Several months went by after the diagnosis. Nothing much changed, and the spouse was resistant to any attempt I made to research or discuss the matter.
It came to a head when I printed out the article about the Collyer brothers (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Collyer_brothers). The Collyers were two eccentric brothers who were famously found dead in 1947. Their formerly upscale Harlem brownstone was filled with tons of junk they had hoarded.
"Stop it!" my spouse demanded. So I did.
The medicine helped my spouse with his previously undiagnosed depression, though with the typical side effects.
But the nature of OCHD is to accumulate more than is discarded. Mere medication does not magically make a hoarder start dejunking.
Six months went by. Then I saw a note on a community bulletin board about a group meeting for those suffering from OCHD. I called the contact lady and told my spouse we were going.
After meeting with the support group, the spouse again asked, "Why are you obsessing about OCHD?" Turned out he had not heard the doctor pronounce this as a diagnosis, despite the fact that the discussion of OCHD had occupied more than half of the therapy appointment.
That's also when I learned there had not been any visits to the therapist in the six months since that time.
Cursing lost time and frustrated, I went through the house and documented the state of our spaces with a digital camera. I printed the pictures and mounted them on cards.
My spouse willingly made another appointment with the doctor, for a time when I could also attend. But he still thought I was wrong about the OCHD diagnosis.