I was never one of those wives who had to dress her husband, until recently at least, but many many things are different now than they used to be, which perhaps partially explains why I let things get so out of hand. G always did his own shopping, and although I did most of the laundry, he ironed his own shirts, polished his shoes and generally handled most of his wardrobe maintenance himself. Oh I would occasionally buy him something nice, just as he would buy nice things for me, but generally we were of like minds where clothes were concerned and neither one of us was likely to show up in something that would embarrass the other, so we left each other to our own devices.
Only in retrospect, did I realize how much of a burden the weight of maintaining his clothes had become to G. He never asked for help; in fact he turned it down when I offered, but as he grew more confused his closet became a burden and it became more and more chaotic. It was so chaotic in fact, that after I managed to unearth some of his clothes when he came home from the nursing home and moved downstairs to a new bedroom and closet, I dreaded the thought of ever having to open those closet doors again. I put it off.
Until last week. Last week I tackled the master bedroom closets, his and hers. I am still working on them. I would think that my closet would be easier, as I had been weeding clothes as I lost weight, but the difference is only marginal. My closet was filled with yarn and fabric and things I moved from other rooms in the house during the big switch. It was unusable. In fact I had been using the "sewing table" as a closet, stacking the dozen or so non-handknitted pieces I had been wearing on its surface in lieu of a closet. Something needed to be done. I needed to find spring clothes. I needed to finally claim my space as my own and stop using it as a dumping ground for all the stuff that littered my life, both physically and mentally.
G's closet is both easier and more daunting. Together we pulled out the few pieces that he remembers and wants and are still in good shape. The rest can go. I am overwhelmed by the quantity, 77 shirts alone, most of them forgotten. My plan had been to pull out the better things and donate them and I started with the shirts, separating the better labels: Brooks, Charvet, Paul Stewart, Robert Talbot, but as the pile grew, I realized that the dust was overwhelming, that everything would need to be washed, and that if the shirts were washed they would also have to be ironed and the task would be never ending. As I looked at the shirts again, I realized how worn they were, how old, worn, used, loved, pushed back in the closet as new shirts were acquired and simply never discarded, a personal history in old shirts.
