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Going through my wardrobe last month, I ruthlessly discarded not only my clothes, but a dozen tiny tops that I’d held on to from when my sons were babies. Then I moved onto my bedside table, chucking away old scent bottles and cards, before tackling the shelves in the living room.
It would now take my boys 10 minutes and a couple of bin bags – I estimate – to remove all traces of me from our flat in west London.
I worked with grim determination. Only pausing to take photographs of things that I found particularly tough to throw away, like the Mr Bump tops my sons had worn on repeat and reminded me of carefree picnics with friends.
My reason for going super-Marie Kondo is a tragic one. In May, my amazing mother died, aged 80 and five months after being diagnosed with aggressive acute myeloid leukaemia. Two weeks later, my two siblings and I had to clear the house of all her possessions.
It was an agonising job. There was the pitifully poignant sight of a solitary knitting needle under her bed; I could imagine her searching for it and wanted to tell her I’d found it. There were her lip balms dotted around the house – a devastating reminder of her last days in hospital when I’d put it on for her, knowing she loathed having dry lips. These are the little heartbreaks we all endure.
But what was more unique was the sheer volume of stuff she had. There was so much that we were quoted £7,500 to clear it (the average cost for clearing a five-bedroom house is £1,200 to £3,000).
The attic of the house, which dated back to 1853, was crammed with boxes, some of which hadn’t been unpacked since she moved in 43 years ago. There were hundreds of jam jars and vases. She could have kept catering companies stocked up with cutlery and serving platters. I’ll never know why there were wine glasses wrapped up in her wardrobe.
Hoarder or collector?
My siblings and I joked that she was a closet hoarder, and that those closets were stuffed. Every one of the five bedrooms had a wardrobe crammed with her clothes.
Clinical psychologist Dr Lucy Viney, at the Fitzrovia Psychology Clinic in London, specialises in hoarding and grief. She explained my mother wasn’t a hoarder but a collector. “The diagnosis for hoarding disorder is whether someone feels immense distress at letting go of things,” she explains. “It can be extreme: I’ve treated people who’ve kept used tissues.
“A collector, meanwhile, might feel relief at the idea of decluttering, but overwhelmed about how to start. It’s often a generational thing. If you grew up in times of scarcity you keep things in case they might be useful, such as jars. The older generation didn’t grow up in a ‘disposable’ society. Instead, items were beautifully crafted and built to last, so throwing them away would seem a shame.”
That made sense of the many beautiful tea sets my mother kept, which we sadly let go. High tea is not a feature in my small London flat.
Another reason for holding on to something might be sentimentality. Clinical psychologist Dr Jemma Anderson explains: “Object attachment in its pure form begins in childhood; a comfort blanket represents the care giver that isn’t present. As we grow up, we might keep hold of photos that represent an experience we don’t want to forget or objects from a hobby we once enjoyed.”
I think with my mother it was a mixture of those things and, on a practical level, she had space to keep everything.
The pragmatic approach
Dr Viney advises early communication and planning around what should be done with treasured items. “If someone is already frail then it can feel too emotionally charged. Be pragmatic and ask open questions,” she advises. “For example: ‘Why are you keeping 100 jam jars? Shall we cut it down to what you’ll use?’.
“Ask if there’s anything that has value, either sentimental or monetary, and what they want done with it. If a person enjoys being surrounded by a lot of pretty ‘things’, it’s unreasonable to expect them to throw them away for your future convenience. But it is reasonable to ask questions so that you know their wishes.”
Swedish death cleaning
The time for those conversations had passed when my mother received her cancer diagnosis. Yet I can’t help but wish she’d adopted the growing trend of Swedish death cleaning popularised by Margareta Magnusson’s book The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning.
Amanda Terry, who runs An Organised You and is a member of the Association of Professional Declutterers and Organisers, explains: “People avoid conversations about death, but it’s going to happen to all of us. We should be more open to planning around it, otherwise it leaves emotional and practical work for people we love. It’s kind to do that work now and pass on the possessions that are meaningful. It’s about evaluating your possessions and only keeping what adds value to your life now.
“It can feel overwhelming, but start small. Even one cleared drawer is one less job for your loved ones. Work room by room. It can be useful to dedicate an afternoon to it every month. I suggest to my clients that what they don’t want to chuck, they label. For example, a box of photographs with ‘Throw away’ [on],” she says.
“If you approach it with a positive mindset, it’s liberating living with the knowledge that loved ones won’t be burdened.”
Why is it so hard?
My mother was never a burden. She couldn’t have predicted her untimely death and she was entirely selfless. Up until her final days she was apologising for “being a nuisance” as we slept by her hospital bed. She was never a nuisance.
It was traumatic to deal with sorting through her possessions when we were still reeling from her death, though. Dr Viney suggests giving yourself time before tackling a house clearance. “Deciding what to do is often re-traumatising; it can be triggering to have to go through it when the loss is still very raw,” she says.
“Discarding their possessions can feel like you’re erasing a part of the person. If you’re going through a lifetime of possessions it’s [also] exhausting. You’re constantly having to make decisions and value something’s worth, while trying to second-guess the worth to your lost loved one.”
What to keep
Those decisions were indeed tough. I felt horrendously guilty as I chucked books so well-loved that they were in pieces onto the fire. I felt that, if she’d kept them, it wasn’t up to me to decide they were junk.
Dr Viney suggests engaging your “wise” mind in these scenarios. “There are three different mind states: the rational mind, which we use when we’re reading a recipe – there’s no emotion, you’re just following instructions,” she explains. “Then your emotional mind, which deals with grief or love or is engaged when you’re scared. The wise mind is a combination of the two. If you’re too emotional you’ll keep everything, if you’re too detached you might end up discarding things you’ll regret, so you need to use both elements.”
I’d unwittingly done this along the way. One of the few things I kept was my mother’s cigarette case. She gave up smoking years ago, but I have strong memories of family lunches out, before the smoking ban, of her laughing with a cigarette and a glass of wine. It was so evocative, and my rational mind told me it was small enough to slip into a drawer without cluttering up my flat.
Dr Viney adds: “Keep what you have use for and what is reasonable given practical space. But being able to let go of the rest is really important. You’re letting go of attachment and allowing grief, which is healthy. You can also keep a memory jar, write down objects that you’ve thrown away and the memory attached, then dip into it to recall precious times. Or, take photographs.”
What we did
In the end, we decided against professional house clearance. It wasn’t just the cost – we didn’t like the idea of strangers rifling through our mother’s possessions. Auctioneers came and took away valuable furniture. Then, two weeks after she died, I gathered with my siblings, our partners and children at their house. There were eight of us and it took three days of constant work.
We lit a bonfire in the garden for junk that was flammable and packed up boxes with anything we couldn’t burn and took a lot to charity shops. Then we set up an open house clearance sale, advertising it on local Facebook sites. A steady stream of people came. So much went that when we came to hiring professionals to clear rubbish, our bill had gone down to £450.
It was backbreaking and traumatic, but cathartic too. As I looked around the empty rooms I felt satisfied that I’d done one last thing for my wonderful mother.
I do wonder whether my ruthless cull of my flat in the depths of my sorrow has robbed my boys of an important part of the grieving process, but I have no regrets yet and I’ll continue to streamline. It also opened up a conversation with them, which will hopefully stand us in good stead when I’m on the way out.
I have left them with one dilemma, though: what to do with my mother’s wedding dress. I couldn’t bear to throw it away. I’ve also told them to pop the cigarette case in my coffin.
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