Dad moved to a wonderful nursing home, a block from my house, and for the first few years, my mom was still able to live at home, so I'd take her each day to see him (eventually, my mother entered the same nursing home). Everyone in the family wanted to help Dad, but I was the only one who could really get into his head and be who he wanted and get what he wanted.
I was his office manager. I brought him his brief case. I made a graphic letter head for him, and made him business cards. I took dictation. I mailed letters, and "received" letters – and of course – made degrees and awards.
What Dad could remember was attending medical school at the U of M. Why wouldn't he have a degree, then? He watched Lawrence Welk on public television. I even bought him a baton because he wanted to direct the band. Why wouldn't he have an award for that?
One day, a couple of years into this saga, a psychiatrist caught wind of what I was doing. He chewed me out royally. I was supposed to ground Dad. Bring him back to reality. Redirect him. I had no business playing Dad's game.
Hogwash, I thought. I know my dad. I know he is not capable of coming into my "reality" and I wasn't going to torture him by trying to drag him along. If I argued that he was delusional, he would feel degraded and disrespected. It made no sense to me. I still had my brain. Why couldn't I put his anxiety to rest by traveling into his world – his "reality"?
The funny thing is, a few years later, a different psychiatrist stood looking at Dad's award and degree covered wall. A nurse stood next to him. "I didn't know he was a doctor," the doctor said. "He's not," the nurse said, with a grin. The doctor burst out laughing. Later he asked me where I learned my "technique."
"I'm his daughter," I said. That's all I needed.