Blog Posts

I Lied to My Father on His Deathbed

My generation has been called the sandwich generation, people in middle age who bear some level of responsibility for their children and their parents. While reliable statistics are not readily available, it is estimated that almost half of people in their 50s and early 60s find themselves in this demographic.

I’ve been in this situation myself. I was fortunate that both of my parents were physically healthy and financially independent for most of their retirement. True, my wife and I did buy a town house less than a mile from our house for my parents to live in, so that they could stretch their modest retirement savings. But it was a win-win. They didn’t have to worry too much about money. We had built-in babysitters. And the town house has appreciated in value since we bought it and now provides steady rental income.

This happy arrangement continued for more than 10 years. But once my parents each hit their late 70s, their health started to deteriorate and they reluctantly began to depend on us more frequently for assistance.

My dad valued his independence and never wanted to depend on anyone for help. He had been taking care of my mom, who battled mental illness, for most of their married life. It was a matter of pride for him that he did so largely by himself.

It was only after he died, when I found the daily diary in which he kept track of her “ups and downs,” that I realized just how much of his time and energy was spent taking care of her. But I had known since I was 14, when my mother was hospitalized during a depressive stage of her bipolar illness, that my dad was her primary caregiver and probably always would be.

So when he was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, I was concerned not only for him but also by the looming question of who would care for my mom if he should die first. After two years of treatments had held the disease at bay, his cancer began to finish what it had started.

Just a few weeks before he died, my father raised the issue I had avoided confronting but had been thinking about constantly. He told me that he did not want my mom to go into a nursing home after he died and asked me to promise that I would take her into my home to take care of her.

I believed that would be a disaster for my family. I worked from home and was the primary breadwinner. My wife worked outside the home. There was no way I could have worked and cared for my mom. To complicate matters, our two children were 12 and 15 and I did not want them exposed to the instability and disruption that living with a person with mental illness brings to a home—an experience I knew all too well from my teenage years.

So when my dad raised the question, I did the only thing I felt could do. I lied. I promised my dad I would add a room to my house for my mom and that we would take care of her. It was a pledge I had no intention of keeping. My intention was to do everything I could to make sure she was well cared for, but not in my home.

My promise lifted a great burden from his mind. Had I told him what I really planned to do, it would have greatly unsettled him during his last days on earth. I didn’t see how that would have done him, or me, any good. So when he died a few weeks later, he did so without the worry of who would pick up where he had left off.

After my dad died, my mom wanted to try to live on her own. That didn’t work out very well.  We discovered fairly quickly she was having trouble managing her pills. We tried a weekly pill keeper, but that didn’t work. I wasn’t sure why until I noticed that her wall calendar was several months ahead, showing July when it was still March. Apparently, every time she took a nap, she thought another day had passed. It was then I understood why she thought the weather “was much too cool for this time of year.”

We were able to move my mom to a wonderful assisted living facility less than 10 minutes away. She didn’t want to go. When I had finally found what I believed was the right place, I brought her there for a tour. She held her emotions in check until the end. Sitting in a parlor with the admissions director, my mother suddenly broke down weeping, insisting she didn’t want to live there. I felt awful but knew it was best. And it was. Once we had her settled in, she came to feel right at home.

When that facility was no longer able to meet her needs after three good years, we transferred her to a nearby nursing home, where she spent the last year of her life well cared for by a compassionate and capable staff.

I wonder, sometimes, whether I should feel guilty for breaking the promise I made to my father, because I don’t. I did everything I could to make certain she was well cared for after he died. I carefully chose both her assisted living facility and her nursing home, doing my research, visiting the facilities I considered, getting recommendations from friends. I do not believe I am rationalizing. I know in my heart and my mind that I met the spirit of the pledge I made to him.  And I would do the same thing again.

In the years ahead, millions of us in the sandwich generation will face this dilemma. I do not presume to offer any blanket advice, except this: do what you think is right for all involved, guided not by guilt or a sense of obligation, but rather by love. Decisions made in love, after all, are almost invariably good decisions.