Learning to Lie

My mom taught me to be honest. From the time I was little, it was an attribute that she tried to instill. I feel like it is an attribute that I possess . . . which may be why it has been such a conflicting experience learning to lie to my mother.

One of the first bits of advice that we got was to "live in her world". The phrasing of that sounds much better than lying. Regardless, it is a skill that I am refining. Most of the lies are simple -- she asks constantly about when she is watching my kids. She has been my daycare provider for five years. She has willingly taken my kids any time I needed to do anything. She doesn't realize that she isn't capable of watching them, especially my diabetic or my baby. So, I lie. They are with Greg. I didn't have to go to work today. The baby needs to come with me so he can eat. At one point, I actually told her an almost truth. I told her the boys had to stay with a neighbor while I worked, so that she and my dad would be available to run down to the school in case L needed anything. She's forgotten that we had that conversation. She was confused by it at the time, so I haven't tried it again. Now, I just lie.

In addition to the white lies, I've been playing along with her stories. It is oddly like my experience with my young children. It's like when my four-year-old comes to me trying to prolong the time until bed. "Oh, there is a monster under your bed? What color is it?" Maybe the parallel has made it easier to play along with my mom's stories. Most of them have been pretty mild, but occasionally they have required me to think quickly on my feet.

A few weeks ago, she told my sister that she had received a call from the nurse and that she was going to be dead by Halloween if she didn't have surgery. When my sister probed for more details, she struggled to come up with them. She told the nurse that she would not have surgery and was now forced to face her own mortality. My sister tried to convince her that it was not true, but she wouldn't hear of it. A few days later, I called her to make sure she was okay watching my four-year-old that afternoon for an hour while I ran to a meeting. I asked my mom how she was doing and she said she was okay. I said, "Just okay" and she responded that she was a little down. I probed and she revealed that she was sad that she would soon be dead because of her call from the nurse and unwillingness to have surgery. I tried to reassure her that I had been to the doctor's office with her and that she was perfectly healthy. It was almost like she couldn't even hear what I was saying. She just kept repeating, "Well, I hope you are right."

That afternoon, we were walking down to the school to get L and she again started telling me the story of the nurse calling. As she launched into the details of the story, I started thinking through how I could live in her world and help her feel validated in the story. How could I get it to go away and make her feel better?!? We were to the school before she finished. I am not a good liar, so I'm sure my delivery was choppy. I quickly blurted out, "Oh, I forgot to tell you. After we talked this morning, I called over to the doctor's office. They said the nurse called you by mistake. It was their fault." If she had been her normal self, she would have easily been able to detect my lack of honesty. She is my mother, after all. She said very little on the way home. I wondered if my delivery wasn't smooth enough. She didn't say another word to me about it.

An hour or so later, I got a message from my sister. My mom had called her with an elaborate story about how the doctor's office had made a mistake and the nurse had been fired. Over the next few days, my mom called most of my siblings and some of hers to reassure them that she was not dying. Once I validated the story and played along, it went away and she felt better.

So, lesson learned. It is best to lie to Mom.

The First Story

I still remember exactly where I was sitting and what I was wearing. It was January 2014 and I was eight months pregnant. It was a life-changing moment for me. Even at the time, I knew the gravity of the situation. My mom was not okay. She had been having trouble remembering things for a couple of years. We attributed it to age and justified that it was not problematic, but normal age-related memory issues. My maternal grandmother died from dementia over 20 years ago. It was a fate that my mother dreaded. She worried constantly about her memory and becoming like her mother. Yet, despite the constant worrying, she seemed to have no comprehension of her own journey down that path.

She had recently stopped crocheting because her hand was hurting her. My dad took her into the doctor to for a check-up, where they did a full panel of blood work. She called to tell me that the nurse had called her with the results. As she told the story, the first nurse called, told her everything looked good and she was fine. A few minutes later, a second nurse called and told her that the clinic was for sick people only, that she was no longer welcome there, and that she should stay home and clean her house. My mother was terribly offended. I was terribly disturbed. She told the story with complete confidence. She was genuinely upset by it, and relayed the offenses of the nurse with her typical level of annoyance and irritation.

It took me a minute to say anything. I knew the story couldn't be right. The nurse calling twice just added to the invalidity of the tale. I couldn't imagine any medical professional telling a patient to clean her house.

It was such an insignificant story, but it meant so much. Here was the beginning of the end for my mom.

I'm a Sandwich

It was an aha moment for me . . . at least that's what Oprah calls it. A moment where things suddenly make sense and you see life with perfect clarity. I had one of those such moments. 

It was a Wednesday morning. The older kids and I had been at music class and had just picked up Baby A from the neighbor. I had only a few minutes to feed him before I needed to get L to kindergarten and myself and the boys to faculty meeting. Scrolling through my phone, I noticed a missed call and message from my sister:

"Just calling to try to figure out what to say to Mom to convince her Dad is not going to kill her before Christmas. She was crying to me this morning. You won't believe her and now I don't believe her? What are we going to do to help her feel safe?" 

The message itself sounds awful. It is awful. Mom has dementia and has started creating stories. My dad killing her has been her most violent tale so far. She was convinced it was going to happen and no amount of logic seemed to help. My mom has always been incredibly logical, which is why it is so ironic that logic seems to make the situation worse. She wanted validation and we were dismissing her concerns. My parents have been married for nearly 53 years and my dad has never been violent towards my mom. Regardless, she had convinced herself of the validity of the story, citing financial reasons as the primary motive. 

Okay, back to my Wednesday morning and feeling helpless. I sat there, feeding the baby and wondering how we could help my mother feel safe. We had heard from many sources that it is best to live in their world. I thought I was okay with that advice, until her world included my dad being a murderer. I didn't feel particularly comfortable joining her world for that adventure. I started searching online for support groups in the area. Surely someone would be able to give us advice on what to do. I found the Alzheimer's Association and their 24/7 support and education line. I immediately called. 

I changed the baby's diaper while they took down some initial information from me. Then I started packing up diaper bags, lunch boxes and backpacks. I herded the kids to the car while trying to explain to the operator the reason for my call. I was transferred to an educator, who answered just as I got all three kids strapped in their car seats. I stood in the garage, with all of the car doors shut, explaining the situation, trying to avoid my kids overhearing. The kids have little ears, but big mouths. I was afraid of what they might repeat. As soon as I felt the conversation was safe enough to be overheard, I got in the car and headed to drop L off. The kids had been entertaining each other while waiting to go and were playing some very loud (and very obnoxious) game. As the educator talked, and I tried to hear her, I gave glaring looks to the backseat to quiet the trio. I felt the need to apologize to the educator. 

Me: I'm sorry the kids are so loud.

Educator: Oh, that's okay. How old are they? 

Me: 5, 4, and 8 months. 

Educator: Oh wow, you really are in the sandwich generation. 

There is was. THE SANDWICH GENERATION. I've heard the term before, but never really comprehended what it meant. At that very moment, it described exactly how I have been feeling -- SQUISHED. The pressure and needs of my aging parents on one side and the constant demands of a young family on the other. And here I am, sandwiched in the middle. 

Welcome to my journey. I can't promise that it will be interesting or profound. Sometimes you either laugh or cry . . . I've done a lot of both.