I remember so well a thought from the poet Ralph Waldo Emerson to the effect that “foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”  Doubtless, I have applied this idea in ways that suit me or advantage me. But when we faced the deleterious impact of our mother’s mental anguish I understood  more the value of Emerson’s thought.

Shortly after our father died, we became fully aware that our mother could not remember his dying, nor that he was dead.  She would suddenly, without forewarning, say “Where’s Roy?”  At first, we answered with the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. We swaddled every word in tenderness and reassurance in attempts to soften the blow.  This was totally ineffective. She faced the news each time as if it were her first knowledge of his death; the shock and grief were overwhelming.  Sometimes this encounter with raw reality happened several times a day.

I tried to be faithful to my relationship of complete honesty with my mother.  My growing up years were a bit unusual in that regard.  I vowed never to distort or nuance “the truth” when interacting with my mother.  But now, what is this concept of “foolish consistency” doing to her?  I’m not sure we discussed this question or came to an agreement about it, but our family seemed to say, “Enough already.”  Our mother will not continue to face our father’s death again and again, as if it just happened and experience the totally wrenching imbalance and irrefutable pain the death of a loved one brings.  If we can find the words, we will answer her in ways that will bring her comfort, peace, and feelings of being loved. 

This strategy of handling repetitive, often unsettling or destructive questions of a loved one is sometimes called “therapeutic lying.” I believe it simply acknowledges that the patient can’t remember events nor is he/she able to comprehend context or detailed explanations.  It is also apparent that in not remembering the death, a more recent event, the loved one is thinking of a person as he was in the past. Perhaps answers can tap into that reality.

This thinking caused us to develop the strategy of telling mother the things that brought her the most comfort at the moment.  But our answers were conditional.  They had be congruent with her values and those of the person she asked about, usually our father.  We picked up his interests and habits and mentioned that he is probably at the farm, at the stockyard, delivering baskets of food to those less fortunate than we, or driving the church bus.

Some caregivers may have difficulty with this strategy.  Some may think we could achieve comfort and peace by telling her Dad was in heaven with all his needs met.  Honestly, we tried that.  But her frustration reached a fevered pitch when we could not answer the plethora of questions that followed: What does he know about us; what does he do in heaven; when will I go there; does he ever see our deceased infant son?

The choice we made was to attempt to enter our mother’s world at her point in time on a given question.  Of course this was not always possible, because as the disease progressed her questions or comments were blurred, even nonsensical.  But when we could journey in time to where she was, our conversation was valid, truthful, engaging, and above all comforting to our mother.