Caregiver Chronicles V: Owning the Facts
Douglas’s former wife once said to me, “People would like you better, Penny, if you weren’t right all the time.” For some reason, I found that statement, and her brio in making it, funny. First, it was such a risky thing for her to say to me, so carelessly blunt of her, so dismissive of the boundaries that exist between current and former wives. What she was saying, of course, was that she would like me better if I weren’t so argumentative sometimes. But more importantly, I knew that what she said was true: I have a stubborn, kind of smug attachment to owning the facts. For example, what motivated her to make that comment was a brief scene in which I had corrected a long shaggy dog story Douglas told in which he messed up the punchline. I should have let it go, but didn’t.
I think my attachment to the facts is getting in my way as a caregiver. I know the rules: don’t argue with a delusion, but instead reassure Douglas that he’s not in imminent danger. Don’t confront him with his misunderstanding, distract him with a competing thought. This is hard for me to do with this eminently rational person with whom I have shared the last quarter century of my life.
So when, late the other night, Douglas calls for me (I am now sleeping across the hall), I find him standing in his undershirt and socks, supported by his walker, with a look of some urgency on his face. “Listen,” he says, “I made a mistake. I rented a car today, and I never returned it.” To which I stupidly respond, “No, Douglas, you didn’t rent a car today. I was with you all day and you didn’t rent a car.”
“No, no, PLEASE, for once believe me,” he says with more desperation in his voice. “I rented a car today and now the guys are here, outside, to pick it up. We have to give it back to them, or it will cost me a fortune.” “Aah, money,” I think, sensing the source of his urgency, “it always comes down to money.” I make a show of looking out the windows so I can report that there is no one outside waiting for the car. “There is no one outside, Douglas, waiting for a car. Let’s go back to bed.”
“There ARE people waiting outside and YOU NEED TO go talk to them! NOW!!” I suggest that if there are people outside, Douglas might want to put on a bathrobe to cover himself. We get his bathrobe on, and I can see he feels rewarded by my participation in this play. I turn on all the outside lights and I turn off the house alarm system. As we go down the hall to the kitchen, I point out the lights on the front porch and terrace, noting that there is no one in evidence outside, all the while sensing victory — I will win this argument and, aside from wanting to go back to bed, I feel a little frisson of triumph.
I open the kitchen door and, gesturing expansively, point out that there is no one, and no rented car, in the driveway. “They are THERE, Penny, they are out there! You have to believe me! I am NOT STUPID!” “No, Douglas, you are not stupid,” I say with exaggerated patience, “but I think maybe you dreamed you rented a ….”
“I DID NOT DREAM THIS,” Douglas interrupts, “you always say that! I am not stupid; I am not crazy!” The stakes are getting higher for Douglas to prove he is telling the truth, and this does not bode well for a return to bed for the night. So next, we go to the front door and I open it, letting in a draft of chilly air, and once again point out that there is no one outside. Douglas goes to the door and yells “Hello! Are you there? Is anyone there?” No one answers.
Game, set, match, I’m thinking in my competitive little mind. Only then Douglas says, “I could cry. I know there were people out there. I know I rented a car, but I can’t prove it.” Defeated, humiliated, he goes back to bed, and I don’t feel any triumph at all. I just feel sad that I have forced him once again to confront the unreliability of his own formerly prodigious mind.
