I arrived 15 minutes early. Because that is the NAVY WAY!

I sat down and reached for a magazine. Golfing magazines. Readers Digest. Adult Health magazines. Ugh! These are magazines for OLD PEOPLE. Where is the gossip mag? Where is my shape or fitness? I’ll even settle for a People! So I decide to just watch TV. It’s the news, but I’m fine with that. They are talking about how the posted calorie count for some fast food isn’t always accurate. Wow. Shocker. They are calling out places like Chipotle and Olive Garden. Ugh. I hate when people talk behind a friend’s back!

So at some point I hear the woman say, it’s bright and sunny outside. I look out the window. It’s a torrential downpour. And then she says something about August. I’m like…Holy Heck…even the news in this place is old.

By this time it’s around 12:30. I’m still waiting. I begin to wonder if maybe these people weren’t so old when they got here…they’ve just been waiting for 30 years.

I walk up to the counter and ask the woman if my doctor knows I’m here. They tell me that she is just running long with a patient. But they can tell that I’m anxious, so they take me back to get my weight and my vitals. This is like giving you an appetizer in the medical world. Uh oh…this one is getting twitchy…hurry…give her a breadstick so she’ll shut the fuck up while we finish cooking her pounds of pasta!  (Which will end up being more calories than they tell me it is...according to the study.)

So after that they seat me in a room and tell me my doctor will be right with me.

I can hear her in the room next to mine. She’s talking to a man about cereal. He is arguing with her about what cereal is best. Then they move on to oatmeal.  And they are seriously discussing this shit for another 20 or 30 minutes. Meanwhile, the battery life on my phone is dying and I’m pretty sure I should use the last bit of it to call someone and tell them where I am in case this is Twilight Zone episode and I end up stuck in this old world.

When my doctor finally gets around to seeing me (around 1:30) she is … old. She’s nice. She sits down and asks what I am there for. I tell her that I just want to establish a medical history and have a primary care provider. She asks me some questions…takes down some information and puts it in a folder. My file.

It wasn’t ideal by any stretch.  But this woman looked like she had seen it all. Like a grandmother. I would not be embarrassed or afraid to tell her anything. And in the end…isn’t that really what we need from a doctor. Someone non-judgmental who keeps it professional and doesn’t run around to the other ladies gossiping about your lack of self breast exams? Someone who knows you.

I realized shortly after walking out that I had left my phone on the chair. I went back in to grab it and Dr. W. was still sitting there.

“You must be my 1 o’ clock? Sorry for the wait.”

At this point I’m over needing someone that KNOWS me…but someone who at least recognizes me (13 seconds after seeing me) would be nice.