We are taught from childhood that lying is bad, wrong, evil, naughty – many descriptive terms apply depending on your upbringing. I can imagine that you might apply these same terms to your children when they lie. However, I think, in the landscape of dementia, lies are a very important tool to have along for the trip.

I received an email from a reader back in August 2006, describing his path with his father. At that time, Jeff’s father lived at Claire Bridge, a memory care residence. Jeff visited with his dog, Buddha. Jeff described that his dad had periods of lucidity, like all dementia residents, and on this particular visit, when Jeff called ahead to remind his father of his visit, his father told him he “had on one cowboy boot and was putting on the other.” This concerned Jeff as his father was very unsteady on his feet.

Jeff had a choice here – tell his father to change his shoes because he was unsteady on his feet and risk an argument, or tell a loving lie to his father. Jeff wisely chose the latter option. He told his father that the boots made him look like a girl in high heels.Needless to say, those boots came off, the tennis shoes came on, and Jeff’s concerns were solved. Now, they could have a nice visit and enjoy each other’s company!

I often told loving lies to my mother – mostly to redirect her from harm, from repetition, from her sedentary lifestyle, from the past into the present time. My intention was always to soothe her agitation or to connect her with her surroundings or to bring her back to me. Honorable intentions through dishonorable action? Maybe.

I’ve talked a lot this year about building caregiver skills. Telling loving lies is a skill. Your loved one may no longer be able to make sense of his world; he may live in constant fear and loneliness. To the extent you can use what you know about your loved one and his world to bring him back from this edge, do it! Don’t let your own truthful standards become a brick wall around you, cutting you off from your loved one.

Loving lies are O.K. Really. I promise.