Lying

I’m still pondering the question of truth as it pertains to my mother’s perplexing mix of the real and the imagined.  Earlier this fall I had come to the conclusion that “going along” with a particular fantasy made the most sense.  But that was when she didn’t have much grounding, when her mind appeared to be more amorphous.

Now she exhibits a greater understanding of her situation.  She knows she needs to get stronger.  She has a basic, though sometimes slippery, sense that she no longer owns a house in NC.  She has referenced the fact that my father is dead.  She connects names to the faces that surround her and she has made friends.

This makes lying to her seem like more of a problem.

So we tell the truth more often.

“Where is my mother?” she asks. 

Your mother is no longer living.

“Are you sure?

Yes.

“Then why did Becka tell me she was upstairs?”

You imagined she said that.

“So I guess this is just a part of my dementia…”

I had heard that the worst phase for someone who is experiencing diminished capacity is when the individual is aware of the problem.  I thought she had managed to avoid this stage.