THE LIES WE TELL

“Everyone went home.”  That’s one of my stock lies.  Depending on the time of day, Ken has pretty much programmed himself with certain questions, various fixations and anger moods.  First thing in the morning he comes from the bedroom yawning and asks, “Where is everybody?”  My answer is always, “They went to work.”  Then he wonders what day it is, and if it’s a weekday he agrees that, of course, they do need to be at work.  On the weekends, if he asks about the day, I tell him they are working overtime, or say it’s a weekday.

In the evening when he asks, “Where they all go?”  That’s when I tell him, “They all went home.”  I go further to explain that all of our children are grown and have families of their own and they don’t want to stay for dinner because dinner is waiting for them at their own homes.  “Oh,” he replies.  Often he asks about the little ones, assuming we have been baby sitting.  “Their parents came and picked them up.”  That, at times, annoys him because no one came in to say goodbye.

“I have people coming for dinner,” Ken insists.  In the beginning, I would make an effort to convince him that we were not having company only to have  him go into a heated debate about the guests he had invited and why wasn’t I making enough food.  I have learned to suggest that when they get here I’ll cook another dinner.  “Meanwhile,” I say, “I will be cooking for just the two of us.”  He is happy with that and soon forgets about the imaginary company.

Lies aren’t always about food, company or the whereabouts of people who aren’t here.  At times I lie to avoid a hurtful truth.  Ken’s mother was also an AD victim.  Ken, his sister, Loretta, and I conferred about her bladder cancer, and her growing dementia.  It was decided that following surgery and convalescence, their mother would be transferred to a full-time, assisted-living facility.  A widow and alone, Rose had managed with Loretta close by, but as illness, both physical and mental, became a part of the mix, she needed more supervision that any of us could provide.

Surgery went well and Rose happily adjusted to her new living situation, but that glimmer and desire of home remained.  Loretta and I were visiting one day when Rose asked, “When do I get to go home?”  In great detail Loretta explained to her demented mother all about her illness, her incapacity to care for herself and that her home had been emptied and was rented.  Saying nothing, but with great sad eyes, Rose looked puzzled and hurt.  A whisper away, I quietly said, “Lor-ettttt-ta.” Glancing back at me she said, “I just want to be honest with her.   I mumbled, “Why?”  When Rose had asked me the same question, which she did each time we visited, I would tell her that as soon as her doctor said she was strong and capable enough to care for herself, she could go home.  I suppose, by a very big stretch, it wasn’t a lie, but it made her feel good, if only for a little while, and it was a better answer than the awful truth.

The scriptures tell us, “and liars shall be cast out.”  A while back Ken said, “I haven’t heard from my mother lately.”  He doesn’t accept the truth, so I tell him, “She and your father are on vacation in Colorado.”  I have become very quick with the answers.  For instance, I sewed the front pockets down on all of his jeans so he couldn’t walk around with both hands deep inside.  I knew if he fell he would be flat on his face.  Thrusting his hands downward while groping for the pockets of his altered jeans, I tell him that having no pockets in front is the latest style.  Flat-out lie!  At times I feel a tad of guilt for my constant lies, which come so easy in our conversations, but on second thought I could call my deceptions in dealing with Ken’s demented mind — fabrication.  Yes, that’s it.  All day long I fabricate, or better yet, perhaps I’m just speaking fiction.