Warning in advance that this is a long and potentially disturbing post about cleaning a flat where a man had quite literally drunk himself to death.
I have a friend who owns a flat that she lets out. Back in March, she was informed by the police that her tenant had died in the flat from excess alcohol consumption.
This proved to be a rather difficult situation for her - the police would not let her back into the flat until the next of kin had been contacted, but none of his relatives would come forward to deal with the matter. This went on for months until, just the other week, she was finally given the okay to access the flat again. (Ridiculous considering she owns the property, but that's another matter.)
Unfortunately, her lovely flat had been destroyed by the tenant. Within the months from the time she had the last inspection (Dec 2012) to his death (March 2013), he lost his battle to alcoholism, trashing the place and seemingly living off little but very cheap cider. The flat itself was covered in cigarette ash, rubbish, dirt, grime, and his vomit was pretty much everywhere. And aside from removing his body from the flat back in March, the police left everything as is and charged my friend for the cost of breaking down the door - which she now has to pay to replace as well.
So yesterday, with a skip hired, myself and a few others arrived at the flat to gut the place, not quite knowing what to expect. It was a wreck, but it was also very sad. The flat itself was not in a livable state. All of the sinks, the bathtub and the toilet were clogged with dried vomit. The kitchen was full of expired food, flies covering everything (except the opened margarine - all those rumours you hear are true!). There was a bag of potatoes that had ceased to be potatoes, turning into a horrible brown liquid that produced a smell I will never be able to forget, nor could I possibly find words to describe.
And while we were ripping our the carpet, binning the mattresses and then cleaning every surface, questioning how someone could possibly let their life come to this, we got through the initial layer of crud to find the very sad things that perhaps he had tried. There were NHS kits to help him stop smoking. Letters and phamplets from the AA meetings he had attended. But by that point we couldn't help but laugh when we found a carpet cleaner stored away, or a book on essential housekeeping tips. He had a few awards and trophies, not to mention pictures of his kids, cards, a mug saying 'best dad ever'. Yet not a single one of his children came to do what we - complete strangers - had to do, and that was filter through the rubbish to see if there was anything sentimental that we should save, just in case they change their minds in the future. And it all fit into a small box.
I'm still somewhat coming to terms with what happened yesterday. I know most of us have seen or at least know of someone who has trouble with drug and drink - and it's so easy to just write them off as disgusting or worthless. And most certainly that's what we were feeling when we were cleaning up a grown man's vomit that had splattered all over the walls. But I think what is disturbing me most is that there was nothing in that flat to indicate why he spiraled to such a low, and if perhaps some intervention could have prevented it all. All of us left wanting nothing but a long shower, but I know we were all wondering how someone could be so oblivious to what he was doing to himself and why no one could help him.
