Don’t argue.
That’s the advice. “When
he is hallucinating, don’t argue with him,” the doctors say. “When he’s delusional, don’t argue with him,”
the literature says. Don’t argue. And, while I imagine this is difficult for
all caregivers, it’s especially difficult for me because, well, I like to
argue.
I’m trying, though. I
really am. In my efforts to not correct
his hallucinations and delusions, I’ve pretended to pull imaginary kittens from
imaginary holes in the wall, and catch imaginary skunks escaped from tissue
boxes. I’ve trapped imaginary blue jays in
curtain rods and rescued imaginary chipmunks sewn into a comforter.
I’ve gone outside in the middle of the night, countless
times to render aid to imaginary accident victims and make sure the house isn’t
on fire. I’ve fluffed pillows for dead
relatives and provided snacks to imaginary visitors.
I have exorcised all manner of beasts, including severed
hand/claws, shadow creatures, canvas-faced monsters, and the grim reaper.
I have pretended to be the best man at his wedding. I have refrained from arguing in the middle
of my workday and played along in the middle of the night. I have tried.
Truly. But there comes a time
where a line must be drawn and that time was tonight. There are some delusions I simply cannot abide
and, although I know he doesn’t understand, there is a time where argument is
warranted. That time was tonight. I simply could not sit by idly and not
respond when, with his most earnest face, in his most sincere voice he began
talking (at length) about, “Noted Egyptologist Phyllis Diller.”
And I’m not supposed to argue.
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