By Steve Moran

No one ever told me that providing him the highest quality of life would require me to become a world-class liar …

As a regular reader of Foresight, you know a bit about my journey as a family caregiver for my 93-year-old stepfather Gary, who has Alzheimer’s. 

What you may not know is what that journey has actually required of me.

The Lie That Changed Everything

My mother was married to Gary for more than 40 years, second marriages for both. I am Gary’s caregiver because he has no children and no emotionally close biological family members. He has been part of my family since I was in my late teens.

Even though Gary had been divorced from his ex-wife, Monica, for decades, he still maintained a friendly relationship with her. She was even named to receive money in his will.

A few months ago, he received a phone call from Monica’s best friend informing him that she had died. He was bereft. Sobbing, hand-wringing, end-of-the-world pain and sadness and regret.

It was more overt emotion than he showed when my mother, his wife of 30 years, died.

It was hard to go through, but I know he loved Mom, and I blame his dementia. 

By the next day, he had forgotten the call. Forgotten she was gone. But … he had not forgotten about her. He asked me if I had heard from her or knew what was going on in her life.

I gently reminded him she had just passed away. In his Alzheimer-damaged brain, it was hearing the news for the first time all over again.

The same tears. The same broken heart. The same regret.

It took a third repeat of that cycle to realize the truth was doing nothing but inflicting pain.

Now when he asks, my response is different: “I haven’t heard much from her in a while. I’ll check in and let you know.” It solves the problem every single time.

But it’s not just Monica. There are questions that come constantly, and the truth would only cause pain.

  • “Do you know where my car is?”
  • “I wonder how my parents are.”
  • “Will you be back later today?”
  • “What’s going on with my business?”

The honest answer to every one of those questions would cause tears, anger, sadness, or regret. So I lie. 

Compassionate lies. Lies that protect him from a reality his brain can no longer hold.

A Grand Science Experiment

What I sort of knew, but never really understood, is that caring for someone with dementia is an ongoing science experiment. You try something, and if it doesn’t work, you try something else. If it works, you keep doing it until it stops working. Then you try again.

The lying is part of the experiment. It took three rounds of watching Gary grieve Monica before I found what worked. I imagine there are things I’m still getting wrong.

I don’t lose sleep over whether this is the right ethical framework. I lose sleep over whether I’m doing enough for him.